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stabilize himself.
    “Watch yourself,” Jack kidded. “Calm down, Rusty,” he said in his nicest tone. “Be nice to Derrick.” He looked back at Derrick, who was ten steps behind him. “I hope this dog’s not prejudiced.” They both laughed.
    Jack trudged up the steps, which were covered with a half-inch of snow and a bunch of old footprints.
    “Just wait for me, would you?” Derrick was right behind him. “Easy, Fido, ea-sy.”
    The dog pranced in a circle and sniffed them with his dirty nose, then gave a low growl.
    “Hurry up, man. He’s seriously deranged.”
    Jack snickered as he opened the squeaky screen door and nudged the heavy wood door open, Derrick pushing from behind.
    The place did not resemble the kitchen Jack had stepped into that morning.
    “Hold up.” Jack threw an arm up to stop Derrick.
    Derrick froze and looked around. “No way.”
    “Shhh.” Jack held a finger to his lips.
    The kitchen cupboards and drawers were open at cockeyed angles, their contents spilled over the counters and floor. Broken dishes, pots, silverware, pans, and shattered glass were everywhere.
    Standing completely still, they listened. Something moved in the adjacent room. Jack bent down, hiked the leg of his pants up over the black holster, and yanked the gun out. He rose, caught a glimpse of Derrick’s gaping mouth and huge eyes, and cocked the gun with his thumb instead of racking the slide, to keep it quiet.
    A skinny gray cat slinked around the corner.
    Both men exhaled, and Jack lowered the weapon.
    With its back arched, the cat tiptoed through the broken plates and strewn silverware.
    “What’re you doing with that?” Derrick eyed the gun.
    Jack ignored him and took in the scene. The kitchen table where Travis had eaten that morning was overturned, and the desk where the Demler-Vargus folder was supposed to be had been smashed onto its side, its drawers and contents scattered everywhere.
    “I think they’re gone.” Derrick’s voice broke. “Don’t you?”
    “Yeah.” Jack holstered the gun.
    Someone had been searching for something.
    Whoever it was knew the Randalls were away.
    Jack’s head got fuzzy as he contemplated the danger the Randalls were in—and the potential story he and Derrick were sitting on. He made his way across the kitchen and peeked into the TV room—a complete demolition site.
    “There, too?” Derrick asked.
    Jack nodded.
    The couch was overturned, its cushions knifed open and gutted. Everything was smashed, from the big-screen TV to an antique glass cabinet that looked like it had held a coin collection.
    Jack assumed that the rest of the little house was in a similar condition, and his heart broke for Galen and the boys.
    He came back into the center of the kitchen. Whoever had ruined the place had done so with a vengeance. The kitchen chairs were broken like kindling. The dishwasher door was dented from a boot.
    “I’ll call Travis.” Jack got his phone out. “Let’s look for the folder.”
    “You think that’s what they were after?”
    “Who knows? It might just be random, but somehow I don’t think so.”
    “Should we call the cops?” Derrick bent down over one of the desk drawers on the floor and began sorting through what was left in it.
    “Yeah … I’ll ask Travis if he wants me to.”
    Jack dialed Travis’s cell phone and got no answer, so he tried LJ.
    “LJ, is Travis available?” Jack knew Travis had the cooler head.
    “He’s indisposed right now, if you know what I mean. He told you the Jetta’s gonna be late, right?
    “Yeah, how’s Galen?”
    “Steady. Should be back to a private room right quick here.”
    “Good.” Jack hesitated, knowing he needed to tell LJ about the break-in. “LJ, did Travis tell you he gave me permission to go to your house and get your dad’s notes on Demler-Vargus?”
    “No, but it’s fine. The house is open.”
    “Yeah, me and another reporter from the Dispatch came over to get the folder.”
    “Knock