Page 91 of Holmes Is Missing

“Cut the alarm!” Holmes shouted back.

Poe ran to the far end of the balcony and opened a metal panel. A second later, the screeching stopped. Marple ran to wrap her arms around Helene.

Holmes looked down. The explosion had leveled the entire first floor with surgical precision. Windows were shattered, woodwork splintered. The bottom of the staircase had been blasted off its supports. Flames licked at laptops and file cabinets. The office was destroyed.

The work of a master technician.

Behind him, he heard a bright ding, then another. He thought his eardrums were still ringing.

No. The sound was coming from Marple’s living room.

His cell phone.

Holmes lurched back through the doorway and saw the screen glowing on the floor. He reached down through the smoke and picked up the phone. Coughing, he stumbled back out onto the balcony. Poe was leading Margaret and Helene down the broken staircase with his rifle in one hand and a fire extinguisher in the other.

Holmes blinked the sting out of his eyes and looked down at his phone. Texts were scrolling onto his screen—one sentence at a time, like a bizarre digital poem.

THE PAST IS GONE, YOURS AND MINE.

NOW THERE’S NOTHING BUT THE FUTURE.

AND EVENTUALLY, I’LL BE THE CAUSE OF YOUR DEATH.

I’M COUNTING THE DAYS, SHERLOCK.

THINK OF ME AS YOUR VERY OWN PROFESSOR MORIARTY.