There, resting in a neat, deliberate row along the wooden slats beneath where Jacqueline had slept for six months, was a line of small clear plastic bags.

Each one was packed tight, stuffed, with a fine white powder.

And each one bore a small white label, written on in a precise, tiny, careful hand.

My eyes moved along the row, reading the labels, and my brain simply refused to make sense of them.

E-14.

R-07.

B-22.

Codes.