Furniture was smashed and splintered, phonograph records cascaded across the floor, the contents of a closet were dumped helter-skelter into the center of the room. Something thumped heavily in my throat. For some oddball reason all four burner units on her electric range were switched on, glowing orange-hot and smelling menacingly of electricity. Picking my way through the flotsam, I clicked off the burners. Had the intruder been trying to set the house on fire? It would take a solid week to clean up this hodgepodge. Her stereo and both speakers had been smashed to bits. Textbooks and school papers were strewn across the living room. But where was Kathy? I booted the heaps of clothing in the center of the room, testing. No bodies. I searched the empty closet. Only a few shoes remained. There was only one other spot, the tiny bathroom. She looked like something on the cover of True Detective. He had tied her hands over her head, tied them to the shower rod and gagged her. She wore leotards and that skin tight body suit dancers use.
