Half an hour later, the sound of rushing water made me freeze mid-step, a cold dread crawling up my spine. I followed the noise into the kitchen and stopped dead. Water was spilling across the tile, pooling around my boots, soaking the edge of the rug, and creeping toward the living room.
“Oh hell, nah,” I shouted, panic threading my voice. The faucet wasn’t running. The sink wasn’t overflowing. The noise came from somewhere deeper, a steady, insistent gurgle.
I crouched, peering under the cabinets. Water ran from the wall, soaking the baseboards, curling into the floorboards like it had its own purpose. My chest thumped hard. My fingers fumbled for the wrench under the sink, but the pipes seemed to have other plans: the pressure hissed and sprayed like a broken hose.
The thought of try
