Daria exited her Volkswagen Beetle and feasted her eyes on the sight in front of her. Casa Lane stood as a monument to those who fought the noble battle of home improvement and had their asses unceremoniously handed to them. Its most awe-inspiring feature was the fact that, in twenty years, the place hadn't changed a bit. It remained the very picture of dilapidation, in its most exquisite sense. Paint seemed to chip away at itself, in a suicidal bid to escape the mold-encrusted walls. Splintery planks shrouded the windows like a primitive form of duct tape. Only the kudzu creeping around corners alerted passers-by of any presence of life. She hoped there was.

She approached the stoop and knocked. A hinge loosened. That's more normal than I want to give that credit for. "Trent?" she called. "Are you there?"

After a few agonizing moments, the door creaked open. A middle-aged man stood in the jamb.

"Hey, Daria," Trent purred. It took her a while to recognize him, and wow, something had changed. But behind the five o'clock shadow masking his soul patch and, if she could trust her eyes, the beginning of a beer gut, his voice still held the same gravelly timbre of years past. A simple question brought her mind back down to the matter at hand. "So what brings you here?"

"I just need to know something," she said, nerves jumping to action. "Is Jane here?"

He stroked at the stubble on his chin and thought for a moment. "When I fell asleep, she was going out to her car." Both of them instinctively turned their heads towards the driveway. "It's not there. She must be with y-oh."

"That's what I thought." She took a deep breath and stared at the ground. "I think we need to file a missing persons report."

"I can see why. Can I just go feed Zachary and Taylor first?"

"The cats?" Daria asked, steam starting to exit her ears. "How could you be wondering about cats at a time like this?"

"I wonder about many things." Trent took a pregnant pause, as if to channel universal forces for inspiration. It didn't come. "Like, what are you even doing back in Lawndale?"

"Tell you in the car. Just do what you're going to do and get in." She started up her car as he shuffled back into the house, aimlessly wandering in search of cat food. He emerged two minutes later, his face pale.

"If it's low blood sugar," she said, "I have expired candy in the back." He said nothing, just walked up to her driver's side window and tapped on it. She rolled it down.

"The cats are missing. So is a big chunk of the kitchen window."

Her eyes widened at the news. "Are you sure? Maybe they went into the basement. I can think of how they can mistake the smell of marijuana for catnip."

"Cats can't open doors like that. Or at least most of them. I've seen some of them online with little tennis balls around their heads taking pictures of themsel-"

"Trent!"

"Sorry, getting in." The Beetle started rolling. "So, you're down here why?"

Daria sighed at the memory. It was a story that had been told too many times. "There was a strike at the Boston Globe. The editors wanted me on their side, and the other reporters wanted me on theirs. It was like the two women who went to Solomon with the baby, only I actually would have preferred being cut in half. That's when I heard the Sun-Herald was hiring, and of course, because my fellow journalists just had to be so inhumanly inept at their line of work, they gave me this story. All you need to know is that they're making me interview a deluded old man. What about you?"

"Just laying low, mostly. Both of us aren't raking in too much cash, so we're stuck in that old house. Doesn't help that the Spiral broke up. I have a few gigs now and then." He leaned in closer. "Don't tell anybody...but I've been doing covers."

"I don't see the shame in that. Then again, I don't remember ever having any."

"Nickelback covers."

"Never mind."

Trent sank back into his seat. He sank back even more as he looked ahead. "This isn't the way you came in, is it?" They had gone past the dead end street by now.

"The diner and the police station are on different sides of the town. Why do you ask?" Before she could receive an answer, her eyes followed his index finger to the side of the road. A trembling foot pounded on the brake. A blue sedan lay embedded in an oak tree.

"That's my ride," Trent said. "That's our ride." His face, which was permanently stoic a moment before now displayed an exception to the rule. Judging by the way his eyes grew to give a terrified glare and his chin hit the felt interior, it was the exception to the rule.

Daria could only stare in shock. The next step would be gory, she knew it. But it was the only way to know. She jogged across the road and arrived at the scene. The first thing that stood out was the fact that the tree hadn't splintered; the car looked as if it had been eased in rather than crashed. The tree cradled it much like a peg in a hole. She stood on tiptoes to look inside. It was going to be bloody and disgusting and covered in guts and brains and...nothing. The car was completely empty. She could see it, and it seemed so crystal clear. Then she realized that it wasn't her; the driver's side window was missing, cleanly swiped from the door. She darted back to the Beetle and immediately started driving.

"Is it bad?" Trent was fighting back tears. Daria held the wheel tighter and gnashed her teeth.

"Not in the way you're thinking about it." She saved the explanation for the red lights. His eyes were dry by the time they reached the police station.

At ten o'clock in the evening, Daria walked through her apartment door with full vigor. Trent and the LPD were both where they needed to be. Her itinerary needed a second look. 8:00 A. M. Griffin house. (Working women have to work.) 10:00 A. M. Taylors. 12:00 P. M. Ms. Poitier (Li's domestic; be sure to be up on French). 2:00 P. M. Heilbronner. (Don't mention the war.)

These interviews tomorrow are going to be murder, she thought.