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“Good work,” Seth said. “Nick, do you think we could see any better through the back of the house?”
“Only through the window on the back door. It doesn’t have a blind on it. The other windows do.”
“Hold on,” Gibby said grimly. “I found him. He’s dead.”
“What?” Nick demanded. “When?” He looked back at the screen to see she’d pulled up an obituary. Next to the words was a picture of Martin Underwood, an older white man with a solemn smile and cavernous wrinkles on his kind face. The obituary was short, giving few details aside from his place of birth and the date of his death, which happened almost five years before. The only hint of the manner of death was the phraseUnderwood passed away unexpectedly.The last line of the obituary read:Mr. Underwood is survived by his only daughter.
“Maybe we can find her,” Nick said. “See if she knows anything. Long shot, but I don’t know what else to do. We don’t even know how he died.” He glanced down at the phone. “Guys, you hearing this?”
No response.
“Seth?” Nick asked. “Jazz?”
Nothing.
“Nick,” Gibby said urgently. “Look at this.”
On the screen, a news story. Not from Action News, but another site. A short article, saying that police were baffled by thedeath of Martin Underwood, who was found in his East Side apartment deceased after neighbors complained of a foul smell in the hallway. According to the coroner, it appeared Martin Underwood had been dead for a least a week before he was discovered.
But it wasn’t the length of time it took to find him that baffled investigators.
It was the fact that he’ddrowned.His lungs were filled with water, but there was no other physical evidence to show his body had ever been in water. Police were continuing to investigate.
“Water,” Nick whispered. “Jesus, Gibby. What if he could manipulate water? What if that was his power?”
“And Patricia Burke took it from him,” Gibby said. “Then… what. Turned it on him? Drowned him with his own powers? Nick, that means she can—”
So this is what it’s led to,a voice whispered in Nick’s head, foreign, intrusive. He blinked slowly, as if caught in a dream.We underestimated you. We won’t do that again. Stop him. Stop himnow.
“Gibby,” Nick said, sounding far, far away. “Did… did you hear that?”
No answer.
He looked down at her.
Sweat sluiced down the sides of her face as she gripped the table, knuckles bloodless. Through gritted teeth, she bit out, “I… can’t. Stop. It. It’s so…loud.” She turned her head toward him, eyes wide, frightened. “She’s…”
Do it. Stop him by whatever means necessary.
The door to the basement opened above. Steps creaked. “Nick? Gibby? I have cookies. So many cookies.”
Martha.
Gibby hunched over the desk, head in her hands. Nick rushed to the entrance of the secret lair. “Martha! Something’s wrong with Gibby! I need your…”
Help,was how he meant to finish. But his voice was stolen from him when he saw Martha Gray descending the stairs holding alarge kitchen knife, the blade glinting in the light from the bare bulb above the stairs.
“Cookies,” Martha singsonged. “So many cookies.”
“Uh,” Nick said, taking a step back as she reached the bottom of the stairs, her eyes vacant, expression slack. “That doesn’t look like cookies.”
He stumbled back when Martha hurtled toward him, knife raised above her head. Managing to stay upright, he slammed the pocket door, screaming when the knife went through it, the tip of the blade inches from his right eye.
“Martha!” he bellowed through the door. “What the hell?”
“It’sher,” Gibby wheezed behind him. “Nick, it’s Patricia Burke. She knows.She knows.”
“I’m supposed to be in a romantic comedy, not a horror movie!” Nick cried as the blade wiggled from side to side as if it was stuck, Martha trying to pull it free. With all his might, he jerked the door open again, causing Martha to lose her grip on the knife. It bounced off the cement floor, sliding underneath the washing machine.
