Chaper 25 - Walk Along the Lonely Street Of Dream

Wednesday May 25, 2017

3:15am

Veronica

Neptune High's halls are the same since Veronica last walked them—even the pictures in the trophy case. Her steps echo in the empty building.

Deep shadows are everywhere but Veronica can see well enough to find her locker. The combination is unchanged. Her old books fill the space and Veronica smiles to see the paper heart with Van Clemmons' picture hanging in the door.

"Had a thing for older men, did ya?" Sam laughs in her ear.

"Maybe I did. You don't know every skeleton in my closet."

"Yeah, but I know all the bones."

Veronica snorts, leaning back into him. Her words lower into the husk of request. "Kiss a mother with that mouth?"

Lips graze the curve between her neck and shoulder, then are gone.

Veronica spins to face an empty hallway. "Sam?"

"We had a mop closet." Sam's voice comes to her from around the corner, fading as he walks away. "Where'd you go to make out?"

"Girl's bathroom," she calls, following the voice.

"What is it with you and countertops?"

"Short-girl equalizer. Helps the alignment."

His chuckle comes to her from a room on her right. The computers are all dated, clunky monitors circa 2005. "What happened in here?"

Veronica walks in the room, scanning the corners for Sam. "Journalism."

"Where you blew the lid off a corrupt DEA agent." His voice floats around her, coming from everywhere and nowhere.

"ATF. Where are you?"

Sam adopts a television ghost imitation. "Follow the soooouund of my vooooiiice."

She does and ends up down the hall, in her junior-year English classroom. "Sam?"

"What about this room?" He's behind her but when she turns, he's gone again.

"Sleep. First class of the day."

His voice is in her ear. "And I bet you still got an A."

"A plus."

Veronica turns to face an empty room as soft footprints recede down the hall. She chases after him but when her boots drown out the sound of his sneakers, she slips them off.

"Veronica," Sam singsongs on her left.

The classroom he's in is one she never had occasion to visit. Mockup pages cover the tables. More clunky monitors glow. Veronica leans down in front of one and clicks on a picture so it enlarges and turns the computer folder into a slide show.

Pictures of high school acquaintances, friends, and enemies slide past. Dick, Lilly, Duncan, Madison, Cassidy, Mac, Weevil. Even one of herself that she remembered making the yearbook her freshman year. Sam's hand covers hers instead of letting her click the arrow to move to the next one.

"Wow, aren't you fresh-faced? What is this outfit you're wearing? Better question, why didn't you ever wear it for me?"

It's a from a holiday event, when the dance team donned red velvet mini dresses with white, furry boas. The white go-go boots cost Veronica three month's allowance.

"Maybe I would have, if you ever made the Naughty list."

"We can fix that." Sam's hands clasp her hips and pull her flush against him. Teeth nip at her neck and Veronica shivers. A rush of desire turns her knees to liquid and she reaches up to weave a hand into Sam's hair and hold herself upright.

He moves them to the space next to the monitor and shoves a stuffed file box to the side, clearing room on the desk. Veronica reaches a hand down, to help free her clothes, and finds she's now wearing the red velvet mini dress and boots. And nothing else. The sound of a belt buckle sends heat to pool between her legs. God, she wants him.

"Sam," she gasps.

He pushes her shoulders down and works a knee between her legs, spreading them. Veronica reaches out and grabs the far edge of the desk, readying herself for that first, hard thrust. Her sex pounds with need, matching the crashing thrum of her heart.

She swipes her other arm back, wide, reaching to touch, and only manages to knock the file box on the floor.

The sound of it reverberates in the empty room, eerily similar to a gunshot. Sam's gone. She's alone, hundreds of pictures like lily pads across the blue tile floor.

Veronica wakes in her dark bedroom, heart still attempting to escape from her chest. Her body aches for touch. She reaches a hand out, seeking warmth and skin, but finds only cool sheets. Reality crashes in. Caught between grief and yearning, Veronica breathes through her teeth as the pulse of need continues to pound between her legs.

Damn you, Sam.

In these dark hours, though, she can't get away with blaming Sam. He was a ball of light, a beacon of good that sidled up to her dark shadow and fought for years to send it away. For a while she even thought his light would win.

Her body is restless, wanting, and angry. She aches to ride out the fury, biting and digging her fingernails into flesh that isn't there. The pounding between her legs is a steady, maddening beat, her one thought keeping time. SamSamSam.

The garage is the only place she can find a modicum of peace this time of night. Within minutes she's dressed and her feet take over the rhythm, pounding out SamSamSam against the treadmill's belt. Not even the EDM filling her ears can drown it out. SamSamSam.

Sweat runs down her back. The tickle of it cuts a maddening trail between her breasts to pool in the underside of her bra.

The dream replays in her head, so damn real. Her old school, Sam playful and teasing, working her up. SamSamSam. That damn fury of feeling him close but never close enough. SamSamSam.

The journalism room, with its mockups and files of pictures. More pictures than could ever fit in the yearbook. Which didn't add up. Even in her high school days everything was digital. Limited school budgets, kids who grew up recycling. Waste of paper and ink on pictures that would go unused.

SamSamSam. Memories run through her head of the yearbook kids. Wandering Neptune High, snapping candid shots with intensity, like they were the next Henri Cartier-Bresson. SamSamSam. Even lunchtime brought them out. As if anyone wanted a picture of teens spooning yogurt for perpetuity. SamSamSam. At sporting events they worked the space between the crowd and playing field, trying to capture the big victory moments. Get the crowd's reaction when—

Veronica's feet trip on the treadmill and she grabs the stopcord, her heart taking over the beat, SamSamSam.

The crowds. At sporting events. Pictures that never made it to the yearbook. It stands to reason if Jennifer Weston had anybody in her life, boyfriend or otherwise, they would have come to her meets. A relationship that involved robbery and murder likely didn't spring up during the summer between high school and college—not for a kid as arrow-straight as this girl. Track meets are nowhere near as heavily attended as football games, which means they also won't be as heavily photographed. But it's one lead that wasn't in the police file.

12:30pm

Logan

It's hard to take you seriously. Keith Mars' words from yesterday go through Logan's mind for the thousandth time while he makes the long drive to L.A..

Keith played friendly, Logan gave him that. He asked questions about the house renovations, expressed empathy upon hearing why Logan would be living there alone. Even offered his help when Logan got around to landscaping since Keith still subscribes to Fine Gardening and may have an idea or two.

But Logan grew up around the man and knows the daughter he raised.

Everything was intended to measure Logan's commitment to staying in San Diego. The casual slip that Lianne had never made a reappearance in Veronica's life was to open the discussion of Logan's sobriety. His demur to Logan's question about how Keith discovered the house's address, when escrow hadn't closed yet, told Logan Keith had investigated him. Or followed him.

Toward the end, though, as Logan walked the older man to his car, he was sick of the farce. He crossed his arms and leaned against the back of his SUV, facing Keith. "Well, did I pass?"

"Was there a test?"

"Since Veronica and I first dated, yeah."

"And," Keith tucked his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, the picture of unhurried casualness. "If memory serves, I kicked you out twice. For yelling at her."

"With good reason."

"Then you left her pregnant and alone."

Logan took a deep breath, his defenses up. "That was also with good reason."

"You should have come to me. I would have helped you with the Sorokin situation."

"Have a lot of pull with the Russian mob, do you?"

"We'll never know."

The squandered possibilities lay behind them. If Logan had gone to Keith, could he have helped? Could it all have been different? Who knows about him and Veronica—Logan's got enough hindsight to recognize they both had a lot of growing up to do back then. But Gai. Jesus, Gai. Could not going to Keith be the one mistake that cost him his son? The thought made him nauseous.

"Mist—Keith," Logan said, still awkward addressing the former sheriff's by his given name. "I can't rewrite the past, but I am trying."

"I see that. Leaving the life you built, buying a house here—it's a grand gesture."

"It's a start, and your support would go a long way. I'm guessing Gai listens to you?"

Keith shook his head, not answering the question. "Logan, if you'd moved back here a year ago, when Sam was alive, I'd feel differently."

"In what way?"

The man from an hour ago, the one Logan opened the front door to, who flashed his gun and gripped Logan's arm too hard, showed up again, a hard glint in his eye. "Gai had a father, one who was there for him every day. If you'd let him down then it wouldn't've mattered as much."

"I have no intention of letting him down."

"Good, see that you don't. But don't ask me to champion your cause unless you've got more to offer than grand gestures and good intentions."

"You've got a better plan? Because I'm all ears."

"Someone with a father like yours," Keith said, moving around his car to open the driver's door, "should be able to figure it out for himself."

After wasting the better part of a day trying to work out what Keith Mars meant, Logan made lunch plans with a suspiciously eager Trina. He chose a restaurant five minutes from her studio, one with valet parking in case Trina is still as bad at parking as he remembers. Stationing himself in a coffee shop across the street half an hour early, he scans the streets for any sign of paparazzi.

Within minutes he reaches the same conclusion he had years earlier, hanging out with Veronica. Stake outs are boring. Without the possibility of car sex they're mind-numbing—enough so he reneges on his plan to wait until ten minutes after Trina arrives so he can scan the street.

She's settled in at the back booth he'd reserved, fiddling with her phone. With every move of her wrist the metal bangles on her wrist chime softly against each other. Logan slides in opposite her, at the curve of the seat so he can observe both the front and back of the restaurant.

Trina rolls her eyes at his trucker hat and sunglasses. "That look became passé in the 90s, Logie bear. Pick up a GQ, will you?"

"As long as it's not next to an Enquirer with my picture on it, Treens, sure."

"Oh, please, these days lunch with you won't get me a blip on Yahoo! OMG! Face it, brother," she puts a hand next to her mouth and stage-whispers, "you're passé."

"All the same, how about you hand me your phone?"

She slides it over, unlocked, with wry amusement. Logan turns it off and sets out of her reach. He glances around the room to see if anyone's paying particular attention.

"Where's your friend? Ava?"

Logan throws his hat and glasses on the table in irritation. He opens his mouth to correct her, then shuts it. Even speaking Eva's name is still enough to untether him, at times.

"Ooh, nice!" Trina waves a hand and searches her purse, coming up with a white business card. "I told you my dentist was a miracle worker! Now, I don't think much can be done with that scar by your eye, but for those crows feet—and I always thought you should get calf implants—you should go see—,"

"If you're paying that much attention to my calves, you should see somebody."

Trina shoots him a grin and drops the card in her purse. A waitress comes to take their orders. While Trina tailors a meal to remove any ounce of fat or flavor, Logan keeps it simple with a cheeseburger and a double order of fries since, if history stands, Trina will spend the meal stealing off his plate.

"So, Logan, to what do I owe this honor? The way you left my house, I thought that was the last I'd see of you."

"It should have been."

Trina's face settles into a serious expression. She reaches across the table and covers his hand with hers. "I'm glad you're here. And I promise, the movie is dead."

"Sure. Sign over all the original footage to me and then I'll—,"

"Done," she interrupts him. "I'll call my lawyer—you can have it all. Transcripts of interviews, contracts, everything. It'll be ready to tomorrow."

"You're serious."

"I am, but Logan," she centers the iced tea the waitress places in front of her and waits until she leaves. "You might want to watch some of it." Her eyes light up, "oh my god. Remember, when you were little, and we were on set with Daddy in Colorado? You were so excited for snow, and then there wasn't any, so he paid the ski resort to use their snow machine and—."

"Treens, don't."

Her eyes drop to the table at his firm tone, and she fiddles with the bangles on her wrist.

Logan considers her. Their eight-year age and biological differences aside, she's still his sister. His flighty, thoughtless, self-centered sister who helped him out as often as she disappointed him. How many times, when they were kids, did she pick up his drunk ass and sneak him into the house? Or buy the alcohol he got drunk on in the first place? He has a hundred other good memories—letting him sleep on her floor after he watched scary movies, keeping each other entertained on boring sets—to soften the harsher ones.

Coming back, being given another chance by Veronica and Dick, one Logan doesn't feel he's yet earned, could be it's his turn to pay it forward.

He won't tell her about Gai, or moving to San Diego. Not yet. They can start with lunch. If his name doesn't hit the gossip pages tomorrow, he'll consider giving her his phone number.

They both sit back when the waitress brings their salads. Trina removes her hand from his with a chime of bangles.

"So," he says, poking a fork in to spread the dressing. "Fifth season of One Tree Hill—,"

"Oh my god!" Trina throws up her hands excitedly. "The time jump, right? So good. And they were finally rid of that Rachel girl, who I totally should have played…"

3:15pm

Gai

Ahead of them, Mike and Cameron walk and talk over summer plans. Gai shoulder-bumps Fish, who hasn't said responded to anything he's said since they left school. "What's up?" he asks her.

"Nothing."

"Liar."

Her head drops to watch her feet. "Do you think Angie's pretty?"

"Angie Meadows?" Gai asks. "I never thought about it."

"Then think about it."

"Why?"

Fish blows a frustrated breath out her nose. "You like Steph. Is she pretty?"

"Yeah, I mean, I guess. Yeah."

"What makes her pretty?"

Gai shrugs, unsure how to answer.

"You're useless."

Fish walks faster and Gai has to work to catch up. He grabs her arm to make her stop. "Fish, what's going on?"

She shakes her head, her eyes filled with tears that don't fall. "It doesn't matter. You're not helping, anyway."

Gai can't remember the last time he saw her cry. He kicks the ground and looks away, embarrassed. "Angie's okay, nothing special. I like how dark blue Steph's eyes are, and her smile."

"What about me?" Fish asks.

"Fish—,"

She rushes to cut him off. "I have all this frizzy red hair and freckles and I'm skinny and—,"

"And you totally kick-ass. You're always winning fights with me and Mike and you rock the tubs like crazy."

Fish looks away from him, her chin trembling even more now. "I guess that answers my question."

"No it doesn't." Gai doesn't know how to handle her going all girl on him. "I just don't think about how you look. You're just, you know, Fish."

Fish shakes her head and starts walking again, slow. "Why do you like Steph, Gai? What is she, besides pretty?"

"She's," Gai searches for the words while keeping pace with her. "Fun."

"Fun. Is that another word for boobs?"

"Don't be a bitch. You never even talk to her."

Fish nods and kicks at a pebble on the sidewalk. "I was in the bathroom today, in one of the stalls. Angie and Meredith came in and didn't know I was there, I guess. They were talking about the dresses everyone's wearing for graduation tomorrow and Meredith brought up that she'd never seen me in a dress. Angie said she didn't care what I wore as long as I put a bag over my head."

Gai's stomach drops and the back of his neck heats. "I—,"

"It just," Fish says, "I was never friends with the girls in our class but now I feel like a total weirdo. They wear lip gloss and talk about boys, like all the time. Mike's going to another school next year and you're going out with girls. Pretty girls. With boobs."

"Are you," Gai's cheeks heat. "You sound jealous. Of Steph, I mean. Jealous I'm with her."

"Oh my god." Fish punches him in the arm, hard. "Get over yourself."

"Well, I don't know! What the hell are we even talking about?"

"Me, Gai, me. That everything's changing and I don't fit in anywhere."

"That's stupid. You fit with me and Mike, where you always have."

"Yeah, but—." Fish breathes deep. Her eyes tell him he failed her though Gai doesn't understand how. She throws a tight smile that turns down at the corners. "I'm probably just freaking out about going to a new school, or something."

Mike, still ahead of them with Cameron, waves at Fish's aunt when they pass Fish's house. Denise Poisson is outside, shaking out a carpet. It always surprises Gai, how much Fish and her aunt don't look alike. Denise's shape reminds him of a puffer-fish, one with arms and short, veiny legs. Her blond hair is so wispy and thin Gai can see to the pink of her scalp, and the shape of her head is off, as if someone wrapped a rubber band around it when the bones were still soft. Watery eyes watch them behind bottle-thick glasses.

As Gai and Fish approach, the smile Denise gives them is warm, eager, and kidlike. "Hiya, yeah, hi guys."

"Hi, Denise," Gai says, working to keep his voice from slipping into the one he uses for little kids.

"Hey, Aunt D." Fish points up the street. "I'm going to Mike's but I'll be back for dinner. Okay?"

Denise's mouth turns down. She wrings her hand in a pantomime of worry and shakes her head. "You have to ask Mom-mom."

"I already did," Fish lies. The lie, Gai knows, doesn't come from rebellion or an effort to sneak around. Fish's mom, Anna, took in Denise after a car accident reduced her to an overgrown five-year-old, then Fish's dad left them. Anna works two jobs and takes care of Denise, which doesn't leave much time for Fish. Fish has the run of the neighborhood and no one to answer to for it. The lies are to pacify Denise, who freaks out if she doesn't think rules are being followed.

Denise pats Fish's shoulder and turns away, back up the walk, talking to herself. "Asked Mom-mom, that's good, asked Mom-mom."

"Hold on," Fish tells him. "I'm going to throw my backpack inside."

It's a replay of a hundred other afternoons, a thousand. While he waits Gai thinks over what Fish asked earlier. When she comes back it takes walking past four houses before he works out what he wants to say. "Fish?"

"Yeah?"

"Stuff's changing, with graduating sixth grade and Mike going to another school and everything, but we're not going to change. We're always gonna be friends, you, me, and Mike."

She's quiet a beat longer than he'd expect before she shoulder-bumps him. "Thanks."

"You're," he swallows down the word pretty, because he likes the way she looks but pretty isn't the right word for it, "awesome, like I said. Besides, your hair is totally badass. Perfect if you want to revive hair metal."

This time her grin is real. "How does your sax fit into that?"

"Hair metal and big band fusion. A totally new sound."

"Not a good one." She squints him. "Badass, huh?"

"Totally badass."

Up ahead, Steph skips down the steps of Cam's house and leans against the back of a car, waiting for him. She's tied a hoodie around her waist and her tight black tank hugs the curve of her breasts. Fish mutters, "Headlights go in the front of the car," only half under her breath.

Gai hip-checks her. Fish slams him back and laughs. "Okay, okay, I'll talk to her."

Even with Steph waiting they take their time, walking the street they've walked together for half their lives, and in that moment Gai believes it. Nothing will change. Life will continue with the same people, the same friends, walking in his own footsteps like he's done since forever.

3:30pm

Veronica

Mr. Lopez, the teacher overseeing the high school yearbook staff, keeps glancing over at her as you would a celebrity in a restaurant. Veronica made it clear she is on a personal mission but letting her FBI credentials slip is what got her in the door. Given all the X-files paraphernalia around his desk, it's no wonder.

Not that it's doing her any good. While her theory held and there are files upon files of track meet photos, without knowing who she's looking for they aren't helping.

Occasionally Weston's sister, Mandy, is in the crowd but the kids around her vary with each photo. Every time Mr. Lopez turns to speak to a student Veronica throws a picture file into her Dropbox account. She can't repeat this visit.

Her phone buzzes with a call from her boss and Veronica ignores it. She can't care less if her trumped-up doctor appointment was believable or not. There's nothing on her desk that can't be ignored for a half-day.

Jennifer Weston competed in track and field events for four years. Veronica dumps the close-up photos of the girl into her Dropbox as well, not spending any time studying them. That can come later, when she's alone.

Finally done, she glances at her watch. If she leaves now, she might get just ahead of rush hour traffic. Which leaves her no time to hit Weston's job. After everything that's gone down with Gai this week Veronica should make an effort to be home for dinner.

Her goodbyes with Mr. Lopez go quickly, busy as he is grading the final papers of the year. Lydia answers on the second ring as Veronica reaches her car in the almost empty lot.

"Lyd?"

"Veronica, hi. What's up?"

"I'm in L.A. today, working. I should be home on time, but just in case I hit traffic, what's happening at your end?"

"Well, the kids are done with homework for the year and busting with energy. Fish, Cam, and his cousin are over and I promised them all pizza. Mike's going to set up the projector in the garage when he gets home so they can watch a movie."

"Cam's cousin?" Veronica starts the car and lowers the windows to let the heat escape while the AC ramps up. "Steph?"

"Yeah, sweet kid. She's teaching Fish how to do eyeliner. I may have her show me when she's done."

"Fish, and eyeliner?"

"I think she's just doing it to humor Steph. Don't worry if the traffic makes you late. The kids are going to be here until bedtime, anyway."

"Are you sure? I would like to stay a little longer."

"I'm sure. If you're not back before nine Gai can just stay the night."

"I shouldn't be that late." Cold air pours from the vents. "Hey Lyd, can you keep an eye on Gai and Steph? They're kind of going out."

"Oh goodness, are we there already?"

Veronica puts the windows up and shakes her head, though Lydia can't see her. "So it seems. They're texting so much my phone plan is rethinking their 'unlimited' option."

Lydia laughs. "Mike and I spend whole evenings just watching TV. We go to bed and I realize we haven't talked for three hours. How do kids find that much to say to each other?"

"They don't. When they run out of stuff to say it's text after text of emojis. No theme or secret meaning as far as I can tell. They're seriously random—one emoji at a time."

Gai's embarrassment over the whole thing had struck her as adorable, not that she'd let him know that. If anything the texts, with their equal mix of boring and awkward, had reassured her.

"I can remember sitting on the phone with my first boyfriend, in silence, for hours."

"Yeah," Veronica sighs, remembering, too. Three-hour conversations with Duncan that consisted of "you still there?" and, "what are you doing now?" Lilly and Logan snuck onto the extension once and teased them about it for days. "Maybe texting emojis is a step up. Anyway, would you ask Gai to feed Keller?"

"She's over here, already, hanging out with the kids. We won't forget."

During the ten-minute drive to the Gap Veronica almost turns toward the freeway three times. Impromptu movie and pizza parties at the Dunatis' are always fun. It'd be the perfect opportunity to find out more about Steph and, given everything that happened with Gai this week, she should be home as much as possible.

No, she thinks, do the job, Veronica. Gai will be better for it in the long run.

He would, wouldn't he? Right now Gai's a kid but he's bright. When he's older and looks back on his father's murder, there shouldn't be any lingering questions. She's doing it for him as much as for herself.

She passes the turn and keeps straight.

The Gap outlet store is like any other, full of bright colors and brighter lighting. A peppy girl in a flowered button-up and tight jeans steps away from her folding board to offer Veronica help. Neither the name on her tag nor those on the two kids running the register are familiar. Nor surprising, since Weston last worked here ten months ago and retail is notorious for staff turnover.

"Actually, is your manager in?"

"No, but the assistant manager, Tony, is. Can I get him for you?"

Veronica nods and wanders around while Tony's fetched. The store isn't very busy and she wants to place her and Tony's conversation away from the prying ears of the other staff.

She fingers a soft, low-cut blouse and runs her hand over a stack of jeans. It's been more than year since she's done any shopping. Her wardrobe is the worse for it, especially given the ten pounds she's dropped with her morning workouts. The clothes that fit her best are somewhat out of style, scavenged from the back of her closet.

The thought of picking out a stack of clothes, dressing and undressing in a tiny room under fluorescent lights, and making decisions, quells her. Probably she should just ask Charlotte to revamp her wardrobe, as she is no doubt dying to do.

"Hi, I'm Tony," says a voice behind her. "Can I help you?"

Veronica turns to face a very fit, good-looking black man in his early thirties. Anthony Washington, she recalls from the police file. Six-five, poly-sci major at UCLA, graduating next year. Five-year employee of the Gap, transferred from Denver to the L.A. store two years ago. Spent four years in the Marines before that.

"I'm Veronica Mars-Zare. Sam Zare was my husband." At the light of recognition in his eyes, she holds out her hand to shake. Tony does so warily. "I'd like talk to you about Jennifer Weston."

"Okay," he says, stretching the word out to three seconds. "I'm not sure what I can do for you."

Veronica smiles, to put him at ease. It feels tight and small on her face. "You knew Jennifer, right?"

"Well, I worked with her for close to a year, if that's what you mean. We didn't talk much."

"Is there anyone she worked with she did talk to?"

He shakes his head, slow. "Jennifer wasn't much of a joiner. The police questioned all of us and, from what I read, the case is closed."

"Technically, but I'm looking to tie up a few loose ends. Occupational hazard. I'm an FBI agent."

"I'm sorry ma'am, but I don't think I can help you. I still have the detective's card. If I think of anything else, I'll call."

Veronica nods and swallows down the disappointment. It's another dead end. Leo, Harry, and the other cops interviewed the entire Gap staff and got the same story from each of them. Though the exact words varied, everyone described Jennifer Weston as quiet and hardworking. They knew nothing of her life outside of work and barely noticed when she left. Until she wound up a murderer.

Her eyes burn. She hates the way her voice shakes but she can't walk away with nothing. Veronica looks up at Tony, sure the plea shows on her face. Pity flashes in his eyes before he hides it. "Nothing. Not one person called or visited her at work? She didn't say a word about her personal life? You didn't overhear a phone call, notice any notes or drawings?"

At the mention of drawings Tony's head stops shaking and his eyes meet hers.

"What?"

He hesitates. Veronica takes a step closer. "I read the police file, including the interviews with you and everyone here. I know your background. My husband, Sam, he was a Marine, too. Did you know that? He joined up just months before 9/11 and was an MWD handler. He spent three years saving the lives of guys like you. Please, anything. Even if it seems silly."

"It's just," Tony's tongue works the inside of his bottom lip in thought. "Why d'you ask about drawings?"

"Jennifer took art classes all through high school. She drew really well, see?"

Veronica brings up the sketch of Gayle Haile on her phone. He nods, making up his mind. "Follow me." He executes a perfect turn on his heel, a remnant of his military background, and heads to the back of the store. Veronica follows, curiosity making her mind spin.

He leads her through a door marked 'Employee's Only,' into a small office/break room. A brown leather couch, cracked and worn down in the seat, rests on one side, a desk in the other. "We take our breaks in here," Tony says over his shoulder. He pulls a red binder out of a filing cabinet, MSDS printed in bold black letters on the spine, and lays it on the desk.

"I was cleaning, and planned to throw this out because we keep everything online, nowadays. Then I noticed the drawings inside. Figured someone was using it on their breaks and, what the hell," he shrugs. "It wasn't hurting anything."

Veronica drops her bag and sits in the chair. Her hands tremble with certainty. The style and skill are a match. She flips through the binder slow, at first, then faster as pieces of Jennifer's life fall into place. The girl had kept no artwork at home, for reasons known only to herself. Her classwork had been about earning a grade and mastering technical skills. But here, oh here, was where she let herself daydream.

"Did you recognize anyone in here?" Veronica asks.

"Yeah, a couple. They work or used to work here. Are these Jennifer's, then?"

"Pretty sure. Will you go through it and write down the names of everyone you recognize?"

Tony nods and takes the binder from her hands. "Shouldn't I call the detective on the case? I think his name was Del Monte—something like that."

"D'Amato," Veronica corrects, her lips twitching at the catsup reference, "and he's a friend. I'll make sure he gets it."

After I'm done.

9:00pm

Due to rush hour and the daily accident on the 5, it takes forever to get home. Veronica's house sits dark and unwelcoming. A text to Lydia confirms the kids are deep into The Princess Bride and there's pizza aplenty if she's hungry.

She should go over but, between the yearbook pictures she uploaded and the binder of drawings, there's the potential for hours of work ahead of her. Work that's better done when Gai's occupied, and away.

On her way into the house, Veronica notices a large cardboard flat on the porch swing, full of fruit. Raspberries, strawberries, passion fruit, pears, nectarines, and Valencia oranges abound. An invoice tucked next to the citrus welcomes her to Mammoth Farms weekly produce delivery. A gift from Logan is in the small notes box at the bottom.

Her head full of thoughts of Weston's drawings, she drops the crate in the fridge and forgets about it. Pleading exhaustion, Veronica asks Lydia to send Gai home after the movie. The most obvious is to start with the drawings. They're all from Jennifer Weston's life or imagination, and thereby the likeliest to lead her on a path of discovery.

There are one-hundred and fifty-six pages in the binder, printed single-sided. Small sketches fill the margins, larger ones on the blank sides. Tony's written the names of everyone he recognizes from the Gap. After an hour Veronica's singled out those she identifies from Jennifer's life and those she doesn't.

While many of the drawings are meaningless doodles, at least to Veronica, it doesn't take a psychologist to pick up on the running themes.

Renditions of her sister, Mandy, are done with love. Softened features, expressions ranging from sad, to contemplative, to laughing. A series of them show the girl at different ages, sleeping with a stuffed rabbit. As Mandy grows older—the lines of her face sharpening with age, the body lengthening and becoming more defined—the rabbit becomes more and more ragged.

None of the drawings show Jennifer, but many are done inside a circle, with hands in first-person view. Hands that press against an airplane window, or hold a sketchpad, drawing the Parisian skyline. Another braiding a younger girl's hair. The most disturbing, holding a whip while Abigail Weston cowers in the corner.

Abigail makes several appearances, usually with a drink in one hand while wearing a disapproving expression. While the drawing of Gayle Haile was photo-realistic, Abigail's are caricatures: the nails are over-long and curled, her neck tendons standing out like strings on a violin, and her mouth is an over-lined, pursed moue.

The last page is Jennifer again, in a classroom. The hands in front of her are in shackles, placing a slide into a microscope. In the corner of the room is a garbage can, with a sketch pad sticking out and three stray pencils on the floor.

Idly, Veronica logs a text from Lydia that Gai's on his way home. She scans each individual drawing and stores them in her computer under folders for each person she recognizes, putting the rest aside in a group folder.

Next she opens her Dropbox account and goes through the same process, looking for any crossover between the photographs and the drawings of unknown people. It's absorbing work. Other than Mandy, who appears in the stands at every home track meet, she comes up with only two possibilities. One is a drawing of a Gap employee, Erica, and a generic blonde. After hour-long slog through the yearbook photos Veronica thinks she places the blonde, a student named Lori Peterson.

Veronica leans back and stretches, groaning when her back pops. The house is quiet around her—too quiet for… eleven-thirty?

A glance at her phone tells her Lydia sent Gai home before ten. Even with the office door closed Veronica would have heard him. She's sure at one point she had registered the sound of Keller coming in the back doggy door, hadn't she?

A sweep of the house turns up Keller but not Gai. The backyard motion-light switches on but the Dunati's house is dark. Veronica breathes in deep of the night air and forces herself to stay calm. "Gai?" she calls out, her voice thready and too low for effect. She's pulling up the speed dial of her cell as she steps forward to yell, sleeping neighbors be damned.

Before his name leaves her mouth, Veronica hears voices to her right, on the other side of the side-gate.

"My dad's going to be at Cam's soon. I have to go."

Gai's voice, too low to make out the words, is followed by a girlish giggle.

Veronica clears her throat noisily and calls out his name. When the low talking continues she kicks the gate and says his name louder, letting the annoyance come through.

The shared laughter of co-conspirators doesn't help her mood any. It takes all her patience to wait out the rushed goodbyes. Gai's casual "Hey, Mom," as he sidles past her toward the house sets her off. She catches up to him in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water at the sink.

"Don't 'hey Mom' me. You should have been home more than an hour ago."

"I was home."

"You know what I mean. You left Lydia's before ten, Gai, to come home. One, it's still a school night. Two, you need to tell me where you are."

His words are flat, angry. "I did."

"You did not."

"I knocked on the office. I told you I brought Keller back and was going to be outside with Steph for a minute."

His words bring the echo of memory. It rankles her, guilt increasing her agitation. "That was over an hour ago."

"Yeah, sorry," he says, doling out the apology without meaning it. Gai turns his back to place his glass in the dishwasher. "We were talking and I lost track of time."

"Is that all you were doing? Talking?"

With his short hair Veronica can see his neck turn a deep red. This time the guilt quells her anger. The last thing she wants is to embarrass him.

"Hey," she sighs, her own cheeks heating. "Ignore that. You worried me, but I'm also tired."

Gai nods and turns around, not meeting her eyes. "Lydia said you were working late."

"I was."

"On your new case."

"Yeah."

He nods and pushes off the counter. "There's a couple saved voicemails. I checked them when I came over to get Keller's food."

That's it. No wishes for goodnight or a hug. For the first time she realizes Gai is furious with her—not just for forgetting he checked in earlier or that she interrupted him and Steph, but something else.

Veronica returns to the office to play back the messages while Gai uses the bathroom and brushes his teeth. The first is a telemarketer call. The second her boss, timed 3:45pm, saying he knows Veronica took the rest of the day off but to please give him a call when she has a minute.

Gai's bedroom door slams shut and Veronica hears the click of his lock engaging. Loud music followed by abrupt silence says he's shut her out with headphones.

Tears burn in her eyes. Veronica blinks them away and settles back down to her work. Tomorrow she'll think of a way to explain her lie. And probably tell a hundred more before this is all over.

AN: Thanks again and forever to N3 for always pushing me to dig deeper and burrow into the quiet moments.

AN: HUGE appreciation for all of you out there reading and supporting this story. Our mutual love of VM keeps me going on it, and lets me know I'm not the only lunatic in the asylum. :-)