The mayor's response didn't satisfy her.
He admitted it was strange that someone appeared to be using Laurel Gates' old room, but dismissed it as coincidence—perhaps a squatter, perhaps a homeless drifter. Jericho was stretched thin, he said. No manpower. No resources. No investigation.
Wednesday had stopped listening halfway through.
Authority had never been a prerequisite for truth.
She continued on her own—and what she found confirmed her instincts.
Photographs.
Recent ones.
Her. Ethan. Taken without their knowledge. Found in the Laurel Gates room.
Wednesday studied them in silence.
"Hm," she murmured. "Laurel Gates didn't just inherit her family name. She inherited their pathology."
The conclusion settled cleanly into place. Laurel Gates was alive. Active. And she wasn't working alone.
Someone inside Nevermore was helping her—someone close enough to feed information, movements, timing.
And that collaborator was male and he might be the monster she is searching for.
Her thoughts narrowed, sharp and efficient.
Xavier.
He had drawn the monster in obsessive detail—its form, its posture, even its hideout. And each time, Xavier had been nearby, close enough to matter.
Twice now, the creature had surfaced where Xavier already was: first at the Harvest Festival, then again at the old meeting house during Outreach Day. In both cases, he knew where exactly they would be.
The pattern was becoming impossible to ignore.
Which meant there was only one reasonable conclusion—Xavier might be the monster.
If Laurel Gates was the mind, then the monster was the muscle.
And Xavier was beginning to look like muscle.
Wednesday walked back toward Nevermore through the woods, her pace steady, expression unreadable. The trees pressed in close, branches whispering overhead. Thing sat on her shoulder, fingers moving.
You have no evidence.
"Yes," Wednesday replied coolly. "That's what's currently preventing me from marching into the sheriff's office and throwing a homicidal monster into a cell. Bureaucracy is exhausting."
"But the problem is Laurel Gates," Wednesday said. "She was intelligent enough to fake her death, resurface in Jericho under another identity, and somehow bend a monster to her will."
Thing's fingers stilled—then signed again.
Someone is following us.
"I'm aware," Wednesday said calmly. "And they're doing a remarkably poor job of it. The snapping branches are a little on the nose."
The footsteps behind her hesitated.
Wednesday stopped.
"So," she said, turning at last, "you can either reveal yourself now, or I can demonstrate several effective methods of forced disclosure."
A figure stepped out from behind a tree, coat flaring dramatically.
"Wednesday!" Fester announced, arms spread wide. "You wound me. Following my favorite niece through the woods, and this is the welcome I get?"
Thing brightened instantly—then launched himself off Wednesday's shoulder and punched Fester square in the face.
Fester barely flinched. He blinked once, then grinned wider. "Ah. Still holding that grudge, I see."
Thing signed furiously, all sharp gestures and emphatic flicks.
"It was one time," Fester said, rubbing his cheek. "And I said I was sorry. Eventually."
Wednesday allowed herself the smallest smile. "Uncle Fester."
He clasped his hands together, delighted. "Look at you. Stalking through the forest, brooding, unraveling conspiracies. You make the family proud."
Thing hopped back onto Wednesday's shoulder, still glaring at Fester.
"He remembers," Wednesday said flatly.
"As he should," Fester replied cheerfully. "Trauma builds character."
Wednesday didn't return the smile. "What are you doing here, Uncle Fester?" she asked. "I doubt you traveled all this way out of familial concern."
Fester placed a hand over his heart, mock-offended. "Straight to suspicion. I'm hurt." Then he leaned closer, lowering his voice. "I'm lying low. Occupational necessity."
"Of course you are," Wednesday said.
"Well," Fester continued brightly, "I heard from your father that Jericho is currently enjoying monster-related homicides, decades-old secrets clawing their way back to the surface, and a general sense of impending doom." He spread his arms, inhaling deeply. "What a perfect place for a quiet vacation."
Thing signed something sharp and accusatory.
Wednesday's eyes narrowed just a fraction. "Then you picked an excellent time. Things here are about to get significantly worse."
Fester's grin widened. "Music to my ears."
As they walked toward Nevermore, Fester glanced at her sideways.
"So," he said, casual as ever, "how close are you to solving it?"
"I've found every missing piece except one," Wednesday replied. "The monster identity itself. There's no record of it in any outcast texts."
Fester hummed. "That's unusual. What does it look like?"
Wednesday stopped. She reached into her bag, pulled out Xavier's painting, and handed it to him.
Fester studied it for a moment. Then he smiled.
"That's a Hyde."
Wednesday froze. Her eyes lifted to his. "As in Jekyll and Hyde?"
"Mmm-hmm."
"You've seen one before?"
"Oh yeah," Fester said cheerfully. "Back in '83. During my little vacation at the Zurich Institute for the Criminally Insane. That's where I got my first lobotomy." He shrugged. "You know lobotomies. Like tattoos. Hard to stop at one."
Wednesday didn't react. "Tell me about the Hyde."
"Ah. Olga Malacova." Fester clapped his hands once, delighted by the memory. "She had it all. Beauty. Brains. And a troubling fondness for necrophilia."
Wednesday blinked once. "Go on."
"Concert pianist," Fester continued. "Until one night she transformed in the middle of a Chopin sonata. Massacred a dozen audience members." He paused. "And three music critics."
"What triggered it?" Wednesday asked. "Emotion? Stress? Choice?"
"No idea," Fester said. "I only saw her during group electroshock therapy."
"There's never been any mention of Hydes in outcast books," Wednesday said, irritation cutting through her otherwise even tone. "And Nevermore claims to have the largest collection of outcast information in existence."
That fact alone made her angry. An entire outcast type unrecorded, undocumented, unstudied. And she finds ignorance far more offensive than malice.
He tilted his head at her. "Have you checked Nathaniel Faulkner's diary?"
Wednesday's gaze sharpened.
"No," she said. "But I will."
*****
A/N: The Patreon version is already updated to Chapter 100, so if you'd like to read ahead of the public release schedule, you can join my Patreon
👉 patreon.com/JamesA211