The call came early in the morning, just like it always did lately. Emily answered the phone in a sleepy daze, barely managing to grab it before the call ended. She wasn't entirely sure whom she was speaking to—a rookie probably, they always got the worst shifts—but it didn't matter. The information was always the same, just in a new location. The Nightshade had struck again, this time at Metropolis's finest art museum, the Saco Gallery.

For a moment after the call ended, Emily lay in bed and watched the bright red numbers of her alarm clock turn from 5:38 to 5:39. Only then did she drag herself from the warmth of her blankets and stumble her way to the shower, all the while cursing the Nightshade and his love for early morning heists.

She arrived at the crime scene forty-five minutes later, holding a cup of coffee from an all-night diner around the block from her apartment. Since the Nightshade began stealing, she'd become sort of a regular customer. The coffee wasn't great, but it always beat what she could get at the precinct.

Three other police cars were at the scene, their red and blue lights flickering in the early morning light. When she started this job, she'd asked to keep a low profile—the Nightshade wasn't dangerous, just mischievous, and with the precinct in the limelight already, Emily didn't want to add to it. The city was in enough of an uproar about the thief without the media's help.

Emily pulled her coat tighter around her and ducked under the yellow crime tape, so focused on getting to the scene that she didn't notice a woman running toward her until she cried, "Detective Fields, wait!"

Emily shut her eyes and took in a deep breath. She didn't have time to waste; she needed to get into the building and start her investigation. By the time she turned around, the woman was in front of her. Her cheeks were flushed from the cool November air and she was desperately trying to appear like she wasn't out of breath from her sprint towards the detective. "I'm Alison DiLaurentis from the Metropolis Times." She stuck out her hand and gave Emily an award-winning smile.

Emily tried her hardest to not let it affect her, but despite her best efforts, her heart fluttered as she gave the woman a once over. With her perfect blonde curls and heart-shaped face, she could easily have been a model. Her bright blue blazer made her eyes pop, and it was all Emily could do to look away before she succumbed and let the blonde into the crime scene.

"No press allowed," she said, staring pointedly at the badge attached to the woman's hip. Alison let her hand drop to her side after a moment, but her smile stayed plastered to her face. When she realized Emily wasn't going to let her in, she looked surprised.

"No, there must be some mistake. I cleared it with Captain Ferlioli ten minutes ago." She fumbled to grab her phone; her brow furrowed as she swiped past the lock screen and showed Emily her call log. "I can call him back," she offered. "He can confirm everything I've said is true."

Emily sighed. Alison was nothing if not persistent, and she really didn't want to start trouble with the press; if her boss had said it was okay, who was she to deny the journalist? "Fine," she said. "I'll let it slide, but just this once."

Alison smiled. "Just this once, I promise."

Emily resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Well, come on then." She lifted the yellow tape and Alison ducked under. They made their way up the dozen steps to the front of the museum, Alison's heels clicking loudly on each step. Banners of the current exhibits flanked the sides of the staircases and Emily studied them, wondering if the Nightshade had waited for something in particular to come to the Saco Gallery before he broke in.

A policeman opened the door for them. Emily flashed her badge and the man waved her along, Alison in tow. Thankfully, the reporter didn't feel the need to make small talk as they made their way to the back of the museum. Emily watched Alison out of the corner of her eye, curious to see what she'd make of all this. The Nightshade was unlike any other thief she'd encountered. Most thieves stole because they needed something; as far as she could tell, the Nightshade stole because he thought it was fun.

As they drew closer to the crime scene, the quiet of the museum erupted into a cacophony of sounds; the echo of several radios bouncing off the marble walls, the scuffing of police-issued boots and the quiet murmuring of the officers on duty. Emily turned to Alison. "I need to speak with my colleagues. I'll find another officer to escort you from here."

Alison looked surprised. "Escort me to where, exactly?"

Emily ran a hand through her hair. Captain Ferlioli might have given this reporter permission to write an article on the break-in, but she couldn't wander around the crime scene without supervision. "Back outside," she said. "You want to talk to some officers, right? I can get a few to come here and talk to you, but then you'll have to leave."

Alison pursed her lips. "I thought I was going to stay with you."

Emily bit back a laugh. "Sorry, I don't think that's going to happen." She turned away, gesturing to the nearest police officer. "Toby, could you come over here?"

Alison crossed her arms. "I've been profiling the Nightshade for weeks. If I can tell you what was stolen, will you let me in?"

Emily frowned. "How do you know it was the Nightshade?"

For a split second, Alison looked panicked, like she didn't know what to say. But then she flipped her hair behind her and her calm demeanor was back. "Who else could steal from the Saco and get away with it?" When Emily said nothing, she added, "So if I guess correctly, will you let me join you?"

Toby was getting closer; Emily could easily wait it out and leave the reporter with him. However, Emily was curious, and the odds of Alison getting it correct were slim to none. "Sure."

Alison smirked. "Garden at Sainte-Adresse by Claude Monet."

"What makes you say that?" Emily asked, her heart pounding. She hadn't expected the reporter to actually be right.

Alison gestured to the banners above them, advertising the exhibit ahead. "A Monet exhibit? The Saco was just asking to get robbed. It isn't Monet's most known work, but it's still popular." She shrugged. "Maybe the Nightshade took it for sentimental reasons. It has the same qualities as the other pieces the Nightshade has stolen."

Alison eyed Emily for a moment, taking in her noncommittal expression. "I'm right, aren't I?" Before Emily could respond, someone cleared their throat. Emily turned to face Toby. She wondered how long he'd been standing there.

"Good morning, Detective Fields. What can I do for you?" When he saw Alison's press badge, his posture became more rigid, but he said nothing on the matter. Alison, in turn, watched the police officer with a mixture of curiosity and something Emily could only describe as nervousness.

"I..." Emily began. Alison's eyes found hers, staring at her accusatorially. They both knew she was right. Emily sighed. A deal was a deal, even if she didn't like it. "Sorry, Toby, there was just a misunderstanding on my part. I'll show Ms. DiLaurentis around." Toby nodded. Emily was thankful he didn't press the matter. She waited until he was out of earshot before she turned to a rather smug looking Alison. "Come on, let's go."

"Thank you for keeping your word," Alison said, surprisingly sincere. "Being able to see a crime scene up close will really help bring authenticity to the piece."

"Don't mention it." Emily shrugged and tossed her empty coffee cup in the trash. They received a few odd looks as they stepped around the corner and into view of the empty frame, but Emily paid no attention to the other officers. As she stood in front of the wooden frame, everything else seemed to fade away. The Nightshade had left the placard for Garden at Sainte-Adresse along with the usual calling card—a branch full of the dark purple flowers that had given the thief his nickname. Emily read the information on the placard, but nothing jumped out at her. There were certainly more valuable paintings within the Monet exhibit.

Emily crouched down and scooped up the flowers, bringing them to her nose. The smell was always the same—a poignant sweetness with a subtly bitter undertone that made Emily both hate and love the flower. These days, she was leaning more towards hate.

"Can I see the flowers?" Alison asked, causing Emily to jump. She'd been so focused she hadn't noticed the reporter moving closer. She handed over the stem and Alison took them delicately, as if she were afraid to break them. She brought them to her nose just as Emily had done, albeit more cautiously.

Emily studied the reporter for a moment, contemplating her next move. "You said you've been profiling the Nightshade," she said thoughtfully. Alison nodded. "How long have you been studying him?"

Alison narrowed her eyes. "Long enough to know that the Nightshade is a woman."

Emily raised an eyebrow. "What makes you say that? There's nothing distinctly feminine about the Nightshade."

"Nothing about the thief is distinctly masculine, either." Alison crossed her arms, and Emily got the impression that she'd somehow insulted the reporter by assuming the Nightshade was a man. She started to apologize, but Alison waved her off. "It's a common mistake." Alison gave her a small smile. "Thank you for your time, Emily. I really appreciate it. I'm sure we'll cross paths again."

Emily blinked, and suddenly Alison was nowhere in sight. Emily turned toward the exit, confused. The blonde wasn't there, but Captain Ferioli was. Next to him stood a young man dressed in professional attire with a notepad in his hand. Ferioli gestured her over. "Detective Fields! Come meet our young reporter. I spoke with him this morning; he's agreed to cover all of our future stories about the Nightshade."

Emily opened her mouth to respond, but found herself speechless. She pressed her lips together and gave the reporter a smile that convinced absolutely no one. Alison had played her so well she hadn't even expected it. Emily stuffed her hands in her police jacket and pulled back in shock. The flowers. Alison never handed them back to her; instead, she'd put them in Emily's pocket. She pulled the flowers out and a card fluttered to the floor.

After a moment's hesitation, she picked it up. The text was a scrawling cursive, but the message itself was simple. I'll give the painting back if you agree to do something for me. If you share this with anyone, the deal is off. Her breath caught in her throat when she read the signature. Surely it was a joke. She put the card back into her pocket with a shaking hand. Why would the Nightshade need her help?