The Roberts' home wasn't large, but it was cozy, the perfect size for an only child and the single mother who adored him. Everywhere Near looked, he saw traces of the victim—baby pictures on the mantel, toy dinosaurs on the end table, a crude, crayon drawing of two stick figures framed on the wall. Mommy and Me, the drawing read, in a kindergarten's teacher's meticulous hand. It wasn't entirely clear, but the figures seemed to be holding hands.

Near looked away.

In the corner, a modest Christmas tree dropped needles on the carpet, surrounded by presents their intended owner would never open. Part of Near wondered what Ms. Roberts would do with them, but he knew better than to ask. Expressions of grief made little sense to him, alexithymic as he was, but he had grown up among orphans. It hadn't taken him long to learn that some questions could get you punched.

"It's all right, Ms. Roberts," he said. "Take as much time as you need."

"Thank you. I'm sorry. I just—I don't understand. I don't understand…"

Neither do I, thought Near helplessly, watching her sob into her hands. His own hands longed to reach for his hair, but he settled for tugging at his collar instead. Damn this suit. Until this case, the last time he'd worn anything but pajamas had been his mother's funeral fifteen years before, and even then no one had forced him to wear anything this constricting. His suit was as loose as it could be while still passing as professional, yet even so it felt like a straitjacket. It was all he could do not to shriek and rip it off his body piece by piece.

That high-pitched wailing isn't helping, either.

"I know it's a shock," he said flatly, but her volume only increased. I wish she would stop. Why do people even do that? He'd never lost a child, but he'd lost a mother, and he hadn't cried. It looked uncomfortable, to say the least, and the object of grieving wouldn't know the difference. All things considered, Near didn't see the point. "I know this is hard for you, but I promise, we'll catch the person who did this to your son. L himself is on the case."

"L?" She looked up at that, cocking her head in disbelief. "What makes you think I care about L?"

Near blinked. "I thought it might comfort you."

"You've never lost anyone, have you?"

You're not the first to ask me that today. "I'm sorry I upset you, Ms. Roberts. It wasn't my intention."

"L himself," she repeated, shaking her head. "Fat lot of help he is. He talked a big game about catching Kira, then nothing for six years—"

"That was different. He'll get justice for your son, Ms. Roberts. Just give him time."

"Give him time? How much time is he going to need? Six years to catch Kira—six!—and then an announcement that Kira is dead? No body, just his word! What proof is there L caught him at all?" Her voice soared high and shrill, and Near winced in physical pain. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just—maybe L was wrong. You know? These things, these murders—Kira stopped them…"

Hunching over in her chair, she dissolved into another puddle of tears. Near said nothing, picking at his too-tight clothing in discomfort. As hard as he pretended he didn't care about others' opinions, being unable to defend himself bothered him. Damn you, Light Yagami. This should have been your job. Kira was a master of feigned sympathy and social grace; Near had no such skills. The only comfort he had to offer was the truth, and that was little enough.

An old voice whispered in his head: "Well, that was a near thing…"

"Kira was a murderer," Near said, pushing the thought aside. "He was no different from whoever killed your son."

"I used to think that. I did. But now..." Ms. Roberts shook her head. "If Kira were still alive, my Noah—maybe he wouldn't—"

"Kale-san?"

Kira stood in the doorway, his expression grim.

Speak of the devil.

Near rose from his chair, forcing himself to look the victim's mother in the eyes. "Please excuse me a moment." She nodded, waving him off with a gesture, and the detective stepped aside to speak to his prisoner. "Nan desu ka?"

"I searched his bedroom," Kira replied in the same language.

"And?"

"He seems a little young to have an iPad of his own, don't you think?"

The man's tone was more sad than accusatory, yet Near felt the condemnation nonetheless. A lead weight formed in the pit of his stomach as he turned back to Noah's mother. "Ms. Roberts, do you own an iPad?"

She blinked, her confusion palpable. "I don't see how—"

"Just answer the question."

"No. I never saw the use. I have a laptop, though, if you need to—"

"Did Noah have one?"

"What, an iPad? Of course not. If I don't have one, why would he?" Bewildered, she looked from Near to Kira, her red-rimmed eyes wide. "Is something wrong?"

Near didn't stay to give her an answer. Turning on his heel, he marched into the bedroom. "Inspector Lewin?"

The man looked up, startled. "What is it?"

"Bag that iPad as evidence. Get someone to bag the iPads at the other crime scenes, too. We may have a lead."

"I'll get someone right on it."

Kira lingered just outside the door, scratching around his collar through the fabric of his turtleneck, but Near was more interested in the floor. A rough outline marked where the boy's body had lain, pitifully small, surrounded by building blocks, trains, and stuffed bears. She had to clear the toys to make room for him, Near realized. All this to prove a point. His hands twitched toward his hair again, and this time he let them.

"Well, that was a near thing…"

Inspector Lewin's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," lied Near, releasing his hair. "Let me know when you've inventoried the evidence. We should report back to L."

Kira had vanished from the doorway when Near turned to leave, but he hadn't gone far. Just down the hallway, the prisoner stood slumped in dejection, one hand still scratching his neck. I shouldn't have shocked him. Near had been annoyed, that he knew, but he hadn't realized he'd been angry until he'd already grabbed the clicker and pressed. He wasn't sure who his lapse in control had frightened more: Light Yagami, or he himself. When he hit the desk, I thought he'd broken something for sure. I shouldn't have done that. I don't know why I did.

"How are you feeling, Matsuda-san?" he asked in hushed Japanese.

"Wonderful." Kira's voice was frigid. "Still think this is all my fault?"

Near shook his head. "I didn't mean that."

"Yes, you did. Call me a coward all you like, but I never killed children. Grant me that much, at least."

A victim is a victim, thought Near, but all he said was, "I know."

"You spoke to the mother?"

"I did. She didn't hear or see anything. He was dead when she woke up."

Kira wet his lip, looking past Near rather than at him. "It doesn't make any sense."

No, it doesn't. The ages of Janus's past victims had been anything but consistent, but they had all been people for whom a fancy tablet wouldn't look out of place. Noah Roberts, on the other hand… There are dozens of grown men with the same initials she could have chosen. Why him?

"I saw the puzzle pieces," Kira added after a pause. "33, 31, 43. She's definitely talking about you."

33 31 43. Kira killed L; this L is. The last six letters would almost certainly be "a fraud," just as Light—as Kira—had predicted. Near sighed. "You've done well, Matsuda-san."

"Not well enough." Kira glanced over at the victim's mother, still crying in her chair. "I'm done here. Whenever you're ready, we can go."

"Just let me grab my coat."

"Kale-san?"

"Yes?"

Kira's hands were clenched at his sides, unhappiness etched across his face. "If I'd noticed the pattern at the first crime scene, two days ago—if I'd mentioned it—would we have had time?"

Of the thousands of murders he could feel guilty about, he chooses the one he didn't commit.

It was a pathetic sentiment, illogical to the point of irony, yet for once Near found himself sympathizing with the killer. "No," he said firmly. "There's nothing you could have done. It was my—it's not your fault."

He sensed rather than saw Kira's eyes widen, his own eyes fixed on the wall next to Kira's shoulder. It's my own fault, my failure. You did everything I asked of you. I have no one to blame but myself.

"Well, that was a near thing…"

Near walked away.


That night found the detective perched on his desk chair once more, looking over a stack of iPads and one quiet, sleeping prisoner. Kira had looked almost relieved when Roger had brought out the hypodermic, and Near couldn't blame him. If he weren't so bothered by needles, he'd have been tempted to co-opt a dose for himself.

At least that way, I'd stand a chance of getting some sleep.

"Is he out?" Roger asked.

Near nodded. Shifting in his chair, he drew something from his pocket and held it out for Roger to take. "Here."

"What's this?"

"The remote to Kira's collar. I've decided it's best for all concerned if you carry it."

Frowning, Roger took it. "Are you certain?"

"I don't want any repeats of this morning, Roger. If he thinks I still have it, that should be deterrent enough. If not, you can press the button just as easily as I can." Near pulled his hand back. "Do you disagree?"

"You know I don't."

"Good. Then we're on the same page."

"I'm glad to hear it." Roger pocketed the clicker. "Near?"

The detective paused. "Yes?"

"What Light said this morning—about you interrogating him—was it true?"

I forgot he could hear that. They had set up a bug for Roger to eavesdrop on the room while he was out, just in case Kira tried anything, but with everything else that had happened, Near had forgotten. He stared at the wall beyond Roger's head, tangling two fingers in his hair. "What, the painkillers? Of course it is. I'm surprised he remembers it. Between the sedatives and the trauma, he was still fairly out of it at the time—"

"Near." Roger's voice cut through the detective's babble like a knife, sterner than Near had ever heard it. "Is that why you waited to call me in from the orphanage?"

"Part of it, yes. I was busy, Roger. I didn't have time to waste on nonessentials."

"Nonessentials like me, or nonessentials like him?"

I phrased that badly. "Neither. Both. Does it matter?" Near's grip on his hair tightened. "He survived, and you're here—and unless you have a time machine tucked away in your bags somewhere, that's the end of it. I'm trying to stop a killer. I don't have time for—"

"Nonessentials?"

"Distractions," Near concluded firmly. "If I'd known he remembered, I would have apologized, but now is not the time. If you want me to grovel before Kira, I can do it once Janus is in custody. Until then, I can only handle one aggrieved serial murderer at a time." He spun his chair to face his Watari, scowling. "L did far worse to Amane with far less need. Don't try to tell me he wouldn't have done the same."

"You are not L."

Near blinked, shocked into echolalia. "Are not—L?"

Sighing, Roger pressed his glasses back up his nose. "Mind if I tell a story?"

"I'm an adult, Roger."

"And I'm an old man. Humor me."

That's a non sequitur. Lips thinning in annoyance, Near nodded assent. Roger smiled.

"There was once a synagogue with a beloved, elderly rabbi who had served the community for decades. When he decided to retire, his congregants were horrified. They'd grown used to the way he ran things, you see, and didn't want anything to change. So in the end, they hit on a solution: they would hire the rabbi's son, who had grown up at their synagogue and closely resembled his father, to be his replacement."

Roger paused for breath—or to let his words sink in—before continuing. "Unfortunately, it didn't work out the way they'd planned. Though the son looked like his father, they had different leadership styles, and even their views on religion didn't completely align. At last a delegation was sent to talk to the new rabbi, demanding to know why he didn't do things the way his father did. 'I do exactly the same as my father did,' the rabbi replied. 'My father never imitated anyone, and neither do I.'"

The old man raised an eyebrow at the detective, clearly waiting for some sort of response. Near twirled a lock of hair around his finger, frowning.

"I didn't know you were Jewish," he said at last.

"That's not the point."

"Well, that's all I got from it. I'm no good at parables. If you want to tell me something, just tell me."

Roger sighed. "You weren't chosen to be a copy of L. You were chosen to be extraordinary in your own right. You use his alias, you have his job, but for better or worse, you're not him. You have a brilliant mind, Near—not L's mind, but just as capable. You don't have to copy him to succeed."

"He was the best."

"But not perfect. Misa Amane, for instance. Her shinigami killed L rather than let her be arrested and tortured again. If he had treated her humanely, if he'd given the shinigami reason to think he might be open to showing Misa mercy—how many other lives might have been spared? How many thousands of lives?"

"That's pure speculation, and a logical stretch to boot. If he'd simply kept Light Yagami away from the recovered notebook, as caution should have dictated, he'd have achieved the same result–inhumane treatment or no. Besides, by that argument, he could have saved thousands of lives by sneaking a live round into Soichiro Yagami's gun. Would you have argued for that?"

"Of course not, but 'he could have done worse' isn't a defense."

"Nor is hindsight much of an attack. L took the actions he felt were reasonably necessary at the time, and now I do the same. Just like your story said." Releasing his hair, Near reached for his matchsticks instead. "I don't know what more you want from me."

"Do you remember when you first came to Wammy's House, Near?"

Near was silent. Now he's nostalgic. How wonderful. He couldn't see how the topic change was relevant, but he wasn't prone to nostalgia himself. His past wasn't a place he cared to revisit.

"You were seven, I think," Roger continued. "Tiny for your age. You barely spoke two words together to anyone for weeks. Then one day you came into my office and told me you wanted to eat your meals in your room, because the other children were too raucous. That was the wording you used: 'my peers are too raucous.' So much confidence, but you looked like you were about to flee the room. I didn't know what to make of you."

"Eight," mumbled Near.

"I'm sorry?"

"I was eight, not seven. And I wasn't confident, just awkward. Is there a point to this?"

"Yes, that's what I realized. I was used to kids who were full of bravado, competing with each other to mask their insecurities, but you—you were like water about to boil. Calm on the surface, frantic underneath. As if you'd never been taken seriously in your life, and if you made a single error, someone would snatch it all away. You had no interest in competing. Not if there was a chance you might lose."

Near sighed. "Again, is there a—"

"You've mistaken succeeding L for competing with his memory, and it's making you miserable. He thrived on pitting himself against others, in standing alone. You don't. You've never been a loner by choice, Near; you rely on others' support and approval. One of your greatest strengths—one L never had—is seeing people, not pawns. I chose you to use those strengths, not compare yourself endlessly to L. I didn't choose you to be a copy."

"You didn't choose me at all. L did. Mello and I both—" Understanding struck the detective like a lightning bolt, sudden and painfully clear. "He didn't pick us."

"No." Roger's voice was hushed, almost apologetic. "He didn't. Choosing a successor was Quillsh's idea, not his—he was too busy with other things. Quillsh told me to narrow down the choices, that L would take an interest eventually, but—"

"But he didn't want to be replaced." Near felt sick. I have no right to wear L's name. Janus and Kira—they were right.

Roger shook his head. "That's not it. L gave us permission to reshape Wammy's House to hunt for a successor. He just didn't want to be the one to make the choice."

No. The Japanese Task Force members had given various explanations for why they had trusted Light Yagami so long, but one point had impressed them all: he'd had L's vote. "He said if anything happened to him, Light could take his place," Matsuda had admitted. "Sure, he was suspicious of Light, but they thought so alike it was eerie. None of the rest of us could keep up. What else were we supposed to do?" Near had scoffed at the idea then—L had already had successors, after all—but he wasn't scoffing now. Not in the slightest.

L knew Kira would likely kill him, and that he'd take full advantage of that endorsement if he did—yet L said it anyway. He took more interest in a mass murderer than he ever did in me.

"But he spoke to us," Near protested, flinching at how childish it sounded. "He gave a speech. You said he singled Mello and I out—"

"For the look in your eyes, I remember. It was the other way around. I singled you two out, and asked him what he thought. Do you know what he said?"

I thought I did. "No."

"He said only a fool would trust the impression of a man who had observed someone for a few minutes over the judgment of a man who had known the person for years, great detective or not."

"Is that supposed to impress me?"

Roger adjusted his glasses, sighing. "You never met L in your life, but you're more concerned about whether he would approve of you than the fact that I and your other teachers, the people who loved and raised you, thought you were the best for the job. What does that tell you?"

"That I hate being lied to. Mello and I weren't idiots, Roger. You could have just told us the truth."

"Mello was self-doubting, desperate for approval; you were unmotivated and desperate for acceptance. It seemed like a harmless lie."

Mello died for that lie. Mello killed for that lie. Now Janus is killing for it, too. Near turned away. "You thought wrong."

"Perhaps I did. But hindsight isn't much of an attack." Roger knew Near too well to reach for his shoulder, but he rested a hand on the back of the detective's chair. "It wasn't meant to be a lie forever, Near. Quillsh and I, we were sure L would seek you both out in time. We thought you'd both be established detectives in your own right before he ever had need of you. Forgive us. We thought we had time."

You thought you had time. The excuse echoed in the hollows of Near's mind, unsatisfying. You thought you had time. "That's very motivational, thank you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a rogue killer to catch."

"Near—"

"I'm busy, Roger. Goodnight."

Near didn't look up, but he could feel Roger hesitate. At last, he heard the man's footsteps retreat, followed by the soft creak of the door. He chose me, but he always takes Kira's side. He chose me, but he still treats me like a child. He chose me, not L…

"Well, that was a near thing."

In the morning, he'd be fine again: underslept but pokerfaced, the weight of the world secure between his shoulders. But in the dark, quiet solitude of the hotel room, no one saw the World's Greatest Detective curl in on himself, rocking and humming as he had when he was a child.

I am no L.

I am no L.

I am no L.