Page 100 of Chaotic Curse
Finally, he says, “You sure this Haynes guy’s involved?”
I rake my fingers through my hair, sighing.“I’m not sure of anything at this point.My first two suspects were dead ends.But his DNA’s on the notes.That’s enough to get my attention.”
“Any priors besides the sex offender registry?”
“Burglary.He served time for that and for child porn.He’s out now.His address is listed.”
Falcon shakes his head.“I met men like that when I was on the inside.Those kind of guys…Prison doesn’t fix them.I don’t think anything can.”
We turn down a cracked asphalt road that eventually leads us to the Haynes place.
The house is a single-story with faded blue siding set back from the road behind a patchy front yard.A chain-link fence runs the perimeter, and a rusted mailbox leans at the end of the drive.
The heat is relentless out here.No shade, no breeze.The porch boards look warped from the sun.
“Home sweet home,” Falcon mutters.
“No car,” I say, scanning the drive.“Either he’s out or he doesn’t drive.”
We climb the steps.They groan under our weight.I knock.
Nothing.
“Clifford Haynes!”I call.
Still nothing.
Falcon glances at me.“Do you think he’s ignoring us?”
“Or he can’t answer.”
I try the knob.It’s locked.
“Are you going to knock politely all day?”Falcon says.
I pull a pick from my pocket.“Of course not.”
After I work at it for a few minutes, the lock clicks open, and we step inside.
The smell hits first—stale air mixed with something metallic and faintly sweet.Not fresh.Not right.
The living room is dim, blinds drawn tight.A sagging couch faces an old TV.A coffee table is cluttered with beer cans and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts.
“Charming,” Falcon says, his voice low.
We move into the kitchen.Yellowed linoleum, peeling laminate counters, a sink full of dishes crusted with food.The fridge hums faintly.
“He’s not only a derelict.He’s a slob,” Falcon mutters.
We walk down the hallway off the kitchen.Three doors—one open to a bathroom, one to a room stacked with boxes and old electronics, and one closed.
We check the bathroom first.Rust stains around the drain, a toothbrush caked with dried paste.
The storage room is worse.Stacks of VHS tapes, some without labels, are piled on warped shelves.Falcon runs a hand over one box.“This feels wrong.”
I let out a shiver as a chill runs down my spine.“This whole place feels wrong.”
We go to the closed door.I put my hand on the knob and glance at my brother.“Ready?”
