The kitchen clock ticked in the eerie silence, broken only by soft sobbing. Thistle was petering out. Neither she nor Mace had spoken for a while. They just sat there at the kitchen table. The only interrogation room in the world decorated with little happy chickens on teapots. They seemed to judge the two of them now.

Mace tried not to look at her. “It was an accident, wasn’t it?”

Thistle nodded, staring at her own hands. “I never thought I was hurting him,” she whispered through sobs.

Mace leaned back and closed her eyes. The mystery that had brought her here, to this moment, was never a mystery in the first place. Cornsilk was perhaps Thistle’s only friend, one whom she spent many hours baking for. The good kind of baking too. Full of all the love a widowed mother could measure, along with imperial tons of sugar and fat. Why stab a heart through the chest when you could go through the arteries.

“I know,” Mace breathed out. “But giving him unhealthy food is not exactly a smoking cannon. Especially if it was accidental. A half decent scare could’ve done it.”

Thistle looked up at her, their eyes finally meeting. She could see the tears welling up again.

“I- I just can’t… “ Her voice broke before she could finish. Mace searched her eyes. Was she unaware of the law? Not everyone was a lawyer, least of all Thistle. But that wasn’t it. Thistle knew that her giving Cornsilk a heart attack was very weak at the very best. She felt responsible. Thistle had lost her husband, her children moved out, and the town had moved on. It was in her nature to look at this old man and take care of him. Motherhood had cemented itself in Thistle, and a death she caused, even indirectly, was breaking it. Breaking her.

“I just can’t live with myself!” Thistle buried her hands in her face.

Mace stood up, walked around the table, and pulled her into a hug. For a split second, Mace thought she was hugging her own mother.

“It’s not your fault,” she said softly, stroking Thistle’s hair.

Thistle didn’t respond, she didn’t need to. Later, whenever Mace tried to recall what she said during these moments, it was blank. What she did remember was the feeling of holding Thistle’s hand tight like you would for anyone over a cliff. She couldn’t say how many minutes passed, or what the weather was like that summer evening. But what she did remember was every detail of Thistle's hands. The warmth, the texture, where every vein was, even a guess at how many pounds the grip was. Memory was funny in a way.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Mace asked softly as Thistle’s crying let up.

Wiping her eyes, Thistle answered. “You’ve seen the watch work here, how do you think they would’ve reacted to me confessing?”

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Mace doubted the watch could solve peeling a banana much less a crime. But those with empty heads and loaded crossbows only ever saw targets.

“That and…the other thing…” she continued.

Mace’s ears perked up at that. “What other thing?”

“Well, this probably sounds bad but…on the night I found him, I saw a person in a dark cloak. Slammed the front door in their face actually. After I had already found his body, mind you.”

“Y-you…saw a cloaked figure sneaking out of a dead wizard’s tower? And you didn’t say anything?!”

Thistle’s body went defensive. “That would’ve looked more suspicious! I’ve read crime stories, Mace. The wife is always the first suspect! Oh sure, the victim died of a heart attack but the old spinster and some cloaked person were seen conspiring together!”

Mace opened her mouth, and shut it again. It wasn’t socially acceptable to accuse lonely old women of witchcraft anymore, so they had to paint them as ‘after the old man’s money’. It was like society had a problem with women or something.

“Wait, I thought you said he was already dead when you got there?” Mace asked. “And that you slammed the front door in their face. Why would someone try to sneak into a place where someone was already dead?”

Thistle shrugged. “Maybe they didn’t know?”

Mace wracked her brain. The killer, or potential killer, was purposely leaving clues. The knife Nate found and Tria’s shoes. Surely someone smart enough to throw investigators off the scent was smart enough to leave town. But they hadn’t, they stayed to murder the doctor. There was a purpose behind it. Perhaps the doctor had to be killed because he knew something about Cornsilk’s death? But Cornsilk died of a heart attack, it wasn’t some big secret.

“Thistle, can you please tell me everything, from the moment you discovered the body up to when I got here?”

Thistle did. It wasn’t a particularly long story, only stopping to answer clarifying questions. She heard it all, from the discovery to Turpenwile to the portal in the grave. Something seemed off, but she couldn’t put her finger on just what.

“If I was a highly trained killer, smart enough to plant false evidence, why would I stay?” she asked aloud.

Thistle thought for a moment. “To make sure I got away with it?” she queried.

“Yes,” Mace agreed. “But other than planting evidence, how would I try to get away with it?”

“Pay people off? Destroy evidence?” Thistle suggested.

“Possible. The mayor is powerful and rich enough to pay people off, but I don’t think he’s…uh the type to do anything like this.” Type was a polite way of putting it. “The watch would have access to the crime scene, right? The evidence, the body?”

Thistle looked slightly surprised at the suggestion of a police coverup, then remembered everything about the police.

“But the body and evidence isn’t in the watch house…” Mace trailed off. Gears slid into place within Mace’s brain. They clicked and whirred along as she realized why it didn’t sound right.

“What is it?” asked Thistle.

“I think…” Mace started. “I’d like to pay a visit to the toy store.