"Wednesday, are you alright?" Enid askead, watching her closely after the sudden movement. She couldn't understand why Wednesday had reacted like that—snapping her head back so abruptly—and it made her uneasy.
Wednesday's head slowly returned to its usual stillness as the vision released its grip. Her expression settled back into calm neutrality, as if nothing had happened at all.
"I'm fine," Wednesday said.
Her gaze slowly fell on the kitchen knife in her hand—the source of the vision.
"Where did you get the knife?" she asked.
"From the kitchen," Ethan replied. He didn't understand why the question mattered.
"Which kitchen?"
"This house," Ethan said. "Don't worry. I cleaned it."
He gave a small shrug. He'd forgotten to bring one, so he'd taken it from the house kitchen instead.
"So what did you see in the vision?" Ethan asked.
His gaze flicked to the knife in her hand. It was from the Gates house. That alone made it suspect. Thornhill had lived there—used that kitchen. If the vision had been triggered by the blade, then the past it carried mattered.
He wondered if Wednesday had seen Laurel Gates. Or something connected to her. If she'd finally uncovered Thornhill's real name.
"Nothing," Wednesday said. Then she corrected herself. "Nothing new. But I got confirmation."
She didn't elaborate.
In her mind, the pieces had already aligned. The monster wasn't acting alone. There were two people connected to it—one woman, one man and it also seemed they were the ones who would kill Ethan.
She could be certain of one thing: in the entirety of Nevermore, the title of blood-sucking mosquito fit Ethan better than any other vampire. The rest are normal, forgettable, uninteresting. Ethan, on the other hand, was loud, involved, and relentlessly annoying.
And that woman in the vision wasn't just angry.
She had a very specific, very personal hatred for him.
And the voice—familiar. She was certain she'd known that woman in the vision.
The conclusion settled quickly, without drama.
Laurel Gates wasn't dead. She was very much alive—and planning something. Something methodical. Something obsessive. And whatever she was setting in motion involved resurrecting her psychopath ancestor.
It also involved killing Ethan.
Possibly her as well.
She was pulled out of her thoughts when Ethan pinched off a small piece of cake and held it up, hovering it annoyingly close to her mouth.
"Now, Wednesday," he said lightly, "say ah."
She stared at the cake. Then at his hand. Then back at his face.
Her expression didn't change, but the message was unmistakable: do not push your luck.
"I strongly advise you to withdraw," she said coolly.
Ethan paused, read the room, and immediately redirected. "Right. Consent acknowledged." He popped the cake into his own mouth instead. "More for me."
Wednesday watched him chew, unimpressed, as if filing the moment away for possible future retaliation.
Before she could step back, Enid suddenly wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Okay! Enough cake-related threats. Photo time!"
"I do not consent to documentation," Wednesday replied flatly.
"That's fine," Enid said, already squeezing tighter. "I do."
Ethan lifted his camera, backing up a step to frame them. "Alright, just smile."
Wednesday turned her gaze toward the lens.
She didn't smile.
She didn't frown either.
She simply looked like she was attending a funeral she'd personally arranged.
Click.
Ethan checked the screen. "Wow. That's… intense."
"It's my happy face," Wednesday said.
Like that, Wednesday's surprise birthday ended-unnecessarily.
***
The next morning, she was already in the mayor's office.
Mayor Walker looked up from his desk as Wednesday stood across from him, hands folded, posture rigid.
"I need to know what happened to Laurel Gates," Wednesday said, skipping every possible courtesy.
The mayor blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Laurel Gates?" he repeated. "Why are you asking about her?"
"She's listed as deceased," Wednesday replied. "Yet recent events suggest otherwise."
Walker leaned back slightly, "Laurel Gates died years ago. That's public record."
Wednesday met his gaze without hesitation. "So was Garrett Gates' cause of death. That didn't hold up very well either."
Mayor Walker exhaled slowly, as if deciding how much truth to release. "After Garrett Gates died, his family collapsed. His mother committed suicide. His father drank himself to death. Laurel Gates—their daughter—was placed in an overseas orphanage." He paused. "The ship transporting her sank. She was presumed dead."
"Presumed," Wednesday repeated. She set a thin file on his desk and slid it forward. "Not confirmed."
Walker opened it. A childhood photograph stared back at him—Laurel Gates, eyes sharp even then. As he studied the image, something uneasy stirred. Recognition, faint but persistent.
Wednesday watched his reaction closely. "You've seen her."
Walker's fingers stilled on the page. "I… might have," he said carefully. "Recently."
"Then she isn't dead," Wednesday said. "And if Laurel Gates is alive, she's connected to the murders in Jericho."
"Someone has been using Laurel Gates's room in the Gates house," Wednesday said evenly. "I think it's her. Which means the sheriff should search the house properly. There's something there they haven't found yet."
*****
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