“Yes,” Nessa said. “So this is his studio?”
“It used to be Josh’s house and his studio. But the biz just moved to better quarters down the street. That’s where he’s at, if you’re looking for him. He was there all night. The construction crew is there during the day, so Josh works the graveyard shift.”
“You’re saying Josh is right here in Brooklyn—at a studio down the street?” Nessa confirmed. “Right now?”
“Should be. Unless he popped out for something to eat. You know, it’s so funny you’re here. Before Josh left for work last night, he gave me a package to send to you.”
“To me?” Nessa asked. Something bad is going down, she thought. Really bad.
Chet held up a finger. “Wait here,” he said, before disappearing into the house for a moment. When he returned, he had a padded manila envelope in one hand.
Chet’s bloodshot eyes opened wide as he held up the envelope for his guest to see. Nessa’s address was scrawled on the front in black Sharpie. “Creeeeepy! But you must be used to this kind of thing, with your ESP and all.”
Nessa reached out, took the package and felt through the padding. It seemed to be empty aside from a small, rectangular object.
“What time did Josh leave for work last night?”
Chet shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe eight?”
“Have you heard from him since?”
“No, but I wasn’t expecting to,” Chet said. “He hasn’t been using his phone for the past few days. He thinks it’s been hacked. He’s gotten too paranoid, if you ask me. I mean, I love Josh to death, but you gotta admit, he’s not the poster boy for mental health. I think all this serial killer shit has really damaged his brain.”
“Who does he think hacked his phone?” Nessa asked.
Chet shrugged again and shook his head. “You gotta ask him. He won’t tell me anything. Like I said—totally paranoid.”
A bad, bad feeling was pressing Nessa to act. “I need to talk to Josh right away. What’s the address of the new studio?”
Chet pointed down the street to an old brick factory at the end of the block. “Entrance is around the corner,” he said. “Not sure if the buzzers are working yet. There’s still a lot of construction going on.”
Nessa felt nauseous. “Thank you,” she told the kid.
“Sure thing,” he responded. “Keep up the good work!” He called out cheerfully as she hurried away.
Right before the intersection, Nessa passed a newly painted sign for Gibbon Media on the factory wall, just above a faded ad for a long-defunct funeral home. When she turned the corner, Nessa spotted a young man in dirty shorts and a baseball cap with an untrimmed beard sitting on the short set of steps that led up to the front door.
“Josh!” she shouted, and he rose. He paused for a moment at the top of the stairs as if waiting for her to catch up. Then he walked straight through the glass door and into the foyer.
“Oh Jesus,” Nessa whispered as it became clear what that meant. She’d suspected as much when she’d seen Josh in her living room, but she’d prayed all the way to Brooklyn that her suspicions were wrong.
At the top of the stairs, Nessa tried the handle and found the door unlocked. Inside the building, construction equipment clogged the entrance. She squeezed between it and hurried up the stairs to the second floor, reaching the landing just in time to see Josh vanish through a wooden door with a sign that read Studio.
This door was locked. Surprising herself, Nessa raised a foot and kicked at it. It took four tries before the wood splintered and the door flew open.
The studio was a white room with no furniture aside from a table and six chairs. Sound-absorbing panels lined the walls and a six-headed microphone crouched like a spider in the center of the table. Exposed industrial pipes crisscrossed the ceiling. Hanging from one of them, an electrical cord looped around his neck, was Josh Gibbon.