August

As the clear morning sunlight slowly fanned through the top floor corner office of the Kirijo Headquarters, Mitsuru Kirijo closed the last file folder from the pile on her desk before swiveling her chair toward the window. Since officially stepping into her role as CEO, Mitsuru had watched the sun rise and set from this office dozens of times. During the last two weeks, she hadn't missed one.

The heavy sensation in her head and the breaking light indicated that it was time to return home to sleep for an hour before resuming running the company.

After Mitsuru had received the anonymous email, she instructed Chihiro to fetch a list of files from archives under the strict caveat that Chihiro use Mitsuru's clearance code and skip completing the official request form. If something suspect was indeed happening in her company, Mitsuru didn't want to raise any red flags. Chihiro had expertly made photocopies of everything before returning the originals to their location in the basement.

The file review had not yielded any significant findings, as she expected, though there were some minor inconsistencies. A few of the journal entries from finance had flimsy back-up documentation. Others referenced cost centers Mitsuru had never seen before, though that was hardly strange considering the size of her company. The records of the students were sparse and appeared all too homogenous and sterilized, and it had been years since anyone from Kirijo Headquarters had conducted a field visit. The curriculum was in need of updating, but standard for the young age group. Judging by the photos in the file, the buildings were state of the art, but hardly what one would call flashy.

There were irregularities, but nothing to warrant an internal investigation.

Mitsuru picked up the files and carefully arranged them into her briefcase.

She couldn't help but berate herself for not paying closer attention to this wing of her company. It was no less vital to the overall health of the company than any other department.

Mitsuru walked into the elevator, pondering what course to take with the anonymous email. She'd burned the stack of files into her mind for the last two weeks, but was no closer to having any concrete evidence linking the missing school children to her department.

Mitsuru needed to dig deeper, but also needed time to plan how to do so without drawing attention. It wouldn't go unnoticed if the CEO reached into department records and started asking ground-level questions. If anything was happening in Charitable Giving, Mitsuru had to let it keep happening. She needed data. She needed proof.

When she returned home, she scanned the news for updates on the Sonoran school children before curling up on her bed and setting her alarm for an hour.


"I think we should. . ."

Mitsuru watched him take a deep breath, the lapels of his uniform stiff against his chest.

He had come here after his shift, she noted to herself.

Akihiko stood a few steps from the door, and even though he had just arrived a few moments ago, Mitsuru knew he would be gone within a matter of minutes. During their relationship of two years, they had both become more adept at communicating. Like a time release capsule, they both had slowly divulged their thoughts, opinions, and feelings to each other to the point where their exchanges were close to easy.

When the phone calls suddenly stopped and the cancellations began, Mitsuru realized the event was imminent.

Mitsuru didn't seek him out to end things herself. It would have been prudent and might have eased the tension of the inevitable conversation on both of them. Part of her was hoping for a resolution, something that would be discussed and a subsequent realization that whatever was troubling Akihiko was just a misunderstanding. Another part of her told her that she was an obstacle in his life. One that stood in the way of focus, strength - a promotion.

"I think we should go our separate ways, Mitsuru."

Mitsuru nodded absently, her hands at her side.

"I see," she said, pushing back the wave of grief that pushed up against the back of her eyes. Mitsuru forced herself to look at him, even though the cracks were beginning to show. He looked back at her, and Mitsuru caught a flash of revulsion in his eyes before he quickly looked away.

This is what he wanted.

"I. . . understand," she said carefully. "I won't stand in your way, Akihiko."

He left without another word, the door slamming shut behind him.


She woke up gasping.

"Damn it," she whispered to her pillow, reaching for the alarm clock on the side of her bed. If she wanted to, she could let herself rest for another twenty minutes. Mitsuru cast the idea out contemptuously and instead took a quick shower in an attempt to shed the sudden agitation she was feeling.

After all these years, she still dreamed about him.

Mitsuru returned to the office promptly after changing and resumed working on her regular tasks. Even as she met with shareholders and reviewed documents from Research and Development, Mitsuru's head buzzed with frustration. She couldn't keep this routine up for much long before her energy started flagging. If that happened, it was bound to be noticed by her overly paternalistic Board Chair.

"Chihiro," Mitsuru pushed the page button her on her intercom. "Step into my office, please."

Mitsuru peered over her glasses as Chihiro Fushimi calmly made her way toward Mitsuru's desk. Chihiro had always impressed Mitsuru with her sharp mind and attention to detail. Her former student council protege's studious nature and diligence had sealed Mitsuru's decision to recruit Chihiro as Mitsuru's personal assistant five years ago after Chihiro had moved home to tend to her aging parents.

"Yes, Kirijo-san?"

"Is Procurement aware of the company's two signature policy on checks?"

"I believe so, yes."

"Can you tell me why these checks are on my desk to be signed instead of awaiting signature with the department head?"

"The Program Manager and Director are doing site evaluations in Osaka for the week. The secretary must have forgotten to put it on the out of office calendar," Chihiro noted, furiously scratching on a pad of paper. "You were next on the authorized signatures list. Is there someone else you'd like to have sign these checks?"

"I don't mind reviewing payments," Mitsuru waved her hand. "But the department heads are closer to the ground than I . . ." she trailed off, suddenly staring intensely at the check in front of her.

"Kirijo-san?"

Mitsuru pivoted her stare to Chihiro.

"Chihiro, do you remember when I asked you to pull those Charitable Giving files from the archives two weeks ago?"

"Y-Yes," Chihiro replied strangely, taken back by the sudden shift in topic.

"I'm interested in these files because I'd like to expand the Kirijo Group's donor base," Mitsuru said evenly. "It's time to recruit additional development sponsors for the schools in Mexico and Lebanon."

"All right," Chihiro said slowly. "How may I help you?"

"I need you to pull every check copy from Charitable Giving associated with Agua Prieta and Al Boutul from the last ten years. It will give me an idea of how much in annual giving we need to solicit from any interested donors."

"Sure, I'll do that right away-"

"No," Mitsuru said sharply. Chihiro gazed back, unsure how to respond.

"I need you do this first thing tomorrow morning or at the end of your shift tonight. Preferably tonight," Mitsuru clarified, her voice softening some.

Chihiro nodded silently.

"This is a sensitive matter to the Board," Mitsuru continued carefully. "I'd rather keep you away from any overly curious personnel. I need time," she finished absently to the check in her hand.

"I understand," Chihiro said simply, still fixing Mitsuru with a confused gaze. "I'll make photocopies and return the originals to storage."

"Be sure to use my credentials again. Thank you, Chihiro," Mitsuru said, placing the check face down on her desk and turning to face her assistant fully. "You are a valuable asset to this company."

"Thank you, Kirijo-san," Chihiro blushed. "You'll have those files tonight."

As promised, at a quarter past eight, Chihiro delivered a thick stack of check copies to Mitsuru's desk. As Mitsuru began working her way through the documents, she noted that none of the signatures belonged to her. Unlike Procurement, Charitable Giving's only authorized signer was the VP. Company policy dictated that if a department had less than two designated signers, the CEO had to be the second signature on all checks.

Mitsuru looked over her shoulder at the setting sun before piling her hair into a loose knot behind her head.

The VP's signature was the first signature on all of the checks. However, the second signature scratched onto each and every check from the last ten years looked familiar, but Mitsuru couldn't quite put a name to it. Mitsuru stared at it a bit longer before she turned to her computer and pulled up the Kirijo Company Board Charter, signed by all of Board Members annually. As she ran down the list, she stopped halfway through at Eito Akabe's name. Mitsuru held one of the check copies next to her monitor and murmured her favorite French curse word, her blood boiling.

Her Board Treasurer was authorizing use of funds behind her back.

Mitsuru dove into the heap of paper, this time focusing on dates. She compared it to her planner from the previous year and immediately noticed on the date of first check, she was in Prague attending a conference on nanotechnology. The date of another check occurred at the same time Mitsuru was in Paris working on a trade agreement with the French government. Every check was cut on a day that Mitsuru was absent from the company. Any board member could authorize funds in Mitsuru's absence, but to have every check from Charitable Giving signed by the same Board member? And cut every time she was out of the office?

Mitsuru neatly stacked the copies together before depositing the documents into her attache and shutting down her computer. She would not stay here again tonight.

She was starting to piece together enough evidence to show something was amiss, but nothing she had would tell her much else. Mitsuru needed details. She needed names, evidence, and if she cared enough to ask for a motive after she executed them, Mitsuru would ask for that too. When it was all said and done, she noted to herself wryly, she needed to light a fire in the Finance Department for overlooking such a gross irregularity without question.

The sky was still basking in the glow of the setting sun as Mitsuru exited Headquarters. When she arrived home, Mitsuru went directly to her inbox and retrieved the email from two weeks ago and began typing.

Let's talk.

A week later, the first manilla envelope arrived.


Mitsuru's doorman delivered the envelope to her. He stated that a courier service had been by and had left the parcel with him. Not surprisingly, there was no return address on the envelope. Just Mitsuru's name and apartment number. She opened the envelope with some trepidation.

Nothing could have prepared her for the contents.

The first set of photos were of the rooms in Agua Prieta. Mitsuru recalled the photos of classrooms, but these had obviously been taken some time after the photos her company had on record. The rooms had been modified; removed of desks and books. Instead, the room had a row of evokers stationed against the wall, and a neat line of IV drips facing the front of the room. Mitsuru only recognized the classroom from the original chalkboard and desk at the head of the room.

She peeled back the photos and angrily swallowed the pained sigh in her throat. The next photo was of a young girl, strapped to a gurney, the fear on her face tangible. Someone in a lab coat was putting an evoker in her hand and holding her down by the shoulder while another was checking the IV drip.

Mitsuru shuddered, the bile rising in her throat.

A boy, looking over his shoulder with a terrified expression with a gun in his small hands. Another boy, huddled on the ground shivering as a grotesque apparition hung over him. A girl, cradling her head with tears streaming down her cheeks.

Mitsuru forced herself to look at each and every photo, each more grisly than the last. When she finished going through the stack of photos, 26 in all from Agua Prieta, Mitsuru made for her bathroom and vomited.

The children in the last five photos had been photographed posthumously.

Mitsuru spent the next several minutes hugging her knees to her chest on the bathroom floor.

There was no letter to accompany the photos. The sender obviously thought the photos required no explanation and Mitsuru was inclined to agree. She recalled reading the mission statement for the Agua Prieta School, released by her father on the day of the ribbon-cutting.

A safe place now exists for children to pursue an education free of persecution, intimidation, and poverty. To those children who seek the light of knowledge, camaraderie, and the promise of a bright future: Welcome.

Mitsuru swallowed, the tears streaming down her face.

Instead those children had been tortured, experimented on, and some even murdered under the guise of a humanitarian operation led by her company.

Their blood was on her hands.

Mitsuru traced her index finger to her lip, grappling with the options for next steps in her mind.

Whoever had sent her the email and the envelope must have known she was unaware of what was happening in these schools, otherwise they would have come after her a lot harder.

This could all be a trap, she thought. Someone might want to lure her out before hitting her with a public scandal and tearing the Kirijo Group apart. The international community would be out for blood, regardless of Mitsuru's ignorance. This person was obviously waiting for her to make a move, but Mitsuru was uncertain about her place on their chessboard.

It didn't matter, Mitsuru told herself sternly, wiping her eyes. She didn't need to become any further ensnared in any one else's agenda. Instead she could play along while finding a way to break down the operations in Mexico and, no doubt, Lebanon.

Now that she had evidence that atrocities were indeed occurring at Agua Prieta and being covered up on an executive level, she needed to know who was fueling them as well as why, when, and how these unspeakable horrors were being allowed to carry on. No doubt the person on the other end of the email account had some plan in store for Mitsuru herself, but Mitsuru would address that later. As long as their communication kept yielding information, she was willing to be blindly led for a short time.

Shakily, she stood up and went to her laptop.

I'm listening.


December

Akihiko walked Fuuka to the train station the next morning and bought her breakfast. They sipped their coffee in the corner of a small convenience store while they waited for her train. They were bound for Paris tomorrow morning, Fuuka said before offering to stay back to help Akihiko. He declined. Even though Akihiko had told her he wasn't helping as a police officer, an interrogation was inevitable.

"When was the last time you heard from her?"

"She took us to Paris for a weekend in October," Fuuka said, smiling sadly.

Akihiko hummed. That was nothing new. Mitsuru had made a tradition of taking S.E.E.S. to Paris every year near or on the anniversary of Shinji's death ever since Ken graduated from High School. Akihiko used to join them, but these days he observed the anniversary alone.

"Who was there?" he cleared his throat.

"It was me, Aigis, Yukari, and Junpei-kun. . . Ken was studying for mid-terms and Koro-chan is too old to travel any more," Fuuka reminded him. "When we got back, we made plans to catch up in November, but no one heard from her."

"Was she working on anything while you were in Paris?" Akihiko asked, tracing the rim of his foam cup.

"She seemed distracted," Fuuka shrugged. "She told us the company was just exploring partnerships . . .There was odd one thing," Fuuka added suddenly, her gaze lost on an empty table behind Akihiko.

"Odd?" Akihiko pressed.

"Well, maybe not odd. Just memorable. She went out by herself one night."

Akihiko leaned back and crossed his arms.

"Did she say why?"

"She said she was meeting a business associate for dinner. Yukari was teasing her about it, but I think she was a little worried. Yukari, that is."

"Why would she be worried about Mitsuru?" Akihiko asked, his voice changing.

Mitsuru had previously faced pressure both from Akihiko and from the company Board to hire security detail, but she had remained steadfast in her demand to live her life without fear. Her private time was precious enough, she had argued. There was no threat she couldn't handle by herself. Akihiko wasn't sure how Mitsuru had gotten the Board off her back about the issue, but she had compromised with Akihiko by allowing him to give her a few self-defense lessons.

Akihiko found himself wondering if he had yielded too easily on the issue of a bodyguard.

"It was all just very strange," Fuuka added with a squint. "Mitsuru hadn't mentioned anything about working while we were there. She's always been very focused on spending time with us when we go to Paris, so it didn't seem altogether truthful that she was going to a business dinner on such short notice. It felt like she was hiding something, but we just assumed she was going on a-"

Fuuka blushed suddenly, her eyes uncomfortably seeking out the blank stretch of table in front of her.

"A date?" Akihiko offered pointedly, eyebrows raised.

"Sorry," Fuuka murmured.

"It's fine," Akihiko waved his hand as he swallowed the lump in his throat. "Do you remember what time she left and when she returned?"

"She left fairly early for dinner," Fuuka said carefully. "Early for Paris, anyway. Around seven, I think. I don't know what time she came back to the flat, but it was after we'd all gone to sleep. We went to breakfast the next morning and she made it sound like it was just a working dinner that went long."

"Did Mitsuru say where they went for dinner?"

"No," Fuuka said with some disappointment. "Somewhere very nice, I'm sure."

"I'm sure," Akihiko muttered. "I'm assuming she didn't mention the name of the person she was meeting."

"No," Fuuka confirmed again. All the 'no' answers were leaving Akihiko's friend with a guilty expression. Akihiko tapped his gloved fingers to the table.

"Do you know if she had her locks changed?" he asked. Fuuka lifted her eyes to him as she shook her head.

"No. . . I mean our keys still worked."

Good, Akihiko thought as he finished his coffee. His key might still work, too.


Akihiko watched Fuuka board her train before going in for his shift. Today was his day to catch up on paperwork, and after making a sufficient dent in his reports, Akihiko went straight to Mitsuru's flat.

Her doorman still remembered him.

"Haven't seen you in some time, Sergeant," he said to Akihiko, bowing slightly. Akihiko nodded to him as he walked into the spotless white tile of the lobby.

"It is still Sergeant, right?"

"Lieutenant," Akihiko said distractedly, peering up at the security cameras. "But it's all the same thing. Just more paperwork."

"Ah," the doorman said, chuckling. "Well, Kirijo-san is out on vacation but I'm happy to take a message for her, if you like."

"Oh, so she told you she was going on vacation?"

"Well, no, actually," the doorman replied sheepishly. "Someone from her company called. Asked me to hold her mail for her while she was out. I get calls from her assistant from time to time making sure everything's okay on this end."

Akihiko's eyes wandered back up the security cameras as he scratched his neck. He needed more details but was reluctant to ask too many questions yet. Whether Mitsuru's absence involved the Kirijo Group or not, it wasn't unreasonable to assume her building was under surveillance.

"Sorry to trouble you, but do you think I could run upstairs really quick?" Akihiko asked kindly. "I told her I would water her plants while she was gone."

"Oh. Some of her friends were here the other day. . . they didn't mention anyone else would be by," the doorman said slowly.

"Not surprising. I doubt they remembered I still had my key," he chuckled.

The doorman smiled, but kept his eyes sharply on Akihiko as he disappeared behind his workstation.

"Let me just double check her approved visitors list," the doorman said. Akihiko's stomach dropped as he nodded cordially.

He was going to have to figure out another way in, Akihiko thought as he rubbed his hands together. That list was updated every six months and no reasonable person would keep their ex-boyfriend of three years on a visitor's list. Maybe he could distract the doorman long enough to get to the security footage. It might contain some helpful information. Akihiko drummed his fingers against his arm as he quickly scanned the doorman's expression, still locked on the computer screen.

Akihiko changed his mind as he made small and slow circles around the lobby. Going after the cameras would be a waste of time. Most places like this purged surveillance footage after a week, sometimes less-

"Head on up, Lieutenant."

Surprised, Akihiko turned around to face him.

"Excuse me?"

"You can go up, son," the doorman repeated slowly. "You're on her list."

"Thanks," Akihiko said blankly. Perplexed, he made his way to the elevator.


Her apartment door gave way with a gentle click of his key.

Akihiko drew in a steadying breath, wanting to be anywhere but here. As he stepped inside, the stillness of her flat gave him a cool reception. The door closed behind him quietly as he surveyed glimpses of her kitchen and dining room. He looked beyond the archway her hallway and noted the furniture had been rearranged slightly since he was last here, but everything else remained the same.

Akihiko began to move through her apartment, his feet moving forward as though trying to walk against a rushing river.

He started in the kitchen.


"What the hell do you want from me, Mitsuru?" Akihiko snapped, his voice rising. Mitsuru stood next to a bowl of penne tossed in a red sauce, freshly garnished with salt and pepper.

Akihiko couldn't remember exactly how the fight had started, but he vaguely recalled it had something to do with Akihiko opting to enter a boxing match in Thailand the same week Koromaru was scheduled to have surgery to remove a tumor.

Mitsuru crossed her arms, the expression on her face clearly indicating that she had lost her appetite both for dinner and Akihiko. Akihiko got the sense that he had made his point, but his tirade continued.

"I forgot. I'll call Iori and let him know. He'll understand," he said as a way of apologizing.

Mitsuru was silent.

"What do you want me to do?" Akihiko pressed angrily, ignoring the rising urge to offer a more authentic apology and cancel the match.

"Your friends don't always need you for your fighting ability, Akihiko," Mitsuru said sadly.

Silence filled the apartment.

"I've already signed the agreement," Akihiko cringed at himself as the words came out, but managed not to show it.

Mitsuru sighed.

"I see," she said quietly. "Then, I think I'm entitled to this."

Before Akihiko could respond, Mitsuru had picked up the bowl on the counter and upturned the rose colored penne over Akihiko's head.

Long after they had cleaned up, neither of them had been able to stop laughing.


The kitchen counters were spotless and a few apples sat wrinkled and forgotten in a small ceramic bowl.

He opened the fridge and found it bare, save for a pitcher of water on the bottom shelf. After idly removing each of the knives from the wooden block on the counter, Akihiko went to the dining table and skimmed his fingers along the drapes covering the large bay window. The gloves on his hands picked up no dust. Akihiko lifted the sagging leaves of an ivy plant that Fuuka had given Mitsuru as a gift on her twenty-fifth birthday.


Akihiko watched Mitsuru gently pour a pitcher of water into the basin of the ivy plant as she carried on a phone conversation in French. He caught her gaze and she smiled at him softly. Akihiko returned her smile and the room suddenly grew warmer and more bright.

The smile lingered on his lips after she returned to her office and persisted as he mended his gloves.


He moved away from the plant quickly.

Akihiko turned his head up the darkened stairs before stepping lightly to the second floor. His throat went dry as scanned her bed for any signs of disturbance. He sat down on her bed gently and opened the first drawer of an adjacent night stand. Akihiko frowned at the pile of political and economic periodicals as he picked them up and flipped through the pages. His fingers caught on something loose and it dropped to his feet.

He dropped the periodicals next to his spot on the bed as he picked up the photograph. Akihiko chewed the insides of his mouth as he looked up and then looked back down at his own face. Fuuka had taken this photo at Yakushima during Yukari's birthday celebration.


Akihiko and Mitsuru watched from a distance as Yukari bolted into the ocean after Junpei. As a birthday gift, Junpei had just poured a bucket of water on Yukari while she was sunbathing.

"He's going to get it now," Akihiko murmured, watching Koromaru skip over the waves as he tripped Junpei. Ken roared with laughter on the shore.

Mitsuru laughed softly next to him as they watched their friends play in the setting sun.

"Thank you for coming, Akihiko. I know you've been busy training for your placement examination."

"I wouldn't miss it," Akihiko said, mesmerized by her eyes sparkling in the dimming light.

"Smile, senpai!"


Fuuka had taken the picture while Akihiko and Mitsuru were smiling at each other - not wide toothy grins like Junpei or Ken, but quiet and contained smiles reserved just for each other. They held each other's gaze, the sun frozen in place as it set.

Akihiko blinked and carefully returned the photo to its stowaway position amidst the magazines. He pulled the pile back into his lap and continued flipping through the pages. Finding nothing, he dropped the stack of magazines back into the drawer before shutting it carefully.

He went into her bathroom next.


"Didn't you get rid of that thing?" The water in the claw footed bath tub sloshed gently as Akihiko carefully dipped the sponge into the water and ran it over the long row of scrapes on Mitsuru's bare upper back.

Akihiko sat on a stool behind her, his legs immersed in the water beside Mitsuru's arms as he professionally cleaned the dirt from her road rash injuries. The water was warm, but Mitsuru sat with her knees drawn tightly to her chest.

She was silent for a moment before she sighed.

"I gave the keys to Minato," Mitsuru finally said.

Akihiko froze.

"After he. . ." Mitsuru shifted in the water slightly. "I had another key made, but I reminded myself of the promise I made to stop running. It's been some time since I've taken it out."

The water rippled again and Akihiko slowly dragged the sponge up and down her neck.

"Clearly," Akihiko hummed.

Mitsuru made an indignant scoff as she splashed him vindictively.

Akihiko laughed.


One of Ken's paintings from high school hung on the wall opposite of the mirror. Akihiko took a moment to appreciate it - a faded statue of a warrior woman among mossy ruins. He squinted at the title and smirked: Artemisia Resting.

Akihiko turned back to the sink, where a single bottle of unlabeled perfume stood next to a glass vase holding a few makeup brushes. A group of succulents were lined against the back of the counter - undoubtedly another birthday gift from Fuuka, recent enough for Akihiko to have missed. Akihiko ventured into Mitsuru's walk-in closet. Just like the rest of her flat, it was flawlessly organized. Her wardrobe, mainly grayscale articles of clothing with some splashes of color, was undisturbed.

Akihiko took note of the suitcase neatly sitting at the top of the closet shelf.

He glanced toward the shelves along the far side of her closet and carefully opened up the smallest drawer first. Pools of satin and silk hugged the edges of the drawer. Akihiko started to reach into the drawer but quickly withdrew, feeling slightly unnerved at the idea of himself (an ex-boyfriend, for crying out loud) rummaging through Mitsuru's unmentionables. He went to close the drawer but before he shut it completely, a scrap of blue paper caught his eye. It was wedged between the wall and base of the drawer, and with some effort, he coaxed it out with his index finger.

A poorly written phone number was scratched on the surface. Seeing that it was not a Japanese phone number, Akihiko pocketed the slip of paper and quickly left the closet.

Akihiko descended the stairs and decided to see if Mitsuru's office could yield any additional secrets. A single laptop computer sat on her desk. A cup of fine tipped pens was placed on the corner of her desk and propped against it was a little black book. A photo of Mitsuru, Yukari, Fuuka, and Aigis was hung prominently over Mitsuru's desk. The women were bunched tightly together and laughing, the Champs-Élysées stretching on for miles in the background.

A caption tucked into the frame indicated the photo had been taken two months ago in October. Akihiko glued his eyes to Mitsuru. She was always impossible to read; a mystery tucked underneath a golden veneer of composure. While she appeared perfectly content and carefree in this photo, Akihiko couldn't help but look for the troubles she could have been harboring.

Akihiko resisted the urge to open the laptop. If need be, he could come back with Fuuka and she'd find a way to look at the contents without drawing any suspicion from the Kirijo Group. Instead, Akihiko reached for the simple leather bound address book tucked into a shelf.

He skipped over any of the contacts he recognized and began copying down the details of Mitsuru's personal staff. Akihiko replaced the book and returned to the entryway, making one last survey of the flat.

It wasn't that Mitsuru was unorganized. Everything in its place and a place for everything was an appropriate mantra for her home. It was the fact that her fridge had no food in it. Her desk was empty, without a stack of files or reports from work in sight, and her suitcase - the one she would need for a month long vacation, sat empty in her wardrobe.

Akihiko locked the door and quietly stepped into the elevator.

If she had been abducted, her flat might have looked a little more frayed and less prepared. Unless the people who took her were professionals, there would have been food in the fridge, open work on her desk, and maybe, just maybe a smart criminal would have taken the suitcase to support the appearance of a vacation.

"Where did you go?" he murmured, watching the security camera that watched him.

Akihiko felt the stolen phone numbers in his pocket burn into his leg.