A/N: All rights go to Suzanne Collins. I do not own the Hunger Games, nor am I making money with my writing.

"Ooh, can we stop and get some donuts?"

I shake my head slowly, but don't take my eyes off of the dark road ahead of me. "We spend more time at Mellark's than we do actually working. And you know I hate feeding into that stereotype. Besides, you need to lay off of the sweets; that uniform is getting a little tight."

Finnick gasps and covers his mouth in mock indignation before breaking out into a cheeky grin. "C'mon now, Everdeen, you know you like what you see."

"Hardly, Odair."

"Oh, come on. It's a quiet night. We have time for a quick stop. Please. Pretty, pretty please."

"Fine, but you need to lose the puppy dog face." I try to sound stern but mild amusement seeps through.

We drive to the bakery in relative quiet. Finnick tries to plug his iPod into the car's stereo, but I swat his hand away. I prefer the silence to think, a concept that I am certain Finnick will never understand. And the pop music he likes is just awful. I would rather jam pencils in my ears than listen to it. I glance at the illuminated clock on the dashboard as I pull into the empty parking lot of Mellark's Bakery.

"They don't open for another hour, you know."

"But our shift will be almost done by then. Old Man Mellark won't mind if we come in early. The lights are already on so he's probably back in the kitchen doing the prep for the day."

"Let's just get in, grab your donuts and a couple of coffees to go, and get out."

Finnick jumps out of the police car, almost giddy, and strides up to the building. I'm not surprised when he easily breezes through the front doors; in a town as small as Panem, almost no one locks their doors. The crime rate is practically nonexistent. For all the fuss I make about focusing on the job, I know it's going to be another uneventful night, just like every other. That doesn't exactly inspire the greatest confidence in my job security, but I wouldn't want it any other way.

At the sound of the chime on the door, Mr. Mellark steps out into the store front, a large smile on his face. My heart clenches every time I see his kind eyes. They're just so much like his, but I try not to dwell on that. The boy with the bread is long gone and it's high time that I accept that. I hardly knew him anyway. His disappearance shouldn't shake me so much.

But it does. The whole town was devastated when the youngest Mellark boy went missing. My feelings on the matter are nothing more than neighborly concern.

Or are they? I brush the thought off as soon as it pops into my mind. It's a ridiculous notion. Clearly, I'm just upset because he was a classmate of mine. That's all there is to it. Right?

I'd never admit it to anyone else, but he was the reason I decided to go into law enforcement. Well, that and it paid the bills without needing a fancy college degree. Plus, snagging the job was a cinch since Haymitch apparently loves my "sass".

I only half listen as Finnick exchanges pleasantries with the older man, and then proceeds to order half a dozen donuts. I have no idea where he puts them all. Finnick is as lean and lithe a man as I have ever met, but I've seen him scarf down more food in one sitting than I could have ever dreamt of as a child. And yet, surprisingly, he's in even better shape than I am.

Finnick nudges my arm to draw my attention and hands me a steaming hot cup of coffee. I gratefully wrap my still frozen fingers around the cardboard cup and look woefully out the window where the snow has begun to pick up again.

"I suppose we should head back out…" I begin, but Mr. Mellark quickly cuts me off.

"Nonsense. I can't have my favorite customers freezing to death," he tells us with a good natured wink. "Take a load off at one of the tables in here for a while. You kids work too hard these days."

I consider telling him that in a small town like ours, my job is a breeze. But instead, I move towards a small table in the corner and unceremoniously plop down in the seat, spilling my scalding coffee as I do. I hiss and mutter a few choice words under my breath, jumping up to grab a napkin. After wiping off my hand, I join Finnick at our table as Mr. Mellark returns to the back.

"Want to catch a movie with me Saturday night, Everdeen?"

"Can't. I've already got plans."

"Hot date with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding?" he asks with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows.

"What? No, you know Gale and I aren't like that. And what's with the nickname? You're obviously spending too much time around Jo," I grumble. "If you must know, I'm being dragged out for a girl's night. Apparently, I don't get out enough."

Finnick throws back his head in laughter as I slurp down the final dregs of my coffee. "It's not funny!" I fix him with as stern a glare as I can muster. "You're not the one who has to wear some tiny little dress with shoes that pinch, and pretend you're having a great time while fending off creeps and trying not to go deaf from the volume of the music in a sweaty, nasty nightclub. Now let's go." My words come out in jumbled rush and I have to suck in a deep breath when I'm finished.

I march out the front door, pausing only briefly to throw a quick goodbye to Mr. Mellark over my shoulder. When I get home I slip into the house quietly so as not to wake Prim. She's home from her first year of college for winter break, a luxury I could never afford. I'm glad she's able to further her education though. She's sharp as a whip-much smarter than I am- and got a fantastic scholarship to John's Hopkins medical school in Baltimore. Unfortunately, it's more than a few hours from where we live in rural New Jersey, so she can't visit often.

I tiredly flip through the morning paper that I found already delivered on my front step when I got home. Like magnets, my eyes are drawn to the "Have You Seen Me?" section at the bottom of the last page. Just as it has for the last six years, the smiling face of a sixteen year old Peeta Mellark stares back at me. I quickly toss the newspaper aside and retire to my room, drawing the curtains shut to block out the rising sun.

I toss and turn in bed, trying to shut off my thoughts. All I can think about is how I never even thanked him, and now he's probably dead. My debts will forever be unpaid. The thought makes my stomach sink like a brick. Turning onto my back, I finally get some reprieve from my mind and fall into a fitful sleep.

I wake a few hours later to the smell of breakfast wafting up from the kitchen. Sleepily, I make way down the stairs and grab a piece of crispy bacon from the pile before Prim can slap my hand away.

"Uh-uh. I'm almost done and then we can sit down like at the table and eat brunch like a family. I called Mom this morning and she's coming over soon. Have you even talked to her since I moved out?" I roll my eyes and stick my tongue out to avoid answering the question, which only confirms my guilt. Prim shoots me a knowing look, then reaches up to the cabinet nearest to her and grabs three glasses before filling them with orange juice. "Please, just try for me. I think she's finally getting better."

I sigh but say nothing. I know that Mom will never recover from Dad's death, but I don't have the heart to tell Prim that. After an awkward meal and an hour of stilted conversation, I finally excuse myself, setting my dishes in the sink to be dealt with later. I slink back to my room in hopes of squeezing in some more sleep before picking up Finnick for work. We have night patrol all week.

Unsurprisingly, the night passes without too much action. After a speeding ticket, a lecture to some high school kids about vandalizing the benches in the public park, and a whole lot of hours of nothing, Finnick and I swing by the police station to retrieve Finnick's forgotten cell phone charger. When we arrive, we're met by an even more haggard than usual looking Sheriff Haymitch Abernathy.

"My office. Now," he orders before turning on his heel. I exchange an anxious look with Finnick before hurrying after him. Pulling the door shut behind me, I will myself not to gag at the stench of alcohol and stale cigarettes. "I'm going to cut right to the chase. We think we might have a lead on the cold case. The Mellark one, that is."