I want you to imagine to yourself a room.

Not just any room. There's something special in particular about this one.

You'll find out what that is later, maybe. If I'm in a generous mood. But right now, just imagine the room, OK?

Let me give you a few little pointers. The walls are all white, and the carpeting on the floor's a dull grey. It's warm though, in the winter months. Nice to lie on, or even now, just wiggle your socked toes against and feel the friction. It's scuffed and stained, and covered in bits of paper at the moment. But still. Nice.

To the right of the room, there's a huge window that's swinging open and out, casually. It gives a stunning view across into the neighbourhood, right over people's houses. If you sit by the window, you can look down into the village, see pretty much everything from being so high up. Houses form a chastity belt around the evergreen hill. They trace the way deep into the town, where, if you squint, you can just make out the silver sheen of cars rolling away. Light glints off them, turns them into hurtling stars, zooming back into the evening sky.

Behind you now, in the room. Turn around. There's a white dresser, littered with unfamiliar scraps of someone's life. A roll of deodorant. A tinny red alarm clock. Various books. A stack of CDs- Coldplay, Florence and the Machine, Sia. A wind-up torch, carefully stashed near at hand.

The most interesting thing, however, is the memory board on the right. Photos take up most of the room, beautiful girls beaming into the camera, some acting shocked, pouting, pulling crazy faces. A drawing is stuck across one of these photographs- a girl with dark plaited hair and a serious expression, gazing down. It's been drawn in black pigment liner, by someone with obvious talent. A caption is scrawled across the bottom-

"Ah, the number of times I see you with this expression per day... Hopefully not this one! Happy birthday. #TEAMSPARIA xx"

As well as the drawing, necklaces hang freely across the memory board. A certificate is pinned up the top, curling at the edges but still proudly proclaiming that "Spencer Hastings" had received The Principal's Award for Outstanding Effort In Chosen Field in May this year. Next to the certificate, a concert ticket is stuck, and various scraps of paper with doodles on them of yet more smiling girls. A photo hangs near the edge, a blue-eyed boy with a square chin and dimples, hugging a slim, pale girl.

She bears a remarkable resemblance to the girl in the drawing.

Turn away from the dresser now. Look in front of you. A large cork board front of a white desk. The cork board is riddled with neon post-it notes, reminders written in black marker. One- "SUITCASE PACKED!" is circled with red pen. Obviously crucial.

Below the dresser, the white desk stands, covered in folders bulging with textbooks. Pens litter the flat surface, along with scribbled diagrams, sample exam papers, notes, practice essays, and timetables. A pair of headphones hangs precariously off the ledge, attached to a silver iPod. Oxford English Dictionary is being used as a paperweight for Managing Time- A Student's Guide. Notebooks are strewn around the room, along with highlighters, rulers, calculators, staplers.

It's a bit of a bombsite. But this is Spencer Hastings, stressed out.

So, on top of all the paper and pens flying everywhere, there is an abundant amount of takeaway coffee cups lying across the room, stashed away in rows under the desk, in drawers, filling the waste-paper bin.

On the desk surrounded by cords and paper, stands a simple typewriter. You dab a key, curious, and a clacking sound emerges. A sheet of paper protrudes out of it, a fibrous tongue. The letters are smudged from wet ink, but still legible, and you gently pull it out of the machine.

It's really none of your business, what's written on there. You know it. Everyone knows it.

But you're filled with such a captivating desire to read it- curiosity? No, something far more overwhelming. Every atom in your body is commanding you to read the letter. Your morals are faced with your will, and they come up short shrift. You don't understand why- why do you have to read this letter? What compulses you to read this thing? Why is your body so fixed on reading something that's totally none of your concern?

You look around guiltily, but, no one is there to point the finger of blame at you.

Okay. Just this once, then.

It begins like this:

Dear Emily.

I'm writing this letter to you because, as normal, I have a shitload to say. I suppose you don't have anything to say to me, and that's fine. I don't really expect you to. You've never said anything before, don't start now. It's not going to be things I want to hear, I know that. It's just going to be more bitter reality and logic.

Usually, I like logic. That's the reason for the entire "Jane Bond" thing, isn't it? I'm too logical, too analytic and clinical for my own good. I'm doomed to always play the role of the detective, or so I thought. And then I realized, you know, logic can be your biggest enemy.

Especially when logic is used against you. Especially when the truth, stark and ugly, stares into your eyes. And you have to swallow down the tears and just nod and pretend like it never happened, like the truth never hurt you. Not even a little bit.

The ridiculous thing is, after what you said to me, I tried to forget. I really did. But, what I've discovered, is that it all comes thudding back, time and time again. I'll go to a dance, swill whiskey, and end up with some boy's tongue down my throat at the end of the night. The next day I'll tell you all about how it was so much fun, that I want to do it all over again, that it was the best time of my life.

It never was. It was always just me being pathetic. I try to tell myself that I had a blast, that it was fantastic. Unforgettable. But in a week I've blocked everything about it out of my memory with disgust. You asked me a couple of days ago what the name was of one of the nightclubs I'd been in last weekend.

When I said I couldn't remember, I wasn't joking with you. I genuinely couldn't. My brain had completely shut down, screened it out.

Do you really want to know the best time of my life? Because, I think you know what's coming, and I can see you reading this with a familiar look of dread and apprehension on your face. I'm sorry, but I have to say this. I don't even know why I have to say it, but I do.

It was a year ago. A fathomless blue sky, a dazzling sun shining down onto the rocky outcrop we were sitting on.

A year ago, and I was so juvenile, so stupid, I can't believe I did what I did. You know what happened, we don't need to go into details. But I remember running down that hill feeling freer than the wind, and as you sung Lady Gaga, I wanted to dance and scream for the pure joy of it. I couldn't even understand why I felt this way.

So then we went back to my parent's house. And we did it again. And again. And everytime, you'd look me in the eye, and say "Just as friends. Just as friends."

"Of course." I agreed. I never imagined it'd be anything different.

Two months later and I admitted to you I liked you, in that way.

What can I say. I'm bad with rejection.

Three months later and you noticed I wasn't sleeping or eating anymore. You got me to Dr Sullivan again, thinking it was A haunting me.

It wasn't.

Four months later and I was sitting propped against the bath wall with a handful of pills in my hand, crying, wanting to swallow, but never being able to.

You stopped me, without even saying or doing anything.

Five months later and I got drunk and messaged you on Facebook. I argued with you. Swore. Fought drunkenly. The next day was awkward. A game of pretence.

"Nothing ever happened".

Six months later and I tried to move on. I found Toby. I told you, told myself, told everyone I'd fallen in love with him, and there was no going back, I loved him utterly. With all my heart.

You were happy for me. You had Paige. You had no feelings for me, whatsoever, apart from being your estranged, defensive best friend.

I hadn't moved on, as you may have guessed by now. I wasn't over you. Sure, Toby made me happy, but every time his hands roamed, I thought of you and felt sorrow deep in my heart. I couldn't shake off your presence, your words- they haunted me in bed, alone or with company. You visited me every night and laughed at the sad girl left behind, mooning over someone she could never have.

I had sex with him. I thought it would shake you away from me, the naked pleasure of the "dirty deed".

But the next morning, I saw Paige kiss you against the lockers, and I ran into the bathrooms and threw up.

You never liked me, let alone loved me, in that way. I've realized that now. You were upset over Alison, still, and Maya was out of the picture at straight camp. So, in desperation, maybe even in depravity, you came to me.

I was easy, wasn't I? The straight girl. Who wouldn't develop any feelings towards you.

Who would have thought the sweet one of us could be so incredibly cruel.

I never realized that I was "easy", until now. I've seen the way you look at me. And I've seen the way you look at Paige.

A vast amount of difference.

I hate her. Every time she touches you, tucks a curl of your hair behind your ear, holds your hand, kisses you- I can't take it. I look away, I smile, I change the subject, but inside I am shattering into a thousand shards of glass and tearing myself to pieces. I am a hopeless mess.

I love you. I know that for a fact, I knew it ever since the first day on the rocky outcrop.

I know it every day I see you. I know it when you lecture me for drinking too much coffee and get these adorable cranky eyebrows. I know it when I try to teach you how to play lacrosse and you mess up, but keep working at it, again and again, until you've got it. I know it when you're with me, and you touch my arm and I feel electricity sparking off my skin. I know it when you roll your eyes, when you laugh so hard you put your head down on your desk, when you bite your lip cause you're stressed. I know it when we sit across from each other in English, and I sense you looking at me.

What are you thinking, I wonder?

Definitely not what I wish you'd think.

I'm handing you this letter because in a few days, I'm off to UPenn. That's right, I got in. No, I didn't tell anyone. It's a big surprise. Congratulations. You're the first to find out.

So, I'm leaving. And what better way to leave than go out with a overemotional bang.

I needed to tell you this, so you'll know. I don't know how you'll react, but, it's probably a good thing I'm not there to see it. But I just needed to tell you.

Have a good life, Emily.

I'll miss you. Stay true to yourself, you amazing, beautiful, adorable bitch, because that's what made me fall in love with you.

Please don't try to contact me. I'm blocking you off my phone, and off Facebook.

Trust me, this is what's best for both of us.

I love you, Em.
Goodbye.

Spencer

The letter is found, the next day, in Emily Field's letterbox.

Pam Fields drops it into her room naively, calling, "Letter for you!" in a sing-song voice.

Emily bemusedly slides her thumb along the seal to open it, confused at the lack of address on the cover, the cover simply typewritten "Emily"

And approximately five minutes later, at 9:47am, her mother hears a strangled scream from her bedroom, and rushes in, a flurry of frantic movements. "Em, Em, what's wrong?"

All she says, holding the letter, shaking despite the balmy temperature, is,

"Oh my god."

SIX YEARS LATER

Chicago, Illinois

Valley Heights Apartments. 1373 North Milwaukee Avenue.

Journalism is printing what someone else does not want printed. Everything else is public relations.

George Orwell

"I suppose y' never really realize how much blood is in a human body until y' see it spilt all over the pavement like that."

There was a pause after this reflection from the weary-eyed man on the opposite side of the table. Beefy fingers cradled one side of his bloodhound face, tilting his flabby chin up towards the plain roof of his home. He sighed heavily, and shook his head, his jowls trembling. "Broken glass, blood, indescribable things. Everywhere. It was terrible."

A sharp young voice coughed politely at the other end of the table. "Mr Elliot." A firm yet kind tone. "I'm sorry to have to ask you to do this, but I need you to describe exactly what you saw to me."

Timothy Elliot was forty-five and didn't look a day over seventy. His round girth bulged out from his cavernous trousers, barely encased by a shabby chequered shirt and a threadbare tie. He'd obviously dressed up for the occasion. He hacked wetly into a tissue and rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry, I've got this goddamned cough. Mah wife thinks it's tuberculosis, but we can't get down to the doctor to check..."

He trailed off, lost in his thoughts. Suddenly, dull pupils refocused. "I'll describe it to yeh. Okay, urhm, it was a Tuesday mornin'. I was sitting out on my verandah getting ready for work."

The young voice scribbled something in her notepad. "Can I ask where you work, Mr Elliot?"

"Is that related to th' interview?"

"No, just interested."

The man puffed up his chest, evidently pleased to give the information away with lashings of pride. "At the gas station down the road yonder. Have been for the past twenty years of m' life."

The young voice nodded. "Okay. Please continue."

"I was lookin' out into another beautiful Chicago morning, sunny day and all. And I stepped out to water the wife's plants just for a little sec. There was a loud bang, the, eh, a gunshot. And when I looked up... somethin', somethin' dark an' huge fell down past m' window. And I couldn't do nothing- it was all so fast... I jest kinda froze up. And that was when I heard the big ol' thump against the ground, big and wet and crunching thump."

The voice stayed silent. Timothy wiped his sweaty forehead with a wodge of tissue. "So, I panicked. I went and ran downstairs to see what it could be, and m' wife was screamin' at me, cause she'd seen it to, asking me what it was. And I was saying "I don't know, I don't know"... but we both knew what it was by then."

"So I got down the stairs, and ran through the door, and she was just lyin' on the ground... I knew she was a goner by the time, Chrissakes, her neck was snapped sideways. But her eyes, her eyes were open... and I swear to God, ma'am, they was lookin' right at me. And that wasn't right. Creeped me out something major."

The sharp young voice nodded. "And you knew her."

"Course I knew her. I know just bout everybody in this buildin'. But she, she was a real mystery that one. The wife loved to talk about her."

"Why?"

"Oh, she was always a bit of a loner. Never had anybody round, never did nothing neighbourly, always keepin' herself to herself. That's why I ain't gone answer your question- why I think she did it, cause I wouldn't know. I was just the first there."

"Understood, Mr Elliot." A pause. "Did you know any other information about her?"

"I knew she had a sister- she came round to visit sometimes, never said a word to anyone her or nothin'. But we figured they were sisters cause the two of them looked goddamn identical. And I knew she was in the 'lympic team as well. Not that she told us or anythin', I found her picture in the paper one time, after the Games. And damn, I said to m'wife, that looks just like Kristin next door. Next thing we realize, it is her."

Elliot trailed off at that point, massaging his leathery cheek. The sharp young voice jabbed the tape recorder that had been whirring the whole time, slipping it into her pocket. "Thank you Mr Elliot, that was all I needed."

"A pleasure, really, ma'am. Are you gonna use m' interview now?"

"You can expect to see it in the Chicago Sun-Times tomorrow, maybe."

Elliot bristled with pride. "This bein' the first time I've ever been interviewed by a journalist and all. I bet the wife'll pin it up on the fridge."

An awkward silence swallowed the air. The sharp young voice checked her watch and stood to leave. "You take care of yourself ma'am." Elliot rumbled.

"Thank you, Mr. Elliot. You too."

The door closed behind the young voice's skinny back, and she sighed, flipping open her notepad and marking a sharp cross by the name "Timothy Elliot". He'd hardly been useful, just shedding the same light on Kristin Lochte that everyone in Chicago knew- Olympic gymnast, suddenly and unexpectedly committing suicide for no apparent reason. "A real bright promise", her coach had said miserably. "A star of the future", ESPN had called her.

She'd shot herself from on her apartment roof without leaving a suicide note or any sign of previous depression in her flat, according to police. But the sister Elliot had mentioned was a new lead. Still, a simple report would be published in the Chicago Sun-Times tomorrow- an emotive one about talent going to waste in "an unforseen suicide". Yada yada.

But there was a hint of anonymity, of mystery, to the suicide that alighted a spark of curiousity in the sharp young voice's heart. Of course, most experienced journos would have dropped the case already, and would have moved on to far more interesting subjects, such as the deputy Mayor's sex scandal.

But most experienced journos didn't have the same kind of detective experience as Spencer Hastings did.

That detective experience could have been the entire reason Spencer gave her entire family a mild heart attack, choosing "cheap, trashy" journalism as her career of choice rather than the much-expected law path. Her mother had literally ranted and raved at her for a straight hour when Spencer announced that she had switched her college electives to one which favoured the newspaper career.

"It's literally everything you've hated, all through your teenage years." Veronica Hastings had pleaded. "I don't understand. Journalism is against everything you've ever stood for!"

"Mom." Spencer had fired back, as her mother collapsed into the couch, exhausted. "Bad journalism is against everything I've ever stood for."

And in all respects, Spencer Hastings practiced good journalism. She was clever, driven, daring, confident, and asked the right questions. She made an art out of sniffing out bullshit. Her juvenile tendency to jump to conclusions had disappeared over the past six years- replaced by a cooler, calculating logical adult.

She wasn't sure at which point she realized her desire to practice media rather than law. But she'd known it from the minute she'd picked up a heavy law textbook and looked inside. She hadn't wanted to be stuck in oaken rooms, arguing whether someone was innocent or not. She wanted to be out there, finding the people who weren't innocent, and bringing them to light. She wanted to interview people, find the facts amongst the lies, give the world the information she did.

She could see where her mother was coming from- it was ironic that she had spent her entire teenage years trying to hide secrets from the world's (or rather, A's) snooping eyes, and now she'd made the decision to take a career which entitled finding out other people's secrets and sharing them with the world. Not that she was ever going to be a tabloid journalist.

But she reasoned with herself. Reading and writing were amongst her favourite things to do- she watched the news and read the paper every day, a residual habit from old paranoia over herself being in the headlines. She had always been the "detective" of their old group- due to an insatiable need to always find out more about "A", about the secrets that Rosewood possessed.

And now, in her job, at age twenty-four, she was satisfied. Going out to work every day gave her a small sense of pride, of accomplishment. Screw you, Mom and Dad. I'm going out to disappoint you yet again in a job I love.

Her relationships with her family had crumbled over time. None of them could really recover from the shock of Spencer being a journalist- and nonetheless, a goddamn good one. Once she got out of college, she'd immediately applied to newspapers around America, as far away from Philadelphia as possible. Chicago had offered. She'd gladly accepted.

Being a journalist was probably just another act of defiance against her parents, actually. As was her new image. Her father had one night talked about how much he hated short hair on girls. A new challenge. The next day, Spencer waltzed away with a pixie Emma Watson-style cut, returning to campus with a smug grin on her face and the memory of Mr Hastings choking when he saw her.

She hadn't talked to her parents in two years, but, she still kept her hair cropped in the same style. It suited her, really. She looked older, more business like- yet sexier.

The other little acts of provocation were too numerous to count. She had started smoking at one point, although now she couldn't stand the smell. She drove a blue Vespa rather than a "normal, safe" car. She wore sunglasses and leather jackets almost permanently when she wasn't working, and once dated an Italian rally car driver.

However, it was her who solely knew that he was an avid fan of poetry, and read Sigmund Freud's works in the bath. Her parents only knew his career, and were consumed by the shame.

Melissa had stepped out of the picture of Spencer's life long ago, moving permanently to Philadelphia and not even bothering to send Christmas cards. Her father, divorced, had taken the flat in New York, as her mother had continued on in Rosewood. Any news from them as of late had failed to come through.

And I've never been happier for it.

Leaving Rosewood behind had been a hard thing to do- but it was utterly worth it. She had guiltily left her good friends behind, true. And she still missed them now and then. They'd all fallen out of contact, as time makes people do. She'd heard Aria had become the artist/poet she'd always dreamed of being. And the last time she'd talked to Hanna, the bubbly blonde girl had revealed she worked as a fashion writer in Vogue.

She was happy for both of them. They deserved to do well, to gain as much success as they possibly could. And she was sure that despite the time, they both felt the same way about Spencer. When the staff of the Chicago Sun-Times won a Pulitzer for "Best Breaking News Reporting", Aria was the first to message her congratulations. "Well done Spence- #TEAMSPARIA is partying tonight! Next stop: winning FIVE PULITZERS FOR BEST JOURNALIST IN THE WORLD! THAT'S MY JANE BOND!"

She was pretty sure Aria was very drunk, but the thought still counted.

Lost in her reverie about Rosewood, she hadn't even realized she'd already hopped onto her Vespa and was halfway to her work by now. She shook her head, groaning, requiring caffeine. Her brain wasn't working so well today. She was exhausted from a late night review of the Kristin Lochte case.

It was an unusual suicide, for sure. Firstly, Lochte shooting herself, then ensuring her actual death by falling off a building. The gun was found on the apartment roof, covered with her fingerprints, but that didn't convince Spencer. The coroner report claimed her body showed no signs of a struggle, but her clothing was torn and ragged. The shot had been fired against the heart- whereas most suicides are through the brain.

Here's the interesting part. The coroner had said "It is unaware what time the shot occured". So it could have been while she was falling, or while she was up on the roof. Seeing as it was unlikely she could shoot herself in mid-air, and since Elliot had said he'd heard a shot before she fell past his window, the police had assumed she'd shot herself then fallen.

But Elliot's flat was only on the third floor of a ten-storey building. So the theory still remained open- that she could have shot herself or been shot as she fell.

These details niggled at Spencer. She wanted to talk to the sister- the mysterious, unnamed, never-before-heard-of sister. She needed an address, a phone number. And she knew the people to talk to for her to get it.

She pulled up outside her work building, her head awhirl with ideas and details, and pulled off her helmet, resting it on top of the Vespa's handlebars. A short guy with slicked hair and a slicker smile held the door open for her. Spencer gave him a nod of appreciation. "Thanks, Jimmy." She mumbled.

"Anytime, Poe." Jimmy replied, eyes like an adoring puppy.

"Poe" was her nickname at the office. Hardly anyone called her Spencer where she worked- she even doubted some of the rookies knew Poe wasn't her real name. It was given to her by their resident Art Journalist, Amy, after comparing Spencer to Edgar Allan Poe. "You're both moody, poetic and scarily clever. And occasionally depressing and grumpy."

Despite Spencer's original resistance to the nickname, Amy had ensured its growth until everyone in the office called her it, despite most of them not knowing its origins. Even the editors employed the term. She still growled at Amy sometimes- but deep down, she enjoyed the comparison. Poe was one of her favourite poets of all time.

Spencer squeezed into the lift, crammed against a dozen environmental journalists who'd just returned from their lunch break. It was a hot summer day, and the "hippie-sters" as Amy called them, were none too fond of deoderant. She was holding her breath with a pained wince the entire ride.

The seventh floor, her stop, was a round room filled with a frenzy of activity. Desks formed a ivory semi-circle around either sides of the room, a horizontal space in between for people to pass through. The centre of the room was around the oaken circular editorial desk, the powerhouse. The people round that desk could make or break a journalist's career. With a little red pen they had the power to destroy your entire livelihood.

It was really important not to piss them off.

But on the outskirts of the semi-circle was Spencer's desk, situated two rows across from Amy's, five metres from the photocopier and a short walk to the crappy coffee machine. She headed towards it. The floor was tiled and squeaked under her flats, making some heads turn at the noise.

Smiles and "what's-up" nods were exchanged amongst her co-workers, with one particularly enthusiastic wave from Amy, until Spencer collapsed into a soft black chair, yawning. A coffee was needed, but right now, she wanted to find out everything she could on Kristin Locht's sister. She opened up a silver Macbook and began Googling.

Twenty minutes later, she was poring through files about Kristin's success before the suicide- but no mention of a sister. Or any family, for that matter. She began to wonder if Timothy Elliot was more than a little bit senile for all of his forty-five years. Did such a sister actually exist?

A polite cough sounded behind her, and she flinched in her seat, spinning around. "Sorry!" She gabbled. "Oh, you surprised me."

Spencer looked into Amy's grinning face, dimples clearly present in her freckled cheeks. "Hey there."

"Hi." Spencer said briskly, tiredly raising her eyebrows in acknowledgement.

"Look what I got." Amy childishly waggled a steaming flask in front of Spencer's nose. "Mmmmmm. Smells gooooood."

The strong scent of caffeine hit Spencer like an adrenalin shot. "Amy, you are a lifesaver, and I love you so very very much best friend of mine." She blathered, snatching for the flask.

"Whoa there. Not so fast." Amy cruelly yanked her hand back, Spencer's fingertips brushing against the silvery surface. She giggled. "Hold up, girl, I gotta tell you something first."

"Coffee. Then, we can talk. About whatever you want. I've got time."

Amy rolled her eyes, startlingly ultramarine against her pale skin. "This may actually be too much fun to tease you with."

"Amy, you are twenty-four years old."

"Doesn't make it less fun."

"Really? Because I was kind of hoping the bitter reality of how you're a complete child would kick in about now. Evidently not."

"Owch. Now you've gone and hurt my feelings. No coffee for you."

Spencer's teeth set on edge. "Fine. No coffee. I don't care. What did you want to talk to me about?"

" "I don't care?" Man, Poe, I've called you many things but certainly not a liar."

"I've called you many things as well. And I'll call you more unless you give me the goddamn coffee."

"A sudden change of tact is noted."

"Please give me the coffee."

"I knew we would resort to begging eventually. You just have to say the magic word."

Spencer glared at her. "The last time someone told me to say the magic word was when I was six years old."

"Release your inner child."

"Thank. You."

"That wasn't the magic word."

"Why do I even bother being friends with you?"

"My sparkling wit, dazzling personality and vibrant good looks."

"Sparkling wit? You're the least funny person I've ever met."

"I noticed you haven't disagreed with the other two. So you do find me attractive. But then again, who doesn't?"

"Your looks are about as vibrant as a toad with herpes."

"You have to admit, toads do have an innate charm to them."

"You're right. I apologize to the toads."

"Ding ding ding! We have a winner!"

"...What?"

"The magic word was "apologize"!"

Spencer's eyes narrowed. "Do I need to apologize to you?"

"No, not today." Amy remarked.

"Oh. Okay. So why was it-"

"Don't question me, mortal. Here. Have your caffeinated beverage and enjoy it." Amy thrust it into her hands.

Spencer drank deeply, sighing with content. Amy watched her boredly. "I did say I had to talk to you about something."

"Mmmmm."

"Something which you're probably going to need to peel your lips off that flask to get the full benefit of."

A long pause. "Mmmmm."

Amy tutted. "It's important news."

Absolute silence while Spencer downed the coffee. Amy began speaking. "We have a new one on the sports side of things. Fresh off the college boat, looks like. She seems okay. Don't think we'll get to work with her much though."

"We're investigative journos, we don't go meddling with bats and balls." Spencer mumbled.

"Lo! She speaks! And with what beauty thine words evoke, for it is the beauty that reflects the state of mine own heart."

"You've got balls on your mind again, Amy."

"Are they ever off my mind?"

"You have the mental age of a pre-pubescent ape."

"A pre-pubescent ape with sparkling wit, dazzling personality and vibrant good looks."

Spencer just snorted. Amy shrugged, laughing. "So, anyways, new journalist. So exciting. She's over there on the sports desk, I think. Actually... she's just turned around... and she appears to be looking... THIS WAY!"

Spencer glared at her friend who was waving her arms above her head frantically in a gesture that was supposed to be welcoming. "Poe! Give me a marker and a piece of paper!"

"Amy, for God's sake-"

"I need to write a message that speaks volumes about my friendly nature!"

Spencer shook her head. Amy was all too prone to doing weird things like this constantly. She was bubbly, spontaneous and always enthusiastic when it came to anything and everything, with seemingly unlimited energy. But, Spencer and her, two complete opposites, had immediately bonded the day Amy had told the guy who constantly boomed top 40 pop across from Spencer's desk that "I just want you to know, I have a gun, and a shovel. And I doubt someone who listens to Carly Rae Jepsen on repeat would be missed."

Spencer liked her style.

But right now, Amy's craziness had swept over her usually sarcastic nature. Spencer sighed, smirking at her insane friend, and pushed out her chair from the desk to get a closer look at the new journalist.

And that was when a nuclear bomb, or close to it, plummeted through the roof and turned the entire office into a timeless abyss.

Spencer's mouth hung open, her tongue transformed into cardboard, her words useless and dull against her teeth. Her limbs were slack, but her stomach was dropping further and further through the roof. Her heart rate slowed, then sped up, faster and faster until it almost popped through Spencer's chest. Her head reeled. Her vision blurred.

She couldn't see properly, a mist shrouding her eyes as she could focus solely on the face looking puzzledly back at her. She couldn't breathe, her lungs crying for air, but her nose and mouth being no longer capable of anything respiring related. Her ears rang. Her palms suddenly grew hideously damp.

Her brain couldn't focus on anything, mind whirring and buzzing and swirling around, always returning, returning, to one sole thought:

Emily.

Because the tanned face that was currently laughing at Amy, because the long black soft waves that were currently dancing around brown shoulders, because the familiar yet alien radiant white smile that was currently curving supple skin...

It was Emily's.

She hadn't seen her in six years.

And then her brain finally made a vital connection of synapses, a spark erupting as a legible thought in her mind:

She didn't want to see her now.

Amy was yelling something in Spencer's ear, doll-like hands scrabbling around on her desk for a piece of paper, but Spencer couldn't hear anything aside from her heartbeat thumping like mad and a continous ringing. She shook her head again, slowly, in an effort to clear what fogged her mind.

I need to get out.

Praises be, another clear, legible thought.

Her body responded like it was moving through molten chocolate. She pulled herself to a standing position, slowly, slowly, and took a heavy step away, nearly tripping over an electrical cord. Time seemed to warp around her.

She thumped away from her desk, hair standing up on the back of her neck. She could tell Emily's eyes were on her retreating form. And she wanted to scream and run, but everything was in this perpetual haze.

Please, please, if there's a God, don't let Emily realize it's me.

Please, I'm begging you.

When Spencer was halfway to the verandah that she knew was situated just outside the elevator, created for the simple purpose of giving smoking employees a convenient place to do so, Amy realized what she was doing. "Oi, Poe!" She yelled

When Spencer didn't reply, Amy frowned, and dropped the paper that was in her hands. Throwing Emily a "be right back" gesture, she jogged over to her friend. Stopping just in front of the verandah door, she threw her hands on her hips. "Are you okay?" She asked, worry tinging her voice.

"Huh?" Spencer replied eloquently.

"Are. You. Okay. You look like someone's just walked over your grave!"

"Urgh... I need some fresh air."

"Why?"

"I feel sick." She mumbled.

Amy narrowed her eyes. "You were perfectly fine two minutes ago, Poe. What's really the matter?"

Spencer opened her mouth, and three little words escaped them: words that, the author guarantees, will get you anyone away from you at any time, whatever the situation.

"I'm gonna puke!"

"Oh, God." Amy said quickly, stepping out of her way.

Spencer stumbled forward, wrenching the door handle of the verandah open, to the confused faces of half-a-dozen assembled smoking journalists. She dragged herself as far away as possible, grabbing metal railings and leaning against them. Her hands slipped uncomfortably, the smell of metal and sweat filling the air. And cigarette smoke. Gross.

She panted, a little, trying to recollect her thoughts.

Of all the god-for-saken places for me to see Emily Fields again, it's my fucking work.

She remembered Emily. Seeing her face was like a lock clicking open, a door being flung ajar. All the various restrictions she'd enforced in her mind, time after time, had been smashed to pieces one after another. She was engulfed with memories from one single glimpse of her old best friend.

The day straight after Alison's funeral. Emily running up to her, tears in her eyes, and embracing Spencer in a warm hug, curling into her neck.

The school dance. Emily was drunk. Bitter and angry, hazy and at the same time, amusing without trying to be.

Camp Mona. Emily emerging with blow-dried, pouffed hair, and Spencer poking it with the eager expression of a child.

After Paige's taunt at her. Spencer's vehement promise to "destroy her". She'd known that deep down, even though Emily had said it wasn't necessary, that was something that, at the time, she'd really wanted to see.

The swim meet. Emily grinning at her, eyebrows flickering in a loud "Hey!". Their proud hug.

Maya's death. Emily, sobbing uncontrollably, being held up by Spencer, who was trying and failing not to cry herself.

Their fight-that-wasn't-really-a-fight. Emily's nakedly aggressive face when she shoved Spencer's books down. Their face off, and the awkward silence between them after.

Finding Alison's old coat. Spencer had made a sarky comment about Emily's nerves. "I'M NOT SCARED!" Emily had retorted, loudly, eyes flashing.

Spencer's quiet respect for her, after that.

Emily's constant love for her. "B is far from failing, Spencer." She'd laughed.

"B is for bad!" Spencer had whinged.

A hill...

A hill?

That one time on a hill?

Oh.

FUCK.

Shit, shit, SHIT!

Amy was outside now, touching Spencer's shoulder. "Have you been sick?" She asked brusquely.

Spencer turned around, her eyes dull, looking at the people behind her- who were all staring curiously. They coughed, somewhat simultaneously, a pregnant pause dominating the awkward air. "Uh, no." She replied hoarsely.

"Are you going to?"

"M-maybe..."

"Do you want painkillers?"

She did have a throbbing headache. On her left temple- the usual location of her stress pains. This one was going to be a killer. She winced, grimacing. "Yeah."

Amy left her side for two seconds, delving back into the office. Spencer pressed her head against the iron bars and shook it. What am I going to do?

Emily would recognize who she was, as soon as she went in.

She'd remember everything. Well, first, she'd remember A, and all the times she went through. Maybe that would bring a spark of affection to her eye first.

And then she'd remember the letter Spencer left her. And the fact that they hadn't talked in six years, because of that goddamn letter, would smack her in the face hard.

And the spark of affection would be replaced with cold clarity and an awkward silence.

She couldn't go back in there. She couldn't face that.

She'd successfully deleted Emily out of her life- a mission in itself- and now here she was again. Innocently smiling at Amy's insane antics. Even having the... the concern to look worried when Spencer got up and left.

Big brown, puppy dog eyes tracing up and down her spine, bolts of lightning creating shivers on the back of her neck.

She always was so adora-

FUCKING BITCH!

"Poe."

Amy was there with the painkillers. Spencer looked up, eyes wide. Amy's expression was one of pure shock. "You... Headache?"

Spencer's hands were entangled within her hair, bony fingers grasping at her scalp. She'd barely registered the pain it was causing her. "Oh. Yeah. Thanks."

Amy was silent, leaning against the iron bars, gnawing her lip as she handed Spencer the pills. "So, um, you want water?"

"No, I'm alright."

"Do you want to go home?"

A pause- Spencer thought this over. Claiming sick would make Emily suspicious once she realized who Spencer was. But it would also mean she wouldn't have to see her at work today, and could do quiet research in her flat into the Kristin Lochte thing.

"Um. Yeah. I think so. I'll go check out with... Jerry."

Jerry was the kind-hearted editor who led the investigative journalist team, and therefore, Spencer's boss. His bald patch and penchant for "grandpa" sweaters gave away how old he actually was- but his eyes, twinkling blue, were as sharp as they'd ever been.

Amy winced. "Um, before you do that, he kind of wants to talk to you."

Spencer pulled her forehead away from the bars and frowned. "Now?"

"Yeah. He was by your desk when I got the painkillers, asking where you were. Saying he needed to talk to you."

Urgh. "Did he sound... pissed?"

"Nah." Amy remarked casually, shrugging. "Not at all. Just curious. Wonder why."

"I'll find out. Then I'll tell him I'm sick and need to go home." Spencer was thinking out loud.

"Good plan. Do you want a lift back to your place?"

"No, I gotta get my scooter home. But thanks."

"Eh, no problem."

By this time Amy was fully standing, and offering Spencer her hand. She took it, and gingerly got to her feet. Her head was still thumping despite the pills she'd choked down.

Her plan was simple- to see Jerry at his desk as quickly as possible, and then leave without even going near her desk, taking the opposite route out of the room. She'd go home, have time to think up a long term plan, and treat the situation with the mature logic of a dignified adult.

Which she didn't exactly feel like right now. Since she was hobbling past a group of smokers who noiselessly inhaled their ash with tilted, judgemental eyebrows.

Amy headed back to her desk, after telling Spencer five times to call her, and Spencer walked towards Jerry's desk. The old guy was bent over a stack of papers, tutting under his breath, tapping his wire-framed glasses. Spencer cleared her throat politely. "Jerry."

He whipped around with a start. "Oh, Poe! Hi there. How are you?"

"Not so good Jerry, I'm actually feeling a bit under the weather today. I was wondering if I could just go home, to be honest. Think I've come down with the flu."

Spencer lied flawlessly. Jerry's blue eyes softened with concern. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Listen, of course you can go home, but before you do I just needed to tell you something real quick. It's quite important."

"Sure." Spencer nodded, plopping down into the leather seat across from him.

"Well, I need you to do two things for me. The first is- I want you to drop the Kristin Lochte story."

Her eyebrows furrowed in quick argument. He cut across quickly before she could open her mouth. "Yeah, I know you've been working on it, but trust me, what I've got for you is a lot bigger. I'm talking major. You're gonna be working on it for months, it's a hell of a case."

Spencer tilted her head curiously, nodding. "I'm listening."

Jerry turned to his desk, rifling through the sheets scattered across the wooden benchtop, until finally pulling one out. "Ah. You recognize this guy?"

He handed a simple colour profile printout to Spencer. It was of a man's face- a man with a square jaw, dimpled chin, ruffled blonde curls and striking green eyes. It was a face she certainly recognized. The same face had been plastered all over town in recent weeks. He was on billboards, TV, magazines, even the Chicago Sun-Times.

"Yeah, I do. That's Bill Belmont."

Bill Belmont- the nation's Olympic sweetheart. He was a champion weightlifter who'd smashed the world record for lifting heavy things, it seemed to Spencer. He'd also had a previous career in modelling and acting, appearing as a stunt double for Channing Tatum in 21 Jump Street. The media could not get enough of him.

Jerry thrust his chin towards the picture. "What would you say if I told you I want you to investigate him?"

"I'd say why?"

"A good question. Basically, it's to do with a small personal investigation of mine before I actually got started with newspapers."

It was common knowledge around the workplace Jerry had previously been a police officer before switching to journalism- the rookies called him "Sleuth", but never to his face. His vast collection of police intel had been of obvious use to the paper throughout the years, gaining him a comfy job as a chief editor. "Go on."

"Well, when I worked for the force, when I was just starting out really, I happened across a series of stories from young women that the police had simply archived due to their low interest rating. The reason for this is because these women all had criminal records. Their history with the police is not a good one, and half of the officers they talked to assumed they were lying because of this."

"But the stories were all dated over a similar period of time, all within the same year of each other. And all of them were similarly distressing and hard to read. These women were all raped, they claimed. Brutally. And they all had a similar nature. The guy who did it, in all of the cases, had approached them in a dark alleyway after they'd emerged from a club downtown. He'd dragged them against a wall and raped them."

"These cases were all so similar, I couldn't help thinking, perhaps they all had more things in common then anyone was realizing. Maybe it was the same guy. For the most of them, the police had claimed to have found their man, and he'd gone to jail. Case closed. But the thing was... a couple of women were convinced they hadn't found the right man."

Spencer leaned in closer. Jerry continued. "He was wearing a balaclava at the time, for every case. Which is something a lot of rapists do, so not to be seen. But a couple of women described his eye colour to be completely unusual. Green, they said... but with a brown stripe from his pupil to his outer iris on the bottom of his eye."

His finger jabbed the paper. "Look at those eyes. Don't they match their description?"

Spencer inspected the man's eyes. "Yeah... Now that you mention it."

She'd never noticed the brown stripe before, in any photos of the man she'd seen. But now that she had, she couldn't stop staring at it. "Weird." She mumbled. "But that's just a hunch, Jerry. Do you have any more evidence?"

"I know it's just a hunch." The old journo said patiently. "All I have is the identification of that brown stripe, and the fact that I know Belmont was living in the same area of the women at the time. Which is why I need more evidence, and this is when you come into the picture."

"...You want me to break into police records."

"I didn't necessarily say that, did I?"

But Jerry had a twinkle in his eye. Spencer shook her head with a fond smile. "I thought that was against the law?"

"Not if you have a member of the force with you who can help you get what you need. I have a couple of buddies who've worked down there for years that'll be happy to help. All you gotta do is find the files, see if there's any more information or evidence that it could be Bailey. Report back to me when you're done. Simple job."

"And what if there is no evidence?"

"Then you can write a nice little emotional story on Kristin Lochte."

Spencer raised her eyebrows. "And if there is..."

Jerry's face grew grim. "Then I'm going to need to pull a few strings and find people to talk to, to find witnesses."

Spencer nodded. "I'll be on it tomorrow. I promise."

Her blood was practically singing at the mention of this chance. She was so excited- so interested- she was fidgeting in her seat. But Jerry coughed. "There's just one more thing."

She groaned mentally. "Yeah?"

"I'm sending someone else to help you cover the case. Manpower's going to be really necessary in this, and it's going to be too large a story, if my hunch is right, for you to cover by yourself."

Spencer brightened. "Amy?"

The two had worked together on other cases, and Jerry had seen they'd made a fine pair. But, he shook his head. "Good as Amy is, I've got her on something else right now."

"Oh... who then?"

Jerry now was fidgeting in his seat, looking a little embarassed. "I know you're gonna hate me for this, Poe." He mumbled. "But it's really a good idea, or, I think so."

Spencer was silent. Jerry continued. "Since this is a sports story, I thought I could give one of our sports journos a try at the investigative side. And they're the kind of person who needs all the experience they can get."

A cold sweat broke down her back.

No. No, no, no, no, please, please don't say the person I think you're going to say...

Jerry turned around, and made a beckoning motion with his finger. "You two will work well together." He told Spencer over his shoulder. "She's just a rookie, so I reckon someone experienced as you now can show her the ropes, teach her how we do things around here."

I'm gonna puke.

I swear I am.

I can't be doing this.

She's going to recognize me.

Oh my god.

Emily came strolling towards Jerry's desk with a hesitant smile directed at the pale girl and the wrinkled guy before her. "Hi." She said nervously.

Spencer choked.

Literally, choked.

On her own salivia.

Attractive.

She passed it off as a coughing fit, muffling herself with her elbow, as Emily stared concernedly down at her. "Hey, are you okay?"

"Fine." Spencer garbled between hacked coughs.

Jerry frowned. "Yeah, you did say you were sick, right? I'm sorry I've gone on for so long, I'll finish it up quick. Basically, Emily here- that's your name right? Yeah. She's going to be working with you on this story."

Spencer pulled her head out of her arm with a tired, defeated, angry expression.

Sod you Jerry. You made this happen. Well, my life is fucked now, thanks very much to my sonofabitch editor, who's ensured I'm working on what could be the biggest story of my life with the girl who I haven't seen for six years because...

Emily was staring into her eyes. With a slightly puzzled expression. She cocked her head onto one side. "This might sound weird, but do I know you from somewhere?"

Oh god, here we go, here we go, she's going to realize any minute now-

Spencer surprised herself by standing and extending her hand to shake. "I d-don't think you, you do. I don't think I-I know you, but, ummm... I was on... TV! As a kid!"

She sounded flustered and awkward. And Emily was most definitely noticing it, right now, judging her, wondering why, her brain going to piece together the picture right this second...

"Oh!" Emily said, interestedly. "What show?"

Every kid's show Spencer had ever watched immediately vanished from her mind.

Oh. My God.

"Uh, uh, a lot, a lot of shows, I acted h-heaps as a kid." She blathered.

Emily nodded. Waiting for her to go on.

"Blue's Clues!" She cried suddenly, an epiphany, a bolt of clarity in her muddled mind. "Yeah, Blue's Clues! Blue's Clues!"

Jerry was staring at her with a worried expression. "Aw, Blues Clues." She said again, rolling out the vowels.

I should probably stop saying Blue's Clues.

"Oh, I loved that show when I was little." Emily smiled, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "My dad and I used to sit down and watch the Saturday cartoons whenever his unit was home. Blues Clues was my absolute favourite. I'm pretty sure he got sick of it after time." Her chuckle was light and airy.

And heartbreaking.

Spencer avoided her eye, staring at the ground. "Oh. Yeah."

"But I thought they didn't have kid actors in it? Just like voiceovers for the cartooned characters... I can't remember there being-"

Jerry politely cut Emily off, saving Spencer a nightmare of explaining. "I'm sorry Emily, but you guys can catch up about child TV shows later, OK? Right now y'all have a job to attend. Or Poe here has a home to go to. I'll talk to you guys soon."

"B-bye Jerry." Spencer stammered, trying to act nochalant, and shoved her hands desperately in her pockets, attempting to swagger away like she usually did.

Except out of nowhere, Emily had fallen into step beside her.

And was looking at her.

And smiling with that goddamn, big, beautiful white smile that-

No.

Spencer realized she'd asked her a question. "Sorry, what was that?"

"I said, is your name Poe?"

Oh thank God. She doesn't know my real name. Oh, thank GOD, thank BUDDHA, thank ALLAH, thank AMY DEAR GOD THANK YOU AMY FOR GIVING ME THIS SHITTY NICKNAME-

"Yeah. That's me." She tried to say casually, tripping over her tongue.

"Is that short for anything?"

"No." Spencer interjected quickly.

Emily looked confused. "I don't mean to be rude, but, uh, really?"

"Yeah, my parents were massive literary nerds." She blathered. "They had two boys before me who they called Edgar and Allen, and then I came along and they couldn't decide what to call me. So they came up with the idea of Poe. Genius. Creativity at it's finest, displayed in my parents."

That was some terrible bullshitting right there, Spencer Hastings.

She hadn't meant for Emily to laugh, but she did, shaking her head in amazement. "Seriously? Wow. They must be poetry crazy."

"Pretty much. Their idea of a bedtime story was Shakespeare. King Lear. I had nightmares for weeks on end about eyeless kings."

That story was, in fact, true. The Hastings were determined for their second daughter to continue the overachieving streak their family had honed down to a fine art. Veronica Hastings had sat calmly on the end of little Spencer's bed and recounted to her Ophelia's suicide in Hamlet, Duncan's brutal stabbing in Macbeth, Shylock's "pound of flesh" in the Merchant of Venice.

It didn't matter than Spencer could no longer sleep. It mattered she was getting an education from the very start.

Emily now looked horrified, her pink lips stretching open in a perfect O. "Wow. I watched Blues Clues and you read about brutal murders."

"Contrasting childhoods." Spencer shrugged stiffly.

Emily gave her a look that seemed to search deep down into her soul, amused eyes crinkled yet solemn at the same time. Spencer looked back at her in utter silence, her eyes involuntarily wide and serious. The world seemed to spin and tilt around them, and yet, they stayed in stillness.

Calm amongst the hectic, frantic, busy life that threatened to scoop Spencer away.

Has she realized yet?

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow!" Emily smiled cheerfully, breaking the bubble.

"Uh- yeah! Yeah, I'll see you, soon. Yeah. Tomorrow. Ah-huh."

Emily turned on her heel and left with a friendly wave, nodding across to Amy who was perched on Spencer's desk madly signalling at her. Spencer sighed, watching the dark-haired girl walk away, crossing her arms against her chest.

How can she do that? She just... radiates peacefulness.

"EARTH TO POE HASTINGS!"

Spencer whipped around, glaring at Amy, and hurried back to her desk making a shushing motion. "Shut up." She growled, fiercely. "Now."

Amy's eyes were puzzled, slowly narrowing. "Why should I?"

Spencer had a brainwave. "Headache." She murmured, anxiously massaging her temples.

"Oh." Amy snapped straight back to sympathetic. "You sure you don't want a lift?"

"Yeah, yeah. No lift. Nah. Need to get the scooter home. Anyways, bye, Amy. See you tomorrow." She garbled, scooping up sheafs of papers desperately.

"See you..."

Spencer dashed off, nibbling her lips, knowing Amy was watching her back. Suspicious as ever. You really cannot lie to a journalist, can you?

But that was the least of her concerns right now.

What am I going to DO?

R & R, as ever, guys! I have heaps of time on my hands right now... so the more reviews, the quicker I update! MERRY CHRISTMAS/HAPPY HANNUKAH/HAPPY HOLIDAYS to you all :) man, can I tell you, it feels good to be writing again! Tell me what you like, tell me what you don't... I actually have a plan for this story for once in my life. Hahahaha. Hard to believe, I know. Aaaaand I'm rambling. Amy's a new character, so, thoughts? I was thinking she could be the sarcastic comedic funny one to Spencer's serious focused nature. A bit like Hanna, I suppose. Anyways. PLEASE REVIEW!