Home of the Braised Read Online Free PDF Page A

Shabby.
    The door was set back a few feet from the sidewalk, centered, and painted shiny black, as were the frames surrounding the bowed, mullioned windows that flanked it. The window glass was covered with faded, water-stained butcher paper, taped three-quarters of the way up. There was enough of an opening to allow light, but not enough for someone of even Gav’s height to see in.
    There were no signs out front, and no welcome mat. The small walkway to the door was paved with tiny, cracked tiles, which wore a patina of grime.
    “How long has it been since you’ve been here?” I asked.
    Gav didn’t answer. He grabbed the knob and pushed at the door. It opened easily, and I half expected an overhead bell to tinkle and announce our arrival. I kept behind him as he strode into the wide, dimly lit space. It was silent, stuffy, and . . . empty.
    Gav stopped about a quarter of the way in, rotating in place as though to ensure he hadn’t missed anything. “This is odd.”
    Built in the early part of the last century, the building felt echo-y and smelled like a musty antique store. I looked up at the high, tin ceiling. Someone had painted it white a very long time ago. Cracks and water marks stained the corners. Everything about the space was sad and lonely. This was where people came to find help?
    I caught a whiff of the cigarette butts before I saw them. Spilling out of freestanding chrome ashtrays, the kind that were oh-so-popular in ’60s fashion-conscious homes, there were way too many butts than could have been collected in a single day.
    Under the graying scent of cold tobacco, I detected yet another familiar smell. Human and warm, it reminded me of body odor, but overwhelmingly sour and stale. Rotten eggs, maybe.
    I reminded myself that people on the fringes of society—people like the wild-eyed man we’d recently encountered—didn’t always have access to conveniences we took for granted, and didn’t always shower regularly. Body odor shouldn’t surprise me. It didn’t really. But the scent in here contained something else.
    I struggled to shake off my sense of unease.
    Gav was feeling it too, I could tell. His gaze darted to the corners, then around, then back toward the door we’d just come through. “Very odd.”
    The scarred wood floor creaked as we walked around and waited for someone to show up. Faded posters from last century’s blockbuster movies covered the walls from waist to about eye height. Behind them, the paint was crimson and cracked. Higher up, A INSLEY S TREET M INISTRY had been hand-lettered unevenly across one wall.
    Behind the posters, chunky white lines slashed up and down the red walls. These were straight plaster-cracked lines, leading me to believe that large pieces of built-in furniture had been ripped out at some point. To our right, a dozen folding chairs were set up in a circle, and to our left was a sad attempt at a library—four weather-beaten, pressboard bookcases crammed with distressed paperbacks. The overhead fluorescent fixtures flickered and buzzed. Otherwise the place was utterly silent.
    Gav met my gaze. “I don’t understand this,” he said. Raising his voice, he called, “Hello?”
    No answer.
    “Strange,” he said again, making his way to a large bulletin board on a tripod. “Evan is always here. And when he goes out he leaves a note.”
    I stood behind him, reading the advertisements that promised help and understanding. That offered solace in the form of church services and food.
    Gav looked around. “Evan?” he called again.
    When there was still no answer, he started for the back door. “There’s an apartment this way. Evan lets people stay here from time to time. It’s not much: a kitchen, a bedroom, and a small bathroom. Maybe he’s busy back there and can’t hear us.”
    Gav’s words felt as empty as this building. There was no one here. We both knew it. “Could Evan have simply forgotten to leave a note this time?”
    “I suppose,” he