Rhychard took the steps one at a time, wanting to delay the encounter as long as possible. It wasn’t long enough. The screen door was the only barrier between the porch and chaos, and as he peeked in, he could see chaos was too soft of a word. “Karl!” Rhychard jerked the door open as the knot in his stomach tightened. The place was trashed. Not just from a lazy homeowner, but ransacked. Broken glass littered the floor, cushions were ripped open, and the stuffing thrown about, tables were broken. Someone had been searching for something. “Karl!”
“Holy…” Trace stood in the door. “Is he here?”
A quick search of the house revealed the same catastrophe in each room, but no Karl Bartlett. “Damn!”
“Rhychard! In the kitchen.”