Page 35 of Graveyard Dog

“I guess they found him.”

“Can you think of anyone else who would do this to you?” Michael asked Izzy. “Anyone else who knows about your ability?”

Her gaze shot up in surprise, landing first on Donovan and then on Michael with a fleeting pit stop on Carson.

“He didn’t tell me anything,” Donovan assured her. “He only told me what he had to so we can get to the bottom of this. You have an ability, and there have been people in your life who’ve used it to their advantage.”

Carson agreed. “I only know you’re like a lot of people at that compound,” she said, her expression full of sympathy. “You’re special. You could melt eyeballs with your brain for all I know.”

Taken by surprise again, Izzy snorted softly. “That is definitely not my ability.”

“That makes me feel much better,” the special agent said. No wonder she was such good friends with one half of his employer. The better half: Charley Davidson.

“But there’s no one. I learned at a very young age not to advertise my ability. The only other person who knows—whoreallyknows—has been locked up for murder in a prison psychhospital for the last eighteen years. And he has a long way to go before he gets out.”

“Who is that?” Carson asked.

“My stepfather, Leo Martin Sanders.”

The agent typed it into her phone. “Date of birth?”

“March twelfth. I don’t know the year. He’s in his late fifties.”

As Carson took down the details, Michael stood to check on Emma and the doc, but before he could take a single step, the front door slammed open, and a young woman swallowed in bandages walked in holding a scalpel.

Chapter Eight

Adulthood is probably the worst hood I’ve ever lived in.

—Meme

The agent, treating the living room like his own personal crime scene, tried to stop the woman as Izzy shot to her feet. “It’s the nurse!” she squeaked.

The woman looked at her through the eye that wasn’t swollen shut. “Is Emma here?”

“Oh, my God,” Izzy said. “Of course. I didn’t even think of that.”

The woman wore a hospital gown and nothing else. Besides the bandages encircling her head, right wrist, and hand—the one holding the scalpel. How did she even get there?

Izzy rushed over to her, but Michael jumped between them, wresting the scalpel out of her hand. She let him, looking at it as though she had no idea she’d been carrying it. Izzy led her inside. The agent threw his arms in the air, giving up. Hopefully, not on life itself.

“She’s in here, hon,” Izzy said to her. “Let’s go find her.” She turned to Carson. “She has a severe head wound. Should we call an ambulance?”

“I’ll call one now.”

“How did she get here?” Donovan asked, appalled.

“In that outfit,” Michael added.

The door to Izzy’s room was cracked open. Izzy eased inside, followed closely by the nurse and Michael. Doc was sitting on the bed beside Emma, who was still asleep. When she saw the young woman, she stood and questioned Izzy.

“It’s all right,” Izzy said to her. “She just needs to make sure Emma is okay.”

“I see,” the doc said. “And how are you?” she asked the nurse, but the woman practically flung herself onto the bed.

Everyone gasped, and Michael pushed past Izzy, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm. “It’s all right.”

“She had a weapon.”

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