He palmed the rusty knob and slammed his shoulder against the flimsy panel. The lock snapped with a sharp metallic sound. The door slapped hard against the woman, who stumbled backward as he shoved in. His glance took in shabby cypress furniture, the sagging pine floor; cheap bright scatter rugs and chintz curtains. Two open doors led back into the rear of the house from the living room, but those rooms were dark. A whiskey bottle was rolling across the floor, gurgling and spilling its contents. Byrum heeld the door shut behind him.

1965.