Back to the office...with nothing. It’s almost time for lunch, but I’m not hungry.

  I sit at my chair, staring at the book. No one knows anything about it.

  The blonde girl, Elaine, visited my home before I found Claire’s diary, saying that she was there for a friend. She had a black book in her hands...I remember it...it was definitely the Black Theatre.

  Why was she there? I should ask my neighbors if they know anything. Though she might have shown herself just to tease me. She knew I would have read about her in the diary. I should do that when I get home.

  I light up my umpteenth cigarette, my lungs are going to be complaining soon if I don’t calm down.

  The seconds on my watch quietly tick...there’s no Elima rustling papers and making calls anymore, the silence is so thick that I can hear time slowly slipping away from my grasp.

  “Hm?”

  Suddenly, someone opens the door outside. My office door is closed, so they don’t see me immediately.

  Of course. They think I’m still operational as a P.I...and I technically am.

  I should really just get on with my life and career.

  But what kind of life would I live without Elima? Home, office, home, office, home. I get this new client who’s about to get inside...and then what?

  Anna’s not at home, waiting for me. Not anymore.

  Either I find this killer, or I don’t do anything else. I don’t have the strength to do so.

  I ignore the knocking on the door of my office and start thinking.

  Thank god I wrote down everything back then.

  Alice Dellis

  Agathe Leuseur

  Claire Eisern

  Lila Berniech

  I’ll leave Lila alone for now, it’s probably being investigated, and I don’t want to step on the feds’ tails.

  I’ll research Agathe and Alice, then. The only way I could find out more about them with mere names would be from the newspapers. However, Claire was their first public discovery as they said when she first died. Alice and Agathe were found and dealt with in silence, no press involved.

  So, how else do you find out about someone dead if no one gossips about it?

  Obituaries.

  I’ll visit every major human obituary and flash my badge. I can do that. It’s desperate, I know...but it’s all I can work on.

  I’ll begin with the South End district and move up gradually. Nochtarn isn’t big...if I’m smart and quick about it, I’ll be done in a month or so.

  I stand up, close my coat, and stuff a new pack of cigarettes into my pocket. When I open the door, someone is standing at Elima’s desk looking confused.

  “Excuse me...are you-”

  “I don't have time now, come back next week.”

  “Next week? But I-”

  I close the door and rush to my car.

  — NOVEMBER 21st —

  Another desk, another clerk, another pointless conversation.

  “No records of a Leuseur or a Dellis, Detective. Are you sure about the spelling?”

  “Pretty sure,” I mutter, forcing a smile I don’t mean, “Thanks anyway.”

  They always say the same thing. Same polite tone, same slight look of worry when I flash the badge.

  I leave the building with a growing sense that I’m wasting my time.

  — NOVEMBER 29th —

  The receptionist at this one is younger. Looks at me like she’s about to break down. People really are scared of the law.

  “No such names in our local archive, sir. Do...do you have any next-of-kin listed?

  “No,” I say, “They were probably all alone. Just like Claire. Just like me.

  I don’t think she understands what I meant. I don’t think I do either.

  — DECEMBER 3rd —

  Somewhere in the East End district. This center smells like cheap coffee and wet carpet.

  I ask again. Same routine. Same breath. Same result.

  No records.

  There’s a rhythm to this rejection. A kind of music, if you lean into it. The key is to not expect anything. Just go through the motions, like you’re punching in at a job you hate but can’t quit.

  They don’t ask me questions about the girls I ask for anymore. Maybe they know not to.

  — DECEMBER 8th —

  One of the secretaries flirts with me. I think.

  Either way, it doesn’t register until I’m back in the car. Then I feel it: that dull ache in the chest. Why didn’t I flirt back? I light up another cigarette and try to forget the way she smiled.

  There’s still no record of Agathe Leuseur or Alice Dellis.

  — DECEMBER 9th —

  I sit in my office, sighing with a whiskey glass in my hand.

  I’ve been taking some clients to keep my apartment’s lights on and my name in the department useful. Lowe is sure that I gave up on the case and is ‘happy that I set my priorities straight’.

  It’s all enough to distract me a little. But whenever I sit back in my office after checking the next obituaries...everything rushes back into my head.

  I was right, without Elima, nothing feels the same.

  Was I truly so depressed before Elima made me feel better again?

  I think about my wife too, nowadays...after stopping for years. Grief is funny, it makes you forget, but never entirely.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Elima’s just my assistant, though...right? Then why do I feel such sorrow? Bigger than my wife’s death, almost.

  Her confession of love was…a seed planted by her for me to be born anew.

  And I couldn’t even give her an answer, because she was taken from me...just like fate took my wife away.

  Why am I even chasing this killer? They stopped killing...or at least that’s what the press says.

  I grab her favourite cup, where she brewed tea often with her kit...for herself and rarely for me. I brush my thumb gently on its surface, on the post she used to put her lips most...odd things only a detective would notice and remember.

  “Are you even still alive, Elima?”

  She may be dead.

  So why am I doing this? For revenge? We all know revenge is a stupid game.

  I look at my revolver, hanging on my coat on the chair. I’ve been staring at it more than usual lately. I know what it means, my body knows too, and it’s trying to stop me.

  I don’t want to die. But dealing with these feelings is something that I’m not suited for...I’m not a young man anymore. I’ll be fourty-five soon, in February.

  “Shit...Ed, you’re actually thinking about killing yourself?” I talk out loud, pushing the revolver back into my holster, “get a grip...please,” I say, running my hands through my hair.

  My moment of self-commiseration gets interrupted. Someone barges into the building even if it’s 11:00 PM. Who the hell is it? I’m not in the mood for-

  The very door of my office is opened next, to my surprise.

  An Other One female holding a suitcase.

  Red, shiny hair. Eyes like razors.

  Is this the Other One the woman at the bookstore told me about? What is she doing here?

  “Edward D’Arbie?”

  “Yes. It’s me,” I say, carefully putting my hand on my revolver behind the chair...ready to act, “now Other Ones too have drama to solve with a P.I?”

  She doesn’t laugh at my joke. She closes the door behind her gently and walks to my desk.

  She sits, she doesn’t ask, she doesn’t wait.

  “Special Agent Kaeron, Federal Division of the Royal Empire.”

  She pushes forward her badge while she opens the suitcase, pulling out some papers.

  Shit. They caught me.

  “I’m here because we discovered you’ve been interfering with a case the federal division is working on.”

  “Excuse me, what are you talking about?” I try to feign ignorance.

  “During the evening of the 6th of December, an obituary reported that someone tried to get access to two bodies protected under our jurisdiction. The bodies of Agathe Leuseur and Alice Dellis.”

  Yes. They got me.

  If she asks me to put my hands behind my back, I’m pulling the trigger. Other One prisons are not my next destination.

  “May I ask why you’re trying to gather information about WMK, Edward D’Arbie?”

  “WMK…?”

  “White Maiden Killer. We know you know about it. I spoke with your assistant, Lowe Bethy...and she said you were particularly interested in the case, and that you have evidence and information we do not have. Speak up...do not try to hide anything from me.”

  “If you know everything, why are you even asking?”

  “Just answer my question.”

  Her gaze is relentless. A cold pressure behind my back shortens my breath...the regret of my decisions is rising.

  “Look…” I take a deep breath, swallow hard, and put my hands forward, “someone was stolen from me by the killer. Elima Rondart, my assistant. The killer sent a specific message to me about it, and basically asked me to chase them. I am very sorry for going against the federal division and-”

  “Lowe told me about Elima Rondart too. She said she was expecting you to go rogue...because you two had a romantic relationship, am I correct?”

  “Not quite romantic...but yes, something like that.”

  “I see,” she crosses her legs and crosses her arms, “so you’re telling me,” she says, her voice low, “that you’ve been investigating the White Maiden Killer on your own, because of some...personal reason?”

  “Yes, agent,” I look down with shame.

  “Hm...and how far have you gone without the necessary resources or help from your police department?” She asks next, leaning forward.

  “I...nothing, really. I don’t have any-”

  “Let me be clear. You can’t escape the fact that you broke the law. If you were a citizen, we’d simply advise you to stop digging...but your supervisor states that you were told not to dig. You’re currently under arrest...so please, just lay your cards.”

  I swallow another time, bullets oozing out of my forehead.

  I tell her everything, every thought, theory, and such.

  She sharpens her gaze a bit more after hearing me out, her foot tapping on the floor.

  “I see. Why would you say the homicides are committed by multiple perpetrators, exactly?”

  “Because Claire wrote about one of the two in her diary...and it was a female. No female can penetrate a vagina, and the forensics, before the case was classified, said it was a penis and not a foreign object. This last part was mentioned by Lowe when she interrogated me, because I had a case with Claire...about the very killer that was stalking her.”

  “Yes, Detective Lowe told me that you were involved in all of this because Claire was a private client of yours. She saw the killer coming and called for human help,” she says, all in one breath, “so...about this diary. Would you happen to still have it? We have no evidence that what you’re saying is true.”

  I furrow my brows, “I’m sorry, Agent Kaeron...but I’m not going to cooperate if all I’m getting is cold wrists.”

  The woman sighs, her posture relaxes, “okay...D’Arbie, you’re not under arrest, you’re free to kick me out at any time, and I’m not acting as a federal agent right now. Just a woman.”

  What…? Is she serious?

  “I’m not buying it, fed.”

  “It’s true. I’m here to give you an offer.”

  “What? What are you talking about?” I ask her, growing wary.

  “I want a human detective on the case,” she casually says.

  “You want my help?” I ask incredulously.

  Is this a trap?

  She pulls out something from her suitcase. A piece of paper. She slides it towards me.

  I don’t have the time to pick it up and read it, since she starts speaking again.

  “As the federal agent who is in charge of this case, I had some considerations and I find it necessary to have a human investigator who is able to analyze the case’s patterns, evidence, and leads with a psychology impacted by empathy and human knowledge. As a cold, calculating Other One, I have to acknowledge that our division, at the time, is not able to understand the killer’s motive at all and is in need of someone who might relate, understand, and predict the perpetrator’s actions.”

  “Are you serious…?”

  “I am. You understand this more than we do, D’Arbie. The emotions behind the killers’ actions are something we can’t possibly replicate. The contract you have in front of you has everything you need to know about this collaboration.”

  My stomach tightens. I don’t know whether I want to laugh at her or punch her in the face.

  Becoming a pawn of the government? Just because those shitheads are heartless?

  I try to stay calm. I put the paper down and look at her with a fierce, serious expression, “first of all...why me? There are other private investigators.”

  She sighs and switches up her crossed legs, “because no one has more connection and involvement than you. You’ve been chasing this for weeks with relentless interest. Hence, by choosing you, I have the guaranteed trust that you’re committed to solving the case, unlike some random investigator who may do it for the money. Moreover, you knew one of the victims...emotionally and personally. Elima."

  “Isn’t emotional involvement bad for a case?” I retort.

  “Not in this specific context. We need someone who is deep into their emotions, so that they can empathize and understand the manipulation that’s happening to the victims.”

  I lean back into my chair, speechless. I finish the rest of my whiskey in one gulp.

  I grab the paper. It’s an actual contract, signed by the FDRE.

  “You’re serious. You’re actually asking me to work for you,” I mutter, reading the contents.

  She nods slightly, standing up from her chair, “if you want to solve this, this is your chance. Help us...or let this die like many other cases you’ve worked on.”

  “But...cooperating with an Other One? Can this even end well?” I say out loud.

  “That’s for you to decide. I have no racial stygmas. If you don’t, we’ll work well together. And don’t worry, you won’t interact with anyone outside of me at all times.”

  There it is again, that feeling. That hook that pierces through my guts and pulls me forward despite everything.

  I want to do this. I want to find that bastard.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say, “let me keep this copy of the contract, I’ll read the contents and make a decision.”

  “Sure thing.”

  She closes her suitcase and places a small card...her number is on it, “call me when you’re ready, Detective D’Arbie.”

  She turns around and walks to the door.

  “One last thing, Agent Kaeron.”

  “Yes?” She replies without turning around, checking her watch.

  “Why, as a heartless Other One, would you go through the trouble of solving this case? It involves humans killing humans, right? Nothing you should give a shit about.”

  She slowly looks behind, her crimson eyes piercing through my gaze.

  “Because death, D’arbie, is not just a human phenomenon. It’s a problem of us all.”

  “And when it is distributed unfairly, I do get quite a bit pissed off.”