11
Like most others he had been in, the police station in Manchester, Tennessee had a bland feeling. Long hallways of white walls and wooden doors, officers shuffling about with their heads down. Harry felt right at home and also completely unwelcome. It was a strange sensation.
He wore a gray suit with a purple shirt as he strode through the corridor, sliding his sunglasses into place. “Excuse me,” he said, stopping the twelfth officer he passed. “I'm looking for room 23-B.”
The man looked up at him with lips pressed into a thin line, studying Harry as if he had just sprouted horns. “Second-last door on your right,” he said, jerking his head in that direction. Cordial but forced. Harry supposed it was the best he could hope for.
He walked on.
As he passed through the door, he found a
