Title: Get Tough, Get Even

Author: zmdr

Fandom: Veronica Mars

Rating: T for language, disturbing imagery, violence

Characters: Veronica

Summary: Post 3x20, Veronica takes it personally. Waaay personally.

Spoilers: All of VM is spoiled. Warning: Major character death. Possible OoC.

Disclaimer: Veronica Mars is one of the greatest shows. Ever. Pity I don't own it. Actually, if I own it I'll probably ruin it, as can be seen in the following fic. Rob Thomas owns all, CW owns rights.

A/N: It's great to be back! The two weeks of break really helped me think of new events to put in, characters to include, interactions to have… Thanks for all the insightful and thoughtful reviews, they really inspired and heartened me.

A/N2: Sorry if this chapter is a little long. I tried to write this chapter around how Veronica is coping and recovering from what happened in part 1. Also, I like how she cleaned the office in 1x21 as a means to come to terms with her rape investigation, so I replicated it in here.

Previously on Get Tough Get Even

Logan is discovered dead on the night of the elections, presumably a suicide by hanging. Veronica reads the suicide note and finds something strange on it. She immediately suspects Gory Sorokin of killing Logan and making it look like a suicide, for that's what she would do for a perfect murder. She encounters Gory one night when he's drunk. She kills him in a fit of rage when he gives an inconclusive confession.

Consumed by guilt, Veronica embarks on a self-destructive crusade to take down the people who gave Gory the power and influence to throw his weight around – the Russian mob. She succeeds, but at the cost of being traumatised and learning that she had, in fact, killed the wrong man.

Now, as she comes to terms with the fallout of her actions, she prepares to leave for Virginia for the FBI summer internship, where she hopes she will be able to discover the true killer of Logan Echolls.

If there is one.

Vengeance, thy name is Veronica.

Four days later, Thursday

Mars Investigations

Veronica

People say that cleaning is cathartic. I wholeheartedly agree. Soak a cloth with cleaning solution. Wipe said cloth on dirty surface. Clean said surface with a separate cloth. Watch as the muck and grime of ages past dissolves and disappears, seemingly by magic. Rinse cloths, and repeat. Rinse and repeat enough times, and you might just start thinking that your past sins can just be removed in those few, simple motions, leaving one clean and new.

It has been more than two years since I last cleaned Mars Investigations, and since then it has metamorphosed into something dirtier, more untidy and, should I say, squalid. No, that's probably not a good choice of words. Mars Investigations is our sanctuary. It is the eye of the storm of injustice and corruption which permeates this town, seeping into ones clothes, staining ones soul. It is our refuge, the one place where we, not someone else, are in control.

Therefore, Mars Investigations is not squalid. Never will be squalid. It's… quaint. Something like a cosy, nostalgic antique store, with the decade-old fax machine which we never bothered to throw out, instead buying roll after roll of overpriced, outdated toner. The statue of Lady Justice sitting on Dad's desk only helps to enforce the illusion of an antique store, the scales she holds in her hand reminiscent of days gone by when people measured out money by mass instead of denomination. The statue is, thankfully, facing away from the door, so I won't feel its eyes staring accusingly at me, burning holes in my back, behind the copper blindfold.

The office is full of oddities. The drawer which needs to be lifted before being pulled out. The fan which clicks twice when it faces left while oscillating. The rough spot in the carpet just outside the pantry where the fibres got burnt… that's a story for another time.

The office is home, almost as much as the Sunset Cliffs.

And when I enter and notice that the dust bunnies have bred, well, like bunnies, I decide that home cannot be squalid.

Which is why I find myself doing a little overdue spring cleaning in Mars Investigations on a Thursday morning, instead of packing and preparing for the upcoming FBI internship.

I start with the windows. I've always thought that the windows were relatively clean, but as it turns out, stained glass is excellent at hiding dirt. The windows are filthy. I discover a wasp nest, long abandoned, at the corner of the window sill. I crush it up with the end of a broomstick and remove the rest with a paint scraper.

Before long, the water in the small plastic bucket is murky brown. I pick it up and pour it down the pantry sink. I refill it and continue.

I had been resting and recovering for the past few days. I'd just removed the stitches on my left foot yesterday, based on expert advice (all hail Google), and the bruises on my abdomen and the cracked rib are healing nicely. I still struggle to take deep breathes and carry heavy loads, and sit up, which is why I'm using the smallest pail I can find. And spring cleaning is a poor girl's physiotherapy. The cuts and abrasions on my wrists are scabbing over nicely. Hopefully they will heal without leaving scars. Right now, they sting and smart when they contact water.

I progress downward from the highest point in the room. I'm too short to reach the ceiling, so I start from the windows, then the shelves, then the tables, then the cupboards, then finally the floor. The rationale is, gravity being what it is, dirt falls downward. So there's no point in cleaning the floor first, then moving upward, when all the dirt you remove from the walls, tables et cetera would just land up on the floor again.

Apart from cleaning, I test the listening devices and video surveillance devices. I mark those which have reception problems and place them in a box where I'd scrawled 'For Fixing Fast' with a Sharpie. I oil the handcuffs. I run a pipe cleaner through every pen in the office after removing their refills, making sure that none contain any bugs.

I remove a brand-new Taser from the stores cupboard. I load the batteries but not the cartridge. It's one of those newer models which fires two wires that carry the electric current. It looks like a handgun, with the trigger set in the middle of the plastic body. I activate it. The electrodes spark and crackle, electricity arcing between them, a bright flickering blue line. I keep it in my bag. I'll need a replacement for Sparky, which I left behind in San Diego. This should do.

My cleaning progress has almost reached the floor level when the phone rings. It's Dad.

"So it's my little girl, going to become a Fed! How time flies… it just seemed like yesterday when you solved your first case at four."

"Dad, I don't think solving the mystery of who ate the last doughnut counts as crime fighting. And by the way, your breath smelt of cream. And your fingers were all sticky."

"Guilty as charged, Veronica."

"So how's your case going in Sacramento?"

"I can't believe that I'm saying this, but I'm actually cautiously optimistic. Turns out Jake Kane's not going to testify against me after all, so the prosecution's likely to drop the case."

"Wonderful."

"It does, however, seem just a little bit too good to be true. Veronica? Did you do something?"

The lies come easily.

"Dad, how many places do you think I can be at once? I've been packing for the past week. Fashionista Mars, that's what the kids at Hearst call me. And haven't you heard something about not looking a gift horse in the mouth?"

In fact, in the past week I've blackmailed Jake Kane, killed Gory Sorokin, orchestrated the takedown of the Sorokin crime family, and almost got myself killed in the process. Oh, and the kids at Hearst? They don't call me fashionista. Let's just say that I'm more well-known for taking my clothes off than for what I'm wearing.

"That's my girl. I'm just so proud of you. My daughter the Fed. I know you'll just kill it in Quantico."

I wince at his choice of words. In fact, the internship couldn't have come at a worse time. I'm still recovering from San Diego. I'm still trying to think of suspects for Logan's murder. I still have to clean up the mess that is Mars Investigations. The last thing I want to do is fly across the damn country and be in extremely close proximity to the organisation which tracks people like me. Murderers.

But reason prevails. I know that the FBI can impart me with skills and knowledge unobtainable in Neptune. I know that the FBI has information available that could aid my investigation. I know I can throw a spanner in the works in any investigation that's conducted regarding a certain Vicky Maine. And I know that if I miss this internship, the FBI will ask questions. So will Dad. And I can't have that happen.

I promise to call him from Virginia. I promise to stay safe. I promise to call him when I return so he can pick me up at the airport. We say our goodbyes and hang up.

I actually plan on keeping those promises. I'll use this internship as time to cool off. Time to rethink the case, chase down leads, allow my injuries to heal. No more going off half-cocked, allowing my emotions to get the better of me… not after what I'd done to Gory.

I return to cleaning. The shelves and cupboards are all spick and span. The files in the cabinets are all organised in alphabetical order. The drawers used to be squeaky; after I'd sprayed some WD-40 on them, they glide open and close with nary a sound. The pictures and frames on the walls are now parallel to the floor. I had to locate a spirit level for that to happen.

Finally, I'm cleaning the floor. The mop glides over the burnished wood of the parquet flooring, imparting a glistening shine to the dark brown floor. As expected, the floor is filthy; we haven't had enough time in the past two years to give it a proper clean. When I'm done, the water I squeeze out of the mop is almost black with dirt and dust. The contents of the pail go down the pantry sink. I watch a small piece of dust circle the sink around the drain, as if it were struggling to stay afloat. Alas, it rides the flow of the water into the sewage system. Hopefully all the dirt doesn't clog up the pipes; it'll be a pain to call the plumber.

Cleaning doesn't eradicate dirt. It merely transfers it away. Out of sight, out of mind. Whoever thought that cleaning is cathartic is either delusional or in denial.

I pack up the cleaning supplies. When I look through the windows, I can see the sun setting, a dark orange orb sinking into cloud-swollen skies.

Great. Time flies when you're spring cleaning. Also, I've missed lunch, and I've got tonnes of things to settle before leaving for Virginia.

I resolve to stop by a drive-through later.

I lock up the office and walk off into the evening.

Sunset Cliffs Apartments

It is a few hours later when I return home. I've a sling bag around my right shoulder. Inside are a few bugs from the office, both video and audio. I've taken a few T6s and some newer models of video bugs that don't have large, bright, blinking red lights on them when they're activated. I also bring a few location bugged BIC pens along. I'm not exactly sure what I'm going to be doing at the internship, but I'd prefer to be in a situation where I bring them for nothing, rather than be stuck in circumstances where I need them but don't have them at hand.

The bag also contains my new Taser and its peripherals. Charging cables, electrode cartridges… it's pretty heavy. I've removed the case file I've kept about Logan's death and brought it with me. The thick sheaf of crime scene photographs I took in the Neptune Grand, surveillance photographs, suspects lists… everything is in a manila folder in the bag. Dad can't know about my investigation when he returns. Adding to the weight on my right hand is a plastic bag of fast food takeout. My left hand is holding a Coke with a straw stuck into the lid. All in all, it's really difficult to get the door open.

The interior of the apartment remains like how it has been for the past three days. I've been barely able to get up and walk about, much less tidy the place up. The bandages from the hospital are strewn on the floor. Kyle's jacket and pants are still lying crumpled in the corner. I make a mental note to clean the apartment up before I leave. After leaving the chaos and strife in Sacramento, Dad's not going to want to return to more chaos at home. The blood-stained bandages on the bathroom floor are certainly going to raise some uncomfortable questions.

I take a deep pull from the Coke cup. I sigh.

Well, after a day of cleaning at the office, I just have to come home to… more cleaning. My work is never done.

I take a bite out of the burger. I put it on a plate on the kitchen counter. I roll up my sleeves, tie back my hair and get to work.

Whoever thought that cleaning is cathartic is delusional.

Friday

It's 3 am when I finally align the last picture on the wall and toss the last piece of trash into the final black garbage bag. The bag is almost full. It contains my hospital gown and the blood-stained bandages I'd removed after leaving the hospital, I had to stop vacuuming the carpet five hours ago when the neighbors complained. I'll just do it later in the day. Maybe at noon.

The apartment looks by far the neatest and the cleanest I've seen it. When Mom was around, she didn't really do much housework. She did even less after Lily died, when we moved to this much smaller apartment to save money. The pictures on the wall are straightened. I'd scraped the old dried-up blue tack off the walls and replaced it with new pieces. Now the wall posters don't flap in the breeze. The cobwebs adorning the junction between the walls and the ceiling have been cleared. The kitchen counter positively sparkles, the surface squeaks as I run my finger over it. The floor is clean enough that I might just consider walking around barefoot, just to experience it. The carpet? Well, I'd get to that later. The circular cup stains on the coffee table have been wiped clean and the surface is now an uninterrupted glossy brown.

I'd almost forgotten about the burger. It's icy cold by now. The cheese and grease has soaked into the bun, congealing into an unappetizing mass. I toss it into the trash. The flat, lukewarm Coke follows. Spring cleaning really makes one thirsty, the constant moving and work sapping moisture out of the body. I fill a glass at the tap and drain it. Much better.

I toss Kyle's jacket and pants into the laundry basket. The least I can do for him is to return his clothes in a presentable condition. I place the Taser in my sweater's kangaroo pocket and bring out the laundry. At half past three in the morning, the Laundromat across the pool is deserted. You can't be over prepared. Everyone in the apartment complex is asleep. Not me. Dreamland is one place where I'd rather not be at the moment.

The quarters slide easily into the slot. I pour some washing powder into the washing machine, place Kyle's clothes inside, and start the cycle. I'd have to return half an hour later to transfer the clothes into the dryer. The landlord is too cheap to install new combination washing machine-dryers. It's also a good excuse to charge us twice: once for washing, another for drying.

While waiting, I take a short walk through the back of the complex to the rocky coast. Dad chose Sunset Cliffs Apartments originally because he thought that having a 'beach-front' apartment would make Mom happy. It didn't work. Partly because a rocky shore in no way constitutes a beach. But I like it. A rocky shore is just as good as a beach for listening to waves, seagulls, the sounds of the oceans. It also has the added advantage of solitude. No one surfs or plays on a rocky shore. It's a perfect place to be alone. I sit on a smooth piece of rock, and hug my knees to my chest. The Taser digs into the bruises on my abdomen, so I shift its position until I feel comfortable.

The light of the half-moon overhead reflects off the choppy waters. The rhythmic pounding of the waves against the shore is soothing. A comfortably cool zephyr blows from the ocean. A quiet rumble of thunder is a harbinger of rain to come. No matter, the washing will be done in half an hour. I snuggle into my sweater. My eyelids suddenly feel as heavy as the sling bag I brought home from the office.

To hell with vacuuming the carpet. Whoever said cleaning is cathartic is delusional.

Deputy Sacks

It's hard being an honest cop in Neptune. At least, I think I'm honest. Am I being honest with myself? Anyway, as far as I know, Leo and I are some of the only deputies who actually go for their scheduled foot patrols. The rest? They just sign on their patrol logs and neglect to turn up.

And as I trudge along the rocky shore at ten in the morning, I curse the ethics that have been ingrained in me, long ago, by my parents. It's raining. Not a light drizzle, but a downpour which reduces visibility to something in the ballpark of two hundred yards.

This rain is unusual, especially for California. It must be a result of that 'global warming' thing that everyone's talking about on TV. The raincoat is doing a good job of keeping my upper body dry, but sadly it doesn't extend to cover the pants. That's why my boots are soaked through. I can feel the water sloshing about each time I clench my toes. I miss my patrol car, parked half a mile up shore at the car park. I miss the heater, the shade, the radio. Out here, there's just the reality of soaking wetness, biting cold, the sound of the surf pounding the rocks and fat raindrops slapping the floor.

But there's no rest for the wicked. And so there's no rest for the good either. Illegal immigrants have been known to use inclement weather to cover their entry. The Coast Guard has just sent an advisory down to the Sheriff's department. Sheriff van Lowe doesn't give a shit, but I know that the more illegal immigrants there are in Neptune, the higher the crime rate will be. And the department is already short-staffed.

I miss Sheriff Mars. But here, the reality is that Vincent van Lowe is the Sheriff of Balboa County. Sheriff van Lowe, the incompetent boob that makes our dearly departed Don Lamb look like Sherlock Holmes in comparison. I've seen van Lowe work before. There's definitely a keen intellect behind those eyes, and with his prior experience as the owner of the largest private investigating firm in town, he definitely knows how to get things done. What are you playing at, Sheriff?

My train of thought is interrupted as I see a speck of bright pink interrupting the monotonous grey of the rocky shoreline. It's a person. She's small and blond. She's curled up in a fetal position on the rocks. I've seen people overdose on drugs on beaches before. Usually, if they haven't been discovered until morning, they're pretty much too far gone for medical help. But one can hope.

I jog closer. She's looks small and frail. Junkies usually look like that. She's got her hands cupped behind her head, drawing it close to her chest. She's rocking and mumbling. Her eyes are open, staring, unseeing. She seems to be saying 'no' over and over. Her short blond hair is plastered to her face, saturated with the rain.

"Excuse me, Ma'am? Neptune Sheriff's department. Are you all right?"

No answer. She shows no signs of hearing me. I squat down and try to shake her to get her attention.

As soon as my hand touches her shoulder, she stiffens as if my hand were a live wire. Her hand shoots out and slaps my hand off her shoulder, knocking me off balance. She gets up to a sitting position as I fall on my butt. There's life in her eyes, a fierce fire. She looks pissed, afraid and resigned, all at once. She also looks a little familiar.

My thoughts freeze as her right hand shoots into the pocket on the front of her sweater. The bulge there raises alarm bells in my mind.

Gun. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I should have called for backup, should have called my parents this morning and told them I love them, should have stayed in the station like the other sane deputies…

"Get…away… from me!"

Her voice is strangled, hoarse. She's pointing an exotic-looking pistol at me. Time slows. My sidearm snags the edge of my raincoat. I tug hard. I hear a ripping sound. The pistol comes out of its holster. I feel the cool sea breeze on my shirt, underneath the hole I'd ripped in the garment.

My eyes never leave the barrel of the girl's gun. Her finger is on the trigger. It tightens. Slowly.

Death comes.

Everything moves so slowly. My arm muscles scream as they force my pistol up to my eye level. My left thumb fumbles on the hammer, but gets it drawn back on the first try. My right thumb flicks the safety off. My left hand shifts to the bottom of the pistol, supporting and stabilizing it.

Her trigger is halfway depressed. Any time now, the short, unimpressive career of Jerry Sacks is going to end, in a flash of lead and gunpowder.

"DROP YOUR WEAPON!"

I shriek out the command. I hate how my voice sounds when I do that.

Of course, she doesn't listen. No one listens to me.

BZZT.

Wait a minute. I'm still alive. The girl's pulled the trigger. And guns don't make that sound. The barrel of her weapon sparks, a blue vertical line appears between what looks like electrodes.

Comprehension dawns. It's a Taser. Luckily for me, it doesn't have a cartridge installed or I'd be limp on the floor right about now.

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.

She keeps pulling the trigger like it's a life line. I quickly scramble to my feet, moving a yard away from her.

"Drop your weapon, now!" I repeat. She keeps pulling the trigger. Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.

I realize, with a shock, why she looks so familiar. She's Veronica Mars, Keith's daughter. I'd come down to that very apartment complex once or twice before. She looks a little different, though. She's lost weight. Her eyes are bloodshot and wild. She's definitely been crying. She's favoring the right side of her chest with her left hand as she points the Taser at me with her right. And her hair is cut to shoulder length. She looks like hell, or like something that's been chewed upon and spit up.

"Veronica? Veronica Mars? It's Deputy Sacks. You remember me, don't you?"

Slowly, she seems to notice where she is. She stops pulling the trigger on the Taser, and drops it on the floor. She shakes her head and rubs her eyes.

"Sorry about that, Sacks. You must have woken me from a nightmare."

"Must have been some nightmare."

I lower my gun but keep it in hand. She seems to have stabilized but I'm not taking any chances.

"Oh my god. What's the time?" She shades her eyes and looks around.

"Half past ten."

She curses under her breath.

"I'm really, really sorry, Sacks. I was doing a little late night laundry, went to the shore to relax, I must have dosed off. I'm sorry I freaked you out."

"Don't worry about me. Just think what you almost did. I could have shot you! Rule number one, young lady: never point something that looks like a gun at a police officer!"

"Honestly? I thought I was still dreaming. Don't worry, this won't happen again."

She sneezes. Twice. She winces and clutches the right side of her ribcage. She shivers in the rain.

I have immense respect for Keith Mars and his daughter. They're both obviously going through a great deal of trouble in their lives right now, and the last thing they need is a charge of assaulting a police officer. Besides, Veronica looks so vulnerable and lost, shivering in the rain, that I don't have the heart to book her. It would be worse than kicking sick orphaned new-born puppies. And I'm a sucker for canines.

I holster my weapon. I wrap Veronica in my raincoat and help her home. I notice she's limping on her left foot. It's probably from her awkward sleeping position. She fumbles the key into the door lock, coughing and sneezing. She finally gets it open. She returns my raincoat and faces me across the threshold.

"Thanks… for everything, Deputy."

Her smile touches her eyes. I feel heat rising to my cheeks.

"You sure you're all right? There are people you can talk to, confide in… despite what the papers might have you believe, your family does have friends in Neptune, Veronica."

"I know."

She thanks me and closes the door.

Everything seems sharper, more clearly focused. It's probably the adrenaline still coursing through my body, a remnant from what I'd believed to be a close brush with death.

Well, enough excitement for the day.

I trudge back to my cruiser and return to the station. I'll just sign my shift off like the rest of the deputies. Just for today.

No rest for the wicked. The good, however, have more than earned some reprieve.

Veronica

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

My back slides down the back of the door as I sink to the floor.

It's been screw-ups after screw-ups, close calls after close calls. The latest one? Falling asleep on the beach, waking up by pointing a freaking Taser at a police official? I'm lucky I didn't get arrested. Or shot. Yes, I almost got shot. I could see it in Sacks' eyes when he was yelling at me to drop the Taser. I know that Vinnie, despite our amicable dealings in the past, can be petty and vengeful. I'm fortunate that Sacks was the one to wake me. Sacks and I, well, let's just say that we know each other well. It's lucky that I was relatively far from the apartment complex. If one of my neighbors had called an ambulance, it would be a lot harder to explain away my injuries.

It's almost as if I've got a guardian angel watching over me.

I quash that thought almost immediately. There are no angels in Neptune. And I am no saint.

Still, I've just lost half a day. I still need to pack for the internship. I need to get some lunch; my stomach is growling. I need to get rid of this massive migraine. I sneeze. I wince as my ribs act up again. Now that's what you get for snoozing in the rain. I've probably caught a cold.

Oh yes, I've almost forgotten. Kyle's clothes are still in the Laundromat. I change out of my clothes. They are sopping wet, and the new clothes I replace them with feel like heaven.

Someone has thoughtfully dumped Kyle's jacket and pants into one of the available dryers. I insert the quarters into the machine and it starts its cycle. I return to the apartment while waiting for the cycle to complete. My head's killing me, so I take two aspirins from the medicine kit and wash them down with a glass of tap water.

Now that the kitchen table is clean and clear, I take the opportunity to review my case files on Logan. I spread the photos on kitchen table, an analogue to an evidence board. It's pretty challenging. The kitchen table is small, and I did take very many photographs. One in particular slides off the edge, fluttering end over end down toward the floor. I bend to pick it up. It's the photograph of Logan's suicide note.

Ronnie,

I'm sorry for all the hurt I have caused you. Everything is my fault. I am, and have always been a coward. In the end, I'm my father's son. And I cannot risk hurting you anymore. I know that I will die someday. At least now it's on my terms. I'm sorry to leave you like Lily did.

Logan Echolls.

Could it be? I know now that my original conclusion after reading the note was wrong. Could it be that he was really trying to tell me something?

Lily. She doesn't fit into the general flow of the letter. What did Lily do? She was Logan's girlfriend. She was Duncan's sister. She was my best friend. She loved guys. She flaunted her sexual conquests.

And she hid her most important, most personal things in air vents.

Could it be? The air vents in the Grand's penthouse were never checked by the police. I'd not thought to look there, being blinded by misguided thoughts of vengeance.

I throw on a jacket and pick up my keys. It's almost eleven, just after the Grand's checkout time at ten, and before the check in time at noon. I know someone who can get me in. They're probably not willing, but I can be persuasive.

I swallow two more tablets of Panadol, washing them down with another glass of tap water. I lock the front door behind me, get into the Saturn and drive to the Grand.

Neptune Grand

The reception at the Grand is manned by unfamiliar faces. I'm actually looking for Tina Callas. She used to be Logan's 'friend'. To me? Just a passing acquaintance. Water under the bridge. Instead, the reception is manned by a Ryan, an Adam, and a Cecelia.

I choose Adam.

"Hi, is Tina in today? Tina Callas?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am. Tina works on weekends now. Shall I tell her you called?"

"That won't be necessary."

I have another person on the inside. Getting help from this person, however, won't be as easy as Tina.

"how about Jeff Ratner? Is he in today?"

"Yes, you're in luck, ma'am. He's just started his shift. You'll find him around."

"I guess I will. Thanks."

"If I may ask, why are you looking for Jeff? He's not in any trouble, is he?"

"I'm just his classmate from Hearst. We doing a little class assignment together. I'm just here to decide on a topic with him."

"No worries. He usually brings room service orders to rooms… you should start your search for him at the kitchen."

"Thanks." I walk away, but turn back and ask another question.

"By the way, can you tell me if the penthouse suite is occupied right now?"

Adam beckons me over. He whispers in my ear.

"I didn't tell you this, but it's not occupied. It hasn't been occupied since, you know, the Echolls kid offed himself in there, and the police cleared out. It was all over the news. Now no one would stay there anymore. Who knew? Neptune folk are a superstitious bunch."

I thank him and walk to the kitchen. Now that's a spot of good fortune. Having an empty room means getting in and out would be a little easier.

The kitchen is the nexus of the room service business, a hive of activity. White coated kitchen staff move through the aisles as if they'd been doing so since antiquity. The air smells of boiling oil, spices and bread. A metal table on the left holds a wide selection of spices. Knives of various shapes and sizes adhere to a magnetic strip on the wall. A lobster, sliced in half lengthwise, adorns a plate, together with a selection of raw fish. The slices are arranged in such a way that they form the shape of a flower.

Somewhat of a contrast, next to the lobster platter lies a plate with a humble grilled cheese sandwich on top.

Apparently they do serve anything on the Neptune Grand room service menu. They pride themselves on serving 'anything from aioli to zucchini'.

I stand in the corner, observing the black-clad room service waiters as they walk through the service door and pick up their orders. Ratner's not there. I keep watching and waiting.

There! He's picking up a plate of pasta with a coleslaw garnish and turning back to the service elevator to deliver the order. Coleslaw garnish? Not touching that.

I manage to slip through the rapidly closing elevator door. We're the only ones in the small compartment.

"Morning, Ratner."

"Well, isn't it a surprise. Good morning, Veronica Mars. What brings you here to our fine establishment? By the way, I just love the dark circles around your eyes? Been burning the midnight oil lately?"

"Yeah, about that. You're going to get me into the penthouse suite."

"Woah, woah… who died and made you boss?"

I see red.

The next thing I know, Ratner's back is pressed against the wall, and the plate of pasta with the awful garnish is on the floor. He looks shocked. I look down and see my left hand pressing him to the wall. His hands are up in a submissive pose.

"I…I'm sorry. That was r…really rude of me. C…completely out of line. I forgot about you and…"

"Save it. Now are you going to let me in, or do I have to resort to other, more drastic measures?"

Even though he's taller than me, I think the situation's pretty much under my control. Also, I curl the dark fabric of his shirt up in my left hand. I can see his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.

"Relax, Veronica. I'll get you in. You're lucky it's not occupied at the moment."

"I know that."

"Of course. You know everything." At my glare he continues. "I hope you can find some closure… Logan was cool, you know? Tipped well and everything."

I release my grip and Ratner starts to scoop the ruined meal off the floor and onto the plate. He presses the button of the floor he was originally going to twice to cancel, and presses the button marked PH.

The lift slowly rises. I stare at Ratner, and he avoids my gaze by patiently arranging the pasta on the plate with the fork and knife. Once the pasta is roughly centered on the plate, he wipes the fork and knife on a serving cloth and places them on the plate. I frown.

"Are you serving that, Ratner?"

"No. No! Of course not! Why would you think that?" He giggles nervously.

I keep quiet. I resolve never to eat at the Neptune Grand ever again. Ever.

Ratner's key card slides into the lock and it clicks open. I open the door and enter.

The room's just like I remember it, the last time I saw Logan alive. They'd removed some items, of course, like the pictures, video game equipment and personalized sheets. I've never actually noticed, but Logan actually never owned many items himself. He was just a visitor to the room. A long-staying one, but a visitor nonetheless. The room fell into his lap and he just… stayed.

I move quickly. I need to search all the air vents before Jeff can serve the plate of pasta.

I don't have a Philips head screwdriver, and each of the air vents has four screws securing the cover over the vent. My switchblade will have to do. The sharp metal squeaks and scratches as the screws begin to turn.

The living room? Zilch.

Duncan's and Dick's old room? Nada.

Logan's room? Jackpot.

My arm is up to its elbow into the dusty air vent when my fingers brush against something. It's an envelope. My fingers grasp it and pull it from its hiding place. My heart hammers in my chest.

It's a plain white envelope. It's sealed. The words 'To: Veronica' are scrawled on the envelope in heartbreakingly familiar handwriting.

I've found Logan's true parting words. I cradle the envelope reverently, and then place it in the inner pocket of my jacket.

Ratner's still outside when I leave the room. He's still carrying the plate of tainted pasta.

"I'm done here."

"So, that's it? Not even a word of thanks?"

I ignore him. I walk into the open elevator and press the button marked L.

As the doors slide shut, I hear Ratner shout. "You bitch! I hope you got your closure!"

Closure's the last thing on my mind right now, as I drive back home from the Grand.

The only way I can get closure is to discover Logan's killer and put him or her behind bars. The legal way. Vengeance and crusades for retribution, lashing out at suspects without knowing the full story? That's all in the past, and I'll be regretting it the rest of my life.

Logan's final letter lies over my heart; its presence providing comfort. I can even imagine it soothing the pain from my healing ribs.

The desire to read Logan's letter burns deep within me. However, I know that if I read the letter, that would be it. Logan will be gone, forgotten, lost forever. Reading his last words would be acknowledging that Logan is forever gone, and I would have to move on with my life.

I'm not ready to do that.

I'll only read the letter when Logan's killer's behind bars, or dead. Only then will I be able to move on with my life, or what's left of it with all the holes cut out.

Fuck closure.

I can feel my eyes getting heavy again. Everything is sluggish, slow. The headrest feels feather soft on the base of my skull. The drowsiness must be from the aspirin I took two hours ago. I remember what happened the last time I dosed off, and struggle to stay awake. It really won't help my cause to drift into oncoming traffic. That would really ruin my day, worse than getting shot by a trigger-happy deputy.

With great difficulty I make it home.

Sunset Cliffs Apartments

I brew the strongest coffee I have. I wash down another two aspirin with a glass of tap water to combat the returning aches and migraine. There's no time for me to sleep just yet. I don't dare to sleep. Not after what happened when I fell asleep the last time. My flight to Virginia leaves on Monday, and I've yet to arrange accommodation, transport, and pack enough for ten weeks.

Will this day ever end?

I need to start now. Something's wrong with the coffee. It doesn't energize me as much as it used to. Maybe I've got the concentration wrong, or something. Or maybe I'm more tired that I'm willing to admit. Yeah, right. I'm still fighting fit.

I remember something. Oh crap.

It's been three hours since I'd put Kyle's clothes in the dryer. I'd better retrieve it so I can return them to him tomorrow.

I open the apartment door. My muscles ache with a deep weariness that afflicts me to the bone. But I drag myself to the Laundromat. I can sleep on the plane on Monday.

There are no angels in Neptune. And I am no saint. And there is no rest for the wicked.

A/N: Please review! I'll definitely answer signed reviews. Also, apologies if this chapter contains too much rambling.