“Bedroom.” Without a word, Oliver cut through the clutter with his arms tucked close and disappeared behind the bedroom door without stopping to check if it was empty first. Felipe’s heart clenched in panic as he bolted for the bedroom, but a second later, Oliver called softly, “It’s notasmessy in here.”
***
That was all Olivercould say the room had going for it. Unlike Felipe’s spartan bedroom or the neat stacks of clutter Oliver had in his room, Newman had wholly given way to entropy. Drawers were left half-open with socks and underthings hanging out as if the room had already been ransacked. Still, Oliver moved everything carefully and returned it to its original place. If someone moved his things, no matter how messy, he would have noticed. Finishing with the drawers, Oliver shook out his hands. He hated this. It felt more invasive than an autopsy. All humans basically looked the same on the inside, but people’s rooms and things felt far more intimate as they spoke loudly to what the person looked like on the inside.
Coming to the far side of the bed, Oliver tripped but caught himself on the bedpost when his foot collided with something hard. On the floor between the bed and the window was an open suitcase. Oliver carefully lifted the haphazardly folded clothing and felt around underneath for any hidden pockets or papers, but the bottom was flat. Tucked into a sock was a purse of money. Not an exorbitant amount but enough for a longer trip. As he sat back on his heels to stand, Oliver noticed a corner sticking into the pocket on the lid of the suitcase. Fishing inside, he retrieved two framed photographs and a handful of cardboard backed ones wrapped in a piece of old fabric. The framed ones looked like pictures of Peter Newman’s parents in the wedding outfits of their homeland and one of, what Oliver presumed to be, Newman and his siblings as children in similarly embroidered tunics and dresses. Oliver flipped through the smaller photographs. He didn’t recognize most of the people, but one shot in front of what looked like a train station caught his eye. A young Peter Newman, no more than sixteen stood with his arm slung around a young woman. The picture wasn’t the best quality, but her lips and deep-set eyes were unmistakably the same. Written across the back wasMaggie and Peter, 1879.Scrambling to his feet, Oliver found Felipe digging through Newman’s desk.
“He knew her,” Oliver said, shoving the picture in front of Felipe.
The other man took the card from his hand and tipped it toward the light. Felipe’s brows furrowed. “Are you sure it’s her?”
“Pretty sure. Look at the shape of her mouth and chin. Different style but same hair texture, too.”
“Where did you find it?”
“He has a suitcase partially packed. He had a bunch of pictures in there.”
“He’s planning to leave. Shit.”
“Could he be heading off on a case?”
“When you leave for a case, you don’t take all your valuables because you assume you’ll be back. He’s leaving the Paranormal Society.”
“That might explain the mess, too. I’ll keep looking.”
Oliver carefully refolded the linen around the photographs and put them back where they came from. Squatting next to the bedframe, Oliver steeled himself. He didn’t want to reach under it. It would be dusty and disgusting and probably filled with spiderwebs, and the thought of them clinging to his skin made him want to gag. Reaching underneath, he was surprised to find almost nothing under there, except a pair of stray shoes and a smattering of papers and odds and ends against the back wall. Oliver pulled them closer with the tip of his shoe. A postcard from a name he didn’t recognize in California, train stubs and schedules, but nothing of value. Oliver’s eyes ran along the walls and the floors of the room. Something felt off, but he couldn’t put his finger on what.
“Oliver, come here,” Felipe called from the parlor. When Oliver appeared, he waved him over to the stack of papers on the couch. “Can you take a look through those?”
Lifting the papers in turn, Oliver confirmed they were mostly old case notes or vaguely threatening letters about money. Escaping debts was as good a reason to flee as committing murders. Oliver turned his eyes to the empty hearth a few feet away. A large but neat pile of ash sat in the corner. It looked like mostly wood ash, though there were curls of paper interspersed as if he had been feeding the mail pile on the sofa into the fire. Oliver was about to walk away to inspect the cupboards when he did a doubletake. The room looked like a tornado had blown through it, yet the fireplace was relatively clean. His eyes darted to the corners of the ceiling and the floor. Once again, a pile of debris sat in the corner, this time near the window, but there was not a single cobweb or grey haze on any surface. Carefully prying the window open enough to stick his head out, Oliver found the fire escape covered in a thick layer of dust and ash.
Cold dread ran through Oliver’s veins. “Felipe, it’s him.”
Felipe put his hand to his chest and turned to Oliver with wide eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Look at the mess. There’s no dust, no dirt, no cobwebs. He’s using his powers to channel the dust outside and the ashes into piles. He probably ends up blowing his papers around at the same time. He’s the one who killed Sister Mary Agnes and you.”
For a long moment, Felipe stared at him, his face wan and his expression growing grimmer as the realization set in. Oliver took a step closer to lay his hand on Felipe’s shoulder when the other man reached into his jacket. With his jaw set, he pulled out his revolver as Oliver stumbled back. Popping open the chamber, Felipe checked it was loaded.
“No.”
“Why not? He killed me once. He can’t do it again,” he retorted under his breath.
“You don’t know that. You thought he nearly ripped your lungs out the first time. Do you want to spend the next week healing from that?”
“If I kill the murderer, case closed, right? I won’t have to worry about healing.”
“No.You would be putting me in danger, you would be putting Gwen in danger, and we still don’t know why he killed you or why the priest took the book. I will not let you go on a suicide mission because you want revenge.”
Felipe’s flinty gaze wavered. His hand shook a second before he let his wrist drop. Running a hand over the stubble coating his jaw, Felipe said, “Then, what do you propose we do if he plans to leave?”
“I don’t know, but if he and the priest are working together, I doubt he’ll go too far without him. We could break into Father Gareth’s office or home next.”
“Be serious, Oliver.”
“I am. We can’t interact with him directly if he’s going to manipulate us.”
“This is ridiculous. We can’t—”
