Case Notes 01:Three Blue Hours

The sun was rising, the birds were singing, and people were throwing more beer cans at me. Hell, a few of them weren’t even empty. I looked down at the clothes and bags strewn on the sidewalk. It looked like they’d put in all the important stuff. My books, my clothes, my gun. ‘Hey, couldn’t you guys at least give me another few hours?”

My now former roommate, Jamie, sighed loudly. “We gave you two weeks, Dylan.”

“You nearly got us all arrested last night!” Another guy yelled. I only remember him as Nose Piercing, and half-certain that’s what most people called him here as well.

I popped open one of the beer cans. “It’s not my fault the cops in this city are so hung up on underage drink -”

Nose Piercing tossed out the last few cans and stormed back inside. Jamie gave me a tired little smile. “You’re not a bad guy, you know. Just…” He struggled to fill the silence. “There’s a good rehab center out of town, if you want that, or, um…” He scratched the back of his head.

The beer tasted flat. A touch bitter, as well. But I suppose one should always take the opportunity to start the day with a wholesome breakfast. Jamie now seemed content to let the silence stretch between us. Even through the shadows cast by the rising sun, I could make out the colored highlights in his hair and the small tattoo on the back of his wrist. He always liked standing out in the most unremarkable of ways. Suddenly, a wave of guilt flooded in alongside the hangover.

“Hey man,” I muttered, afraid I wouldn’t have the courage if I waited any longer, “I know I haven’t been the best roommate, and I am so, so sorry –”

“Of course you are.” He muttered. He kept glancing at the road. Was he waiting for a taxi or something? I tried to think of something to reassure him with.

“I’ll figure something out, okay? Get you the cash for the rent and stuff. ´´

“Already paid.” I finally recognized the glazed-over look in Jamie’s eyes. The man had already written me out of his life. He was just reading out the final lines on the script.

A car stopped in front of us, a grey old thing that was definitely more ancient than its owner. The window rolled down until I could see my brother’s face. It didn’t carry a smug expression, or even a sad one. Just blank and controlled as it always was.

I waved at Jamie and Nose Ring, who had come back out just so he could keep leaning moodily against the doorway. “Tell the others I said goodbye.” I said, then opened up the trunk of Ryan’s car and shoved all my stuff inside. It took me an awful minute to shove the lid closed.

Don’t look back. I thought, climbing into the passenger seat. I’d used to think of it as a lifestyle choice. These days, it felt like the only way I could keep moving. I stared out at the traffic in front of me, already sluggish as treacle. “Who’d you pay to keep an eye on me this time? Jamie?”

“Sheila, actually." He said, and I winced. “For your information, I didn’t pay her a cent. She was just worried about you.”

"Yeah, yeah.” I drummed my fingers against the windshield. “So, what crime are you heading out to battle against this time, Mr. Detective? Terrorists? Kidnappers? I’ve heard there’s a really weird cult down in Greenpark –”

“A teacher.” He snapped, not turning to look at me. “A murdered teacher. You can stay in the car if you want.”

*

It might have been the traffic that first woke me up. Or the heat, maybe. But I’d label the screaming children as the prime candidate.

I groaned, sitting up and whacking my head against the roof of the car. Ryan’s car, strewn with empty cups and dog-eared files. A pine-tree freshener dangled from the windshield, the scent dulling the edge of my splitting headache. Sleep hadn’t done much for the hangover, only leaving me groggier and with a mouth as dry as the desert. I coughed.

It looked like my brother had left the car in the school’s parking lot right in the middle of the day. Couldn’t be a high school; the kids here looked too young for that. One of the little bastards started poking my window with a pencil, and I heard a steady tink tink tink.

I rubbed my temples. What was I doing here again?

For a glorious moment, I wondered if his detective agency had gone bankrupt and that this was just his job now. But no, that couldn’t be right. Golden Boy probably would’ve signed up with the FBI or something if this hadn’t worked out. I rummaged in the dashboard, noting he’d left a roll of cash right out in the open. It was just begging to be taken.

Was this for a bribe? Or did he plan to just toss this at me and walk right back out of my life? That made a strange sort of sense. One last favor for the failure, and he could move on with a clear conscience. How kind of him.

Tink tink. I scowled and stuffed the money in my pocket. Raising my hand to block the sunlight, I opened the car door. There were way more kids out here than I’d thought. Was this their recess time?

They jeered and giggled as I stumbled out of the car, giving the usual comments and a few more creative ones.

Couldn’t blame them. There was a week’s worth of stubble on my chin. I sniffed my jacket, noting an old vomit stain. A little voice in the back of my head, some last vestige of my pride, started complaining. But it’s easy to ignore, and only grows fainter each time you do.

The gate was right there. They probably wouldn’t stop me from walking out. And yet… I looked back at the school. Why had he come here, of all places? Why this case, of all cases?

Call it curiosity that kept me here. Call it decency, even. Call it whatever you want, because I’m not really sure myself. I shrugged out of my jacket, hanging it over my arm, then walked through the two red wooden doors.

It was recess, damn it. I had to struggle through clumps of chattering children. It was a busy school, probably in one of the seedier parts of the city. The cracks in the corners and mold on the ceiling were covered with shiny red banners. Even if some of the kids had worn-out gear and ratty textbooks, they laughed and punched each other just like I had back when I was…

I blinked, fighting the urge to laugh. I’d left college a few months ago. It was maybe a little early in my lifespan to start downing the nostalgia juice. Ryan and I had been sent to a high-end school. Not daily school blazer nice, but better than most. I’d been placed a step higher than most of these kids would ever reach. Me being me, I used those chances to become a dropout with half a literature degree.

What was I even doing here anyway? It wasn’t like I could just search through the whole school to find – ah.

I stopped outside a classroom. A normal one, mostly, except for the noticeboard nailed into the wall beside the door. Dozens of photos were pinned on it. A few hand-scrawled letters, their ink smudged. A single glittery card, decorated with shaky hands. A teacher. A voice that sounded suspiciously like Ryan’s reminded me A dead schoolteacher.

I hoped the kids here hadn’t had to see it happen.

The photos showed a thin guy with wire-rimmed glasses and a receding hairline, building models of the Statue of Liberty. Wearing a Robert Kennedy costume in front of the class. Birthday parties, a group trip to a hospital. I didn’t have the stomach to actually read the letters.

Most of the children had scuttled out of the room by now, and I heard a quavering woman’s voice from inside. I took a deep breath, and walked in.

The teacher speaking struck me as birdlike at first glance, with messy dark hair and cheekbones I could cut cheddar with. She turned as I walked in, pale green eyes glaring.

“Good to see you, Dy.” My brother said, as if I’d just stepped out for lunch. “I was just updating Miss Bracken here on the case.”

“He is your… assistant, then?” She asked, pointedly ignoring me.

“Freeloader, actually.” I told her brightly. “So, who got murdered? What did he teach? Did one of the kids do it?”

She spluttered, face turning red. “I’ll have you know the children loved Mr. Bailey! He was…” She faltered. Ryan nodded at her to continue. “I’ve seen him spend hours here in school. Working with the slow learners, the kids with poor English. He brought out the best in everyone he taught.”

Ryan frowned at the pictures framed on the wall. “What kind of teaching style did he use?”

Unless one of the kids had been mad about that, why the hell would it be relevant? But hey, I wasn’t the detective here.

“He was very informal. Almost playful. Constantly pushing kids to figure out things on their own.” She tutted with slight disapproval. “Not very efficient, you know. He’d dress up and play pranks on his students. His classes mostly got good grades, though.”

Ryan opened his mouth to ask another question when his phone buzzed in his pocket. “I’ll have to take this.”

The teacher watched him go, her face changing from grief to a nervous, almost hopeful expression. It took me a moment to figure it out, mostly cause I’m not good at figuring out this kind of thing.

Still, that crush was pretty obvious. I grinned at her. “I’ll tell you straight out, woman. You’ve got no chance with him.”

She sputtered, her face turning red. “What?”

Ryan appeared in the doorway, waving away a few curious students. “I’m sorry, Miss Bracken, but we have to take our leave. Thank you for your help.”

She said something, but was drowned out by the shriek of the recess bell. He nodded at her and stepped back outside.

She didn’t look surprised as he left, or even sad: just the weary kind of acceptance of someone used to being forgotten. Something inside me twisted.

“He tends to get pretty laser focused during his cases,” I told her, quietly. “You have his number, right? Give it a few days before making a call.”

Her eyes widened, and it felt like she was looking at me for the first time. “I’m sorry?”

I waved cheerfully. “Have a nice life, ma’am.”

*

I fell back into the car with a sigh of relief. After the endless screeching and scorching heat I had to endure inside the school, the AC and the pine scent felt downright homely.

“I just moved into a place not far from here. If you need a place to stay, Dy…” My brother began. I was sick of thinking about my future, not when there were so many more interesting conversation topics to be found. “You know that dead guy’s face was familiar.” I scratched my stubble. “I don’t think I recognized it from the news or anything.” An image came to my mind’s eye: a flash memory of yours truly spewing his guts out in some kind of building. Pockmarked white walls, with dark stains. Lots of yelling. Some kind of overwhelming smell. Not smoke, but something close.

“The shooting club.” I muttered. “My old club. He was a member.” Had he been there during the hat-shooting incident? Dear god, I hoped not.

Ryan’s eyes met mine, grey clouds suddenly full of lightning. “Go on.”

The memories were blurry and jumbled, but I could make some things out. “He was a regular. Not great, but good. Preferred handguns, mostly. That teacher got it right on the money. I do remember him being a bit of a prankster. That’s it, really. What happened to the guy?”

Ryan turned the key and the car came to life with an almost human grumbling sound. How long ago had he bought this thing? He pulled it out into the main road. “Tobias Mallory did attend a shooting club. And he did take a gun home with him every night, a Wickersmith 811.”

I whistled. “Good model, and pretty accurate, even with that short barrel. Kinda pricey, though.”

“Yeah. Mallory had a sister, Sierra. It was common knowledge she was the local weed distributor, but a lot of people hinted she also dealt with harder stuff. Nothing concrete, though. If she did, she was the type to get high off her own merchandise.”

Ryan turned into a side road, one boxed in by tall wooden fences, then through a huddled collection of clothing stores to a group of huddled buildings rising up at its very end. “Sierra Mallory went in and out of rehab a few times, and ended up living with her brother.” He parked, and stepped outside. “Come on.”

I looked around. The apartments had vines climbing up the crumbling brown bricks. The vines were dotted with purple flowers; someone had encouraged their growth. Odd, really. Most places around here were just an endless expanse of brown and grey. I squinted, trying to link the place to a news report, but came up with nothing.

We stepped inside. Most of its inhabitants must still be at work. After the chaos within the school, the place was just empty enough to feel creepy. Ryan pressed the button on the elevator, and it opened for us immediately. “Three days ago, Mr. Mallory was seen entering this building alongside his sister by the building’s cleaners. They were arguing, apparently. Though some people claimed Sierra was – and I quote – ‘already high as a kite.' Roughly fifteen minutes later…” My brother made a finger gun gesture. “Most of the building heard the shot.”

“They had to break down the door. Mr. Mallory was found in his reading chair with a bullet through his head. His sister was sleeping in her bed, with tests revealing traces of cocaine in her system. Police then discovered a broken, twisted pistol in the middle of the drain outside that must’ve been thrown from a great height. Getting fingerprints was out of the question, but, well…”

The doors opened with a cheerful ding. “Let me guess, the gun was a Wickersmith 811.”

Ryan nodded. The hallway was lit only by a few small windows, the scattered beams of light on the dark red carpet reminding me even more of a horror movie. “Well,” I said, “seems like an open and shut case to me.”

We stopped in front of room 402, and Ryan slipped a key out of his pocket. “The police certainly agree with you.” He shoved the door open. Bookshelves lined the walls. An electric kettle lay in the corner, still plugged in. I looked down at the floor at a larger circle that still smelled faintly of bleach. “I’m guessing this is where the chair was?”

Ryan nodded, and pulled up a photograph on his phone.

I had seen crime scenes before. A few even in person, on Ryan’s first few cases. What disturbed me the most this time was how little I felt about this one. Tobias was still lying in the chair, a newspaper open and streaked with red on his lap. He’d been shot through the side of his head. The left side. I looked back up.

“He was shot through the window?”

Ryan pointed. “He kept it open at night. Habit, probably. But the bullet… it’s not from a rifle. Most of us agreed it would have to be from the Wickersmith.

“Here’s where it gets interesting: look at the bedroom doors. They’re right in front of him. The current police theory is that the victim brought her up to bed with like a dozen drugs in her system. She got up in a drug-addled haze, grabbed her brother’s gun and shot him. Then she threw the murder weapon out of the window and went back to bed. It’s not a bad theory. The door was locked from the inside, and there aren’t a ton of other options.”

I frowned. “I mean, for all the goofing around, Toby was still a real careful type at the club. He wouldn’t have left the gun just lying around. Didn’t he have a safe for it?”

“They didn’t find one.” He cocked his head. “Which intrigues me. He might have worried she could force it open somehow. Either way, let’s assume the police’s theory is correct. Assume she already had access to the gun. She probably wasn’t in that state to look for it when she woke up.”

He moved his finger towards the bedroom door. “Her brother is busy reading, so she steps out of the door, practically ready to put a bullet between his eyes, and then… she shoots him from the left?” He waved towards the window.

I could see where he was coming from. There was so little space between the chair and the glass. She’d have to wedge herself between them to fire from that angle. Which, again, made no sense.

He might have been turning his head at the time, but the position of death seemed to rule that one out. Maybe the sister had messed with the body? “Look,” I said, trying to be kind. I knew how my brother could get once he got deep down the rabbit hole. “It’s definitely weird, don’t get me wrong. But it’s not exactly overwhelming evidence against the main theory, either.”

Ryan curled his lips in a snarl, going down on one knee to check the floorboards. “That woman had enough drugs in her system to down an elephant. There’s no evidence she’d even touched a gun before. You’d expect her to miss at least once, even from this range.” He shook his head. “It’s wrong. It’s all wrong. Every instinct I have screams against it.”

He ran his hands over the wood and sighed. “Fine. If there’s something else going on here, the murderer must have framed her. Too many coincidences otherwise. So I asked to take a look at the fragments of the gun. The fall dented it up pretty badly. But the serial number was filed off. And as far as I can tell, it’s brand new.”

That caught my attention. “I heard Tobias used a Wickersmith for years. He was the type who wouldn’t shut up about his habits.”

Ryan nodded. “Weird, isn’t it? The sergeant tried to claim Miss Sierra filed off the number so she could commit another crime with the weapon. But it’s enough to make me wonder if the victim’s weapon is still here.”

“In the apartment?”

“If the murderer knew Tobias Mallory had hidden the gun from his sister? Yeah. So long as no one finds it, this would be the perfect crime. I couldn’t convince the local police to do a more complete search – the detective in charge seems to view the existing evidence as more than enough. But I called in a favor and got a chance to search the place myself.”

My brother stepped into Mallory’s bedroom, and I was left alone in the living room. I did poke around for a few minutes, poking the vents and other spy movie-worthy hiding places. Eventually I got bored enough to skim the bookshelves. They lined the walls in almost every room. Even in the freaking kitchen. No wonder Sierra Mallory got into fights with this weirdo.

But how was his taste in literature? I found a small Moe Waterson collection and some fluorescent yellow survival books. Plus an Alcoholics United Guidebook, a great monster of a thing. I rolled my eyes. I’d gotten the exact same book from an uncle on my last birthday. It’s the sort of book that has letters you have to squint to read properly. Bullet points at the end of each chapter. Little illustrations painfully designed to be cute. I frowned at the accusing red letters on the spine, and looked away.

What else? Let’s see: Oliver Green’s comic books (not bad), Lily Han’s poetry (somewhere south of nauseating) and, and… damn it. I scowled and went back to the earlier section. How had that teacher described Mallory? A dutiful teacher, yeah, but also one who liked playing tricks and messing around with his students – that matched every faint memory I had about the guy.

What kind of hiding place would a man like that choose?

I pulled out the AU Guidebook, almost staggering with the weight, and pulled it open. There was a hole dug out in the middle of the book, and a Wickersmith 811 nestled inside.

*

It turns out the right piece of evidence can open a lot of doors.

There was a great deal of squawking at the police station, but eventually they agreed that just a few questions with Miss Mallory would be fine. With supervision, of course. Ryan even talked them into letting me join the questioning. They didn’t even pull a background check on me or anything. I could’ve been Sierra Mallory’s drug cartel boss for all they knew, which didn’t give me much more faith in the City’s police department.

Anyway, if you ask me that’s always been my brother’s most impressive talent. Leave the detective bullshit aside. He can persuade while retaining his reticence. He can disarm people with fewer words than anyone I’ve ever seen, wearing his mask of a cold, distant prodigy, twisting people to his own ends using their own skepticism against them. I’ve been on the other side of that charm enough times to recognize it anywhere.

That was a bit harsh of a description, maybe. But the room was cold, I was hungry, and I still couldn’t think of a better place to be than in an interrogation room with a drug addict. This filled me with my own signature brand of quiet fury, without anyone to take it out on yet.

They brought in Sierra five minutes after we sat down, her lawyer taking a seat beside her at the table. Her lips were red, even though I saw no trace of lipstick, and there were dark hollows under her eyes. Yet those eyes were brown and bright as a sparrow’s, taking in the room with a calm assurance. She was dressed in a spotless dark sweater and jeans. Who’d kept sending her fresh outfits in jail?

You could tell she was a junkie, but she seemed more the stressed-out stockbroker type and ‘less unemployed stain on society’ kind. Takes one to know one, I suppose. Sierra sat in her chair as if she was completely at home with the grey concrete and stainless steel tables.

She glanced at Harlow, the detective in charge of the case. He sipped at his afternoon coffee, leaning on the chair next to ours. “You seem vaguely familiar.” She pointed at me and Ryan. “Who are you guys?”

“Morning, ma’am.” I began. “We’re from the CIA.”

“They are not.” Her lawyer snapped, glaring her hardest at me through three inch thick glasses. “They are police consultants, and you are not obligated to answer their questions.”

Sierra waved her away. “Yeah, yeah. Look, I already spat out everything I know. What else do you possibly think I -´´ Her eyes narrowed.

Ryan leaned forward and smiled, the first real smile I’d seen from him all day. It was terrifying. “Well met, Sierra. I wondered when you’d connect the dots.”

Harlow pulled his chair forward, scrambling for his notebook and pen. “I feel like I’ve missed something.”

“I did tell your Sergeant, but she must have deemed it not important enough to tell you. There’s not much to say, really. I was doing some freelance work last year, hunting down a bounty on the Rain Dogs’ ringleader. Sierra here was trying to break into the Eastmarch club’s inner circle.” He shook his head and sighed. “Selling gutter quality acid to bikers. You couldn’t have thought of any way that would go wrong?” He steepled his fingers. “Of course, I have to give you extra points for ambition. It must have all gone south real fast for you to end up here.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, piggy?” Doubt sharpened her features further, her eyes now darting around the room.

Ryan tapped the desk in a soft rhythm that I didn’t recognize. “Tell me about your neighbors. A lot of them teach at your brother’s school, don’t they?”

She laughed, her voice hollow. “Hardly news around here. Dougie Green, the pickleball guy, he basically handed a blank check to the school administration. The principal, good old Mr. Jensen, was already the landlord of that dank old apartment building. It was close enough to school, so he painted it up a bit and let it out at a discount for the teachers. A few kids’ families, too. That always struck me as messed up, even by my standards. I mean, having your landlord mark your kids’ grades?”

She kept her eyes on Ryan. “But a real smart guy like you wouldn’t need me to tell you all this, right?”

Ryan’s expression remained unchanged. “What about your immediate neighbors, the ones on your floor? Was there anyone who worked at the school?”

Sierra thought about it. “There’s Mrs. Jacobsen, right on our left. She teaches PE, I think? And Mr. Khan near the elevator. And then there’s Locksley, but he’s not teaching anymore He’s not on our floor, anyway.”

My brother peered at the detective’s notes. “From Room 504, right? That would be right above yours.”

Harlow huffed, mustache bristling, and pulled back his notepad. “It’s odd for a woman like you to know so much about that school and its teachers.”

Her eyes gaze flickered towards him, then back to Ryan. “I studied there, piggy. Besides, Toby… he talked about his job a lot.”

I tried to tease out some emotion from her expression when she talked about her brother. It was set as still as concrete. Whatever grieving she’d done for the man, she’d finished it long ago. She took a deep breath. “Still don’t see how any of this is relevant.”

Ryan nodded. “Mrs. Jacobsen was bringing her kids back from soccer practice on the evening of the murder. Less than an hour before, in fact. She heard you and Tobias having a rather heated argument. She couldn’t tell us much about the exact topic, though.”

She rolled her eyes. “Another lecture about my corrupting drug habit. God, we already did this yesterday! Can’t you do anything other than run in circles?”

My brother’s grin resurfaced. “But there are so many interesting things there. I mean, you used to sell drugs to mafia dons. Compared to your past company. your current dealings, even your drug habits… they’re rather tame, don’t you think? Even after everything that happened, your brother still took you in. He doesn’t sound like the fiery type, especially when in public. So that got me thinking…

“What did you do to set him off? It had to be pretty recent – Mrs. Jacobsen mentioned he was in a pretty cheerful mood that morning. Did you spend his money? He’s paid for your rehab efforts enough times. No, no. I kept circling back to one thing.”

His grey eyes turned steel. “You were selling to kids at his school, weren’t you?”

Sierra’s face flushed red, but her lawyer shushed her at the last second. “You have no proof whatsoever that my client –”

Detective Harlow coughed. “Actually, we do.” He gave Ryan his own unfriendly look. “We’re not complete incompetents, you know. We got reports of a new source circulating at the school, and did some tests based on samples we got from Ms. Mallory’s room.’

The lawyer started to protest again, but Ryan spoke first. “No one’s charging you yet, Sierra. If you play your cards right, there’s a chance no one will. Someone in that school was your accomplice. Just spill the beans.”

I saw her freeze, and for the first time I saw real fear on her face. Whoever her accomplice was, she was terrified of them. Maybe even scared for her life?

Then her expression turned calculating. She’d definitely go to prison for possession. But there was a chance, maybe even a good chance, that she might be able to wriggle out of being charged for dealing drugs. All of this balanced out with the chance of being accused of murder. I don’t think she believed she’d go in for that. Not really. She’d been drugged up during the murder, and probably didn’t realize just how dire her situation was. People like her were never willing to cut their losses.

Fear. Calculation. Not even a sliver of guilt on her face. Suddenly, I had enough.

“If you didn’t do it, who else do you honestly think murdered your brother?” I asked, harsher than I’d intended. “Forget grieving, are you seriously not curious about it at all? Maybe he was a self-righteous asshole, sure. We’ve all got one of those in the family. But he took you in. He gave you what he had. Let aside preserving your own sorry ass, does that honestly mean nothing?”

Her eyes hardened, and I saw the layers of defense we’d torn down start to build around her again. “Don’t you dare judge me, you piece of shit. I didn’t ask him to do anything -” She bit her tongue, retreating back into silence. Ryan stared at her for a long moment, grey eyes brightening to silver pools, then stood up to leave.

Harlow followed us into the corridor a few minutes later. I can’t put my finger on what the difference was out here, this being just another layer in the concrete jungle, but the air here felt fresher, my surroundings less suffocated. Maybe those rooms needed more windows.

The detective was a short man, with dark skin and veins of gray etched deeply into his hair. His fingers twitched as he stepped out, and they moved towards his coat pocket. I noted a small bulge there. Cigarettes, probably. At the last second, he moved his hand away. He gave us a weary smile.

“That,” he said, “is why we don’t let consultants ask the questions during these things.” He waved away my attempt at apologizing. “You two got a lot more out of the woman than I did. I reckon I’ll let her stew for another few hours and take another crack at her.”

“Still find it hard to picture that school being a drug dealing cetner.” I admitted. “It struck me as a lot better off than most around here.”

“Oh, it is. Most of the middle class parents try to send their kids here, after all. But that’s the genius of it. They go after the brash kids. The ones with bad home lives. The stressed out ones who can be pushed into taking a few extra pills for the exam. Even a few parents got roped into the scheme.” Ryan looked back at the closed door. “Whoever was behind this… they knew exactly how to push those kids’ buttons. Which means a fellow student, or a teacher.”

Harlow frowned. “On the drug dealing side of things, I get why you’re going through this trouble. But for the murder? Boy, the door was locked on the inside. The victim was shot in the head with small arms ammunition. Regardless of that whole business with the two guns, how could anyone else pull that off?”

“That seems a rather limited point of view, detective.” My brother said. “I’d like to take a look at the witness statements of the neighbors. I have a few other questions in mind for them.”

I groaned. “I’ll wait here, if it’s all the same to you. I’ve skimmed enough records to last me a lifetime.”

Ryan paused for a moment, then nodded. “It won’t take long.” They left, Harlow’s heavy plodding drowning out my brother’s footsteps. I walked through the hallway till I found a seat. Not much was happening in the station this time of day. Most people were out for lunch, and the atmosphere felt almost sleepy.

I twisted the ring on my right hand, running my thumb over the dark surface. It was still shiny enough for me to catch a reflection. Sheila told me she had crafted it from scratch. She’d carved out a thousand intricate designs, some too delicate to catch with the naked eye. I’d considered selling it, two weeks and a hundred lifetimes ago.

I leaned back against the cold metal of the chair, wondering if Ryan had chosen this case to make a point to me. At that moment, it certainly felt that way. A kind, hospitable sibling horribly betrayed by their addicted family member.

The moment passed. I could even imagine his mocking smile at the idea. I wasn’t the center of his world, after all. And I doubted he had so many cases on hand that he could pick and choose.

When we were younger, not too long ago actually, he’d treated his mysteries as an escape from everyday life. His own private thrill. But the thing about trying to fight crime as a kid is that crime can fight back harder than you can. The kind of fighting that nearly got me killed.

The worst part? I didn’t have it in me to blame him. He’d been a kid himself at the time. He’d spent all those years in between helping me out without question, without a word of judgment. Part of me couldn’t stop wondering: would he have gone so far without feeling guilty about me? Another part hated him for what he’d done. It would have been easier if he deserved my resentment. It would’ve given me something to do with the pain.

Ryan returned with cold chicken sandwiches from the deli next door. The bread was a bit stale, but it tasted all right. “Any clues to follow up on, Mr. Detective?” I asked, spilling crumbs on my jacket as I ate

He reached inside his sandwich and pulled out a pickle, eating it by itself like a barbarian. “I do have some ideas, but Harlow was right. The method of murder is the key here. Unless we can turn that lock, the rest won’t stand up in court.” He rapped his knuckles on his forehead. “But I just can’t figure it out.”

“A drone.” I suggested. “With the gun taped to it.”

Ryan gave me a look.

“A stealth drone.”

“That’s –” He groaned. “– not impossible, assuming something more sophisticated than duct tape. It’s better than anything I’ve got at the moment.” He muttered a few words into a call and hung up. “The police won’t go out of their way to search, that’s for sure. Not when they have a perfect suspect lined up right there. We might have some more luck with other contacts, though…”

He rubbed his temples. “In the meantime, let’s get going.”

Stuffing the rest of the sandwich into my mouth, I stood up. “One last question. Who hired you for this job?”

He grinned at me. “I wondered when you’d ask me that. To answer your question: Tobias Mallory called me the night of the murder. He asked for my help, set up an appointment, and got killed about ten minutes later.”

I blinked. “So basically you’re telling me no one will be writing you a paycheck at the end of this. You sure you should’ve taken this one?”

Ryan smiled, as if quietly asking me to play along with the excuse. “I can’t let my clients get killed, now can I? That would be bad for business.”

*

I don’t know who I expected the first interview to be with. The principal of the school? A relative of the victim? The other neighbors? Nope, nope and nope.

Instead, Ryan walked into the building right next to the site of the murder. Had he gone through the wrong door or something? I shook my head and followed him. The ground floor was a flower shop filled with wasps. Even with a whole building of customers, the foul creatures stalked me. My brother picked out a few flowers to buy, untouched by nature’s horrors like a Disney Princess. Bastard.

Floor two had a receptionist in a bright pink outfit. A very hot pink, by the way, which made it hard to focus on what she was saying, but she directed us to a studio on the third floor.

The door was opened by a pleasant old lady who would have made an excellent grandmother. You know the type. White, poofy hair, a cheerful squinting expression, and a mouthful of gleaming dentures. She wore an apron doused with paint, and sat us down on a pair of beanbag chairs.

“I’m Felicia Jensen, though you can call me Fellie.” She beamed. “You two just sit right here while I get you a little something.”

She made very good tea and cookies, I’ll give her that. Also, I love sitting in beanbag chairs. The way they mold around you as you flop down on one is so endearing. Ryan picked up a cookie and began. “We were told you were sitting here on the night of the murder, Ms. Jensen.”

I glanced outside, and sure enough, I could see the shuttered window of room 404.

“Oh, that?” Fellie nestled down on her own beanbag chair, nestling a mug of cinnamon tea. “I already told those police officers all about it, but I’m afraid I wasn’t taken very seriously. I’m sure they’re rather busy people, and I’m sure you’re rather busy people too, so I’ll get right back to it.

“Now, to start off, it wasn’t really night. Twilight, perhaps, but I prefer to call it the blue hour, because well, everything is blue. It’s a most artistically inspiring time of day, don’t you think?”

“The lighting is quite relaxing,” my brother agreed with enthusiasm, “and it does bring out some interesting shadows.”

“Right? So anyhow, I was lounging over here with my sketchbook, trying to do a tracing of the ivy crawling up the walls on the other side. Dear Mr. Mallory always used to sit in his reading chair next to the window. So I saw him sit down as usual. The building’s far away enough you can’t make out any details. I could only see a silhouette, and a faint one at that.”

“What about the rooms around it, with his neighbors?”

She thought about it. “I don’t pay as much attention to them. It’s just that young Mallory was a picturesque fellow. Very dignified, a lot like you. That image of him at the window… I was always convinced that should be on an award winning canvas. But the sketches never came out right… To answer your question, I don’t remember anything special about that. It was dark, and getting darker. I know the woman on the left, the one with the babies, and I remember her lights were on. No one was out on the balcony. Otherwise…” She shook her head.

“Anyhow, I was actually doing a sketch on my pad when I heard a sound. I’m sorry, but I still can’t remember exactly what it was. It wasn’t very loud, anyway. A creaking of a door hinge, maybe? A footstep? So I looked, and well it was so dark at this point that I couldn’t make out much. My optician gave me a terrible prescription and my eyes aren’t very good on their own. It all happened so quickly, too. There was a movement from the window. Just before I heard the shot, there was a flash of light.”

I have to admit, I was on the edge of my seat. “Like a camera flash?”

“I – I don’t know.” Her voice trembled for a moment. “I don’t think so? All I remember is just after that, I heard the gunshot.” She winced. “Movies don’t really show just how dang loud it is, do they?”

“They do not.” Ryan leaned back. To this day I wish I’d taken a photo of that so-serious pose he made in the middle of a pink beanbag chair. “Tell us a bit about that shadow, Ms. Jensen. Do you think it was a person?”

“No.” She seemed certain. “It was smaller. It moved very fast, but I don’t think a person’s shadow would have looked like that.”

This made Ryan lapse into deep thought. So deep that I had to be the one to thank the old artist and usher us out of the building. So deep that we were halfway up the stairs of the other building before he spoke.

“I was thinking about some of the witness statements, from people who saw Tobias Mallory on his last day at the school. All of them agreed he was pretty cheerful up to when he ended his last class.”

“Huh. Guess that doesn’t fit too well with the idea someone at school was involved in that whole drug dealing stuff.”

“Unless they lived here, and he somehow saw something that evening. Maybe he got somebody to talk…”

We stepped out of the elevator at the fourth floor, and Ryan rang the doorbell of apartment 403. Nothing. I was about to knock on the door when a kid opened the door. He was about ten, with round glasses and a blue Blarney the Pterosaur T shirt. The boy wiped his runny nose and squealed. “Mom! It’s more salesmen!”

“We’re working with the police.” Ryan said quickly.

A woman appeared at the door. She was tanned and fit enough to make me self-conscious of my flab, carrying a toddler at her hip. “You’re not like the last one, are ya,” She noted, raising a spatula covered in red sauce. “I’m making dinner, so you’ll have to ask your questions in the kitchen.”

I looked at Ryan. He shrugged.

I sniffed the air as we walked in. “Nice spice combo.” I said admiringly. “Not many people think to add nutmeg. You could afford to add a bit more oregano, though. Even if it’s the dried stuff.” She snorted and walked back into the kitchen.

The living room was neater than I expected, with toys packed into a little playpen in the corner and only a couple of books strewn over the floor. “Lonnie Custard?” I asked the kid, who was hanging around with a curious frown on his face. “Damn, I used to love those books when I was your age.”

He looked distrustful. I looked back at the books and picked one up. “Huh. Roald Dahl. Not bad, not bad. My favorite was the one with the turtle.”

“Tortoise.” He corrected loudly, grabbing the book from me and stuffing it back into the shelf. Weren’t those two the same thing? I didn’t want Ryan to see me look it up on my phone. As if on cue, my brother tapped my shoulder and pointed at the pictures hung on the wall. Mrs. Adamek had apparently been quite an avid rock climber and taught gymnastics at the school. I saw a whole line of awards stacked on top of the shelf.

The boy, getting bored, went to check on his mom’s cooking. Ryan motioned towards the window and mouthed. “Ivy.”

I opened my mouth to call him insane, but was he? The woman’s room was right next to the victim’s. Would it even be that hard for anyone to climb to Mallory’s window and shoot him, let alone a gymnast? Ryan nodded towards the window again and mouthed. Cover me.

“Soooo, ma’am,” I said, stepping into the kitchen. “You adding that oregano?”

Jacobsen snorted again. “Jocko doesn’t like it, and I’m not going to push him on it. It’s hard enough to feed these kids as it is.” She sprinkled some pepper into the stew. “So what are you here for, anyway?”

She kept my voice light and airy, but she kept an eye on me through the reflection on the stove. The boy poked me. “You don’t look like a cop. You smell like a homeless guy.”

“I’m neither at the moment. I think.” I searched my mind for questions. “I heard the school’s trying to keep you guys quiet about what happened with Mr. Mallory, aren’t they?”

“Hmm? Well, there hasn’t been much in the news about it. They’re probably scared of scandal. God, you’d be surprised at the amount of politics that plays out in those offices.” She held out the spatula for her son to lick, and rudely offered me nothing at all.

She pulled open her fridge and rummaged through it. “It’s rotten luck that I started this job just to get saddled with this business.”

“Started?”

“Moved here two weeks ago, honey.” She waved at the taped-up boxes in the corner. “Not very observant, are ya?”

There’s no good way to answer that, but I didn’t have to. She just kept going. “But still, should we really make that much fuss about another idiot who got shot by his girlfriend –”

Easy mistake, I guess. Based on the photos I’d seen of Tobias, he didn’t look anything like Sierra. Although… “You know she was his sister, right?”

These days I know better than to make such promises, yet back then I would have sworn in court that woman’s surprise was genuine. “Really? Damn. I mean, I never really asked about her.”

I got a whiff of smoke. “You better turn off that stove, ma’am.”

She lunged for the dial and coughed. “Sweet lord, I hope this isn’t ruined.”

Ryan appeared in the doorway. “My apologies, Mrs. Adamek. We’re going to have to leave.”

She waved us away. “It’s all fine.” I felt vaguely homesick when we stepped out into the hallway. I would’ve killed for a taste of Mom’s chicken curry right now.

“The rain’s washed away any traces.” Ryan muttered. “Fine. That theory doesn’t explain the flash of light, anyway.” He walked towards the stairs

“How many more people are we going to need to talk to?” I complained. “We’ve been stomping around this building for hours!”

“At least one more. James Locksley. You recognize the name?”

“I – shit, I think I do.”

“He was part of the shooting club both you and Tobias joined, right?”

I nodded. “It’s coming to me, now. Those two were basically inseparable on the range.”

“That is pretty interesting, actually. Let’s pay him a visit.”

*

I looked up at a sign pasted on the apartment door. “Locksley’s Locks, Gears and Mechanisms," I read. “Is it legal to set up something like this in your apartment? Don’t you need a permit or something?”

“I’m not sure myself.” Ryan held up his fist to knock, but the door opened. James Locksley stared back at us, then tried to shut the door.

My brother kept it open with one hand. “We’re with the police, Mr. Locksley.”

He snarled at me. “I know this freak! This man put a bullet through Daisy’s hat!”

“It’s not like she was mad about it! And look, I’m sorry, okay? I wasn’t thinking straight at the time. We’re investigating your friend’s death. Aren’t you worried about that?”

Locksley hesitated, then opened the door to let us in. “You’re not carrying a gun, are you?” He asked fearfully. “Don’t you dare go near the safe.”

The living room had been turned into a workshop, if a rather unorganized one. Old radios, one even still giving out sparks, were placed on shelves around the room. The junk had marked half of the entire room as its territory. Most of it struck me as old and rusty; grimy car mirrors and gear wheels and mechanical thingummies that I couldn’t name if you put a gun to my head. I kicked a flywheel out of my way, stepping towards the worktable where Locksley stood.

Tobias had been the nice sort of quiet at the club. Locksley had been smarmy and smiled his weak smiles far too often for anyone to be comfortable with. He tore off a pair of grimy gloves and took a seat by his worktable. “Tell me what I can do to help find out who killed poor old Tobes. Anything, anything at all, just ask.”

“You used to teach a mechanical engineering course at the school?” Ryan was examining the mechanic’s current work in progress. It looked like a hideous, smiling frog with hinges to move its jaws. Clockwork powered, maybe? It looked disgusting, and I kind of wanted to take it with me.

“Oh, my course! Hmm, yeah. Toby hooked me up with that. You know, an extra credit sort of course for the kids. Nothing too official, but they still paid me a salary. It was nice! Really nice, even. Still, I prefer things the way they are now.”

Ryan looked around. “You keep in contact with any of your former students?”

He paused. “Not regularly, of course. Some do ring me up from time to time. I give some advice on their projects, they send me their gizmos to fix…”

“Huh.” I said. “I don’t really see any phones or anything here.”

“I’m no expert,” He assured, though I fancied I saw his eye twitch. “I mostly focus on mechanical engineering. Not that I have a thing against electronics, but it’s not my forte, you know?” I didn’t. To be fair, when I looked around I couldn’t imagine someone like this building a stealth drone, either.

Ryan frowned. “Tell me about Toby and Sierra. When was the last time you saw them?”

“Tobes and I… well we usually went to the shooting club on Fridays. I mean, it’s got great facilities and nice people, mostly.” He gave me a rather pointed look. “But that day he called and told me he couldn’t come. Something with his sister, but he didn’t really give me any details. It happened at around four, I think. The call logs could probably give you something more accurate.”

“So you and Sierra don’t know each other.”

“Not well. Just, you know, a few meetings here and there. She was always the black sheep of that family. Always thought Tobes was a bit too soft with her, but what can you do?”

The man was impressively, infuriatingly good at avoiding direct questions. We chased him in circles (metaphorically, though believe me I was tempted) until Ryan finally gave up and we took our leave.

We walked through the hallway for a minute or so, after he shut the door behind us.

I yawned. “I don’t know about you, but I am tired to the bone. What time is it, four?”

“Just past five, actually. You’re right, I could do with a coffee break.”

I admit I’m a bit of a drinker. A selected few may even call me an alcoholic. Still, I can guarantee that no amount of drunkenness could make me as irritating as my brother can be about his caffeine. He can wax poetry about French presses and cold brews if you give him the chance. Once, I saw him regale a poor soul for over an hour on the virtues of a looser coffee grind. Nevertheless, while his other cooking skills range between offensively bland and horrifying, he can at least make a good cup of joe.

I took a swig from the flask he handed to me, leaning against the car. The sun was setting behind the building, so I couldn’t even get a nice sunset. Sure, the sky had a nice selection of pink and orange streaks, though those were fading, too.

Maybe I could’ve just walked out of the parking lot and then taken in the view, but at that moment it felt like a lot of work. I glanced over at my brother, still staring at the asphalt. “Having trouble cracking the case?”

He sighed, and held out his hand for the flask. “No, not really. It’s actually quite simple at its core. It’s just that there are these pieces that I can’t quite fit.”

I tossed the flask back, which he caught with a glare. “Huh. Get any luck with the search for the drones?”

He shook his head. “Even if we did find a silent drone, so what? That’s hardly proof of anything. Not to mention that it wouldn’t explain that flash of light that artist woman saw. A drone camera wouldn’t flash.” My brother started gulping down the remainder of his coffee with impressive speed and diligence.

“Again with that? I swear, you’ve got flashes on the brain. It could’ve been just a camera, or hell, even just a trick of the light.”

Ryan glared at me as he drank. Suddenly his eyes widened and he sputtered, nearly dropping the flask. He handed it back to me, fished out his phone and started dialing. “We need to go.”

That silvery look in his eyes was infuriatingly familiar. “Oh, come on! That triggered your great breakthrough? I could’ve said that ages ago!”

Ryan started walking towards the apartments, muttering into the phone at his ear. He’d already slipped it back in his pocket by the time I caught up.

“Called the police already?”

“The old artist we spoke to a while back, actually. Regarding the police… I’d like to get some solid evidence first, and thankfully, I think I know where to find it.”

Was he going to wait till we were sitting in a library or something to give an explanation? He was definitely the type to like a nice setting for his lectures, but if he tried that now. I’d definitely strangle him first.

“So, who’s our murderer? I mean, you did call the artist… but no. It was Locksley, wasn’t it?” I asked. “That guy has the most punchable face I’ve ever seen.”

Ryan grinned a wolfish smile. “You have good instincts. Can you justify them, though?” He tapped the elevator button, which gave me enough time to think.

“The murderer using the same model of gun as the victim is pretty telling. I mean, no matter how our guy did the murder, they’d have to know what Sierra was doing at the time and how Tobias spent his evenings. That requires decent knowledge of the victim.”

Ryan nodded. “True, but I’d reckon a friendly coworker could have gotten that information. No, the real damning evidence is that the plan relied on him knowing that Tobias hid his gun, and that it used an unusual hiding place. Most people would assume he’d use a safe. That alone told me the murderer was a close friend. A confidant, even. Now, what else?”

The elevator doors opened with a cheerful ding! “I mean, he could still be Sierra’s drug dealing partner. He admitted to staying in contact with people at the school.”

“Hmm.” Ryan tapped his chin, and stepped out as the elevator doors opened. “Witnesses claim Tobias looked mostly normal when he left the school. He came back with his drugged up sister a few hours later, absolutely furious. We know he called Locksley during that time. It does line up, at least. But I think we’ll need to rely on our friends in blue to get us evidence for those particular charges.”

My brother slipped his watch into his pocket andpulled on a pair of surgical gloves. “We’re running out of time, so listen up. Don’t give him the slightest reason to panic.”

I felt my shoulders tense. “He’s armed, though, and from what I remember he’s good enough with that gun to be worth worrying about.”

“I’m afraid dealing with that is going to be your part in this little scene.” Ryan muttered. “Get ready.”

He knocked on the door. “Mr. Locksley? Sorry to bother you again, but I lost my watch. I was wondering if you’d seen it?”

I could’ve come up with a better excuse in my sleep. Still, Locksley opened the door a crack. “It’s not here. I would have noticed it.”

Ryan wedged his arm in the door. “Oh, do let me check, at least. It’s my grandfather’s, and the clasp is quite rusted. It could’ve easily fallen off while we were sifting through your spare parts.”

Locksley regretted opening that door. I could see it in every muscle on his face and in that stretched out smile. Too late to back out now, though. He stepped aside and let us in.

I gave him a harder look as I walked inside. His baggy jacket could easily hide a pistol. On the other hand, there was his earlier comment. “Don’t you dare go near the safe.” I had been a reckless moron at that shooting range, but not a thief. It would be a weird thing to bring up if there was only money inside that thing.

The safe stood next to his worktable. A small cube of black metal that you normally only see in hotel rooms. How should I be playing this? Not for the first or last time, the throbbing of my heartbeat reminded me that I had no business playing detective, especially one armed only with a half-filled flask of coffee.

Strangely enough, Locksley didn’t give me a second glance. He stared wordlessly, as Ryan reached down and pulled out a short metal pole the length of my forearm. There were a handle with a few tubes attached, and a few small mirrors attached at weird angles.

“You painted it navy blue,” My brother noted. “Nice touch, there. It would act as decent camouflage.”

Locksley licked his lips. “A students art project. Um, nothing of importance.”

Ryan leaned down in another corner of the pile and pulled out a similar looking pole He twisted the two together with a click, then reached for a third piece, this one with a strange-looking claw on the end.

“Separating the pieces like that was a good move. Much harder for anyone to notice unless you know exactly what to look for.”

I looked at the final product. A long pole, lined with mirrors and tubes, with mirrors attached along the length and the metal gripper on the end. It carried a jointed, hooked piece that looked a lot like a trigger finger.

“Ingenious, truly ingenious. I wonder how you practiced shooting with it? I don’t have a gun with me to fit in this end, alas.”

Locksley trembled and repeated himself. “A project, of course. Just a project.”

Ryan opened the window, letting in the cool night air. The sun had already set, and everything outside with tinged a steadily darkening blue. I saw a lighted window, someone watching us. The artist, I realized.

“Let’s set the scene, shall we? During that fateful afternoon, your friend has just found out you and his sister have been selling drugs to his students. You saw this coming, didn’t you? Maybe he voiced his suspicions before, but only now has he confirmed the truth. He gets home, dragging along his sister. She’s currently drugged up, and he’s hasn’t quite figured out what to do with her. Or with you. You called him a few minutes before, and argued. There’s a small window of time to put your plan into action.”

“You lucked out a bit, with your room just above his, and with that regular reading habit of his. All you had to do was extend your pole downwards, adjust the mirrors till the reflection allowed you to aim properly through the window, then shoot to kill. Release the gun so it falls into the drain, and you’re home free. With a little practice, it would probably take less than a minute. But as dark as it was, someone was watching. Someone saw the flash when you adjusted the mirrors.”

He hung the pole over the window. “Let’s see how she reacts when I turn those mirrors now.”

Locksley lunged for his safe. Luckily, I was a quicker draw than him. It turns out getting even pleasantly warm coffee in the eyes can be distracting. He wiped his eyes, snarling, but I had already put myself between him and the safe. I’m not any good with my fists, but this dude had the muscle mass of a prune.

“You –” He began, interrupted by a knock on the door, and detective Harlow bellowing at the top of his lungs. Ryan smiled, wolf’s hunger sated, and went to let in the police.

*

Then came a blur of events blending together in my memory. A witness statement, where the detectives made me repeat a story for nearly a dozen times. A brief argument about whether the coffee attack counted as assault. (Locksley seemed too busy with his own problems to bother charging me, and in any case it counted as self-defense). I got a few awkward claps on the back, with one or two people even offering me congratulations.

Ryan did thank me, just before left to the station. Seeing real gratitude in his eyes did make me feel a little better. We only spoke for a few minutes before he had to give his own statement, and wrangle through the many official headaches that come when closing a case.

They did leave me to my own devices at last, late at night in the station, a steaming cup in one hand. I’d gone far longer without sleep before, but my eyelids were still heavy. The lights in the ceiling felt too bright and the voices around me too loud for comfort.

I’d gone nearly a day without a drink. At this point, that was something I should be proud of. I didn’t feel any pride, though, just a red itch in the back of my mind that kept pulling me apart. I’d tried going cold turkey before; I knew what was coming. Worse headaches, definitely vomiting. Withdrawal is not fun.

Just thinking about it felt too hard to bear. Not on top of everything else. No place to stay, no future to speak of except… what? Being my brother’s sidekick? Was this really the best destiny the world could offer? That I could give myself?

I found myself moving. One step. Then another. All the way till I was out of the station. Not much traffic this time of day. Through the smog and streetlights, I could even see a few stars. The rolled-up stack of cash in my pocket sang sweetly to me. The one I’d stolen from Ryan. There was so much I could be doing with it, but my feet took me to the liquor store anyway.

I only bought a few cans. You know, I could afford to pace it out. Get another place to sleep. Maybe if I showed back at my old place and waved a few bills in my roommates’ faces, they’d let me in again.

Okay, probably not that. But a man can hope.

“Heyo.” A homeless guy waved at me. He had a scruffy beard, but the rest of him looked remarkably well put together. He had a nice cardboard sign labeled KEVIN hung over his neck.

I walked past him. Where was I even going? I could stroll through the whole city and find nothing but someone willing to mug me. But I kept walking, kept moving, didn’t even stop to drink one of the cans.

No one did bother me, by the way. I’d guess they took one look and decided I wasn’t worth it. Finally, I ended up in a parking lot overlooking the bridge. The river looked like a stream of black sludge and didn’t smell much better but hey, it had a nice view of the city.

I kicked over the remains of a teenager’s party. Plastic cups, half a foldable table, even a banner too torn up for me to make out the words. Reaching the edge, I leaned over the railing. There were a few neon signs, billboards and lit-up windows that were mere pinpoints in the darkness. It was the kind of sight that usually helped calm me down. Usually.

Reaching into the bag, I pulled out a can of beer. Still cold to the touch, with a shiny, silvery label. The streetlight was more than enough to show my reflection on the bottom of the can.

I rubbed the stubble on my chin. I hadn’t really gone through a dramatic change in the last few years. My pale brown skin tone had grown even paler from my time in the City. I’d gained weight, even had the beginnings of double chin. My eyes had gotten a red tinge at the edges, but were still my mother’s shade of dark brown.

Growing up, no matter what I did, I was the ordinary one in the family. Sure, Ryan had better grades and a more dynamic CV, but I didn’t keep them up in the middle of the night wondering what people would try to kill me next. I wasn’t exactly an angel at school, closer to the opposite really. But every time my parents came to pick me up, I could tell they were thinking: it could’ve been way worse.

I heard the screeching of a crow on the other side of the lot, and I winced. What was I doing? Blaming my parents for not making me feel special enough? Was this really how I wanted to justify ending up here?

Maybe I could blame the guy who’d poisoned me when I was a kid. Or the one who’d tossed me off a building. Or Ryan, who put me in those situations in the first place.

Or maybe that was too extreme. Perhaps I should instead point the finger at the guy who gave me my first drink, on the summer before college. The friend who told me everyone else cheated off that site during the exam, so why shouldn’t I? Round and round it goes. None of it was even wrong, honestly. Other people’s bad choices, circumstances no one can control, all these pieces with all their sharp edges. There were thousands of other people I could blame for making me who I am.

But there was only one person I could blame for not trying to do better.

The sun hadn’t risen yet, but I could see a blue edge growing on the horizon. How long had I stayed out here? The beer can went back in the bag. Maybe Kevin the homeless dude would want these cans.

I spent a few more moments, just watching the blue spread over the sky, and the first few rays of sunlight. I stretched, yawning, then took out my phone to call my brother.