A green-eyed beauty sat on an old wooden bench at Central Park in the dead of night. Her soft hair shone underneath the pale full moon. She could see the slow creeping silhouette of someone sneakily approaching her. Marietta paid no attention to the man amongst the shadows and just turned her head towards the shinning diamonds that hung in the sky. She loved the constellations. Marietta believed stars were the most striking thing in this world. The man steadily approached her from behind. It was clear he had every intention of doing her harm. She just smiled.

"How much of an easy target she was?" he must be thinking right now. Ironically, she could say the same about him. Marietta's victim came to her, just as they always did.

The next morning, the brutal slaughter of Albert T. Haines had a five page spread in the New York Times. One of the top ten most wanted in America, you can imagine how gossip of this stimulating story spread. It was an obvious murder, but by who? The NYPD struggled to piece this homicide together. All the evidence found led to dead ends. The lack of clues caused Detective Newberry, the man assigned to the Haines murder, to go out on a limb and question a quite unusable lady. She was notorious for her comics. Some said she was a sorcerer. Others believed she was an angel or a witch. Whatever she was, the New York Times, itself, claimed that she was a "saint with remarkable psychic powers." Every week the mysterious lady came out with a new comic. Each comic revealed a crime or even straight up bizarre story that ALWAYS occurred later that week. Typically her comics never helped much in solving a crime, but when they were desperate, a detective would always interview her and read the comic. She wasn't the most reliable source, but at least she was a source; and for reasons beyond Newberry's knowledge she seemed to always be right.

Immediately after breakfast, Detective Newberry read her last comic. It loosely outlined the murder of Haines. However, it was right on the money with every gory detail proved by the evidence. The gruesome comic and the interview with the stunning comic artist held some significance. It informed him that there was only one murderer and that she was a female with exquisite piercing green eyes. Still, the description was vague. Was he to set out interrogating every female with green eyes in New York City based merely on a comic? Of course not. There goes another cold case shuffled away in the back of a filing cabinet.

Marietta decided these "legendary comics" were standing in her way of being untouchable. What if one of the comics revealed too much detail about the crimes she committed? She would be done with. Completely finished. The following week, when a comic of some ridiculous crime or circumstance failed to reach a single vendor, Detective Newberry checked around the house of the missing comic artist and sure enough the house was empty. The succeeding day, a missing person's piece came out in the New York Times about the "saint with remarkable psychic powers."

Determined to finally get some answers Newberry eagerly took the case. Following the few traces of evidence, Detective Newberry found a remote house in a vast forest. In the house he saw the famous comic artist. Nevertheless, there were no signs of distress. In fact, she seemed perfectly fine. It was as if she had simply moved. Newberry knocked on the door of the odd house and the comic artist greeted him with a grin.

"Miss Reed," the detective addressed her. "You have no idea how surprised and relieved I am to see that you are alright. There seems to be a misunderstanding of some sort. You see, the city of New York believes you're missing."

"Oh dear," she covered her mouth with one hand. "How could that be? Oh please come in and we can straighten all this out, won't you?" Detective Newberry came in and she offered him some cookies.

"I just baked them this afternoon," she tempted. He agreed to one and she left to grab a few from the kitchen. She continued talking to him from the kitchen. "However did you find me, if I am thought to be missing as you say?" she asked. Newberry noticed a very odd clock in which the hands of the clocks resembled real hands.

"Believe me, it certainly wasn't easy. Miss Reed you certainly are a hard person to track down."

Newberry continued staring at the unusual clock.

"Oh please stop calling me Miss Reed," she insisted. "It's so formal."

"What should I call you?" Newberry replied. He suddenly noticed that the hands were in fact quite realistic (Perhaps too realistic). Something about the whole place felt eerie (possibly she was in some sort of trouble).

"Why, call me by my first name of course," she said as she entered the doorway with a plate full of homemade cookies.

"What is your first name?" he asked, noticing her lovely green eyes.

"Don't you know? It's Marietta."