I fear Luke might now be in danger. I restore the table and chairs back to their original positions. It had only been a short while since my conversation with Grover, and small snippets of it won't stop floating around my head.

He'll have to leave Australia and you can't come with him. I had texted him a picture of the photograph and had asked him to call me. There has been no answer yet.

I have restored most of the living room, but it isn't the same without my pictures and plants. I suppose it doesn't matter, as the room fits my current mood. Dead and practically empty. That's about right. I sit down on the ripped sofa and check my phone. No notifications.

Who did Grover have to urgently meet with? What is the meeting about? I have no clue. And I really need to work on the other case, the one on the murder. But I need a computer. Where can I go that is private and secluded and that I won't be bothered?

Suddenly it hits me. I grab my coat off its hook and my bag and leave the house. I go to the landing and stop. I turn back and go into the house. I go into my bedroom and take the photo of Luke and I. I tuck it into my bag. I leave and lock the door.

The street is even colder in the evening. The wind whips my curly blonde hair everywhere and I pick up my pace. Piper always tries to convince me to get a car, even though I haven't complained about it once. But I like walking, and the cold has never bothered me anyway.

I get to the library and push open the door. The musky smell of old books and candles hits me immediately. It is only slightly warmer in here than it is outside. This library is rarely entered, mostly because of the new one two blocks ahead, which has thousands of books, 3D printers and the general feeling of warmth and comfort. This library is pretty much the opposite. Few dusty books line the ceiling-high shelves, it is evident that they haven't been touched for years. The ancient librarian doses away with his head in his hand drooling on an old open copy of Frankenstein. The room is lit with a few candles burning relentlessly on their tiny stubs. Cobwebs festoon the ceiling, their spider inhabitants in practically the same state as the librarian. The only reason that this place is still open is that it's ancient, and the librarian, however ancient he is, chases any authorities off with a stick that he always kept behind his desk. The perfect place to do research without being bothered.

I go to the back of the library where one lone computer sits. No one knows how it got there, it just came one day. I ignore it though and start on one of the shelves. This library is famous for two things, the elderly but fierce librarian and it's collection of books on international gangs and mafias. Yes. International gangs and mafias.

Apparently, this library used to thrive, it used to be full of wonderful titles, classics, nom fiction and fiction of all genres. But then most of them disappeared, leaving only a few dusty books sitting on even dustier shelves. How the library changed? No one knows. When did it change? Nobody can remember. But now it's publically accepted that that's the way it is and that's the way it's staying.

I hunt the shelves for the book I'm looking for, which doesn't take so long as there aren't that many books. But my search is fruitless. Nothing on the Redbrands at all. But I do find a large encyclopedia on international gangs. I blow the thick layer of dust off the leather cover and open it. I turn to the index where I find Redbrands on page 486. I go to that page and am disappointed by only small paragraph there is. I start to read.

Not much is known about the mysterious Redbrands. They communicate amongst themselves by using strange marks and symbols called 'Brands' which are completely untranslatable by anyone outside the gang. They are an international gang which recruit mainly by kidnap. The brands can sometimes be found underneath windowsills, on the edges of pavements, on pictures of people or on small rocks.

There is also an old faded picture of two people. Their faces are hidden with hoods which cover the front and back of their faces, with small slits for eyeholes. Not so different from the KKK, but the hoods aren't pointed and they're wearing black. They seem to be sitting on a short stone wall. One of them holds a paintbrush, showing that they had recently just painted some brands. The caption reads, The only recorded sighting of Redbrand members, taken in 1553 in the South of Rome. Street name unknown. That is all the information there is. I look for any other mentions of the gang in the book. There is no other mention of them anywhere. I copy out the text in code on a small piece of paper I had brought. I couldn't take a picture in case my phone is searched, and I couldn't take out the book in case my flat is searched again.

I am about to do more research when something passively aggressively floats into my mind. The murder. I need to solve the murder. That's more important than this. I can solve this whenever, but Reyna's waiting to find out who killed her boyfriend. So is his family. So are their friends.

I shut down the computer and stand up so briskly that the sleeping librarian stops snoring for a moment. I hold my breath. Have I woken him from his death like sleep? He puts his head down again and keeps snoring, the long thread of spit finally parting from his lips and falling onto his book with an almost audible splash.

I put my notebook back into my bag and exit the library, the gloominess of the inside matching the outside. It had started to rain.

I start up the street empty of any other pedestrians and cars. Thunder echoes through the darkening sky. This is my kind of evening.

I start walking towards my apartment. The murder. The murder. A sleek black Porsche. 2 and 5 in the number plate. Had jumped in front of her. I still have the notes that I took when she came in to see us, in fact, it's on the same notepad I have with me now.

After a short time, I reach my apartment building. Weirdly, the door to the landlady's apartment is open. I have never seen inside her apartment before. I can just see a floral patterned sofa sitting on a threadbare carpet. Something is strangely urging me to go in. I take a step forward, but I stop abruptly. I have no right to go into her apartment.

I go up to my flat. I'm really tired for some reason. I get in, open the door, and colapse onto a sofa.