"For in grief nothing 'stays put.' One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral? But if a spiral, am I going up or down it?

How often - will it be for always? - how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, 'I never realized my loss till this moment'? The same leg is cut off time after time."

- CS Lewis

Goodman's got his final day of meeting with Little Ema and Lana said she and Gant are gonna be at the crime scene in their office, one last time to wrangle up any potential missing pieces. Ms. Angel is speakin' with Darke – he's a bit more cooperative when a pretty lady's doing the askin', though he could also just have enough brains to know he's out of ammo.

And Jake is in Neil's office.

Or, an office. Not Neil's. Not anymore.

That's exactly what Jake's been tasked with today. To take "anything he deems important" 'fore it's really cleaned out.

He's been here since sun-up and hasn't made an inch of progress. Just sittin' in Neil's chair, staring out the window, down at the ant-people whose lives are just goin' on and on while his is at a standstill.

Thinking.

'Bout yesterday, a little. The funeral. Watching a part of his self, being buried down deep. All those stories and moments that had once been shared bein' ground to dust – or memories, some might call 'em.

Thinks on tomorrow, a lil' bit too. The trial – and likely, verdict, 'cause this thing ain't fit to last more than a few hours. It'll be over. On the books, anyway. He keeps envisioning an actual book, cover slammin' closed and blood seepin' out the pages, thick and oil-dark. All the blood spilt because of one miserable coward.

But mostly, Jake is thinkin' about right now, how a man's supposed to take the measures to methodically and entirely remove any presence of his brother from the one place he's still alive in.

A person can't be made more dead than he already is, but that's what Jake feels like he's doin' here to Neil.

A tall order, but finally he spins 'round in the chair with a sigh, to face the chaos that is Neil's desk.

It's 'bout the same as a chicken coop after a coyote sneaks in. Lots of sticky-back notes scribbled full of Neil's shitty handwriting and file folders scattered all about, who never got too friendly with the empty plastic file tower that acts as a perch for Little Bogey to stand high and mighty over his territory.

Only fair that Bogey – who'd been with Neil from day one - should be the first to go, too. Jake carefully picks up the tiny barrel cactus, sets it in the corner of the cardboard box Edgeworth gave him, already picturin' where the little guy is gonna go on his own desk down at the precinct.

The other corner of the desk's got a framed photo of them with Mama and Dad in Wyoming this past summer when they all went for a week to celebrate Dad's retirement. All four of 'em smilin' away and Jake can't tie those smiles together with the stoney-faced statue and the tear-streamin' mess he spent hours with yesterday.

It goes on like this, from the desk to the shelves to the closet. Find something of Neil's, pause, let himself remember, smile through the whip-lash sting that comes each time. Then blink it away like it were nothin', and move on to the next thing, the next rememberin'.

Soon, the box is full to the tippy-top of Neil's personal effects, most of which Jake figures he'll give to their parents – maybe it'll help Mama in some way, maybe keep her from cryin' all the time and calling him all hours of the day wondering about the trial. But prob'ly not.

And the big-worded law books – he doesn't even know if they're actually Neil's, or just the office's, but likely Bambina will want to page through 'em.

One more scan of the office, certain he didn't miss anything the first go 'round but it's just his nature; a detective can never be too sure.

And he did miss something. The phone on Neil's desk, the same kind Jake has on his own, too many buttons that do too many things.

Jake pulls out his own cell phone, knowin' what he's about to do is pretty much akin to settin' out to a duel with a rusty pistol, but he really just...he's been hearin' Neil so much in his head lately, that he needs to hear it for real. Needs to know he's still got it right how he hears it. He can't be faulted for that.

Four long, long buzzy rings – plenty of time for Jake to turn his mind around on this, but that ain't his way. Followin' a decision through to the end was part of a lawman's code.

Even very bad decisions.

"Hey. You've reached Prosecutor Marshall's office. Seems I'm not around right now so leave a message and I'll get back to ya when I get back to ya."

Beep!

He opens his mouth to speak but there ain't a word he can say about all this – to anyone, especially Neil. There's nothin', nothin' that can be said or done...

He snaps his phone shut, but it's too late.

A blinking red light – that'll never go 'way, 'cause Neil's never gonna check his messages – mocks him.

He shoves the whole phone off the desk onto the floor, the connection cable snapping. Stares at it like it's playin' possum, waiting for it to come back to life.

"Detective."

Jake startles, looks over to the doorway, and there's Miles Edgeworth, arms crossed and brow arched and starin' at him with...well, maybe it's disapproval or maybe it's pity or maybe it's somethin' else entirely but whatever it is, Jake wants to tell Edgeworth to go fuck himself.

Everyone knows of Miles Edgeworth. Jake knows a little more than others, drawin' on the bits he's heard from Neil about some of the goings-on at the prosecutor's office, and that plus his own personal experience thus far makes him wish he knew Edgeworth a little less.

Because what Jake Marshall knows is Edgeworth is the furthest you could get, both as a prosecutor and as a man, from his brother. He's as crooked as they come, and how Neil not only tolerated Edgeworth but actually bothered to greet him every day, Jake couldn't - and now would never- figure out.

"I'm not quite done in here, Edgeworth," Jake says, turnin' his gaze to empty spot on the wall where Neil's calendar –panoramic scenes from the Grand Canyon – used to hang.

Jake didn't fear any man alive enough to not look him in the eyes, but there were a few he didn't respect enough.

"Yes, well, regardless of your...progress in here, I was hoping you could assist me. You can come back later if you need to."

Jake doesn't say anythin', although he does finally look back at Edgeworth to let him know he's listening.

"I was going through Prosecutor Marshall's copy of the file for tomorrow's trial, his notes, and... I've interpreted most of them but some are...unreadable. If you could offer your assistance, I would be very grateful."

Fuck Edgeworth's gratefulness, but Jake ain't doin' this for him. This was Neil's case, and it doesn't matter a lick what anyone's title is – head this, lead that - this is his now, so...

"In here."

"Pardon?"

Jake's words come out real slow, like tryin' to direct to a stubborn mule -or in this case, a stubborn ass. "Bring the files in here and I'll go over 'em with you."

"Detective, I think-"

"You weren't thinkin' nothin', Edgeworth."

Edgeworth stands there with his pan hangin' open partway, his eyes flicking at everything around Jake: the empty desk, the knocked-over phone, the full box.

And then he shuts his gob, gives a curt nod and turns on his heel, leavin' to go retrieve Neil's files.

Maybe Edgeworth's really as bright as all the rumors say. Maybe he realizes tryin' to win a petty argument against a man who's already lost so much ain't no win at all.