She could have held him, but she didn't.

Instead, she looked around the cold, dark flat, counting the streaks on the walls as she sat with clenched hands. But when Shinra didn't lift his head, she held up her phone.

It's not your fault.

His eyes moved to the white screen, a wan smile dried on his lips. When he looked back down, she occupied herself with the grumbling static, the sting of lemon detergent, and her shadow clouding the tiles. This was not a hospital, but their home.

"I could have…" and his hands flew to his temples. "Well, it's useless now. I wish I never told him."

That had nothing to do with it. And if it did, then it was my fault too.

"Oh Celty, don't say that. You were involved by accident." A helpless laugh escaped him. "He was my best friend. I can try not to think about my fault—maybe say that we are all meant to ruin each other in the end anyway. People, I mean. But if there were a way to change him back to good, I'd do it."

Celty did not like Shinra sad. Nor did she like lying to him. So she said what she thought was best.

To change, Izaya would have to be born another person.

What she meant was that Izaya Orihara changed back to good could not be Izaya. That whether or not Shinra had helped make him, he could not be unmade. But to her surprise, Shinra unlocked his fingers with a look. It was a look he had when he found sago instead of milk tea in his cup. It was also the look of an idea.

What?

But Shinra did not look at her phone. His eyes shined behind his glasses. He touched her shoulder, laughed, and touched it again. "Don't be alarmed, Celty. I know what you meant." His voice bounded in high spirits.

But what did you understand? she would have asked, if he weren't holding her hands and humming. It wasn't long before she changed her mind and rested against his shoulder. This was like any of the other nights they stayed in because of rain, curled together with wet cups of ramen. He would talk and fall silent, and she would listen to both, and then she would understand him.

There had been many rainy nights. She had gathered that he was a strange man.

Mornings always meant something special to Izaya. He enjoyed making his bed by rolling in his blankets before squeezing out. He enjoyed the sunrise from his windows, though he'd never say that aloud. And he enjoyed breakfast—natto and frozen oranges. Yet all that could be done away with and he would still wake up pleased.

Because mornings made him feel special. All those people would wake up, conscious of their blank slates and understanding to a degree the concept of Anything Might Happen. Izaya was different, however. He knew those slates weren't blank. They each had stains and spider cracks that lasted and kept his work running. People simply turned their slates over and proclaimed Anything Might Happen.

But Izaya had an idea of what those tragic Anythings might be. It was as fantastic as being able to read the future.

Namie had left the manila envelope on the kitchen counter as always, and it was thick. With a flick of his thumb, he opened the flap and poured a stack of papers next to his natto. What futures might he play with today? He smoothed the page on top, which Namie had prepared for him the night before.

Itinerary

12/06/11

Phone Calls:

Shinra called to set up lunch with him. Preferably the coming Sunday. I've already said you will, so call if that was a no.

NTT Docomo called to see if you'd care to switch your monthly plan to bimonthly. I've also renewed your free texting plan.

Mairu and Kururi have both called you separately. Apparently they think it's urgent.

Tasks:

12:03 PM: Pick up your reward from Mr. Saxe for duty completion-mailbox

4:37 PM: You owe Kiku AF3 information [see attachments] concerning Francis. Meet at Otome Road, near the manikins

8:30 PM: Tipoff to Mikado when he's heading past Seibu

Issues:

Shizuo has taken your dry cleaning when you called me to bring your dinner. I do not know where it is.

Reminders:

Place 50000 yen in envelope if you want groceries

Father's Day in a week

With his flick blade, he broke through the rind of a naval orange. A few drops rolled into his tea with a hiss. Well, he'll have lunch with Shinra. It had been a while. Maybe hotpot? It took too much effort to call, and he had other things to do. Like call a babysitter for his sisters.

As for the dry cleaning, Shizuo could do what he wanted with the load. He had an endless number of jackets just like the one he lost.

Hnh. So Namie had a sense of humor. Father's Day had as much to do with him as Valentine's Day. Both were superfluous. He loved humans every day—why set a day apart for one person? At least he was consistent. Then again, he should be forgiving. Humans never were. Or they always were. Consistent, that is.

Then he grinned wide before spooning slippery natto in his mouth. Oh yes—Father's Day! It was special after all, for his eyes strayed onto the reminder concerning Mikado.

The tipoff would be quiet, almost an afterthought. Just something short—he had most of it prepared the week before. Kida had been easy—Izaya had already convinced him that his father wanted to meet on Father's Day. Celty had mentioned the boy's anguish to Shinra, who let the information drop to Izaya. Kida had so many emotions; it thrilled Izaya to watch them battle, as if each was a separate person. Once he passed Mikado a certain note he still needed to prepare, nearly everything would be ready. He had guarded Anri's secret enough. Her brutal past, Kida's passionate need to protect others, Mikado's hopeless puppy love and fierce need to prove his bravery…it might be his best yet.

He had a few guesses of how things might turn out. If he wangled it properly, Mikado might even mistakenly think that Kida and Anri's father was one and the same person. That made him giggle. It was splendid fun to toy with Mikado—he always was the stupidest of the bunch. No wonder he liked him so much.

With breakfast done, he figured he'd run by Mizuho Bank and pick up the money Namie wanted. He could have given her his bank numbers, but she would be spending it all on gifts for her brother. Granted, the money wouldn't make a difference, but the one thing that irked him was being deceived. He wouldn't be, but it would appear to be. And Namie would think she was deceiving him and gloating about it, though he knew—knew before he had given her the numbers.

Besides, he was hoping that Shizuo would see him. To be perfectly honest, he was bored, and a little running might be the best thing after breakfast.

Hopping off of his stool, he reached the door in three bounds, felt the credit card in his back pocket, and twisted the doorknob.

Then he kicked the bucket.

Actually, it could hardly be a bucket. A wooden pail, more like. It was large, nearly as tall as his knees, with a lid. Izaya bent down. Was this Namie's idea of lunch delivery? He rapped the side of the bucket.

The lid jostled.

Three theories immediately came to mind.

This pail held his reward from Mr. Saxe, delivered early. It was possible he couldn't find the pail was from an enemy, and if he didn't move he was going to have his face blasted pail held his lunch.

With a shrug, he brought it inside, closing the door behind him. If he must have a gaping hole in his face, he'd rather acquire it privately.

Nevertheless, a thrill ran through his fingers as he touched the lid. So strange, so strange. He was sure he would have predicted an event like this before it happened. He brought his ear close to the pail. There wasn't any ticking. Just the shifting of the lid again.

"Tada," he said, and opened the pail.

He leapt back, upsetting his stool, with his stomach twisted. Small curled fists and thin eyelids flashed in his mind when he blinked.

Miniature corpse, well, he didn't expect that.

His foot wouldn't stop tapping the floor. Once the first cold wave ran through his body, he lifted the lid, ready to cap it closed and toss it in the closest dumpster.

Wait.

Something dead wouldn't have jostled anything. Not if it was human, anyway, and he was only afraid of human death.

He peered into the pail. The baby yawned—its mouth fleshy like an oyster with its tooth pearl—and turned around. A tuft of its black hair was mussed from sleep.

Very, very slowly, Izaya extended his arm into the pail. He gingerly poked its cheek, almost touching its nose. The hand darted out immediately when the baby turned, blinking at him. For a few seconds, they stared at each other. Then, with a disdainful sigh, it turned its back to him and continued snoozing.

Izaya's eyebrow rose. Now this was interesting. An abandoned baby was an unwanted baby, and an unwanted baby was usually a secret. Already, his mind ran through the possible fathers and mothers who would throw away a healthy child, and to him. What person would ever give a child to him? Unless that was a hated baby. Maybe they expected him to torture it, or kill it. Maybe they expected him to use it in his plans.

Lucky for the kid, Izaya had another annoyance. He disliked meeting expectations.

Just as he was marveling his guest, the eyes opened again. Izaya turned his head this way and that, trying to figure out that feeling. It was a strange feeling when he looked into those eyes. There was this instinctive desire to run away.

That's when he realized they were reddish brown.

He glanced back at the itinerary on the counter.

Mairu and Kururi have both called you separately. Apparently they think it's urgent.

Well, it certainly wasn't his. And his parents were too busy to have lunch with each other, much less taste the fruits of matrimony.

Huh. Mairu was strong-willed; she would have killed anyone who touched her. As for Kururi…she was pretty. That's what some of the boys said.

He dialed his phone and waited, studying the baby's round face for dominant traits.

"Moshi mosh. Mairu? It's Izaya." A pause. "Yes, that Izaya. Tomorrow's a lucky day. So lucky that you two should have lunch with me. Mmhmm. Well." He poked at the baby again. It yelled out angrily as he held the phone in front of its face. "Yes. In fact, there is something I'd like to discuss. See you, lovely Mairu!"

Mikado felt bad.

Everything was fine until she arrived. It had been the perfect time to enjoy the sunset with two of your best friends; just when the sun bubbled orange and the buildings began to set shadows on baked pavement. Thin gauzes of sweat hung from the curves of their chins as the metal bench burned their thighs. And in his hands was the perfect complement: a waffle cone topped with a generous scoop of strawberry ice cream.

But how could he enjoy the ice cream if Celty was there, with clearly no cone and no mouth to devour it? With her being clothed in sticky black leather and the weather a stifling 33 degrees Celsius, it was like eating a sandwich in front of a starving child.

"Yo Celts, aren't you dying in that suit?" said Kida as he gulped down his first chocolate cone and moved on to his second. "Isn't there a way for you to eat some ice cream?"

Dullahan are a little stronger when it comes to the heat. And we are often lactose intolerant.

Mikado's eyes bugged out. "Really?"

No.

Kida roared with laughter. "Celty can't even taste anything! I was just asking to be polite."

Celty inclined her head to Mikado. Go ahead and finish what you started. I won't mind.

Mikado mumbled a few words before nibbling at his cone. Finally, he said, "Well, how are you doing, Celty? And Shinra? We haven't talked to him for a while."

It was like any other day. He seemed to be very happy about a new idea. I don't know what it is. But if you don't mind, I'd like to warn you.

The trio grew solemn. Kida scratched the back of his neck, and with a cheeky grin, said, "All right Celty. Let's hear it. What does Shinra have in mind for us."

This has nothing to do with Shinra. Three days ago, I was driving near the north side of Ikebukero and I noticed an argument between a woman and a taxi driver. She had long dark hair and she was holding a bag of groceries in one hand, as well as a few portfolios in another. The taxi driver refused to let her out of the car because she had forgotten to bring enough money for the tab. He couldn't understand how she could buy so much bitter melon and soybeans and not have enough money for the way home. Apparently, she had forgotten.

I stopped to help her pay the fee, and he nearly kicked her out—they were both very angry. Before I could leave, the taxi driver sounded his horn and gave me two things that had slipped out of her portfolio. He said that if I'm to help that forgetful person, I might as well finish the job and return them to her. I would have returned them immediately, if she hadn't already left. So I looked at what they were. One was a receipt to Mutekiya. Another was a photograph.

She reached into her sleeve and pulled them both out, handing them to Anri, who gasped. Mikado peered over her shoulder and managed to glance at the photo, one of a girl standing in front of a man with a white face and eyebrows like arrows. Anri flipped the picture over, but it was too late. The leap in his heart confirmed to Mikado that the girl was indeed Anri. Much younger, thinner, with a blank face, but Anri nonetheless.

"Wait, I didn't see it," said Kida, who took the photo from her hands and turned it around again. "Huh, isn't that you, Anri? Who's the guy?"

Anri continued to stare at the picture. Her hands were shaking.

Kida quickly placed the photo back into her hands and kneeled in front of her, a look of concern in his eyes. "Hey. It's fine. It's just a picture. Okay."

The photo had fallen near Mikado's feet. The man stared back up at him, with glasses that mirrored Anri's and the same thin lips. His arm wound over her shoulders, his hand dangling just above the swell of polyester.

"Oh, wait, here's the receipt." Mikado bent down and fished it from underneath them. He scanned down the types of ramen. "Celty. Celty, look at this!"

Celty looked over at the small line of print at the bottom.

"Namie Yagiri. This was her credit card, and she wouldn't be carrying around photos of Anri."

"You know this woman?" shot Kida, who had tried giving Anri a one-armed hug. "Is she a Dollar?"

"No, but her boss is," said Mikado, the anger biting in his throat. "What does Izaya have planned this time, Celty?"

I don't know. But I don't believe he's fond enough of Anri to keep a photo with him or with his secretary.

"He wouldn't do that if it were his own children." Mikado shook his head. "He meddles too much." Pulling out his phone, he punched a few numbers in and waited.

"Tell him I'd like to sock him," said Kida cheerily.

"He's on the phone with someone else," said Mikado, discouraged.

Anri stood up. "It's fine. I was being silly. Don't worry about it."

"C'mon Anri," said Kida. A lazy grin pulled at his lips and stopped cold before reaching his eyes. "We said we wouldn't lie to each other, not if we can help it. And if you want to think of it the noble way, whatever he's planning against you he's planning against us."

"No one should have had that photo." She wet her lips. "Especially when I'm wearing that ridiculous sweater."

"But you're beautiful. Beautiful! With or without the sweater," said Kida, relieved at the smile cracking across her face. "Anyway, we should pay him a visit on Sunday, since I have a group meeting for some project on Saturday. His place is comfy. We might be able to steal a few of his spoons."

Is that necessarily wise?

"We'll go during lunch," said Anri. "Bring a bottle of champagne and make him spill." She picked up the photo and tucked it into her pocket. "It might not be wise. But it might as well be fun."

"That's my girl," said Kida, ruffling her hair.

A stain of red touched Kururi's cheeks, but it was only the wooly glow of her scarf—not at all the proof of a lust-driven, sadly mistaken young girl. He studied her, shifted his gaze to Mairu, who stared pointedly back, and then back at the baby before them. The baby opened a sleepy eye.

"What will you name him?" said Izaya, shaking his head.

Kururi studied the baby, straightened the sallow green ruffle that hung around the crib [Izaya figured it would provide dramatic effect to the charge inside]. "What a sweetheart."

"Eh? Sweetheart is not a good name for him," he said. "Perhaps you should name him after me."

"Look at him, so strong," said Mairu, when she weighed its chubby arms.

"Very handsome," agreed Kururi. The baby smacked its lips of sleep and shot a demanding hand to Izaya. The milk clung steaming on its glass as Izaya took the bottle from the hot plate.

"We should name him Shizuo," said Mairu.

"Oi!" Izaya swung the bottle away from the stubby fingers. "Why would I feed anything with a name like that?"

"You'd probably choke him," said Mairu, ladling the baby into her arms. Kururi took the bottle and brought it gently to the baby's mouth.

No sign of guilt—he was too familiar with its effects on the human body—or anxiety. Only his twin sisters gathered around the baby, catching drops of milk before it seeped between its chins. And why the name Shizuo of all things? The baby had his sister's eyes, not Shizuo's crazed ones. But they were right; it was awful strong. He remembered thinking as much when it refused to peacefully enter its crib. Oh God, if this bundle of fat was Shizuo's…

"You look as if you're about to be sick," said Mairu coolly.

"What can you possibly see in Shizuo?"

"So strong," repeated Kururi, with a barely suppressed giggle.

"But if he was our baby, you wouldn't hurt him, would you? Even if it has a little Heiwajima blood…" said Mairu.

The baby squashed its face against Izaya's chest when he took it back. "You know how the chemicals work," said Izaya. "Just a drop of Heiwajima makes Orihara explode." He moved to the window, floors and floors above the sidewalk cracks.

When neither sister spoke, he cranked open the window. Below, the drone of traffic churned on gravel. They could barely make out the sparrows shrilling above the roof.

"Do stop," said Mairu.

"What a draft," said Kururi.

"What good liars!" Izaya closed the window, tucking the baby under the crook of his arm. "Well, let's just see which little sister this baby looks like more."

Standing alongside them, he lugged the baby until it was shoulder height to him and his sisters. The black tuft that rose pointed on its head and the lips that twisted without its bottle made it look like a very angry baby bird.

"She looks like you," said Kururi finally. Her voice grew quiet enough to be sad. "Your eyes. Your face." She took the baby from him.

"She?"

"We were making fun the whole time," said Mairu. "Of course she's a girl. Look at her look at you. Only a baby girl could look back like that."

Izaya stared at the baby. She drooled.

"Little baby Iza," cooed Mairu. "Come here." She nuzzled the baby, and Kururi joined her, their sharp elbows like jutting bayonets. They smoothed her hair and touched the curve of her chin. Occasionally, they'd steal glances at Izaya and whisper in her ear.

Izaya breathed out slowly. It was strange, he noted, that his sisters stood like crumbling walls around that child, their adoration spilling into her lap. Here was a thing that didn't speak, that didn't know how to love, that wasn't theirs, and yet it received everything.

He looked at them look at her. Their faces were as soft as their mother's when she bent over her twin girls years ago. They had pouts like rubber and noses slippery with kisses, and when their mother cried for him to gaze upon her babies—'they're looking for you!'—he obliged. But baby Mairu's eyes were glued with sleep, eyelashes made two curves of tar. And Kururi stared at the ceiling, the fan lights flickering in her vacant eyes.

So how was he supposed to know it was a girl?

They picked their way around the tracks of grime, paying no attention to the honking buses. The ramen for lunch filled their stomachs with knots, or at least, that's how it felt when they had left their brother. Of course it was the ramen.

"I'm impressed," said Kururi.

Mairu glanced at her sister. The gymnastic hood rested against her bangs, so that her face was hidden twice. "Me too. He couldn't have made it better."

They both stopped walking. Cars swerved around them, throttling past their ankles.

"Oh Mairu," said Kururi, her voice breaking.

Mairu took both of Kururi's hands, and it was understood before they had reached to each other. Though they hardly bothered to mourn for the future, like many stupid persons in Ikebukero, they understood the loss that would come. They had felt it once before on a hot day—cicadas buzzing through the cloak of leaves, lunch boxes half empty save for wrappers and broken chopsticks—when Izaya never came back.

"It's the only chance he has," said Mairu. "And then he will come back to us."

"What a long, long time," said Kururi.