“Could also be pee.”
Except it can’t be pee. Even a crappy building would crack down on people urinating in the hallway.
3C is at the end of the hall. I slide the earplugs in, readjusting to the way they make me feel like I’m playing a video game instead of actively participating in the real world. Griffin readjusts the duffel bag over his shoulder, then knocks.
Nobody answers. Griffin tries again, but it’s a long time before the door opens.
Edward Mathis is rail-thin with sunken cheeks and dark circles under his watery blue eyes. He has mid-length black hair that’s thin and greasy, and he’s wearing shabby pajama pants and a white V-neck stained with tomato sauce.
“Yes?” His voice is a dry rasp and barely audible through the earplugs.
Griffin flashes a badge just long enough for Mathis to see the seal, but not long enough to get a good look. “Department of Public Health. We’re following up on reports of black mold in this building. Can we come in and take a look?”
“I didn’t call about mold.”
“It’s a building-wide inspection,” Griffin says, shrugging as though he’s annoyed at having to do this, too. “We received complaints from multiple units.”
Mathis tightens his grip on the door frame. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Afraid it is. Refusing a health inspection could result in a citation for both you and your landlord.” Griffin steps forward. “I promise, we’ll be quick.”
Mathis’s eyes flare in annoyance. Then he steps aside and leaves the door open.
The living room isn’t what I’d call tidy, but it looks like the usual clutter of someone living alone with very little motivation to clean. Clothes drape over chair backs. Two pizza boxes sit stacked on the coffee table with a half-empty two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew keeping them company. The TV’s loud enough torecognize Judge Judy’s distinctive bark, but not loud enough for me to understand what she’s saying through the earplugs.
Griffin unclips the scanner from his belt, thumbing it on as he tells Mathis it’s a mold detection device. He runs the tip of the scanner along the wall. His body language is relaxed, but I notice how he positions himself so he can always keep one eye on Mathis.
“Have you been experiencing any respiratory issues lately?” I ask, trying to keep Mathis’s attention on me like I practiced with the other men.
His fingers pick at a loose thread on his pajama pants. “No.”
“What about headaches? Or any unexplained mood changes?”
He scratches at his forearm under his hoodie. “No.”
I nod, studying him. The other men looked unhappy we were there, but they talked more, complaining about our intrusion or even making small talk. This guy’s… twitchy.
Twitchy doesn’t mean possessed. He could be anxious. On drugs. Or maybe—and here’s a crazy thought—he just hates strangers showing up at his door unannounced and barging into his home.
I have no clue how someone would act if an entity were possessing them. The only possessed person I’ve ever seen was actively strangling me, and we didn’t get much face time.
I glance at the kitchen, and my heart squeezes a little because it’s a disaster. Dishes are piled so high in the sink that they’re toppling onto the counter. Spilled food has crusted over on the countertop, and the refrigerator hums, working overtime in the stuffy apartment. A gallon of milk sits on the table, swollen and black with rot, probably growing enough bacteria to qualify as a biological weapon.
Poor guy. I know depression can do this, make even the simplest tasks feel impossible. I’ve been there. Not to this extent,but I get it. When everything feels like too much, sometimes you stop trying to do… anything.
Griffin scans behind the refrigerator. Mathis takes a step toward him, craning his neck to see what Griffin is doing.
“How have you been sleeping?” I ask, and Mathis reels back around to me. “Have you been experiencing any disturbances?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with mold,” Mathis says, his eyes narrowing.
“Mold can seriously mess with your sleep.” I learned this the hard way when I was fourteen, and I lived in a foster home where I got super sick because the well-meaning couple didn’t know there was black mold growing in the walls. I spent three weeks convinced I had the flu, because I was tired no matter how much sleep I got, and couldn’t stop coughing. “The spores get into your lungs and can cause insomnia and a whole lot of other bad crap.”
I cringe internally.Other bad crap?That’s the most professional thing I could come up with?
Mathis gives me an empty stare that makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. “Maybe I do have some.”
Griffin straightens from behind the refrigerator, and I catch his frown as he bangs the scanner against his hand. Mathis flinches.
