“Jesus H. Christ, it’s cold out there.” Another man’s voice as the front door slammed shut, and noiselessly, her heart beating frantically, she backed into James’s room and closed the door so that it was open just a hair, wide enough that if she pressed her face to it, she could get a narrow view of the darkened upper hallway.

Now what?

She let out her breath slowly. Silently.

Think, Rebecca, think. How in the world are you going to get out of here without getting yourself caught?

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 11

“What a mess,” James muttered as he strode through his kitchen, where he could find a path in the debris. He kicked a box of cornflakes out of his way, and the box burst open, half the contents, hundreds of flakes, adding to the disaster.

Drawers hung open, cupboards had been emptied, pots and pans were scattered across the floor, plates and silverware covered the counters. Wearing the clothes Bobby had brought to the hospital, his head still swathed in a bandage, his arm in a sling, he felt his jaw tighten as he moved into the dining area. His head was pounding, and the house was destroyed. Everything that hadn’t been taken by the police had been shuffled through, left, and was covered in a fine black powder of fingerprint dust. “Fuck.” His laptop and computer were gone, his vehicles as well, and the house . . . He shook his head and felt the headache beginning to pound again.

“I told ya,” Bobby reminded him. He’d picked James up at the hospital, even bringing Ralph, who was now jetting through the rooms and barking wildly, just as he had when James had climbed with effort into Bobby’s truck. The shepherd had been beside himself, all over James, licking and whining and wiggling before settling down in the truck. The good news was that Bobby had brought him fresh clothes and the hospital had returned his wallet. The blood-stained shirt and jeans he’d been wearing on the night Megan disappeared were with the police.

Now, the dog was going nuts again, whining and barking, running through the rooms and up the stairs.

“Guess he missed you,” Bobby said. He was carrying a plastic bag holding James’s meager belongings that he had had with him at the hospital.

Upstairs, Ralph was barking up a storm, as if he’d treed a squirrel. “Ralph! Enough!” James yelled and whistled to the dog. “Come.”

Whining, Ralph clambered back to the first floor, where James stood in what had once been his living room and stared at the chaos.

“This is—”

“Pretty damned bad.”

“—an effin’ nightmare.”

“Fuckin’ nightmare,” Bobby corrected, eyeing the disaster.

James grunted his agreement.