“ ‘I first began to plot the murder of Bernard Tedeschei twelve years ago, immediately following the death of my lover, Delilah. Tedeschei was responsible; any further explanation would likely serve only to have me classified as criminally insane. Suffice to say I had my reasons for killing him.

“ ‘Why the particular date? For reasons of my own, I wished him to die within a week or so of the anniversary of the murder. I constructed a homunculus, and waited patiently for the opportunity to use it. Earlier opportunities were presented, but, as I have already implied, they were too far from the anniversary to be feasible. On the night of his death, I activated the homunculus and had it stab Tedeschei repeatedly until dead; after this, I dismantled the homunculus, and returned the river clay I had used to make it to the earth. It was disguised in its human form using a randomized collection of genes, picked up from various samples gathered both at the police station and around the area where I live. In this manner, I hoped to postpone my inevitable discovery. I was well aware of Tedeschei’s mafia ties; hence my caution.

“ ‘If you have found this letter, Morrison, it means that you’ve figured it out. Congratulations. I would recommend saving it for the purpose of properly classifying my criminal record; by the time you read this, I may no longer be alive. Dead or alive, I will be at 36 Main Street, Middletown, in-state, if you care to find my person.

“ ‘Best Wishes, signed Julia Michelle Peterson, November 29th, 2007.’ “

Charlene put the last page of the letter down on her desk, and took a sip of her coffee. She’d had a secure window cut into the wall yesterday; it was overcast outside, so the light shining through the clouded glass was a pale, thoughtful gray. Delaney and Warrick were sitting across from her, in the new chairs she’d had installed. It wasn’t really Nein’s office any more. The last few days had been a flurry of paperwork, a formalization of Charlene’s promotion, a commendation from the Department. Mostly, the three of them were rather glad to have a moment of peace. In the week following Nein’s suicide, they had been bombarded with inquiries and had had to fend off the press as well as organize a coherent report for the MJD’s records. The hustle and bustle were finally over. “Well. That’s the letter we found in her apartment. Any thoughts?”

“I think she definitely wasn’t in her right mind, towards the end,” Delaney said, shrugging. “Definitely suicidal. Although, she may not have been in her right mind all along. A lesbian? Pardon me if I’m being rude, but in magical society, at least, homosexuality is considered a disorder. Perhaps she was insane all along.”

“I think she was definitely a little batty,” Charlene agreed. “But there’s no question that her relationship with this girl was extremely important to her. I wouldn’t demean it, personally. I’m actually a little curious as to what Nein was like before Delilah died. Nicer?” She paused, sipping her coffee. It was only lightly spiked with rum, her favorite kind. The office had been comparatively quiet, the past few days. “She was smiling when she pulled the trigger. It was damn strange...” she trailed off, staring pensively at the glass square of light carved in the wall. “But I could swear, that was the happiest I’d ever seen her.”

There was a ponderous silence as they digested the weight of their words. The clock on Charlene’s desk ticked. The photo frame had finally been filled, with a nice autumn landscape from Vermont; her mother had sent it to her from a vacation album. Things were starting to settle down again. The paperwork wasn’t much more than what she was used to; now she had the title, she felt no shame in coming down hard on her slacker officers, and their conscientiousness had improved remarkably. It was still a struggle, though, walking past her old locker and her old desk and seeing them filled y other people. It was still a bit of an effort to make herself use the office line.

Warrick coughed, indelicately interrupting their reverie. “Well, I don’t know about you two, but today’s the first day in a long while I haven’t been busting my ass.”

“True,” Delaney said, sitting up straighter.

“And it’s the holiday season, and, well, what with all the work we’ve had the past few days, I was thinking maybe we could take the rest of the day off.”

“Were you, now,” Charlene said, grinning. It was a quiet district. Not much crime happened on a daily basis.

“After all, it’s been awhile since we all went out together for dinner and drinks,” he added, somewhat cajolingly. “What d’you guys think? Want to take a vacation day and go somewhere nice for the afternoon?”

Charlene hemmed and hawed a bit, purely for show, and then burst out laughing. “All right, Warrick. We’re taking the day off.”

It was fortunate, she thought, as she told Lucille to cover for her and got an affronted look, that despite everything, even though she’d been promoted and she was busier than ever – it was nice that she and Warrick and Delaney were still friends.

Smiling, she walked a little faster to catch up.

The Knighthood’s parking lot had a spot open for Sam; the trip back had been fun. Sam had managed to prod Eliot into reading the copy she had of one of her lewder books; instead of fainting, as she had half expected, he had been nearly helpless with laughter, and promised to find more of her work under her pen name.

Sam had seen Janet, and returned the transmitter, and received a crisply printed paycheck in return, her usual rate. When she got back outside, to her delight, Eliot was still waiting around the truck, looking vaguely embarrassed and oddly determined. He was blushing, a little, but that could have been the wind.

“Hey there, freckles,” she said, and Eliot’s heart did a flip-flop in his chest. He gulped.

“Um. Hi. I was wondering... well, before you go, would you mind giving me your phone number?” he blurted out, awkwardly wringing his hands together. Sam looked at him in almost total astonishment.

“My number? Uh. Sure. Hold on a sec, I’ll get some paper.” She opened up the car door, and scribbled a string of digits down on a napkin with a stray purple marker, offering it with a rather apologetic grin. “Sorry. No notepad.”

Carefully, Eliot folded the napkin in half, and tucked it into his front coat pocket, buttoning the pocket firmly shut so he wouldn’t lose it by accident. Sam turned a slight shade of pink, and scratched the back of her head, bashful. “So. Uh. Do you have a phone number?”

“I have a cellphone. Did... did you want my number, too?”

“Sure. I mean, yeah, that’d be great, fre – Eliot.”

He rummaged around in his bag until he found an old receipt; Sam gave him the purple marker and he wrote down his phone number with care, re-capping the marker and handing both the marker and the receipt over. Sam wasn’t entirely sure where to put them, so she nonchalantly shoved them in the back pocket of her jeans. Better remember to take them out before I toss ‘em in the wash. That’d be a loss.

“I mean...” Eliot began, and then stopped himself, starting over. “You’re such a ... such a neat person. Really. I guess. I... I’d like to stay in touch. If that’s all right.” He was quite sure his face resembled a ripe tomato. Sam nodded.

“Me too. You’re damn cute, freckles. Can’t see how I’d ever let you get away without at least getting your number,” she explained, blushing a little herself. Damn it! He’s adorable!

“Really?” Eliot said, perking up a little and smiling shyly. “You’re ... cute, too. Blondie.”

It wasn’t an especially original nickname, or a subtle one, but Sam felt like hugging him for being so improper as to dare address her by something other than her name. It was a good sign. A very good sign, especially for her overjoyed sex-love-confusion drive. Score! I get a pet name!

“Um, Janet told me that the assassin we kind of mauled is actually okay,” she said, remembering. “Her name is Amaranth. She’s in a hospital. It was iffy for a while, Janet says, but now she’s expected to make a full recovery. So she’s going to be okay.”

Eliot gaped. “That’s wonderful!” he cried. “Sam, that’s wonderful! Oh, my goodness. I can’t begin to tell you how relieved I am. Isn’t it simply amazing?”

Sam grinned at him, scratching the side of her nose. “Yeah,” she agreed. “I was pretty damn happy myself. Especially because they expect her to come out of it okay. I just hope she doesn’t feel like hunting me down and taking a little payback for messing her up so badly.”

“Oh, no,” Eliot said, suddenly worried. “She couldn’t, could she? Oh dear.”

She laughed. “Don’t worry, freckles. People in my line of work, and her line of work, tend to be happy just to be alive. I wouldn’t get upset.” Privately, she made a note to ask Janet to keep an eye on Amaranth anyway. Just in case.

“Okay,” he said, visibly relieved, his slim shoulders sagging a little from the hackle-height they had risen to. “Right. You would know about that sort of thing, I guess.”

“I know everything,” Sam said airily. “I’m not surprised.”

Impulsively, Eliot stepped closer; his heat pounding, he stood on his tiptoes and kissed an extremely surprised Sam chastely on the mouth. He stepped back, throwing a darting glance at the Knighthood building, blushing too hard to look back at Sam’s face. “Well. Um. I’d better get going. I’ve got to sort out my job situation with the professor. I’ll call you?”

“Sure,” Sam managed. With a wave and a tentative smile, Eliot walked away, and inside the building. The door shut behind him with a click.

A few minutes passed before the intense redness faded from her face; a few more minutes passed before she snapped herself out of her emotional pink cloud, and clambered into her truck, feeling both poleaxed and outmaneuvered by a novice. The feeling persisted well into her drive home, after which she was overcome by a barrage of thoughts too filthy to bear mentioning, and had to pull over for a few minutes to compose herself.

The cemetery plot was freshly laid down. Darla stood in a thick winter coat, legwarmers up under her skirt extending well past her knees. The headstone was a tasteful black granite. It had her father’s name carved in roman capital letters, and beneath it, ‘DEAR FATHER’. At that, she smiled, and the scarf that Lawrence had tucked securely around her neck and chin was pushed down.

“I have decided to attend the conference of mafia dons this evening, Lawrence. At that secure hotel. You know, the one in neutral territory. I have been contemplating what sort of spin to put on the murderer’s death.”

“I see, Miss.” He didn’t sound disapproving, per se, just meaningfully concerned. It was rather cold out, freezing, but there was no snow to be found. Darla looked behind herself, over her right shoulder; Lawrence was leaning against a large and particularly garish monument, his sunglasses hiding his eyes, one hand holding the handlebar of her wheelchair in place on the paved walk. Darla was certain that Lawrence would be perfectly capable of keeping his grip on her chair even if he needed to use his other hand to snap necks; the thought was comforting to her, and she walked back over to him, seating herself daintily. He began to wheel her slowly back through the graveyard. It was strangely peaceful, this atmosphere.

“I have decided,” she announced shortly. “Through my superb skills, I was able to manipulate Morrison into doing my work for me. My leadership allowed us to completely surround the killer, who, realizing the hopelessness of her situation, promptly shot herself to prevent further misery.”

“How deceptively truthful, Miss.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Miss, you did promise me something.”

Darla paused. “Ah. Yes. I promised to take a month off of the whole mafia business, and spend some time grieving.” She looked up at him, and noted the worried twinge in his forehead. “Rest assured, I fully intend to keep that promise. After tonight’s meeting, I am officially on vacation.”

The warmth of his smile surprised her. “Very good, Miss.”

He is happy because I am taking, as he sees it, proper care of myself. A slow smile grew on Darla’s face; for a few minutes, she looked like a happy child, excited at the prospect of something pleasing. That is very charming of him. “Of course it is, Lawrence. My ideas are always brilliant.”

There was an undercurrent of humor in his reply. “So they are, Miss. So they are.”

The hospital room she’d been staying in was painted an absolutely terrible shade of green. They’d put her in a room with a window; it was never open, because it was too damn cold outside for that sort of luxury – even hospitals had heating bills! – but all the same, the light that shone through it was a cheery golden sprawl across the floor, making the terrible green paint on the walls a little less awful. In fact, the whole bed-window-paint-heart monitor-cheery wooden door ensemble was rather well thrown together. The only particularly jarring element, in Amaranth’s esteemed opinion, was Friedrich. His black suit was far too discordant.

“Hey, Friedrich,” she said. Her voice had been terribly scratchy the first few weeks; now that she’d been here a little over a month, it was getting recognizable once more. The hair on one side of her head had been entirely scraped off; the road had scalped her, after breaking her am. The crash had broken her legs and nearly – but not quite – broken her spine. The bones were getting better – mostly healed – but the breaks had been so severe that they were very wary of letting her walk. Still, Amaranth was itching to get the casts off. “How’s it hanging?”

“I’m glad to see your feeling better,” he said smoothly. “I’m here on behalf of the Tedeschei family. If you’re up to it, I’ll have the boss come in to speak to you.”

Amaranth made a half-hearted groan. “Ugh. Must I? I suppose I must, at some point. Still. I guess I will. You know they haven’t let me make any phone calls?”

“Yes,” Friedrich said placidly. “That was advised against by the boss.” He opened the door; there she was, the girl in the wheelchair with the doll face. Darla. She was wheeled quietly into the room by the man Amaranth assumed was a personal bodyguard. She mustered up a grin.

“Howdy. Darla, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” the girl said softly. “And you’re Amaranth Delmar. How are you feeling?”

“Well, except for the hundred and one fractures, the scalping, the internal injuries and the bruising, I feel pretty fucking plucky,” Amaranth chirped, twiddling her fingers. “How about you?”

Darla smiled frostily. “I am fine. However, I am not here to hold a polite conversation.”

“Rats,” Amaranth sighed. “And I was so hoping for some friendly chitchat. Okay, chief, lay it on me.”

“I owe you a debt, Amaranth,” she said coolly, and Amaranth blinked. Well. That’s a surprise. “I sent you after the wrong person and you suffered for my hasty misjudgment. I am here to apologize, and to enquire after your needs.”

“Really? My needs, huh?” Amaranth asked, slightly dazed. “Anything I want?”

“Anything within reason,” Darla corrected. Amaranth grinned.

“Well, I’d like you to foot the hospital bill, for one. For another, I’m pretty keen on retirement. I’ve got a special someone waiting for me back home, you know.”

“Done,” Darla said crisply. “In return, you are to forget our transactions ever occurred and go on about your life completely clueless as to the family’s existence. If any encounters occur, you knew us from church.”

“Okay,” Amaranth agreed. “Deal.”

“Well, then,” Darla said, smiling pleasantly, “I wish you the best of luck, Miss Delmar. Farewell.”

“Hold on just a fucking second,” Amaranth called; the man wheeling Darla out paused, and she looked back.

“What now?”

“I want a goddamn phone call.”

Darla glared at her. “One.”

“Fine.”

“Granted. But only one. Until you leave this hospital.”

“Right. Bye, boss. And good fucking riddance.”

Friedrich sighed as the pair went out into the hallway, and gave Amaranth a glance. “I guess this is goodbye, then. Good luck, Amaranth.”

“Take care of yourself, Friedrich,” she said, smiling gently. “And good luck.”

When they had cleared out, Amaranth yelled until a nurse showed up, looking extremely irate. “What?” she snapped. Amaranth grinned at her cheekily.

“Didn’t you hear? I get one phone call. Hand it over, lady. This sucker is gonna be long-distance.”

The nurse returned a few minutes later with a phone, plugging it into the bedside socket and glaring at Amaranth disapprovingly. “Don’t talk for more than five minutes, you’ll upset your health.”

“I’ll talk as long as I damn well please,” Amaranth muttered mutinously as the nurse walked out of the room. Looking at the phone as though it were some sort of holy grail, she picked up the receiver and punched in the number for her apartment.

After a few rings, Jeanie picked up, sounding as sleepy as ever. “Hello?”

“Guess who, sugar cakes.”

“Ammy?”

“None other, my delightful pumpkin pie. Listen. I’ve got some good news.”

There was a sleep-confused pause.

“Huh?”

“Babycakes. I’m retiring from this business.”

“You mean...”

“Yep. No more months without hearing from me. I’m out. Forever.”

“Oh, Amaranth...”

She laughed, and continued to talk, fingers curled around the receiver, for long past the allotted five minutes.

Even when the nurse came back.

It might have been unseasonably cold outside, but Amaranth didn’t care. It didn’t bother her. She didn’t have to kill people any more, and she was going home soon, and after all, she was indoors. When you had such a silver platter of good things before you – when you had someone to snuggle next to while you looked out at the bad weather – you couldn’t possibly care about the cold.

A/n: Weeeellp, that's all! :D Thanks to anyone who stuck it out this far, and if you liked it or hated it, I'd love to hear your opinions!