This is the street.

Busy. With a lot of traffic, there’s a four way crosswalk. It connects the town’s shopping center, to a nearby cafe across the street, an apartment complex on the other side, and a parking garage on the other.

Wolf fixes her sunglasses, “You think it’s safe just standing around here?” she asks. I think she’s mocking me, playfully.

“You think every person on the street knows who I am?” I ask.

There’s two security cameras. On the opposite sides of each other. I’d like access to them, to gather what happened the night of Morrison’s death.

“So, any big ideas?” she ask me curiously.

“I don’t have enough information to determine that,” I respond.

“I see,” she pauses, “I thought you genius types saw something and then it all clicked.” she laughs.

I am not a genius. At least I don’t consider myself a genius.

“I am not a genius,” I tell her.

If Morrison’s death was a hit, then someone would have noticed. This seems to be the center of the town. No witnesses. The more I look, the more it seems like a traffic accident. The first piece. It’s like staring at just a piece of the sky that belongs to a puzzle. And you’re just trying to imagine what the full picture is. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t feel Florian Lysander had something. Exactly, what that is? Well that’s just slowly being unveiled.

“I am having a laugh,” she tells me, while we cross the street. The walk sign is accompanied by a voice directing foot traffic.

“I am aware,” I respond.

She sort of huffs, “Walk me through the process.” she states.

“The way I think,” I state, “Well, what do we have right now. A bloody message written on a wall. It still hasn’t been ruled out that Zoe herself felt her death was karmic. The issue with that being is she showed no signs of mental instability or even that she was considering her own death. She seemed willing to go through the court process because she felt she was justified in her actions.”

“Doesn’t everybody believe themselves the hero of their own story?” she asks me curiously.

“That isn’t incorrect, but I don’t care to also make the person who committed a negative action a villain-

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

-I wasn’t making her a villain,” she interjects, “So. How do you link a car accident, a man falling off the rails, a man who died of a blood clot in court and a woman who bled out of her wrist?”

“I don’t know,” I respond, “It’s like being given corner pieces with center pieces.”

She raises her brow as we get to the other side, in front of a cafe, “Context.”

“Puzzle,” I respond.

“Because that makes sense,”

“Doesn’t everybody make references to puzzle pieces?”

She laughs, “I think only you do.”

Perhaps. Right now what we have is only loose threads. And we only arrived in Oakside not too long ago. I am not even so certain that we have anything. She’s right, how do you link a bunch of unconnected accidents together? What is the thing that ties these loose threads together? This isn’t the first time I have dealt with something of this caliber. Strangely connected events or strange circumstances. Eventually I have found the thing that ties them together. And I have always found myself driven to continue digging. Digging at something invisible.

“Perhaps,” I respond.

She gives me a look, “What does it take to get you to smile? Even a little.”

She’s doing that thing again. It isn’t that I am unaware of what she is attempting to do. The truth is that I recognize I am keeping her at a distance, because of my own insecurity. I desperately want our relationship to remain strictly professional, but I know that at the end of the day that’s not necessarily healthy.

Pointing to the cafe, “Coffee poltergeist wants to haunt the cafe for a bit.” I give her a smile.

She laughs.

“I am going to call an Oracle and have it removed,” she teases back.

“The only thing that keeps the coffee poltergeist away is the lack of coffee,”

“Ah so to banish the coffee poltergeist we have to rid the world of coffee-

-looks that way,”

“See I knew you were weird deep down inside,”

“I am not weird, either,”

“Very weird,”

“You think I have become like one of those hermits who doesn’t know how to people?”

“Oh absolutely, you’ll start talking to the furniture soon enough,”

“I already do, when you’re not around-

-which is weird because I am always around,”

I smile just a bit. She’s funny. Quick too. Wolf raises her arms up in the air, “We got him to smile. Thank Celestials. Come on coffee gremlin, let's get one of those fancy coffees. The ones with the pretty pictures on it-

-but if we get it to go, then the lid will cover the picture-

-we will have to periodically lift the lid up,”

“How do you come up with that sort of answer?” Now I am trying to understand her. She cocks her head to the side.

“I have no filter,” she responds, “I don’t even think half the time what I am going to say. I just word vomit it and hope my confidence can sell the rest of it no matter how awkward it sounds.”

“You sell it well,” I followed her into the cafe. She takes the lead forward.

“Be careful, that almost sounds like a compliment,” She smirks.

“I am capable of compliments,”

“Are you sure that’s very professional? Some would say you have to berate your employees,”

She frowns, “I am sorry,” she says quickly and softly. Why is she apologizing? Maybe because I made a face. I didn’t want to berate her. Or make her feel lesser. Or that she was simply a Ward to me. I mean that is what I have been doing. The last time a Ward and I became friends, they weren’t the person I thought they were. We weakened the fine line between professional and friend, and that only ended up getting people hurt in the end.

“No need to apologize,” I tell her, “I should be sorry.”

“No, no, sometimes when you lack a filter you say something and forget,” she pauses, “I didn’t mean to tear at an old wound.”

“I shouldn’t really treat you like you’re beneath me-

-I didn’t mean to imply that,” she tells me with another smile.

“Eitherway it sounds like something I am doing-

-you’re not, trust me,” she tells me, “You’re anything, but that. There’s a difference between being insecure and being a bully. Let’s get some coffee to lift our spirits.” she frowns, “That one was particularly bad. Hard to make this less awkward.”

“I can only make it more awkward,” I tell her, “I am better with furniture than people.”

She laughs, “That will have to make do.”