The door to Dr. Kinbott's office in Jericho opened.
Wednesday stepped out first, her expression flat, already dismissing the session as a waste of oxygen. Morticia followed, her composure intact—but there was anger beneath it now, restrained and sharp.
"Wednesday," Morticia said quietly, stopping her, "how could you do that to your father?"
Wednesday turned. "I didn't accuse him," she replied. "You and Father hid the truth. I asked questions."
"You dragged up a murder case from twenty years ago," Morticia said, her voice tightening. "In front of strangers."
"You lecture me endlessly about honesty," Wednesday said. "About transparency. About how secrets rot families from the inside. I simply applied your philosophy."
Morticia's eyes hardened. "The truth is your father did not commit that crime. The charges were cleared."
"But the Sheriff is saying something else," Wednesday continued, unflinching. "He's been waiting decades to reopen it. People don't wait that long unless they believe something was buried."
Morticia looked away for the briefest moment.
"That case is finished," Morticia said. "And your father is innocent."
"Then tell me the truth," Wednesday replied at once. "What happened twenty years ago? Why was Father accused in the first place?"
Morticia stopped.
For the first time, her composure wavered—not visibly, but enough for Wednesday to notice. A pause too long. A breath measured too carefully.
"You're looking for meaning where there is none," Morticia said. "The past was… misunderstood."
"That's evasive," Wednesday said. "And unlike you."
Morticia turned back to her, eyes dark now. "Some truths protect more than they reveal."
"Secrets," Wednesday countered, "are just lies that learned to wait."
Morticia held her gaze. "Not everything is yours to uncover."
Wednesday's expression hardened. "Then you're hiding something."
Morticia didn't deny it.
And that, more than anything else, told Wednesday she was right.
Wednesday and Morticia's argument was still unfolding on the sidewalk—when the wail of a siren sliced through it.
Both of them stopped arguing.
A patrol car pulled up to the curb. The engine cut. Sheriff Galpin stepped out alone, his expression set, purpose written plainly across his face.
"Gomez Addams."
Morticia turned first. Her posture straightened, her face smoothing into something unreadable.
Gomez followed, surprise flickering only briefly before his usual composure returned. "Sheriff," he said lightly. "An unexpected reunion."
Galpin didn't smile. He raised his badge. "You're under arrest for the murder of Garrett Gates."
The words hit like a dropped blade.
Wednesday was already moving, placing herself slightly in front of her father. "On what evidence?"
"We have new information," Galpin said, eyes fixed on Gomez.
"And what precisely constitutes 'new'?" Wednesday pressed.
"The former coroner is dead," Galpin replied. "Suicide. He left a note. Said he falsified the autopsy report. Covered up the truth."
Morticia's breath caught—just barely.
Galpin finally shifted his attention to Wednesday. "I've waited twenty years to close this case."
He stepped forward and secured the cuffs around Gomez's wrists.
Gomez didn't resist. He only looked at Morticia, then at Wednesday.
The officers escorted Gomez to the car and opened the door. The cuffs clicked softly as they guided him inside.
Pugsley stood frozen on the sidewalk, staring after the vehicle as it pulled away. His confusion was plain, written across his face.
Morticia remained where she was—but the change in her was unmistakable. Her posture stiffened, her composure cracking just enough to show strain. One hand tightened at her side, her gaze fixed ahead, no longer calm.
"Pugsley," Wednesday said evenly, breaking the stillness, "take Mother back to Nevermore. Now."
Pugsley hesitated, then nodded, slipping his hand into Morticia's. Morticia allowed herself to be led away, her silence heavier than any protest.
Wednesday stayed behind.
As the patrol car disappeared down the street, the pieces began to align—too neatly.
Twenty years of nothing, and the moment her family returned to Jericho, the evidence surfaced. A dead coroner. A confession. An arrest timed with surgical precision.
***
Sometime later, Wednesday visited her father in jail to ask what really happened twenty years ago.
Gomez told her about Rave'N night. Garrett Gates had been obsessed with her mother. He broke into Nevermore and confronted him, and the encounter turned violent.
Garrett picked up a sword, they fought, and the struggle spilled onto the scaffolding. In the chaos, the sword changed hands. Garrett was stabbed and fell. Larissa Weems witnessed what followed.
Wednesday listened without interrupting.
She had spent her life observing her father. She knew the rhythm of his voice, the way his words tightened when he was avoiding something. And now she recognized it immediately.
He was lying.
Her father wasn't guilty. Which meant the mystery remained—and she would see it through until his innocence was undeniable.
Wednesday didn't bother knocking.
She was already inside Galpin's office before he could react.
"We need to talk."
Galpin stiffened. "How the hell did you get in?"
"Bernice?" Wednesday called out loudly toward the hall. "Bernice!"
Galpin winced. "Don't—"
"Bernice may or may not have received a call claiming her tabby cat, Swifty, is being held for ransom," Wednesday said evenly. "I'm guessing that bought me about three uninterrupted minutes."
Galpin exhaled through his nose. "What do you want, Addams?"
"My father did not kill Garrett Gates."
Galpin scoffed. "I have a signed confession. And the coroner identified the saber used in the murder."
He lifted a folder. "Both of which I'm about to deliver to the district attorney."
Wednesday didn't blink. "Don't you find the timing convenient?"
He paused—barely.
"The coroner kills himself out of remorse for a decades-old murder case," she continued, "the same weekend my father—your prime suspect—returns to town after twenty years."
"All I see," Galpin said coldly, "is a guilty man finally paying for his crime."
"How are you failing to see this?" she pressed. "Someone is actively trying to derail my investigation."
Galpin folded his arms. "You mean your little monster hunt?"
"I found the Monster blood sample," Wednesday said. "I gave you DNA evidence."
A beat.
"Did you even bother to test it?"
"This may come as a shock," Galpin replied flatly, "but the world doesn't revolve around you."
He reached into a drawer and tossed a document onto the desk between them.
"Here. DNA results."
Wednesday scanned it quickly.
No match.
Inconclusive.
"So you should leave, Addams," he said sharply. "I don't have the time—or the patience—to play detective games with you."
*****
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