The New Yorker was his own little tornado whipping around and Raylan let him, watching the edgingly frantic shuffling between glancing over the damp, molding room. His brain produced exactly one word. Addict. Maybe the reason Malcolm looked the way he did had nothing to do with where they were.

His eyes narrowed fractionally and gestured back towards the door.

"Then we go up."

Once they were out of the room and starting up the first few stairs, Raylan spoke again. "What were you looking for? Anything specific?"