His recliner had been tipped over, the side pockets emptied, the old leather covered in the gritty dark film. Books and magazines were strewn over the floor, the shelves of the bookcase empty, the mantel swept clean, his lantern and lighter that had been upon it now on the floor, along with everything else.

He felt a surge of anger run through his blood.

“It’s like they were looking for drugs,” he said, and Bobby shook his head. “Then what?”

“A weapon.”

“What? My . . . gun?”

“It’s missing.”

He walked into the dining room and saw the drawer where he’d always stashed his pistol. It was hanging open, the Glock not inside.

They think you killed her.

For the first time, he realized that until Megan was found, he would be a primary target of an investigation looking into her disappearance.

“I told ya, you shouldn’t have left the hospital,” Bobby reminded him. “I don’t know why that doctor let you out.”

“And I told you, it was my decision.”

“A piss-poor one, if you ask me.”

“No one did.”

“Look, if you want, you can bunk with me,” he said. “The missus won’t mind.”

James wasn’t so sure of that. “The missus” was Bobby’s third wife, Cynthia—“Just call me Cyn”—a buxom brunette who had always viewed James with a calculating eye, forever, he thought, measuring him up, her eyes thinning behind the smoke of one of her imported cigarettes. He didn’t doubt that “Cyn” had googled him many times.

“You and Ralph can bunk in the second bedroom. Now that Cyn’s kid is gone, it’s free, and Ralph, I think he likes The Princess.”

James didn’t believe it. The Princess, Cyn’s long-haired cat, whose entire name seemed to be Princess-Baby, wasn’t all that likable.

“Thanks, but I’ll stay here,” he said, feeling his lips twist. “Home sweet home, and all that, y’know.”

“More like ‘Home sweet disaster,’ if ya ask me, but hell, it’s your life.” He scowled at the stairs. “You able to get up to your room?”

“If I have to.” But not tonight. The steps, which he’d always taken two at a time without a second thought, now seemed formidable. And there was no food in the fridge. And the house was filthy, almost unlivable.

Ralph was pacing at the foot of the stairs, looking up to the second floor and whining as if to say, Come on, let’s go to bed.

“Okay, how ’bout this? I stay at the inn for a few days until I can get this place right.” He owned the place, and the hotel had clean rooms, maid service, telephones, working Wi-Fi, and room service connected to the restaurant and bar.

“What about Ralph?”

“One of the dog-friendly rooms.”

“Cyn and The Princess will be disappointed.”