Liam reached out and twisted the doorknob gently—locked.
He exhaled slowly, his wrinkled fingers tightening around the trolley's handle. Then, with a faint smirk on his ancient-looking face, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out two slim, silver lockpicks.
Click. Clack. Twist.
The old door put up almost no resistance. It opened with a soft click, just loud enough to make the two inside snap their heads toward it.
Colton Virelli looked up, confused, then mildly alarmed. Amara, who had been standing a few feet away from him—her dress straightened, her lips still glossy and wet—wrinkled her nose in immediate disgust.
"What the fuck?" she muttered, taking a step back. "Ugh, what is that smell?!"
Colton furrowed his brows. "Harold Milton? What are you doing here?" he asked, squinting at the old man hunched over his trolley. His name was on his uniform.
