If memory served, the den was this way, where he’d interviewed the guy before. He entered a vaguely familiar room, checking out the places where he and Chastain sat for their conversation. Some of the furnishings he remembered, some he didn’t.
Old couch. Possibly a new chair. More books lying on the coffee table. A half-full glass of dark liquid sat on the end table by the chair where Chastain had sat. An old black and white movie played on the big screen TV, sound off.
He bent and took a sniff of the glass. Rum and coke, maybe?
“Chastain?”
No answer. He crept past the only room he clearly remembered, back out into the hall, pausing to listen. No sounds but the whoosh of a heater. Back to the wall, he crept to the next door. His heartbeat kicked up a notch in his chest.
Gun drawn in front of him, he scooted around a doorframe and into the bathroom. He yanked the shower curtain back.
Empty. And clean.
He backed out of the bathroom and treaded softly on plush carpet. Each step added more rocks to his stomach. This wouldn’t end well. No way in hell. He’d either find something he didn’t want to see, or he’d find nothing.
Which would be just as bad. Chastain struck him as a level-headed man. He wouldn’t have called without good reason, and he wouldn’t have left, leaving his back door unlocked. Not after what he’d been through.
The bedroom consisted of a queen-sized bed, a dresser, twin nightstands. Blue comforter, blue curtains, blue carpet. Nothing out of place but a book on the nightstand.
And a pool of red at the foot of the bed.