With three hundred million in his account and retirement on his mind, Marty Duckworth could’ve picked anything. I predicted Art Deco townhouse; Charlie said Mediterranean bungalow. We couldn’t be more wrong if it were a contest.

“I don’t believe it,” Charlie says, staring across the street at the one-story 1960s rambler. Beaten by weather and covered in peeling light pink paint, the building is clearly past its prime.

“It’s definitely the right address,” I confirm as I check it for the third and fourth time.

Charlie nods, but stays silent. After everything it took to get here – just the sight of it… this is finally it.

“Maybe we should come back later,” he suggests.

“Come back later? Charlie, this is the guy with all the answers. Now c’mon, all we have to do is ring the doorbell…” I step off the curb and cross the street. When Charlie doesn’t follow, I stop mid-step and look back over my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Of course,” he says. But he still refuses to cross the street.

“You sure?”

This time, he takes slightly longer to answer. Charlie doesn’t like fear on me – and he hates it on himself. “I’m fine,” he insists. “Just ring the bell.”

Weaving past the overgrown shrubbery and around the classic blue Beetle that’s parked out front, I race up the front walk, open the humidity-rusted screen door, and jam an anxious finger at the doorbell.

No answer.

I ring it again, leaning against the open screen door and trying to look relaxed.

Still no answer.

Hiking myself up on my tiptoes, I crane my neck, struggling to peek through the diamond-shaped windowpane that’s set into the door.

“What’s in there?” Charlie asks.

I press my nose against the pollen on the glass, trying to get a better view… and then from inside… locks clunk open. The doorknob turns. I jump back. It’s already too late.

“Can I help you?” a young woman asks, opening the door. She’s got black ringlet hair, thin lips, and a tiny, pointed nose. My eyes go straight to her beat-up jeans and spaghetti-strap white tank top.

“I-I’m sorry,” I begin. “I wasn’t trying to… we were just looking for a friend…”

“We’re trying to find Marty Duckworth,” Charlie blurts.

I thank him for the save as the woman’s body language shifts – her brow unfurrows; her shoulders sag. “You’re friends of his?”

“Yeah,” I say cautiously. “Why?”

She pauses a moment, choosing the words carefully. “Marty Duckworth died six months ago.”

The statement floats in the air, and I stare up at it, mesmerized. It’s almost like I’m waiting for Duckworth himself to jump out and scream, “April Fool’s – I’m right here!” Needless to say, it never happens. I look around, but nothing’s in focus. I-It can’t be. Not after all this…

“So he’s really dead?” Charlie asks, already starting to panic.

“I’m sorry,” she offers, reading his expression. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay,” he says. “You couldn’t have-”

“Did you know him?” I interrupt.

“Excuse me?”

“Duckworth – did you know him?”

“No,” she stammers. “But-”

“Then how do you know he’s dead?”

“I-I just remember his name from the deed,” she adds. “It was an estate sale.”

“What about a forwarding address? Is there somewhere we can contact him?”

Unsure of what to say, the woman shakes her head, clearly overwhelmed. I don’t care – we didn’t come this far to not get answers. “I’m sorry,” she repeats. “There’s no forwarding address… he’s dead.”

The words don’t make sense. “It’s impossible,” I tell her as my voice cracks. “What abou-”

“He’s just upset,” Charlie says. He leans in and pinches the skin on my back. “We should get going,” he adds through gritted teeth. Fake-smiling at the woman, he gives her a quick wave. “Thanks again for all the help…”

“I’m really sorry,” she calls out as we walk away. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Yeah,” Charlie whispers as he shoves me up the block. “That makes three of us.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Charlie asks as we cut back through our courtyard. He steps over the sprawling hose and ducks past the rotating sprinkler that’s spraying everything in sight. Checking to see that no one’s around, he makes a quick beeline for our new apartment. “Why’d you go after her like that?”

“She might’ve known something.”

“Are you really that delusional?” Charlie asks, racing inside. He watches uncomfortably as I pace back and forth between the living room and kitchenette. “Didn’t you see her reaction, Ollie – she was floored. Newsflash at eleven: Duckworth’s dead. End of story.”

“It can’t be,” I insist. As I say the words, I hear my own voice stuttering.

Charlie hears it too. “Ollie, I know you’ve always had more to lose, but-”

“What if there’s something we’re missing?”

“What could we possibly miss? They told us he was dead in New York… we came down here to see for ourselves… and she tells us the same thing. Duckworth’s gone, bro. Show’s over – time to find a new drummer.”

Still pacing, I stare down at the ground. “Maybe we should go back and talk to her again…”

“Ollie…”

“Duckworth could be hiding somewhere else…”

“Are you even listening? The man’s dead!”

“Don’t say that!” I explode.

“Then stop acting like a lunatic!” he shoots back. “The sun doesn’t rise and set on Marty Duckworth!”

“You think that’s all it’s about? Marty Duckworth!? I could give a crap about Duckworth – I just want my old life back! I want my apartment, and my job, and my clothes, and my old hair…” I grip a fistful of black follicles from the back of my head. “I want my life back, Charlie! And unless we figure out what’s going on, Gallo and DeSanctis are going t-”

A loud splat smacks against the window. We both duck down. The noise stays loud – rat-a-tat-tatting against the glass – like someone breaking in. I look up to see who, but the only thing there is a starburst of water. It pummels the calendar-covered glass and quickly drips down the pane. Sprinkler… just the sprinkler.

“Someone probably tripped on the hose…” Charlie says.

I’m not taking any chances. “Check outside,” I insist.

I run to the small window in the kitchenette; he goes for the one near the door. The sprinkler’s still barreling against the glass. I peel back a piece of the calendar and peek outside… just as a blurred figure darts below the windowsill. I jump back, almost falling over.

“What? What is it?” Charlie asks.

“Someone’s out there!”

“Are you sure?”

“I just saw him!”

Staggering backwards, Charlie does his best to fight fear, but even he’s not that good.

“Do you have the-?”

“Right here,” I answer, reaching down and grabbing the gun from my pants. I cock back the pin and put a finger on the trigger.

Stuck in the kitchen, Charlie rummages through the drawers, looking for a weapon. Knives, scissors, anything. Top to bottom, he rips open each drawer. Empty. Empty. Empty. The last one slides out and his eyes go wide. Inside is a rusted machete, broken in half so it fits perfectly in the drawer.

“Blessed are the drug dealers,” he says, yanking it out.

As he takes off, I follow him through the main room and into the bathroom. Just like we worked out last night. Tiny efficiencies may be too small for back doors… but they still have back windows. Leaping on the toilet, he cranks open the cheap window and punches out the screen. I hop up next to him.

“You go first,” Charlie says, cupping his hands to boost me up.

“No, you.”

He won’t budge.

“Charlie…” The tone and my scolding eyes are all mom. He knows it’s been ingrained since birth – protect your little brother.

Realizing it’s a fight he’ll never win, he tosses out the machete and steps into my boost. Up and out – he’s gone in an instant. Another perfect landing. I follow, though I almost kill myself on the landing.