![]() Until he could figure out what the hell was going on. It was a safe place for him to spend the night, and, he hoped, at least the next few days. Every room, closet, and corner was as vacant as he’d expected. He’d dab some hydrogen peroxide on it whenever he got a chance. A monster mosquito-he’d assumed it was a mosquito but hadn’t really seen it-had bitten him a couple days ago, and the swollen sore itched like a mother. ![]() He didn’t hear the noises he feared: the whispers and the soft laughter that had been following him like his own shadow. The only sounds in the house were the rain drizzling on the roof, and his labored breathing. He’d been so terrified the past three days that his sure grip gave him confidence that he was taking back control of his life. His other hand was steady with the gun, a good sign. His real estate company advertised the place as “fully furnished, utilities included,” which helped to maintain a steady stream of new tenants, mostly transient types who needed a pad for a few months.Īs he searched each room, he kept one hand clasped around the gold crucifix that dangled from his necklace. ![]() A few pieces of no-frills furniture occupied the rooms, only the essentials needed for simple living. ![]() It was a three-bedroom, two-bathroom ranch in East Atlanta. When Reggie King stepped inside the rental house on that rainy Saturday evening, the first thing he did was draw his Glock nine millimeter and begin searching from one room to the next, opening doors and flipping on lights as he moved. ![]()
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