Several minutes slid past in silence, broken only by the scratch of pens on clipboards and the low murmur of officers packing gear. Irene's voice, once insistent and raw, had shriveled to a rasp.
She leaned against the edge of the collapsed ticket booth, one hand pressed to the slick wood, her snakes coiling listlessly around her shoulders.
Both flesh and serpent were drained of warmth—their scales now streaked a dull crimson, like blood settling in old wounds. Her skin had the sickly pallor of someone midway between life and collapse.
Inspector Elaine barely glanced her way. The woman's back was turned as she sorted case files with two crime scene investigators by the broken lobby light. One investigator tucked a bloodstained evidence bag into a duffel; the other methodically snapped photographs of the ruined plush seats.
