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“We need more information,” George huffed, slamming his hands on the pages in front of him as hard as he could without alerting a librarian.
Lockwood blinked. His face was carefully blank as he slowly replied, “Do we?”
“Yes. This isn’t enough to go off.”
“Sounds like a simple Type One if you ask me,” Lockwood said, leaning back in his chair. His arms were crossed over his chest, and if he closed his eyes it would look as if he were dozing—which is what Lucy suspected he was doing right up until George hit the book.
“Something doesn’t feel right,” George insisted. “I’m missing something. We’d benefit from a bit more time researching rather than diving straight into the case practically blind.”
“We’re not blind,” Lockwood said, reaching across the table and tapping at the notes George had spent the last one, two—maybe even three, Lucy had lost count—hours jotting down. “Type One. Mostly harmless. Probably in the attic. Solved with some salt, iron, and a few swift flicks of my rapier.”
“Lockwood—”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Quill Kipps groaned. He scrunched up his eyes and dragged himself to sit upright in his seat, propping his head up on the table with one freckled arm. “I’m tired. You’re tired. We’re all tired. Let’s just call it a day—we’ve been here long enough.”
“I’m not taking orders from Kipps. None of you lot are listening to me. We really need—”
“George,” Lucy intervened, feeling completely and utterly fed up with the dull library ambience, “we’ve been here for ages. You’re probably looking for something that isn’t even there.”
“Thank you,” Kipps sighed, rubbing his eyes.
“Well, speaking of leaving,” said Holly, standing up from her chair and smoothing the front of her skirt. Upon her right palm appeared a thin cut, seeping with droplets of blood that left a dark red streak on the purple polyester of Holly’s skirt. Lucy winced at the sight of it. “I have plans tonight. How about we give George another day, and we go and tackle this case tomorrow evening?”
“Plans?” Lucy said incredulously, at the same time Lockwood said, “What’s the point in waiting?”
“Yes, plans,” Holly nodded. She scooped up her handbag and pushed it onto one shoulder. “With my flatmate. Wait for tomorrow for this case, so we can all deal with it together.”
“You’re an incredible agent, Hol, but based on what George found, it’s just a Type One. We’d be fine to deal with it while you’re gone for the night,” Lockwood said.
“And what if it’s not?” George firmly shut his book. If he hadn’t been such a stickler for library etiquette, Lucy bet he’d have slammed it with more force. “What if it’s not a Type One, Lockwood?”
“Then we can still deal with it,” Lockwood replied lightly, voice full of confidence. “We’re an experienced agency, and even without Holly, there’s still four of us.”
“Five,” a snarky voice called out from Lucy’s bag. The dullness of the past few hours had been enough to bore even the Skull to silence, and suddenly hearing him again was enough of a shock to snap Lucy out of her tired state.
“Five,” she repeated, nodding to her bag. Lockwood smiled and turned back to George.
“Five,” he said, pleased. “Five agents to a single Type One—or even a Type Two? Not a problem at all.”
“Four. I’m not going without doing more research.”
The table collectively let out a series of groans, sighs, and in Holly Munro’s case, a quick goodbye, followed by the sound of her heels click-clacking away towards the library’s exit.
“Oh— Hol,” Lucy called out, loud enough to earn her an agitated “Shh!” from a librarian. When Holly turned around, Lucy gestured to her hand, and then her skirt, and when Holly connected the dots she sighed.
“Anna must have slipped up while making dinner again,” she smiled grimly. “I should get going before she chops off a finger.” She wiped away what she could of the half-dried blood with her thumb, then waved over her shoulder at Lucy before turning on her heel and making for the exit.
When Lucy turned back around in her seat, the first thing she saw was Lockwood throwing his hands in the air in an agitated manner. “Alright, alright,” Lockwood gave in, looking at George. “But if I stay one more minute in this place I may become a Visitor myself, so how about we leave you to carry out your extra research in peace? We’ll head back and prepare.”
“Alright,” George said after a short pause, seemingly stunned by Lockwood’s compliance.
“Great! Luce, Kipps, let’s get going. I can feel my soul detaching from my body already.”
◇
“Someone remind me why we even agreed to go with him to the library in the first place,” Quill murmured during the taxi journey back to Portland Row. From where Lucy sat, head resting on Kipps’ shoulder, she could feel the vibrations of his voice in her cheek. The sensation was oddly comforting. Away from George and Holly, physical touches no longer had to be hidden, and Lucy revelled in having the opportunity to display affection without risking tarnishing their professional appearance.
“Because you’re all completely stupid,” the Skull replied matter-of-factly, and Lucy swiftly reached down into her bag to switch his lever and cut off the sound of his voice. She didn’t need a headache at the moment.
From the passenger seat, Lockwood looked at them over his shoulder, and the corners of his mouth twitched upwards at the sight of them resting against one another.
“It’s been a slow week,” he said, absently rubbing one eye. “I thought the change of scenery would lift our spirits, but it seems to have done the opposite. God only knows how George enjoys spending most of his waking hours in there.”
“That boy’s not human, I’m telling you,” Quill said, and the soft rumbling of his voice became the only thing keeping Lucy awake. The library seemed to have sucked the energy out of her bit by bit without her realising, and she was certain the second she entered 35 Portland Row she’d simply collapse in the hallway and have to be bodily dragged into her bed.
Lockwood opened his mouth to reply—likely with something witty about George’s strange habits—when the taxi hit a pothole, and the jolt jerked Quill’s head towards the window with a dull thump. Immediately he, along with Lockwood and Lucy, hissed through his teeth, shooting up a hand to cradle the new sore spot on his scalp.
“There are better ways to wake me up, Kipps,” Lucy groaned, sitting up straight in her seat and rubbing the side of her head.
Lockwood was quick to shake off the pain and gave a sideways glance to the taxi driver, who was peering at them curiously in the rearview mirror. The look in Lockwood’s eyes suggested he was almost wanting the driver to ask, almost daring him to question why all three of them were linked instead of just the usual two, but after a moment the driver shrugged it off and resumed watching the ghost-lamp illuminated road. Lucy reasoned that the three of them were merely a few in the sea of many peculiar taxi passengers in London, and the driver’s profession came with learning to not pry into their strange lives.
Eventually, after what felt like hours, the taxi came to a stop outside the familiar tall, white-fronted house that Lucy now called home, and Lockwood made sure to tip the driver generously for the late-night journey.
“Home, sweet shabby home,” Quill murmured as he hauled himself out of the taxi before turning to help Lucy clamber out after him. Lockwood was quick to protest Quill’s choice of adjective and unlock the front door, and to Lucy’s surprise, she didn’t fall flat on the floor in a slumbering pile as soon as she entered, but did have to lean on the end of the banister to keep herself upright.
“For that, you get to pop the kettle on, Kipps,” Lockwood said as he shrugged off his long coat and hung it up on the hooks above the umbrella stand (which still contained an unreasonable amount of rapiers; every time Lucy passed it, she swore another one had been magically added).
Quill gave himself a short moment to groan and complain before complying, and soon the soft clinks of spoons and mugs hitting one another echoed throughout the kitchen, along with the droning whistle of water boiling in the kettle.
“You okay, Luce?” Lockwood whispered so as to not startle her, stooping to put his face in Lucy’s line of view. She looked up and allowed him to stand straight, and the two of them exchanged soft smiles. He leaned forward to press a lingering kiss to her forehead, and she leaned into his touch. If the Skull had witnessed it, he’d have surely retched and gagged and pulled his ghostly eyes from their sockets at the sight of it all—but from where he was tucked away in Lucy’s bag on the floor, he was none the wiser as to what was happening. (And Lucy was content to keep it that way.)
Kipps didn’t have any Talents, if one was referring to senses young agents used to detect Visitors, but his ability to sense when his two partners were being affectionate without him was uncanny.
“Stop lingering out in the hallway and come and keep me company,” he called out as the kettle finished boiling.
“I don’t think I’ll ever know how you manage to do that,” Lockwood chuckled as he lead Lucy towards the smell of freshly brewed tea and the sound of a new packet of biscuits being opened. Quill simply tapped his temple before handing out the mugs, and together the three of them stood in content silence as they leaned against the kitchen counter and took the first sips of their (quite frankly, scalding hot) brews. The shock of her tongue being burnt revived a few drops of Lucy’s energy, and she found her eyes could now stay open without feeling too heavy.
“So,” Lockwood said, blowing the steam from his mug as he eyed up the apple tree in the back garden. “We’ve still got an hour or so before midnight. What say we gather up our things and get this case closed tonight?”
“Did you lose a few brain cells back at the library?” Quill replied after a short pause.
“No.”
Lucy frowned at him over the rim of her mug. “Are you sure, Lockwood?”
“Quite sure. I’m almost certain it’s just a Type One, and— oh, I don’t know, the mundane-ness of the past week has been getting to me. I need to get out there, slice through a Visitor or two. I’m certain we’ll be fine without George or Hols.”
“You’re certain?” Kipps scoffed. “In case you’ve forgotten, if one of us is injured, all of us are injured. I hate to be the voice of reason here, but you always make sure to have Holly or Cubbins with us for that exact reason.”
“A Type One will do little harm,” Lockwood said casually, making quick work of drinking his tea. Lucy wasn’t sure how he did it; if she drank at the rate he did her tongue would have surely burnt off and be lying shrivelled on the floor by now. “It would be fine. We’re perfectly capable without them.”
“And if one of us is ghost-touched and causes all three of us to die a bloated, blue death?”
“Kipps, stop being so pessimistic. We can handle it on our own.”
“Sipping tea after saying something doesn’t make it factual, Tony.”
“I know. Look, I know I’m not right about everything, but I am most certainly right about a lot of things. And this is one of them,” Lockwood said, making a point to take one long, last gulp of his tea before placing his empty mug beside the sink.
“Lucy?” Quill turned to where Lucy stood, nursing her warm mug in both hands. She shrugged noncommittally.
“You do have a point, Quill,” she said, “but… I suppose we are capable without George or Holly. And it’s probably only a Type One.”
“You’re both insufferable,” Quill said, before finishing his tea. “Fine. Are you sure you’re awake enough for it, Luce?”
“Just clang some chains about for a few minutes while we’re getting everything ready. That’ll wake me right up.”
Lockwood let out a small snort of laughter and moved to clap them both on the shoulder. “We’ve got this in the bag, you two. In fact, I bet we’ll deal with this case in record time.”
◇
“What was that about record time?” Quill said as he shuffled awkwardly on the floor, making the floorboards creak where he sat. Opposite Quill in the iron circle, Lockwood was drumming his fingernails against the floor, and Lucy eventually placed her hand on top of his to stop the incessant noise.
“I didn’t expect it to take so long to become active,” he sighed.
“Cubbins is going to murder us when he finds out about this.”
“Since when do you care about what George thinks?” Lockwood scoffed. “I left him a note on the thinking cloth. He’ll understand.”
It had been almost two hours since they arrived at the home of the young couple who had called complaining of the typical signs of a haunting—it had been very basic according to Holly, who’d taken their call. Whispers, sudden cold spots, spider infestations, et cetera, and Lockwood had only been quick to snatch the dull case up due to the alarming lack of interesting ones as of late.
The three had arrived at the home, gone through the usual polite small talk before the couple left to stay with their neighbours, and soon started examining the house. Quill had taken temperature readings in place of George, while Lucy and Lockwood took advantage of their Talents to spot any hints as to where the ghost’s activity would be concentrated.
Just as Lockwood had predicted earlier at the library, the main source of it all was in the attic, if the death glow was anything to go by. None of them had expected it to be bad enough for Lockwood to put on his shades, but he’d thrown them on as soon as his head peered over the open hatch into the attic, which made them suspect the ghost may be stronger than they initially thought. Though Lockwood, forever full of charisma and optimism, had brushed it off, and they had continued working.
They had set up an iron circle close to the hatch, just in case, and after inspecting every nook, crack, and cranny of the attic, gathered some tea and biscuits and rested in the safe confines of the iron in wait.
They had waited. And waited. And waited.
“And here I thought a case without Cubbins would be exciting,” the Skull said, glowing ectoplasm shining through the sliver of jar that peered out of the top of Lucy’s bag. She’d switched the lever after they’d settled down inside the circle to give it some freedom to talk, despite knowing she would likely quickly regret it.
“You’re unnecessarily mean to him,” she replied, pulling the jar out of the bag and placing it in front of her. The ghostly face contorted and goggled towards Lockwood, who merely smirked back at it, and no matter how many gruesome, disgusting sights it threw at Quill, the man’s lack of Talent rendered him clueless as to what was happening within the jar. From the things Lucy had told him about the Skull, however, he could surely make a good guess at what he was doing.
“Me? Mean? I’m not hearing another word from you until you sit in the bathtub with him for an hour. I have witnessed crevices that no man—dead or alive—should see, Carlyle.”
“Dramatic,” she replied, despite wanting to grimace at the picture he had painted in her mind.
“This case is so dull, our own girlfriend’s taken to talking to a skull instead of us, Tony.”
The skull in question retched at the word girlfriend.
“I’m sure he’s more pleasant company than you, Quill. I don’t blame her,” Lockwood replied easily, the thrill of teasing Kipps bringing a smile to his face.
“He’s right,” Lucy nodded solemnly. “I hate to break it to you.”
“I can’t believe you both think so low of me.”
“Maybe if you’d have beaten me in that rapier competition, I’d hold you in higher regard.”
Kipps rolled his eyes so ostentatiously Lucy could see it in her peripheral vision, and it made her snort. “I’ll have you know that was a completely unfair win. You caught me off-guard.”
“Which was the whole point,” Lockwood said slowly. “That’s how you win, Quill.”
“Shut up. The amount of energy I’ve wasted on our rivalry… all for you to be so smug and unserious about it. My team was better than yours for some time, remember?”
“Because mine consisted of, quite literally, two people. Myself included.”
“So what I’m hearing,” Lucy intercepted, “is that your years-long rivalry ended when I graced your lives with my presence—”
“No—”
“—and because I joined Lockwood & Co., I brought you both together. I was the catalyst. You wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for me. You’re welcome.”
“You tell ‘em,” the Skull cackled.
“I suppose, when you think about it…” Lockwood seemed as if he was looking off into the distance, but while he wore his shades, it was hard to tell for certain. “And it was Lucy who worked out that you were mirroring our injuries, Quill. You would have continued hiding them otherwise, wouldn’t you?”
“It’s not my fault the situation was so weird,” Quill said, avoiding their eyes. “You’d both been close for some time by then, and I knew you’d worked out that you were mirroring each other pretty quickly. What was I meant to do, leap out and announce hey, guess what, you each have a second soulmate and it’s me! Your rival!”
Lucy shrugged, and the Skull continued to make disgusted noises at the discussion of their relationship.
“Well, when you put it that way,” Lockwood reasoned, “it makes sense you only confessed when you did.”
“I was tired, I’d had a drink or two. I wasn’t thinking of the consequences.”
“It worked out well in the end, though,” Lucy said, hoping to bring the tone of the conversation back to a more pleasant one. Quill wasn’t too fond of talking about it all; Lucy could only guess how taxing it must have been to hide his matching injuries day after day. She and Lockwood hadn’t been far from becoming ‘official’—she wasn’t a fan of the term, but it was probably the right one—and if Quill hadn’t chosen to tiredly (and somewhat drunkenly) confess on that fateful evening, he may have never confessed at all.
She knew Quill was happy with the two of them, and thinking about how close he was to missing out on it all was quickly putting him in a sour mood.
“It did,” Lockwood grinned, picking up on Lucy’s attempt to get Quill back in higher spirits. “I was so caught up in getting ready for this case that I forgot to mention it at the time, but the tea you made earlier was lovely. Potentially even better than George’s.”
“What a scandalous thing to say aloud, Anthony,” Quill said, a glint of delight flashing across his features. “Say it again.”
“Don’t push it,” Lockwood raised his eyebrows, and the three of them erupted into quiet laughter, gleeful faces illuminated by the soft flame of the lamp in the centre of their iron circle.
A sudden drop in temperature cut their laughter short, and in a split second they were back on their feet, goosebump-covered hands reaching for the hilts of their rapiers.
“Ooh, it’s starting…”
Lockwood didn’t need to ask Quill to read the temperature again; it was obvious to all of them, from the trembling of their hands and the white plumes of condensation spilling from their mouths with every shallow breath, that it had dropped below 0℃ and was continuing to rapidly plummet.
“Do you hear anything, Luce?” Lockwood murmured. As Lucy shook her head in reply, Quill moved closer to her side—whether it was to comfort her, or himself, she wasn’t sure (though knowing Quill, it was probably both). Aside from the Skull’s manic cackling, everything was eerily quiet.
Too quiet.
“Something doesn’t feel right,” Lucy said, tightening her grip on her rapier.
Lockwood cursed under his breath and flinched away from the centre of the room. “The death glow is getting brighter.”
“I once again hate to be the voice of reason, but—” the ending to Quill’s sarcastic quip was abruptly cut off by a sudden gust that sent him toppling over, and his proximity to Lucy almost dragged her down with him. Quill must have awkwardly twisted his ankle on his descent to the floor, because there was a sudden sharp pain above Lucy’s foot—but thanks to her strong agents’ resolve, she quickly shook it off and helped Quill back onto his feet.
“It’s not a Type One,” Quill said as he brushed the dust off of his trousers and boggled at the alarming amount of ghost fog surrounding them.
“No,” Lockwood shook his head, “it’s not. Shit.”
“Incredible deduction skills on these two.” Part of Lucy was thankful that only she could hear the Skull’s impertinent remarks—his words would have only added fuel to the fire rapidly growing between her two partners.
“What was it you said earlier, again? ‘Type Two? Not a problem at all’,” Kipps sneered. Lockwood, who was never one for mockery, now lacked his usual easy-going, reassuring smile. His features were as cold and stiff as the air around them.
“Now is not the time, Kipps.”
“Shut up, both of you,” Lucy snapped.
“We need to leave,” Quill breathed. “Now.”
“Oh, but the excitement’s only just begun!”
“Shut up.”
“I’m speaking complete sense, Carlyle—”
“The Skull, not you.”
“Gather your things. We’re going,” Lockwood eventually decided. The anger and defeat were audible in his voice, but now Quill had the sense to not comment on it.
The Skull, however, didn’t—knowing Lockwood was deaf to any and all of his howling snide remarks, he continued blabbering on about death and defeat and other things that Lucy didn't care about at the moment. After debating whether or not to leave it behind, Lucy threw it back into her bag, pulled the straps over her shoulders, and suddenly realised she no longer felt the ground against the soles of her feet.
“Lucy—!”
Her bag straps slid off her shoulders as the world tilted sideways and Lucy’s body was tossed aside by an unseen force, sending her soaring towards the far wall. In the split second between being suspended in mid-air and colliding with the wall, Lucy had enough time to realise that this was going to hurt like hell.
She hit the wood with a sickening crack. Lockwood and Quill cried out in pain as she slumped to the ground, lifeless and limp.
◇
The first thing Lucy heard as she came to was the faint sound of George ranting.
“I cannot believe the three of you would be so stupid to think you could handle it on your own,” he said, sounding fuzzy and far away. “You’re all linked, Lockwood, for Christ’s sake—”
“All of the evidence pointed towards a Type One, George—”
“All of the evidence I had found so far,” George hissed. “After you left, I found that there hadn’t been one death on site, but two. Two! So yes, congratulations, you were right! The first ghost was a Type One, so feeble it couldn’t cause any harm, but the second—”
“Alright, George. You’ve made your point.”
“And now Lucy is upstairs fighting to regain consciousness because of your recklessness—”
“I’m not standing here while you incessantly berate me, George. This conversation is over.”
George huffed, and the subsequent silence confirmed that the conversation was indeed finished.
Lucy squeezed her eyes. The more she woke, the more aware she became of the pain blooming in her head and back. If she flexed her right ankle, she could still feel the echo of the pain from the attic. She winced and groaned, then wondered if she could get herself to fall back asleep, but upon deciding that probably wouldn’t be the best course of action with a potential concussion, forced herself to open her eyes.
She was in a bed. Lockwood’s bed, to be precise. It was always the go-to bed for injured Lockwood & Co. agents, thanks to its larger size (and comfiness, in Lucy’s honest opinion).
The next thing she registered was that Quill was dozing next to her. He was facing her, curled up on his side with one hand tucked beneath the pillow and the other resting in front of his face. Seeing Quill’s normally tight features be so relaxed and serene was a rare sight indeed.
Lucy shuffled onto her side to face him, ignoring the protests of pain her back made. He must have sensed her movement, because almost immediately his eyes opened, and his free hand slowly reached up to cup her cheek.
“You’re awake,” he murmured.
“Somehow,” Lucy replied quietly. “I feel like one big bruise.”
“Mm, I’m not surprised." Moving carefully, he pulled himself up just enough to place a gentle kiss on her forehead. "Poltergeist, we think.”
“Ah. Makes sense.”
“Threw you against the wall like, uh… like… I’m not in the right state to be thinking of accurate similes.”
“Like a rag-doll?”
“Yes. Like a rag-doll.” He lightly brushed his thumb back and forth on her cheekbone. “I’m so glad you’re okay, Lucy.”
“What about you and Lockwood?"
“We must have thicker skulls than you do. We both managed to stay conscious, though everything hurt like hell. I helped Lockwood get you down from the attic and then had to lie down on the floor for a while.”
“Where’s the skull jar?”
“Yes, I’m quite alright Lucy, thank you for your concern.”
“Don’t be like that. I can see you’re alright.” She gently flicked his forehead. “Did you abandon the Skull in the attic?”
“No, of course not. You’d have sliced our heads off if we did. It’s next to the umbrella stand.”
“Thank you.”
Quill closed his eyes with a sigh. “I hate to say it, but we should have listened to Cubbins.”
“Don’t let him hear you say that,” a familiar voice came from the doorway. Lucy looked up to find Lockwood leaning against the doorframe, looking more tired and worn out than she’d seen him in a long time. “Luce. You’re awake.”
Lucy slowly pulled herself upright, but the sudden wooziness that hit her made her lean back against the headboard and close her eyes for a moment.
She heard Lockwood walk towards the bed, and felt the edge of it dip under his weight as he sat down.
“I’m sorry. I put you both in danger.”
“Yes, and we managed to get injured in record time," Quill said in a pointed tone. "But we all agreed to it." Lucy hummed in agreement, opening her eyes to see the forlorn look on Lockwood's face. Quill propped his head up with one arm to better look at him, groaning with the effort.
“But I’m the leader. I should have known better. Holly’s already phoned the clients explaining the situation—with some sugar-coating, of course. Can’t let them know the real reason their house isn’t ghost-free yet. Speaking of, we need to get back on the case ASAP before bloody Bunchurch snatches it up instead.”
“For God’s sake, Lockwood,” Quill groaned. “Forget about the case for a second. We’re all alive. Isn’t that the most important thing?”
“Speak for yourself. George was seconds away from ripping my head off.”
“He was just worried,” Holly said, approaching the door from the other side. “That was all of his relief coming out in one go. He probably feared for your lives when he found the note on that cloth of yours.”
“Is he still seething?” Lockwood asked.
“Yes. He’s having some alone time in the office, but he’ll come around eventually. Oh— I’ve got the painkillers you wanted, Lockwood. How are you all feeling?”
The three let out simultaneous groans, and Holly chuckled in response.
“I’ll go and get you all some tea.”
“Thanks, Hol.” Holly’s footsteps grew quieter as she descended the stairs.
“You don’t seem injured at all, Lockwood,” Lucy said, finally opening her eyes. “How?”
“My head currently feels like someone skewered it with five rapiers, so I’m not as fine and dandy as I may seem on the surface,” he replied, before rubbing the back of his head with a small groan. “I had to get you both home, and then put up with George blowing his lid at me. I’ve not really had the chance to properly sit down yet. Scoot over.”
Lucy and Quill complied, and Lockwood made himself comfortable on Lucy’s other side, sandwiching her in the centre of the bed.
“I don’t think these are made for three people,” said Quill.
“Not really, no. You’re about to fall off,” Lockwood replied, raising an eyebrow at the way Quill teetered at the edge of the bed.
“I can see that.”
Lockwood reached an arm out to pull him back. “My knight in shining armour,” Quill snorted, voice muffled from how his face now pressed against Lucy thanks to the lack of mattress space. "I'd kiss you right now, but I think I'd crush Carlyle while reaching over."
"I'll take that risk," Lockwood said, before hauling himself up and delivering a chaste kiss to Quill's freckled cheek, the first bit of skin he could reach. Lucy stifled a laugh and made herself comfortable under the duvet, surrounded by the pleasant warmth of her partners' body heat.
“I’m surprised neither Munro or Cubbins have walked in on us like this yet,” Quill yawned. “They have a knack for finding us at the most inopportune moments.”
By the time Holly popped her head around the door, hands holding a tray of the promised tea, biscuits, and a mountain of painkillers, the three of them had fallen asleep completely.
“George,” she whisper-shouted down the stairs. “Do you have a camera?”