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were supposed to check in later today. The later the better, as far as Ty was concerned. God knew how long it would take to clean up the kitchen and living room. His shoulders sagged as he realized he hadn’t even taken a look upstairs yet.
    He was headed for the stairs when he became aware of a faint gurgling sound. It was coming from the bathroom tucked under the stairs. Funny, the door was closed and it didn’t want to budge. He braced one leg against the doorjamb and yanked hard. The door flew open, and a torrent of foul-smelling water rushed out into the hallway.
    “Shiiiit,” Ty said. And he meant that literally.
    *   *   *
    Ellis took her time finishing breakfast. She checked her e-mails repeatedly, finding nothing new except for sale offers from Bloomingdale’s and more e-mails from old friends at the bank, who’d also had unpleasant termination sessions with Stonehenge.
    In the days following her downsizing (which was how she preferred to think of it), Ellis had been consumed with the injustice of her situation. She’d spent hours, days really, commiserating with her former colleagues. She’d joined a “I got jobbed by BancAtlantic” Facebook group and chatboard and had even attended a meet-up at a bar in the suburbs, where everybody had gotten sloppy drunk and teary-eyed about their dire situations.
    No more, though, Ellis had resolved. She’d been a saver her whole life. Her father had left her a little inheritance, so her town house was paid for. Her car was paid off, and she’d wisely decided years ago against investing her pension funds in her own bank’s stock. She was by no means wealthy, but she had a little cushion, and she refused to panic. Or so she told herself.
    So she scrolled down the messages in her in-box, looking in vain for a reply to her message to Mr. Culpepper.
    Finding none, she got out the printout of the VRBO ad for Ebbtide. Strange, the only thing it lacked was a contact number.
    She frowned and tapped out a follow-up e-mail, reminding Mr. Culpepper of her request for an early check-in, and suggesting that he call her on her cell phone, to let her know the house was ready.
    Finally, there was nothing else to do but kill some time at the outlet mall. But first, she’d just take a spin past the house, to see if the previous guests had checked out.
    She cruised down Virginia Dare Trail, slowing as she came to the house, but there was a line of cars directly behind her, so she pulled into the driveway at Ebbtide.
    Damn! The Bronco hadn’t moved from the garage. But the broken cooler and beer bottles had been picked up since her last drive-by, and now a large wheeled garbage can overflowing with trash had been parked in the weedy area beside the mailbox. She craned her neck to try to see if there was any activity around the house.
    She checked her e-mail in-box one more time. Nothing. Reluctantly, she decided to head for the outlets.
    *   *   *
    At one, Ty loaded the last load of damp towels into the dryer. Straightening, he looked out the window of the ground-floor laundry room just in time to see the same silver Accord slowly cruise past. This was the Accord’s third pass in the past hour. What was up with that? It couldn’t be one of the assholes from the bank, right? It was Saturday, for God’s sake. Not that he had time to worry about it too much. As bad as the first floor of the house had been, the second floor was worse. Much worse.
    It was a horror show, is what it was. The bathrooms held piles of wet, mildewed towels, and somebody had barfed in the shower stall. He’d found what looked like a dog turd in the closet in one of the front bedrooms. How the hell had they snuck a dog past him? And it must have been a friggin’ Great Dane from the looks of things. The twin-bed mattresses from the back bedroom had been dragged out to the sleeping porch and piled on the floor, where last night’s rain had given them a good soaking. Trash was strewn everywhere, and