The answer came three days later, in the form of the most anticlimactic revelation in the history of supernatural home invasions.
Samantha was in the kitchen, wrestling with Nova's breakfast routine—which had evolved from simple baby food into what could only be described as "culinary performance art" since her daughter had discovered she could make her spoon levitate—when a polite knock echoed through the estate.
An actual knock.
On the front door.
As if whoever had been skulking around their wards for days had suddenly decided that proper etiquette was the way forward.
The spoon Nova had been telekinetically spinning promptly clattered to the floor, followed by what appeared to be a small shower of oatmeal that materialized from nowhere and rained down on Samantha's head.
"Nova," Samantha sighed, wiping breakfast from her hair. "We've talked about this. Food stays in bowls, not in the air."
