It was obvious that Marianna wasn’t listening to Alna’s chatter, but she didn’t allow this to deter her.

As she walked around the kitchen, grabbing flour, chocolate chips and other various ingredients for the cookies she planned to make, Alna kept talking, hoping that it would lessen Marianna’s mood. If only a little.

“The amount of symbolism in the book is rather astonishing, to some,” she said, dumping some flour into a large plastic bowl. She looked over her shoulder to where Marianna was sitting at the kitchen table, forlornly scrolling through some online pictures on her phone. Turning back around, Alna continued, “I think it’s overdone to the point of being redundant.” She mixed ingredients, already feeling the oppressive boredom press down upon her. Even still, Alna was determined to get through it. Marianna deserved to have something nice done for her.

“Oh, really?” Marianna muttered, still not paying Alna any mind.

Not even turning around, Alna voiced an affirmative and began a commentary on an article she had read months ago. With her photographic memory, Alna could have recited it from beginning to end, but she knew for a fact that Marianna would have no interest in that. Not that she was interested in anything Alna had said since she showed up, but she hoped that her rambling would offer Marianna some distraction, if nothing else.

At least Marianna was no longer sobbing in Alna’s arms. Alna could only recall two other occasions in her life when she had felt such burning anger. She’d wanted to storm to the Whitlock house and unleash a torrent of her most harsh, most brutal observations––wanted to use her words to rip Marianna’s parents to threads.

But that would only complicate Marianna’s life further. And so Alna resolved to help Marianna in a less disruptive way. Thus, baking.

Closing the oven, Alna turned around. The sight of her distressed girlfriend sent an irrational surge of anger through Alna, making her jaw clench. She took a moment to compose herself. When she was sure her face had settled into a mask of calm, Alna went over to the kitchen table, taking a seat across from Marianna. She touched her wrist gently.

Marianna, who was looking more mentally present, looked at the oven interest. “What kind of cookies are you making, again?”

“Chocolate chip with cinnamon,” Alna reminded her, not even minding the repetition of the question. Marianna was much calmer now, and that was all that mattered. Although there was still a sheen of tears in her eyes, Marianna no longer looked as though she was suffering from both a mental and emotional breakdown, but looked to be recovering from the aftereffects.

With an exhausted smile that didn’t reach her eyes, Marianna said, “Sounds good.” She closed her eyes, cradling her cheek with her hand as she sighed. “They hate me,” she announced, her voice so forlorn and resigned that Alna, for all that she could be callous, could almost swear she felt something inside her twinge in sympathy.

Alna was well aware of her bias, but with her cheeks red from weeping, her eyes clouded with pain, Marianna looked beautiful in a way that was so utterly tragic. She hated it. Marianna was much better off laughing and joking with her friends. It didn’t matter that the Whitlocks were her parents. They had no right to make her upset.

Still, Alna was not one to mince her words. Not even with her girlfriend.

“They hate what you are,” Alna said, low and gentle. From what Marianna had said, her parents were not overly religious, but that didn’t stop them from using the Bible as a way of telling Marianna she was “wrong.” What it boiled down to, however, was “it’s not natural.”

Pressing her fingers more firmly to Marianna’s wrist, Alna cast her mind about. She tried to think of something to distract Marianna. Alna could think of several subjects, but only one she wanted to discuss.

Now was as good a time as any. Marianna seemed to enjoy their investigations on some level; this would help take her mind off things.

Leaning over the table, Alna cupped Marianna’s elbow. Marianna, who had once again grown sullen, lifted her weary gaze to meet Alna’s.

“I have another lead for us,” Alna said, keeping her voice quiet so Dad couldn’t hear her from the living room.

Marianna’s shadowed eyes lightened ever so slightly, her pink lips turning up. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

***

Alna stepped off the city bus, turning around in time to see Marianna do the same. Unlike yesterday, Marianna was looking much more cheerful, although there was an air of melancholy hanging around her like a rain cloud.

She must have had another spat with her parents since leaving Alna’s house last night. Marianna had shown up at their agreed time with slumped shoulders and a face full of makeup meant to hide the slight bags under her eyes and give her a more lighthearted appearance.

Alna, despite not being convinced by this charade, chose not to comment, allowing Marianna to hold onto the illusion of being fine. It seemed to be what she needed at the moment, and Alna could respect that.

And so, when Marianna stepped off the bus, Alna offered her hand, which Marianna accepted readily.

As she led Marianna toward Daysie Smith’s house, the fall wind tugging at their hair, Alna leaned over and murmured, “Have I told you that you look beautiful today?”

Marianna shot her a cheeky look, looking more cheerful. “No. But I like hearing it.”

“You’re not becoming vain, are you, dear Whitlock?” Alna asked with no real heat. She flashed Marianna a quick grin to ensure that she wouldn’t take her words too seriously.

This earned her a mock affronted look, the dejection beginning to recede in Marianna’s gaze. “I would never, Miss Holt.”

Alna rolled her eyes, tugging on Marianna’s hand.

As the two girls finished crossing a street, Marianna looked at their surroundings. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been to this part of the city before.”

Alna took stock of their surroundings more out of instinct than any need to refresh her memory. Unlike Marianna, Alna had been here before. Twice. Mom’s desire to take her to the playground here was once baffling to Alna. From what Alna observed at the time, Mom had wanted to try something new, which, considering how bored she could get these days, Alna understood much better.

“I have,” Alna admitted. Marianna gave her an interested look; Alna gave her a quick answer. Marianna nodded in response to this, the slight upturn of her lips showing she found the story both amusing and cute. Alna didn’t think the story all that adorable, although, from an analytical perspective, she could understand why one (especially someone as impassioned as Marianna) would think so.

Instead of reacting to Marianna’s smile, Alna looked ahead, assessing their surroundings out of habit.

A homeless man leaned against a tree planted in a small dirt patch in the sidewalk. Going by the way he twitched and jerked, he was obviously in the throes of a nightmare. He wore a toque that looked like it was once green, but with the amount of dirt covering the thing, it was difficult to tell. The rest of his clothes weren’t in much better condition, consisting of a long brown jacket that resembled a trench coat. Dust covered the coat, one elbow worn down to nothing more than a gaping hole. There was a flash of white, indicating the man had bandaged himself at some point.

Before she knew it, Alna had stopped walking altogether, earning her a bewildered look from Marianna. Opening her purse, Alna pushed a screwdriver out of the way and retrieved her wallet.

Marianna watched in silence as Alna removed a five-dollar bill from her wallet and crouched down. She tucked it into the man’s hand, knowing he would notice it when he woke up.

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When Alna stood up and retook her hand, Marianna said nothing for some time. Instead, she kept giving Alna sidelong looks, a slight curve on her lips that Alna chose not to acknowledge.

“We’re almost there.”

True to Alna’s words, Daysie Smith’s house appeared up ahead mere moments later. There was nothing spectacular about it, other than it being smaller than average. It was a simple cream colour with a light brown roof, which had a couple of orange and yellow leaves resting on it. Leading up to the front door was a walkway made of various flat grey rocks of varying sizes and shades embedded into the ground.

The house looked empty, but in this case, that meant nothing. From what Alna had learned through her research, Daysie Smith was rather a wild card in all areas of her life. Not only had she disguised her husband’s murder as alcohol poisoning, but now that she was out of prison, Smith didn’t seem capable of holding a permanent job. This was, in part, related to the fact that most places weren’t too keen on hiring a former criminal (and a killer, no less), but from what Alna gleaned, any position Smith was hired for was temporary.

If someone asked Alna her (inexpert) opinion, she would surmise that Smith had ADHD.

Not that it excused murder.

Very few things did.

Alna slowed her pace as she and Marianna walked past the house; there were too many people around to stop altogether.

“So, what’s the plan?” Marianna leaned closer to Alna. “Just break in again?”

Alna’s lips thinned as she resisted the urge to snap at Marianna to keep her voice down. She hadn’t been talking all that loud. They had, however, earned a dirty look from an elderly man, who was glowering at their interlocked hands as though they somehow offended him.

After glancing around once more to make sure no one was listening to them, Alna said, in a low voice, “That is exactly what the plan is. As long as we can confirm no one is in the house.”

They had stopped walking by now, having passed Smith’s house. Two girls standing in the middle of a sidewalk conversing with each other was hardly the strangest sight, but it still made Alna uncomfortable. The only reason Alna had managed to uphold her illegal activities was because she took every precaution she could. Doing anything that could be seen as odd didn’t sit well with her.

Paranoid, Miss Holt, Alna scolded herself.

Alna looked back toward the house. There were more people around that she would have liked, making slipping into Smith’s house much more of a task. However, Alna didn’t like visiting a place more than once, if she could avoid it. She would have to find them a way in.

Squeezing Marianna’s hand to recapture her attention, Alna waited until Marianna gave her an inquisitive look before continuing. “We’ll have to improvise this time,” Alna said. She allowed the distaste to flow into her tone, making Marianna’s lips twitch as the small crowd of people milled around them. “Follow my lead?”

“Definitely, Miss Holt” was Marianna’s only response.

Alna might have kissed her if she hadn’t wanted to bring attention to themselves.

Leading Marianna back toward the house, Alna swung their hands between them, which she knew took Marianna by surprise. She didn’t comment.

Her gaze trailed over their surroundings without a flicker of interest. For a street primarily meant for living in, this place was rather busy. Sure, that could have to do with the fact that Brigate was a rather large city, but even Alna’s street was quieter than this on the weekends.

As a woman jogged past them in sweats and a t-shirt––muscled arms, even breathing, steady yet fast page; regularly active––Alna spotted what she was looking for. Between two houses, a short sidewalk led to a back alley. She tugged on Marianna’s hand.

They walked between two houses of generic style. One was creamy white, giving off the impression that it could use a new coat of paint, as the white was leaning more toward a sickening yellow.

Alna pulled Marianna along, the smooth sidewalk soon giving way to a back alley, gravel crunching underfoot as the two girls took a sharp right. It was not at all difficult for Alna to locate Smith’s house yet again. Hers was the third house from the entrance to the back alley, impossible to overlook.

There were fewer people in the back alley, which was a relief. With the number of people hanging around this street, Alna had half a mind to turn around and head home. It was a rather foolish thing to attempt a break-in with so many people around.

Still, Alna had no true way of knowing when this street would be less busy.

Alna once again took in their surroundings. Two young children bounced on a trampoline one house down from Smith’s, and a woman was barbecuing something (chicken, it smelled like) on a grill on her deck. It would be tricky, but not impossible to slip past her gaze unnoticed.

Saying nothing, Alna lengthened her stride, approaching Smith’s backyard. Rather inconveniently, there was no fence at the back, offering the two girls very little obscurity.

There was, however, a camper: white with the words “Shooting Star” peeling off in curls of blue paint. It was rather small, only big enough to fit one person. The front and back were rounded, giving the camper an egg-like shape.

Alna hastened to lead them over to the camper, hearing Marianna’s breathing speed up with nerves. They crouched down next to the camper, the browning grass of Smith’s lawn glistening from the light rain last night. Smith’s back door was only one hundred meters away, but even that distance was a risk. There were too many people about, and Alna once again felt unease course through her. She kept her exterior composed, unwilling to show how nervous she was.

Casting a glance over her shoulder, Alna noted with no small amount of relief that the woman from earlier had left her grill and retreated inside. But now there was a man letting his dog outside, bending down as he clipped a leash to the canine’s collar. The fence in his backyard was tall, but if he looked over it, he would undoubtedly be able to see Alna and Marianna.

Alna turned back to Smith’s back door, keeping her hand resting on the small of Marianna’s back. She pushed away the constant stream of stupid, stupid, stupid going through her head, and leaned closer to Marianna.

“Go. Now.” She gave Marianna a light shove.

Marianna’s hesitation lasted a few short seconds. She made her quickly across Smith’s lawn, but not too quickly. Soon she was by an empty flower bed, appearing nervous as she slipped out of Alna’s sight. Smith’s back deck was large, with an outdoor recliner and a small, rounded table that looked the right size to hold a vase. Besides that, it was empty, leaving much of the wooden boards uncovered, their colour fading in the sunlight.

Alna took one last look around and then strode over to Marianna. She did what she could to avoid the windows of Smith’s house, which was easy. There was a large window situated to the right of the back door, but it was covered with white blinds to keep the sunlight out, which was blinding today. Unlike Marianna, Alna kept her pace somewhat slow, trying to both be inconspicuous and appear casual, should someone spot them.

None too soon, Alna reached Marianna and knelt next to her once more, feeling the dampness of the ground on her knees. She didn’t waste any time talking, and instead snatched Marianna’s hand, leading her alongside the house. They were now hidden between a fence that separated Smith’s neighbors from her own house, and the house itself. A cool shade fell over the two girls as Alna’s eyes landed on a small window. That would be their point of entrance. Alna unzipped the purse hanging at her side, moving toward the window as she pulled out––

It was already open. Just a crack. Enough to let some fresh air in.

But that wasn’t what concerned her. No, what truly caught Alna’s attention was the voice floating from the window.

“You can’t expect––” a masculine voice began. Alna couldn’t make out the rest, no matter how much she strained her ears.

Marianna’s hand touched her wrist. Whether she was reassuring herself or trying to warn Alna of the presence of people in the building, Alna wasn’t sure. Either way, she took this as an opportunity to pull Marianna closer to the window, crouching down when they were a safe distance. One could never be too careful.

“If I recall correctly,” said a feminine voice, much more clear, “we had an agreement. You do what I tell you, I stay (how did you put it?) the hell away from your family.”

Marianna gave Alna’s shoulder a gentle but insistent shake. When Alna reluctantly looked at her, Marianna mouthed, “Ms. Smith?” Alna gave her the barest of nods, only a bit doubtful of her answer. She turned back, trying to block out all unimportant sounds as she listened in.

“––can’t expect me to get that much,” the man repeated, sounding distressed.

Alna couldn’t see anyone in the house, but she imagined the man was likely pacing. She unzipped her purse, pulling out her phone. As she set it to record, Alna had the fleeting wish that she had access to a better recording system––something more clear to send to the Brigate Crime Hotline. Alas, Alna did not have the money for such equipment, leaving her with her phone.

“Why not?” The woman sounded bored. She must be Smith. That would make the most sense. “I gave you a week and I need that money. I’ve got things to do.”

Blackmail? What a crude, efficient method. Alna frowned. She couldn’t see Marianna’s face, crouched behind her as she was, but Alna imagined she was doing the same.

“But––” the man began, only to be cut off. Or, perhaps, the distance was muffling his voice. Alna couldn’t tell.

Smith’s voice was crystal clear. One would think Smith would keep her window closed for such a private conversation, but it was possible she’d forgotten to do so.

“Do I need to remind you,” Smith said, her voice low and filled with a tinge of anger, “just what happened to dear Jack when he refused to pay up?”

Smith continued to speak, but Alna had ceased listening, her mind latching onto that one name.

Jack. As in, Jack Neal? He was one of the many victims that had died because of a tragic accident. Electrocution, this time.

Could it be a mere coincidence? Alna doubted that.

Marianna turned wide blue eyes at her and Alna smiled grimly.

It looked as though they had found their killer.