Julian Vance slid the green vinyl curtain open exactly eighteen inches.
The tarnished brass C-hooks scraped along the ceiling channel with a dry, metallic rattle.
Skrrrt.
The gap was just wide enough to expose the stainless-steel shelving unit bolted to the northern wall.
Julian stepped forward, wheeling the front bumper of the canvas laundry hamper into the opening.
He did not raise his chin. He did not let his eyes wander.
His gaze remained rigidly locked at an exact thirty-degree downward angle. His field of vision included only the lower two shelves of the metal rack, the hem of his blue orderly coat, and the terrazzo tiles.
The air inside the alcove was sub-zero, bitter and stagnant. It tasted of old formalin, dried coagulated blood, and uncarved tallow.
