Aizawa

Over the Kira case, we'd all gotten used to hotels and out-of-suitcase living; Ide, Mogi, and Matsuda more so than I, seeing how I had a family to try and get home to as often as I could, but there had been more than enough nights I'd passed out where I sat, exhausted by the questions still buzzing in my mind.

After I became chief, I'd really thought those days must be over for good, and as I stood in the foyer of our suite at Sunroute Plaza, I couldn't help sighing. Why did they always look the same, no matter how expensive? Charming at first, done in calm colors and high-grade materials, but chintzy the longer I stared around. Generic. Not home.

Grudgingly, I checked my phone. In the last four days, I'd missed about fifty calls from Eriko, and at least a hundred angry text messages. Funny. It felt like weeks since I'd seen her or the kids, and when I tried to remember what I'd told her on Satuday, before everything went wrong, all I could come up with was some crap about being back in time for dinner, a promise as generic and cheap as the room I currently stood in.

Since then, it felt like all she'd ask was what's going on, and all I could tell her was that everything was under control, and I'd be home soon. Damn lies.

Wouldn't I love to give her the truth? Wouldn't I love to have her bossy mouth telling me what I should do while her loving hands promised everything would be okay? What wouldn't I give to rest, even for a moment, in the safety that came from holding her in my arms?

I shouldn't be surprised if this case turned out to be the last straw for her. This past decade had pushed our marriage to the brink, and most women wouldn't put up with it if their husband simply vanished one morning and didn't check in for days at a time, and even though Eriko had never been like most women, she had her limits.

Squinting in the light of yet another sunset, I stared out the portrait window overlooking the city. What if I go home tonight? Would I get there in time to fix everything?

Only my own paranoia and pessimism stood in my way at this point.

Ide shuffled past me to dump his duffle on the floor beside the couch, and I watched him from the corner of my eye. He'd been able to go home and at least pack a bag, so now he looked composed, showered and dressed in a clean polo. Only his face revealed lingering signs of disquiet from watching the video.

That goddamn video. I'd spend the rest of my life trying to shut out that image, but I'd never be able to block out the sound of Matsuda's voice, begging me to help him.

I knew because, even a year later, the Reaper's tape of torturing and murdering Izanagi Chiba still kept me awake at night and haunted me in the day, a constant reminder of mistakes and outright failure.

Carelessly dropping his own bag in the middle of the foyer, Matsuda began exploring the suite, a routine I'd more than gotten used to. Back in the day, even with Ryuzaki watching and Soichiro growing impatient, he'd always had to go jogging through the rooms, like a puppy dog, shouting excitedly about the amenities and touching everything.

Today, he took his time, limping first to the mini bar to take out a shooter bottle, kicking it back at once and grabbing another. On top of investigating injured and deranged, he seemed determined to do it half-drunk as well. In his Original Fake t-shirt and black slacks, he looked caught between professional and off-duty, just as he had in the video.

God. I'd known he must have gone through something excruciating the second I'd seen him at the gas station, and what little he'd told us had made my stomach drop, but I'd never thought I'd have to sit by helplessly and watch, or listen to him scream, let alone hear him beggingme for help. As much as Tero had forced him to say those things, the desperation in his voice had been real. He had wanted me to come and rescue him, and I had no excuse for the fact that I'd been unable to.

I didn't know how to stop feeling angry with myself for not knowing—magically—exactly where to go, for not showing up right at that moment to beat the shit out of the monster I'd seen on the camera.

As I watched him drift aimlessly around the suite, sticking his head into the bedroom and lingering at the sunny terrace door, my guilt threatened to crush me.

Of course he didn't care about my apology. He wouldn't. He was the kind of person who'd blame himself for all of it—out of the belief that he's weak and useless. For all I knew, he'd do some mental gymnastics and convince himself he'd deserved all that.

"Hey, Sparky," Ide called quietly, "c'mere."

Sipping from what had turned out to be a bottle of rum, Matsuda wandered back toward him, eyes fixed intently, but unbothered, on Ide as he dug into the duffle he'd thrown down.

"What?" he asked, with a note of suspicion. The longer this went on, the less he trusted us, completely oblivious to the way he was wearing the two of us down.

Ide produced a meager first aid kit he'd apparently bought at a drugstore and set it on the coffee table. "Sit down," he muttered, even as he got up to wash his hands, and Matsuda dropped heavily into the couch.

Keeping my place in the foyer, I watched Ide clean the k-shaped slashes on Matsuda's arm, apply antibiotic ointment and sterile dressing, which he wrapped loosely in clean gauze.

I clenched my broken fist. Ide had always been good at things like that. He had some inherent interest in first aid anyway, and he had the level-headedness to utilize it even in a traumatic situation. Honestly, I wouldn't have even thought to tend to Matsuda's injuries.

Matsuda sat quietly through the process, drinking his rum and gazing disinterestedly around the hotel room.

Right after Soichiro had died, I'd watched the two of them go through a daily procedure of changing each other's bandages. Matsuda had always been a baby about it. Ten days ago, he would have been whimpering and jerking away, but tonight, he didn't so much as wince at the hiss of peroxide.

For all his newfound staunchness though, I had begun to suspect that fear still existed inside him. After all, he'd expected to watch Tero's video without flinching—he'd thought of it as simply another piece of evidence—but after less than a minute, he'd been the one rushing out of the room, face marred by a disturbed expression. Ide and I hadn't been able to stomach more than a few seconds more than him, but the fact that he didn't want to relive that moment, even if it meant finding vital clues, showed me Ide was wrong—Matsuda wasn't completely gone—and it was the first time I'd seen anything take precedence over his directive.

I wish he wasn't so weak. I wish he didn't trust and respect me so much. I wish he would just come to realize it's far more my fault than his, and that he'd resent me. That way, I'd never have to go through letting him down again.

How did it get so fucked up?

"It's not too bad," Ide announced, finishing up with the gauze, and then went so far as to lay a hand on Matsuda's forehead, leveling him with an analytical gaze. "No fever, no chills, right?"

"Nothing like that," Matsuda confirmed, dully.

"You still should have been taking care of it," Ide scolded. "You're a sleeper cell, not a five-year-old."

I supposed, even though he'd been the one to suggest we treat Matsuda like a super soldier, he couldn't bring himself to.

"I just didn't think about it."

"You'd better start thinking about it. You need to rinse your mouth, too."

"Okay, Ide," Matsuda said, flippantly.

Nonetheless, Hideki put on his best big brother voice. "I mean it. We've got the penicillin, but if you start getting red streaks up your arm, we'll have to take you to a doctor. You'll beg us to."

We both knew a little pain wouldn't drive him to that point.

"Okay," Matsuda repeated.

Sighing lightly, Ide got up to throw away trash and stow his first aid kit back in the duffle, while Matsuda limped to the bathroom to rinse his mouth, grabbing another shooter of rum along the way.

Ide sent me a long look, and then glanced around the suite as soon as our gazes touched. "Three beds, four of us. I don't know about you, but I'm sick of sleeping on couches."

"Maybe I'll go home," I practically whispered.

"Your call." He eyed me again. "Doesn't make a lot of sense, though, paying for a suite and not staying in it."

"Boko will reimburse me," I muttered, though I wasn't sure. Boko found us right before we'd left the station, demanding an update, but between Hideki's breakdown, the video, and the way Matsuda had overpowered me outside, I'd been too frazzled to answer his questions with any accuracy, and Matsuda had taken it upon himself, listing off facts and describing events with all the emotionless precision of a machine. He'd gone so far as to assure the director the case would be over soon. He'd never had much capacity for lying, so I assumed he honestly believed that.

If Mogi could get a positive ID on Tero, we might have it wrapped up by the end of the week, but Matsuda had brought up a good point: he'd endured a lot of serious trauma lately without being allowed to process it. Even if we salvaged his mind, he might suffer a complete breakdown.

"If I don't go home," I muttered, practically to myself, "I'll stay on the couch."

Ide frowned. "Will I get in trouble for making my chief sleep on the couch?"

Slowly, I shook my head, not looking at him. I didn't feel like Chief Aizawa anymore. Ide didn't treat me like his chief. I didn't know how to make him open up, and I couldn't do anything about his insubordination.

Shifting his weight from one leg to the other and back, Ide pushed the misfallen forelock from his forehead. "Shuichi…"

"I don't mind sleeping on the couch," Matsuda informed us in his typical, generous way, as he re-entered the room. "I'm the only one who hasn't lately."

Had his mind been normal, I had no doubt he would have given up even his own bed at his apartment so none of his guests would be uncomfortable.

Nice kid. I wanted the old Matsu back so bad I could barely get my mind around it.

For some reason, then, I thought back to Christmas 2012, mere weeks after Soichiro had died, a month before we'd apprehended Kira. It had been such a tense time, we'd worked around the clock, even on Christmas Eve—it took a long time for Eriko to forgive that—and even though most of us had worked through the holiday without a thought to it, Matsuda had put on some pop Christmas music, broke out a bottle of eggnog and bourbon, got buzzed, and eventually crashed face down on the couch, leaving the rest of us to roll our eyes and grumble about what an unbelievable dork he was; no one had said too much about it, though, seeing how he'd also brought Christmas cake, KFC, and a gift for each of us. Despite the fact that nobody had thought to bring him anything, he'd alternated between saying it was the least he could do and how he'd known us all "forever."

In the end, listening to him sing himself to sleep without scolding him, tossing a blanket over him, and solemnly taking over his workload for the night had been the best and only thanks anyone had given him.

Guilt struck me all the harder. Past his tendency to whine, Matsuda had always been considerate and unselfish, and I wished I'd appreciated that more at the time.

Today, a callous stranger stared at me from across the room.

I can barely stand the cold machine he's become.

Ide breached my thoughts to snort, "No one's made you sleep on the floor because you're hurt," like it was the dumbest thing Matsuda had ever thought of.

Giving us each a measuring look, Matsuda shrugged and flopped onto the couch again. "Whatever you say."

"Wouldn't that be nice," Ide said under his breath, and then turned to me again, and I tried to remember if we'd spoken to each other at all after seeing the video. If we had, it was just for me to say I'd better find Matsuda, and for him to mutter again about really going home this time.

"You could just go," he suggested, in an unusually kind tone. "Matsu and I will be fine on our own until Mogi shows up."

After the stupid thing they'd done this morning, I seriously doubted I could trust them by themselves.

"It's fine," I mumbled, finally leaving the foyer to sit on the couch and get out the laptop I'd brought with me. "I have work to do anyway."

Taking a loud gulp of rum, Matsuda leaned over my shoulder. "What are you working on?"

"Researching Max Cooper. The least I should be able to do is find out if he's using an alias."

"Doubtful," he scoffed. "Golden Teeth is stupid."

"I hope so."

"What should I be working on?" Ide asked, taking a seat on the couch opposite us.

"Do whatever you want, Hideki," I muttered automatically, and then, to his black scowl, amended, "You acted like you know about that car he was driving. See what you can dig up on that."

"How about me?" Matsuda asked, as if he hadn't been ignoring me for days.

"I don't know, Matsuda." I massaged the bridge of my nose. The headache had persisted all day. "Just relax and keep quiet. Take a break."

Rubbing his swollen cheek, he sank back in the cushions. "That's all I've done today," he complained.

"Not what I heard. Seriously. Just relax and don't distract me."

I added that last part purely out of habit, but for the rest of the night, he only grumbled a little about having nothing to do; before I knew it, he'd fallen asleep next to me on the couch, still clutching a mostly empty shooter bottle.

"He's just about shot," Ide commented quietly, looking over the top of his computer. "Every day he runs himself all the more ragged."

If we didn't solve this soon, he might collapse under the strain.

Where did I go wrong?

Tero had planned this—he must have stalked Matsuda for at least a little while before kidnapping him—and I could't understand how I'd missed that.

"Luckily," I said, "Max Cooper does seem to be a real person. He's all over social media, bragging about moving to Tokyo from Australia."

Ide snorted. "Why would the mastermind involve someone stupid like that?"

"Who knows? Tero might be an idiot too, or maybe Cooper has some special skill he needs." I didn't want to think about what that might be. "What about the car?"

"Classic Celica A20. Not the most popular model these days. If we alert the patrol units to watch for it, I imagine we'll have him in a day or two. Otherwise, we can check with dealerships around town, or look into the possibility that he shipped it here."

Having more than one option to catch a suspect was the first light of hope I'd seen since Matsuda first was kidnapped. "If Cooper is stupid, like Matsuda says, we can probably get it out of him who Tero really is."

"Make a deal with him?" Ide wondered, in a reluctant tone.

I wrinkled my nose. "I'm not cutting deals with any of these fuckers. They'll be lucky not to get shot on sight."

Or, I thought, darkly, I'll make them wish I had shot them.

Barely squeaking, the suite door eased open, and we both turned to watch Mogi step in, shutting it just behind him, body language calm, expression troubled, and for a long moment, he stood there, like I had, staring around the room and then at us in turn. He took his coat off to hang it up in the closet, removed his shoes, and padded softly over to sit down next to Ide. Once there, his shoulders heaved in a deep but inaudible sigh.

"What's up?" Ide asked around his cigarette, still tapping at his computer.

Mogi shook his head in dismay. "Nothing."

I paused in my note taking to study him. "What do you mean nothing?"

"Dead end."

"God," I growled, slamming my pen against my paper. "Why does it seem like all we ever get is dead ends?"

Next to me, Matsuda stirred and murmured without opening his eyes, "What dead end?"

"Your sociopath is lucky as hell," I snorted. "Go back to sleep."

"I'm not sure he's lucky…" Mogi murmured, sighed again, and stood up. "Should we order something, or should I cook?"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Ide interrupted. "What do you mean you don't think he got lucky?"

Mogi shrugged. "Just a hunch. I'm not sure I feel like cooking—let's order room service."

"Mogi," I growled. "What's this hunch?"

"It's not solid, Aizawa. I just think it's possible Chiyuuda was covering for someone."

I scowled up at him. "Pretending not to recognize the thief?"

"Maybe. But even if you question him, I'm not sure he'll admit it."

"We'll see," I snarled. "He might change his tune when he finds out he's making himself and accomplice in kidnapping and attempted murder and…and…" I waved my hand at Matsuda, "whatever you want to call this."

"I think he already knows that." Mogi picked up the phone to order dinner.

"Do you think he'll hold out even if he's about to lose his company? Researching mind control, letting it get into criminal hands…contributing to the brainwashing of an NPA officer."

"Massive lawsuit," Ide muttered dryly.

I frowned at him. "I'm serious!"

"So am I. Matsuda could sue. Hell, maybe I'll sue. I almost died today."

"There you go," I snapped, glaring at Mogi. "We'll ruin this guy."

But a stoic, "All right, Aizawa," was all he gave me, and then began taking orders.

I kept working until room service came, struggling to keep my focus and not let my aggravation get the best of me, and the others stayed totally silent. At our urging, Matsuda had some soup, but like yesterday, he didn't get much down before giving up, and then he shuffled off to bed, still drinking rum. As the night deepened, Mogi and Ide called it quits also, and by midnight, I sat up alone on the couch, staring at my computer.

We had enough on Cooper—for now—and so I found myself going to the mini bar as well, taking several shots of cheap whiskey before going back, plugging in the thumb drive, and, with a deep breath, starting the video. Headphones on, I sat in the dark, watching, but it was worse than I imagined.

Horrendous things happened, too many to count, the audio was horrifying, and my heart beat sluggishly, like it was pumping sludge. I clenched my fists until they hurt, but I didn't dare look away. Tero sent this to me for some reason. Toying with me, maybe. Fucking with me. After only a few minutes of studying the dark glee in his eyes, I could easily imagine him packing up the drive and hand delivering it to Danuja's desk, just for the kick it might give him to imagine me reviewing the footage.

I drank more alcohol and made myself focus. There had to be something—some insignificant detail—to make it worthwhile to sit and watch hours and hours of Matsuda being tortured.

Two hours in, my jaw ached from gritting my teeth, and my chest felt tight from holding my breath, but the only thing I'd deduced was that Tero was, in fact, a bonafide sociopath, absent of any remorse, taking sadistic pleasure in torturing the information about Kira out of Matsuda. Many of the things I saw him do seemed to serve no real purpose, threats both physical and psychological; sometimes, he made good on them, and sometimes, it seemed he simply suggested them for the evil joy it brought him to watch his victim beg for mercy. Little by little, I watched Matsuda break down and start giving up information. Even then, though, Tero offered sick and malicious rewards designed to chip away at Matsuda's sanity.

It left me with no doubt that, even if we got him back, he could be scarred for life.

If we got him back, I should dismiss him, I decided, transfer him to another precinct, and stay away from him. What other option did I have? Hover over him the rest of my life and worry myself to death every second we were apart? How could I ever sleep comfortably again after this, without wondering where he was and if he was okay?

Apparently, the footage had been edited—there was no way of knowing what went on between those gaps—but in time I came to realize it didn't matter. Even if I'd gotten this video while Matsuda was still missing, I didn't see anything that would have helped me find him, and soon it seemed I only kept watching to punish myself for not being there.

Deputy Director Yagami—Chief Yagami, at the time—had asked me, when Ryuzaki had him detained, to look after Matsuda. He'd specifically ordered me to take my command over him seriously, and I had. For his sake, yes, but also because, especially back then, Matsuda needed someone to keep him in line. By the time Ryuzaki had the chief and his son released, I'd gotten used to bossing the kid around; his desire to please me and prove himself had made him easy to manage, but I'd been careful not to lose sight of my responsibility to him.

Even if you were just a coworker, I'm not sure I could separate myself from this devastating guilt.

I'd never been good about letting people down.

Barely breathing, I shut my aching eyes, but the audio played on, and it must be the most horrifying part, the harshest illustration of how much he'd suffered and how much he'd needed me.

Matsuda reminded me of a kid I knew in elementary school—this twerp who didn't fit in and got picked on a lot. I stood by a long time before finally stepping in to help, but I couldn't. I got my ass kicked by some bigger kids, he eventually transferred to another school. That's a regret I'd lived with all my life, something to keep in mind during my career as a policeman, after I made it my duty to protect the weak.

You're not like that, even if you think so. Maybe you just never learned to stick up for yourself.

None of that mattered now. Whether he was weak or not, whether I was tough or not, I let this happen.

Swaying, drunk, I jumped off the couch and tore the thumb drive from its port, chucking it across the room as I staggered to the door, choking and heaving with the maelstrom of rage and guilt that threatened to tear me apart.

I let this happen…

Under the black, night sky, the bustling city felt lonely and terrifying. I got into my car and broke down there, gripping the steering wheel and pressing my face against the horn until it echoed through the parking garage.

How could I let this happen?

Matsuda always thought I was something I wasn't; even if he wasn't all fucked up now, I doubted he'd be angry with me the way I was angry with myself.

I made a mistake. Instead of trying so hard to protect him, I should have shown him how to be stronger. And then, maybe…

That wasn't my responsibility. I can't take the blame for it all. It isn't my fault sick people do sick things.

Someone else—someone tougher—could cope with the damage and recover. Not me. I'd be a basket case if I went through any of that. But it would take a true super solider to endure that hell and come out okay. Matsuda, when he got his emotions back, wouldn't be able to hack it.

That's if he gets his emotions back.

Either way, it looked like I was running over the edge of a cliff, hurling toward a point where getting him back, exactly as he had been, might be impossible.

When I'd composed myself, I started my car and began to drive, heading to the only place I wanted to be.

Eriko

For over fifteen years, I'd prepared myself for the sound of heavy-handed knocking at three in the morning, always knowing it would be followed immediately by the news that my husband had been killed, and yet, when it came, jolting me out of uneasy sleep, I still wasn't ready.

By the time I checked the clock, I was shaking already, and it hurt to breathe. Clenching the front of my shirt, I slipped through the dark, downstairs, and stood in the hall, staring at the door. Suddenly, I was overly aware of everything—my bare feet, cold on the floor, the smallness and frailty of my existence, the thinness of the walls that were supposed to shelter me and my children, the raw vulnerability, the bitter helplessness of facing a life without Shuichi.

You damn idiot, I thought, storming for the door, tears already scalding my eyes. But I was not going to let Hideki see me cry.

At the door, I drew a sharp breath, just as the knocking echoed through the house again, threatening to wake the kids.

A scream clawed at my throat as I threw it open, and I even wondered, if I just shouted at him right away, maybe he'd leave without saying anything, and I could spend the rest of the night pretending Shuichi was going to come up and crawl into bed beside me.

My husband stood on the door step, coatless, tieless, shirt flying open, fist raised to knock again, looking lost. Behind him, his car sat with its front wheels blocking the sidewalk.

Transforming into a painful sigh of relief, the scream eased out of my lungs, and I leaned heavily into the door frame. "What are you doing?" I hissed. "Don't you know what time it is?"

"No," he muttered back at me. "No idea."

"Well, it's three-thirty, Shuichi. What's the idea, coming here beating down the door, waking everyone up, at three-thirty in the morning?"

Lips curled in a permanent wince, my husband stared back at me, and something horrible haunted his eyes, like he was looking at me for the very last time.

"What's going on?" I insisted, staring past him to see if he was alone. "Is everyone all right?"

His breath hitched and he held it, nodding heavily. "Just…let me in."

Shaking my head at him, I stepped to the side. "Where's your key?"

"I dunno." He lingered outside. "Can't find it."

Automatically, my hand plunged into the pocket of his slacks, yanking the keys out and holding them up for him to see.

He blinked stupidly at them.

"Are you drunk?"

"Mmyeah, huh, yeah. Little."

Fury started to simmer in me. "Let me get this straight. You disappear without a word, refuse to call me back, and then, in the dead of night, you wake me up banging on the door because you're too drunk to find your keys?" I scowled at the car parked halfway across the sidewalk. "Did you drive here like this? Shuichi, you're the chief of police!"

"Er'ko…" he muttered. "C'mon, Babe. Lemme in."

"It's your house. Just come in!" I snapped, barely remembering to keep my voice down.

At last, he lumbered in, fingers scraping the wall for support, and I watched him stumble halfway down the hall before he stopped again, heaving a ragged sigh.

"You inconsiderate jerk," I growled, shutting the door and flicking on a light. "What is the matter with you?"

Shuichi stood leaning on the wall, head hanging. "I jus…needed to be here…"

"Oh, out of nowhere?" Through my outrage, I reminded myself that something terrible might have happened—he looked upset enough—and then I tried to take a deep breath and let the anger cool. "Where's Hideki?"

God, if that idiot died, nothing could fix that.

But Shuichi slurred out the words, "Sunroute Plaza."

Thank God.

"Where's Touta?"

"W'th Hideki…"

Another sigh of relief slipped through my teeth. "Everyone's okay?"

Shuichi shook his head. "No. Yeah… They are…but…" He tapered away there, and it had been a long time since I'd heard such confusion and hurt in his voice.

I touched his arm, staring up at his face, trying to understand the sharp lines of agony that had appeared on his forehead. "Are you okay?" I asked, gentler, but it was stupid. If he was okay, he wouldn't have shown up like this.

My husband checked himself over, clumsily, as if expecting to find a mortal wound, and I noticed his right hand was bruised, swollen, and gashed. "Mmhm. I'm fine." Jerkily, then, he faced me, staring down into my eyes with that horrible look on his face. "I missed you."

Inconsiderate jackass that he was, it was good to see him.

I slipped my arms around him, pressing my face to his chest and taking a deep breath of his shirt. It smelled like he hadn't changed it in days, like he'd gone without bathing, and there was a hint of whiskey hanging onto it, but it was a sultry, comforting scent, familiar, provoking memories of lying in bed with him, sometimes at early morning, sometimes in the dead of night. No matter how angry he made me, that smell and those memories would always remind me how much I loved him.

With a quivering breath, he wrapped me in a firm but gentle embrace and rested his cheek on my head, holding me for a long, long time.

"Babe," I murmured into his shirt. "What's wrong?"

"Ev'rything's wrong," he grated out. "Ev'rything's so wrong…I can't remember the last time an'thing was right."

"It's been a long time since you were all right," I agreed quietly.

All because of damn Kira.

Ever since that monster appeared, it seemed I'd been watching the love of my life vanish, gradually replaced by a scowling, tight-lipped stranger. At times, I thought it had started the day Yumi and I found him crying on a park bench, but then, always, I remembered we'd been fighting long before that.

Reverently, his fingers traced up and down my spine. "Yeah," he agreed, thickly. "But…I really fucked up, Eriko…"

Sadly, I looked up into his tortured eyes again, and he ran his thumb along my jaw.

"I'm sure you didn't really," I whispered, gently catching his injured hand. It felt cold.

Heavily, he nodded, an indiscernible response.

"Well," I breathed, "come on." Still holding his hand, I pulled him into the living room. "I'll make you some tea, and we'll talk about it."

All along, I'd known there'd be nights like this. I had such a stubborn, fearless husband, they'd been few and far between, but again, since Kira, they'd become more frequent, and this was the price I paid to be with him.

Shuichi all but collapsed onto the couch, rubbing his cold hands together and gazing distantly across the room. I squeezed his shoulder as I stepped out to go to the kitchen and make the tea, shooting a glance up the stairs as I passed to make sure the kids hadn't woken up.

Why am I always making tea? I thought as I watched the kettle boil. It doesn't fix anything.

Some problems, I'd learned, had no real solution anyway, despite my desire to face everything and conquer; especially problems that weren't really mine in the first place. Just like poor Sayu, coming here looking for her lost love. The little lamb. Making tea and giving her a few minutes of my time had been all I had to offer.

Shuichi's problems are my problems, I reminded myself. Til death do us part.

Not bothering to pour a cup for myself, I took the tea back to him. Though he hadn't moved, he sat with his eyes shut, forehead ribbed, like his head hurt.

"Have you had a lot to drink?" I asked, handing him the cup.

"I guess so," he muttered. "That video… It was too much."

"Video?" I took a seat next to him, pressing lightly against his side.

"I can't really tell you about it."

"It's a need to know thing?"

Shuichi shook his head. "It was just horrible."

"Did it have to do with your investigation?"

"Yeah. The sonnova bitch who kidnapped Matsuda sent it to me… I-I don't wanna to talk about it."

Based on the way poor, little Touta had acted while he stayed here with us, I probably didn't want to know anyway.

Notwithstanding, Shuichi whispered, "They really hurt him, Eriko. I let them."

"You would never let someone hurt Touta," I corrected, softly.

"No." He shook his head again. "But I couldn't help him. It's the same."

I didn't understand that logic, but it aligned with his overall sense of responsibility, that anything bad that happened on his watch was his fault, and chalking it up to simple failure wasn't enough. With him, it always had to be about where he'd gone wrong.

"Is he okay?"

Eyes flickering open, he stared across the room, as if asking himself that very question, and he didn't seem to come up with an answer, but he said, "He'll… I guess… That depends."

Growing more concerned by the moment, I watched him slowly sip his tea, eyes glazed by alcohol, and he didn't seem to be quite the same Shuichi I'd kissed goodbye last weekend. Yes, he'd been stern then, and distracted by work, he'd looked troubled, but he'd also been strong, focused and determined, ordering Hideki and Touta around, promising he'd be back in time for dinner. He'd been confident and reassuring—a true leader.

Now he looked broken.

"Can't you tell me what's going on?" I asked gently, not knowing why I bothered. It had been so long since he'd told me anything about his life.

Shuichi toyed with a loose button on his shirt. "When this case is over, I'm retiring."

Unsure of what to say, I studied him. No matter how difficult things became, he'd never said that before. "Why, Shuichi?"

"Twenty years is a long time," he grumbled. "Why not?"

"Yes, but you've only been chief for one year, and you've always told me it's going fine." That was his mantra from the moment he took the job. It's going fine, and nothing more, no matter what happened or which questions I asked.

"It is. Being chief isn't the problem."

"Then maybe you shouldn't retire…" As much as part of me would love for him to quit and be safe, I knew he'd go crazy without anything to do, and he wasn't the type of man who could simply substitute his life as a detective with renovating the house or rebuilding a classic car; he needed the struggle of good verses evil, justice against wickedness.

For as long as I'd known him, he'd been that way. No, I'd never been thrilled that the man I fell in love with was a detective, but he'd been good at it, committed to finding the truth, and I'd admired that. To see him like this, ready to give up after working so hard for so long, broke my heart.

With a heavy groan, he set his tea down on the coffee table, lowering his head and sliding his palms up his thighs, shoulders hunched like he was cold. "Eriko…there's so much you don't understand…"

A bit sternly, I reminded him, "I would if you'd communicate with me."

Communication had always been one of our major pitfalls, even before we had the kids. Shuichi acted like he didn't want to burden anyone—including me—with his softer emotions, and if he ever felt weak, he seemed to think that was something he had to face all alone. Dragging the truth out of him had proven to be exhausting, and over time, I'd ceded to his wishes out of simple exasperation.

So much I wasn't allowed to know about had happened in the last decade, and without understanding the cause, I'd watched him change, trying to hide my worries, telling myself that if my husband felt he couldn't be open with me, I may have failed somewhere along the path of our life together, but ultimately, it wasn't my responsibility. I had two children to raise, and oftentimes it seemed I had to do that alone.

"I want to tell you ev'rything," he whispered. "No more secrets. There's just so much…"

Tonight, he was so distraught, I didn't know if I dared to let him be.

I leaned over to take his hand in mine, feeling it tremble. "C'mon, Shuich," I urged gently. "Talk to me."

Taking a breath, he shuddered and suddenly began, but when he'd said everything, he meant everything. Before I knew it, Shuichi had waded back into events from seven years ago, and even though, at first, he covered things I knew already, he soon stepped over his sacred line of need to know only, and from there, each thing he said sounded wilder and wilder. Still, he spoke so casually about Light Yagami, monsters, and preternatural notebooks, I had no doubt that this really must be the truth. My sense of wonder clashed with dread, and soon, horror eclipsed everything.

When he finally finished, it was past four in the morning, and he sat with his head in his hands, as if unable to hold up any longer beneath the weight the secrets he'd just told me. "I don't know if you believe any of that," he murmured, voice muffled, "but it's the truth."

"It certainly explains why you haven't been able to tell me much lately," I said, carefully, and then reflected.

Shinigami and the so-called death note were things I could hardly get my mind around; I might not truly ever believe them unless I saw them with my own two eyes, but then again, Kira would have to have had something supernatural on his side. Why not a god of death?

Come to think of it, Sayu had mentioned a notebook the other day.

It felt like I was trying to swallow a rock now. My husband spent more than six years chasing ghosts, and I could hardly believe he'd succeeded. Now I knew he hadn't really. That L person had.

Sayu also told me Matsuda shot Kira, but even coming from my husband, that was hard to imagine. Harder still to understand was that Sayu's brother had been Kira all along. Shuichi had worked with him. His own father—the deputy director—had been killed by him.

Here I'd thought the death of noble, young Light Yagami's had been so tragic; once, I'd been glad my husband had someone like that on his side, and now that I realized he would have killed Shuichi and Hideki and the others if he'd had a real chance, I could hardly stand the sick, hateful feeling in my stomach.

"Sorry, Babe," Shuichi said, quieter still. "We've had nothing but trouble since Light died." He sputtered a cynical laugh. "That little fuck-job, misleading us for six years, letting us believe we could accomplish something… We can't even hold ourselves together now that he's gone; dead more than a year, and we're still paying for everything he did…"

That horrible case last year, the one that had had me crying nearly every night, watching the news to see the roster of victims, begging Shuichi to quit, so angry with him for not listening… That had been because of Light also. On his path to create a better world, he'd broken my family.

"Why are you telling me this now?" I wondered. "After keeping it a secret for so long." I swallowed hard, still fighting with the imaginary rock. "Does it have to do with the investigation you're working on now?"

Before he said anything, I knew the answer. It was just like Sayu and I discussed the other day—our men were still dealing with Kira, and maybe they always would be.

"This case," Shuichi moaned. "It's barely even an investigation…"

"What does that mean?"

Face still buried against his hands, he shook his head. "I fucked up. I fucked up so…so bad."

It wasn't unlike him to take full responsibility for whatever went awry while he was around, and still I'd never heard him sounding so regretful and tormented by guilt.

Heart clenching, I watched his agonized form a while, going back, yet again, to the original question of why he'd come home this way.

I reminded him, cautiously, "You're a good officer, Shuich—a good boss. I know you make mistakes, but you have to stop torturing yourself over everything that goes wrong."

"Torture," he echoed, and then suddenly drew a gasp and sat up, grasping my hands, tightly, and meeting my gaze with damp eyes. "I know that, I know that," he sputtered, with a frantic edge, and then his voice sank. "But, this time…it was my fault, and…and I'm not sure I can live with it."

My blood ran cold. "What are you talking about?"

In a hollow voice, he went on, "All my life, I've told myself it's okay to make mistakes as long as I always take responsibility for them—what more could anyone expect of me? I know I'm not perfect. But this time…" His voice caught in his throat. "Someone else is paying for my mistakes, and I don't know if he'll be okay… Everyone's paying. Hideki almost died today."

Fear fluttered through my heart. Could that be the reason for this collapse? When we'd first met, Shuichi had talked about his partner a lot, and I'd detected early on that that the two of them were more than coworkers. When I'd met Hideki and seen them together, I'd come to realize it was more than that—Shuichi felt responsible and protective of him—he loved him, and that love, whether they admitted to it or not, went both ways, complicated, in some ways indefinable, but tireless and strong.

I'd never forget the night Hideki cornered me in the bathroom hall at a bar we'd all gone to, and how serious and almost angry he'd looked as he'd growled, quietly, "Don't you dare ever hurt him."

But I'd simply laughed and patted him on the cheek, answering warmly, "I won't, but you've got to promise you won't get yourself killed; he'd never get over that."

At the time, Hideki had merely stared at me, shocked by my reaction, and skeptical about the possibility that Shuichi might love him just as much as he loved Shuichi. In time, I'd come to understand he felt a different kind of love, but, regardless, I'd seen my husband come apart more than once over watching his best friend get hurt.

I clutched his hand, whispering, "Hideki's okay, though. You said so. And whatever happened, I'm sure it wasn't your fault."

"I don't know," he said, lowly. "I don't know if he's okay… He's been so…"

He trailed away, and his eyes darkened.

"But he's not hurt, right?"

"No. It's just that I failed him—and Matsuda and Mogi—as a chief and as a friend. I've failed all my guys—my whole department." Reluctantly, he met my gaze. "I've failed you too. And the kids. And Matsu…I don't know how I can ever look him in the eyes again after what I allowed to happen. I don't know…" His tone dropped lower still, turning black. "I don't know how I can go on this way, live with myself and this failure." Hopelessly, he explained, "I don't want to."

"Shuichi." My pulse thrilled with panic, but I had to stay calm. I grasped tightly at his wrist. "Listen to me. If you're saying what I think you're saying…"

Shame burning in his eyes, he turned away again to study the coffee table.

"That's enough of that. The kids and I need you. Even if you can't be here all the time, we need you to be alive, Shuichi!"

For a long time, he sat still, and the only sound filling our house came from the clock ticking on the wall, but inside me, an endless scream had started, and a windstorm of fear brutalized all my composure, impatience, and confusion. We'd bought this house together; I'd painted the walls and picked out all the furniture. He used to come home dead tired and smile at me anyway, telling me how great everything looked, telling me how much he loved me. We'd raised both kids here; Yumi took her first steps in this very living room. Tomi broke his arm falling out of the willow in the backyard last summer. We'd built our lives in this place, and yes, Shuichi hadn't been around for much of it, always at work, always giving mysterious answers to what seemed like simple questions. In the last decade, my capacity for that had almost worn out completely, and telling myself I knew what I'd signed up for when I married a cop didn't work anymore. So many nights had been spent alone on this couch, waiting up for him, until defeat set in, and I'd woken so many times to find him still missing. His emotional distance had become a concrete wall, and, now, even if he was with me, I felt like he was far away.

But despite all that, to think of life without him—really without him—knowing he wasn't just out there slaving away at some case, that he was honestly and truly gone forever, and that there was no hope he'd ever come through that door again, threatened to destroy me.

Springing to my feet, I shouted, "Don't you dare do that to me, you idiot! Don't you dare, ever do that to me!" My eyes burned and my heart panted. The rock I'd been trying to swallow seemed to have dropped into my stomach.

He stared up at me with wide, drunken eyes.

"God!" I sobbed. "You can't really think that's the answer. Leaving me alone like that! Abandoning your kids! Asking Yumi to graduate high school without you. Asking Tomi to play little league every summer without you! Asking me to pack everything you've ever owned into a box because I can't stand to look at it anymore. Asking me to put you in a box and forget about you!"

"Eriko—"

"I love you!" I cried, breaking into tears. "I love you so, so much, Shuichi! Damn, you make me angry, but I love the life I have with you! Please don't throw all that away!"

With a ragged sob of his own, he caught my wrist and pulled me down against him, and I found myself wrapped up in his arms, crying on his shoulder and clinging so hard to him I thought I might break. "You can't," I gasped over and over, "you can't. I won't let you. Don't even think about it."

I felt him breathing in my hair, biting back tears.

In a moment, when I'd gotten myself under control again, I sat up and looked at him, vision still blurry, consumed by the pain I saw on his face.

Sniffling, I scraped hair away from my damp cheeks. "Whatever's happened, I know you can fix it."

"I'm not so sure," he croaked.

"Of course you can. You're good at that." I threaded my fingers up into his hair, pressing my lips to his forehead. "I know it's really hard sometimes…but that's why you're the boss."

Inhaling deeply, he nuzzled my neck and rested his face there. "I love you."

I squeezed him tight. "I love you too. Please don't leave me."

His arms tightened around my back. "Never."

Ide

I awoke to find Aizawa missing. His laptop sat, still open, on the coffee table, and his coat hung in the foyer closet with Mogi's, so I assumed he must have gone downstairs to get breakfast, or maybe to stretch after a long night on the couch.

Sleeping in a real bed for the first time in almost a week had recharged me some, and I thought it might be good to catch him alone, so I went to look for him. After the conversation we'd had yesterday, we'd barely spoken; I didn't know if he was angry with me, but I felt angry. We'd been having a hard time seeing eye-to-eye already, and to have him come find me specifically to yell at me after I'd had such a close brush with death had opened up a rift of resentment inside my heart. Next thing I knew, we were watching a torture video, and then checking into a hotel. Things were happening too fast to process—every time I turned around, some horrifying, new aspect of this case emerged, and with each event it seemed Shuichi grew a few paces further away.

No reason for that, I told myself as I took the elevator down to the lobby. This was difficult enough without taking it out on each other.

Besides, as much as we might bicker like a married couple, more than anything else in the world, I absolutely hated to fight—really fight—with Shuichi.

Dredging up a heartfelt apology had never been easy for me, but he knew that, so when I found him, in all likelihood, he'd kick off with the apologies anyway, in a race to come across as the bigger man, we'd get through a quick conversation about the mistakes we'd both made, redefine our priorities over a cigarette, and go back upstairs like it never happened. No big deal.

First, I checked the breakfast bar, grabbing coffee while I was there and scanning the crowd for his towering, brooding shape, but in a few moments, it became clear he wasn't there, and I moved on.

Hunting through the lobby, I revised my plan. That video had been sickening, and I'd seen all over his face how disturbed and guilty it made Shuichi feel. Last night, he'd been distant, hardly speaking. Not that he was overly talkative in the first place, but a cloud of distress had hung over him, and I'd known he was really upset. I was upset too, but I didn't have his stupid habit of trying to make everything my fault—bad things happened to good people, that was all. Sure, Matsuda was the victim this time, and therefore all of us. I just didn't see how anyone could have prevented it.

Originally, I'd thought it was possible I'd slipped up somewhere, but now I saw that Tero psycho was just a dark horse in the ongoing threats against us.

Unfortunately, Shuichi didn't think that way. I knew he believed he should have prevented this, should have found Matsuda right away, should have known that something was wrong the second we saw him at the gas station. That's what he'd be thinking. I couldn't change what he thought, but I could at least remind him that we were all in this together and that I had his back.

But Shuichi wasn't in the lobby, and I didn't find him outside. Smoking, sipping coffee, and planning out what I should say, I walked to the parking garage. It was possible he'd gone to his car for some reason.

That was gone too. I spent some time searching for it next, but that was a major distraction, and after ten minutes, I decided there were better ways to spend my time, and I called him. The phone rang and rang. Of course it did. Obviously, he didn't want to talk to me, and driving gave him a built in excuse to not answer.

Pangs of worry started to throb inside me as I strode back into the hotel. "Where are you, dumb ass?" I demanded, not meaning to, when I got his voicemail. Sheepishly, I added, quieter, "Call me, okay?"

Even if he'd gone somewhere, we could still have a little heart-to-heart over the phone. Nothing dramatic, just a quick clarification on where we stood with one another.

Back in the room, I tried texting him.

I'm sorry about everything, I typed out, and then deleted it. What did I have to be sorry for? I'd only been trying to help Matsuda.

It's a new day. Let's talk before we do anything else.

Still kinda dumb.

Call me, I'm worried about you.

Gay.

Shuichi, call me right away—very important.

True, urgent, to the point. He'd answer.

I hit send.

In the closet, I heard his text tone sound off, and, cursing under my breath, stomped over to fish his flip phone from the pocket of his coat. "Great."

Thoughtfully, I turned it over in my hands, noticing the places it was worn or grimy from use and the chips and nicks from dropping it. Eriko gave him the KRZR for his thirty-fifth birthday, even though he hadn't necessarily wanted it, but she'd convinced him it would be useful for work and calling home. When he got overly distracted, he tended to forget it existed and leave it behind.

Sighing, I scanned the foyer. Even if he wasn't back soon, his notes on Max Cooper would probably be thorough enough for me to launch a search without him.

Beside the houseplant next to the entrance, I spotted a small, silver object, suspiciously familiar.

Taking the cigarette from my mouth, I crouched to retrieve the jump drive, examining it, but it was definitely the same one we'd received yesterday. I hadn't realized it came with us from the station after Aizawa tossed it, repulsed, into his desk drawer, but I could only think of one reason for him to bring it along.

Don't jump to conclusions, I told myself, springing across the room to jiggle the mouse of his laptop, stirring it out of sleep mode. Sure enough, a frame of that atrocious footage awaited me beneath an error icon that said the source had been removed.

I stood, smoking and turning the jump drive over and over, thinking. It made sense that someone would have to watch the whole video, but I hadn't thought it would be any of the four of us—that was inappropriate at best—but then, as chief, maybe Aizawa didn't feel he had the luxury of opting out. If he'd come to that conclusion, he'd naturally prefer to view it alone. Buried beneath his gruff exoskeleton, he was a highly sensitive person who didn't like to see others suffer and didn't want anyone to witness him breaking down.

What bothered me was finding the drive on the floor right after his coming up missing. Easily, I imagined him losing it, ripping the drive from his computer without a thought, and slinging it across the room as he stormed for the door.

But where would he go? Did he get upset and go after Max Cooper on his own? Could something have happened to him?

Still swallowing the pointed feeling of my concerns, I crossed the suite to where Mogi lay in one of the double beds, hands folded on his chest like a vampire.

"Wake up." I shook his shoulder.

Eyes opening immediately, he met my gaze, already alert.

"Shuichi is gone," I explained calmly, through a breath of smoke, to spite the worry igniting inside me.

With a brief sigh, he sat up and rubbed his eyes like an oversized child.

"He left his phone. And this." I held up the drive.

Mogi nodded, though, it occurred to me he might not know yet what the drive contained. Next, he took a moment to gaze around the suite, noticing the laptop on the coffee table at once. "He'll be back."

He'd have to be, I thought. After the things he'd said to me yesterday, I doubted he'd leave this case in my hands, or abandon Matsuda.

While Mogi went down to get breakfast, I checked on the kid, passed out face down, in the queen-sized bed, arms spread free-falling style. Blankets hung over one corner, messily, like he'd been fighting in his sleep.

Lately, he'd been up at dawn, prattling incessantly about his damned directive, but between wearing down and drinking a ton of alcohol, I doubted he'd be up for a while.

Just as well, I thought, going back to sit at the table. As soon as he got out of bed, he'd be all but running for the door, off on his next daredevil mission, and, after yesterday, I doubted I could stop him.

I needed to make a plan before he woke up.

By the time Mogi came back, the sun had risen fully, filling the suite with golden light, and I'd smoked five cigarettes already. He sat down with me, munching a bran muffin, sipping orange juice, and perusing the notes he'd taken on his phone, while I spun the jump drive between my hands on the table, gaze always at the door.

A full hour ticked by like that before I said, "Maybe we should look for him."

"Where?" Mogi wondered.

"The station? He talked about going home."

"I'm sure he'll be back," he told me again, always the voice of reason.

"And if he's not?"

"We have plenty of information to work on without him."

That wasn't my main concern. Matsuda vanished like this not two weeks ago, and reassuring ourselves that he'd be fine had been a waste of time.

What happened to Matsu was bad enough; if something happened to Shuichi, I wouldn't know how to keep going.

I would have to, though. I couldn't ask Mogi to complete this investigation on his own. I couldn't turn my back on Matsuda.

"If you want to go look for him," Mogi suggested, easily, "by all means."

I wouldn't know where to start; the station, or his house. For all I knew he'd be back here by the time I reached either. Of course, I trusted Mogi, but after yesterday, I was more determined than ever not to let Matsuda out of my sight.

Even if I took him with me, I wasn't sure what he'd do.

The cold way he'd held Uko-san and his men at gunpoint, determined the execute them without conscience, still made me shudder with disbelief, and I hated to think what would have happened if I hadn't been there.

Instead of leaving, I tried calling the station, but Danuja said the chief hadn't been in all morning. When I called Eriko, the phone rang and rang, but that probably just meant she was focused on getting the kids off to school.

Worry surged through me, threatening to take over, so I sat back in my chair, craning my head and thinking up a plan. As long as Matsuda kept sleeping, I could give Aizawa one more hour to show up or contact me, but after that, I'd have to start searching. I should review his notes on Cooper to see if there were any locations he might have run off to.

Nagging Matsuda about eating and tending to his wounds might stall him a little while, especially if I geared it toward getting his directive complete. In the end, no matter what happened, I had to make sure I kept him with me.

"I'm sure Aizawa is fine, Ide," Mogi assured me, as I began poring through the chief's notes.

"I know he is," I snapped. "I want to find this Cooper asshole, and we don't have time to wait for that prick."

Mogi nodded deeply, and as usual, I couldn't tell if he believed me, but I found his unwavering calm, his way of making me look foolish, grating. Probably best not to talk to him.

For the next fifteen minutes, I stared at Aizawa's handwriting, professionally neat, like always, but blotched with pinpoints of ink where he'd slammed the pen. Information was well-organized, and he'd written a lot—facts and theories—for just one night of cruising through Facebook. Apparently, he did have some ideas about where to go and look for the man, but they were vague, little scribbles, such as, 'looks like such and such club,' or, 'photo taken on this specific beach,' and, 'made mention of this hotel—could be staying there.'

You were always better at this than me.

My heart sank. Shuichi might be out scouting the whole city for Cooper, comparing pictures on social media to scenery. He had been known to crack cases that way, if only because he had the doggedness to spend days on foot, vehemently interrogating strangers and examining every stupid brick he came across like a piece of evidence.

I'd never had that kind of patience, but it used to be nice to go out walking, get the blood pumping, practically talking to myself while he grunted responses and spaced out, treating the whole city like a crime scene.

You'd better be okay.

I glanced at the jump drive again. If he watched that video, I wasn't completely sure he'd be thinking about finding Cooper at all. I wasn't sure what he would be thinking.

My phone rang, scaring the hell out of me. I snatched it up and answered without checking the number, "Shuichi?"

Mogi raised his eyebrows at my frantic tone.

There was a long pause, and then Kei said, "No, Anata, it's me."

Shoulders slumping, I took a harsh drag on my cigarette. "What do you want, Komagata?"

Again, she hesitated, and then her voice took on an unfamiliar but sharp edge of annoyance. "Wow. Is that any way to talk to your girlfriend?"

"I don't have time to talk to you," I grumped. "I'm busy."

Kei sighed. "Are you okay? You sound really high-strung."

"I'm fine. I just don't have time to talk to you."

"Yeah, no, you don't. You need to check the news right away."

"What's on the news?" I caught Mogi's eye and jerked my chin at Aizawa's laptop, which he went to retrieve, dutifully, at once.

"You'll see," Kei muttered. "I'd explain it to you, but it sounds like you're not in the mood."

"Kei," I sighed, "don't take it that way."

"Did you lose Chief?"

"No… I just don't know where he is right now."

"Yeah, well, keep your shit together, Hideki. You're gonna need it."

Behind me, Mogi said, louder than normal. "Oh! No… Ide?"

"I gotta go," I told her quickly. "Call you later." I hung up on her, feeling like a jackass, but by the time I reached Mogi and stood looking over his shoulder at the laptop screen, all that vanished.

'Kira Returns!' Every headline rejoiced in it. 'For First Time In a Year, Kira Punishes the Wicked!' Even, 'Welcome Back, God Kira!'

"What the hell's going on?" I muttered, fumbling with my cigarettes.

"The notebook," Mogi answered lowly, barely glancing at me, and then began to read aloud the joyous accounts of Kira's latest acts as god, the speculations on where he'd been for a year, the criticism of the NPA for announcing his death, the hopeful projections for a bright future under his rule, and finally, the details of the murders.

Light had been messed up, no doubt about that, but in all his time of acting as Kira, I'd never heard of him doing anything so sadistic as the slough of murders committed late last night. For one thing, the victims seemed to be random people—nowhere near hardened criminals—and their deaths were horrifying, suicides, mostly, but incredibly violent even for self-annihilation. One man ripped his own intestines out and died eating them, another gouged out her own eyes before drinking a whole bottle of drain cleaner. A teen-aged construction worker hung himself with razor wire. An older gentleman slaughtered his entire family with a hatchet before chopping off his own hands and dying from the shock.

Mogi stayed incredibly calm given the macabre nature of his words, but every word added to the panic already threatening to take over inside me, and soon I felt dizzy and breathless.

In the midst of the report, Matsuda appeared to stand beside me, listening without emotion to the gruesome deaths. "Tero's using the notebook," he decided when Mogi finished reading. "He must have figured out he can control the victims before killing them, but I'm not surprised. In fact, that's probably the first thing he tried."

"Sick piece of shit," I husked, shaking.

"Some of the victims left notes," Mogi announced in a suspiciously tight voice. "Each one made mention of Kira's return."

"That would be why the newscasters are attributing these deaths to him."

"Pretty sick," Matsuda commented, "getting all excited by something like this."

Mogi sat back suddenly. "This can't go on."

"This is probably just the beginning," Matsuda said. "I mean, I don't know if he'd really enjoy killing like this. He likes things to be personal. Still, if he can convince everyone he's Kira, I guess he could take over the whole world, huh?" he looked at me for confirmation.

In terms of tools, the death note would be all Tero needed to take over the world, but that was only because Light had laid so much ground work. There was no way he was smart as Light, and that gave us an advantage, but even one more day of this would be too much.

Hand shaking, I clasped my forehead. "What does this psychopath want?" I asked quietly.

Matsuda widened his eyes at me. "Um. To kill people. I mean, he didn't tell me any of his plans, but if I had to guess, he just gets off on hurting someone—anyone."

Automatically, I looked at the jump drive, lying on the table. Shuichi watched as much of that video as he could stomach, and then disappeared. I was stupid not to go look for him right away. He could be in trouble, and he was up against one sadistic son of a bitch.

Partly to steady myself, and partly out of regret, I grabbed onto Matsuda's shoulder. "Kiddo… Would you go clean yourself up, please? Then we can get going."

"Sure," he said in a voice that made me sure he had no intention of complying, and he barely glanced at me before scanning the suite. "Where's Aizawa?"

"I don't know right now."

He took that in stride also. "We should go bust Max Cooper. That's the fastest way to find the notebook right now."

"Yeah. We're gonna. I'd appreciate it if you'd do what I tell you."

Matsuda's mouth cocked to one side, and he turned to me again. "You look like you're about to be sick."

"I'm fine. Just—"

The door opened, and Aizawa strolled in wearing a fresh suit and his sunglasses, looking perfectly fine and normal, if not more serious than ever, and my heart skipped a beat at the sight of him.

"Welcome back," Matsuda said automatically.

"Welcome back," Mogi echoed, not looking up from the computer screen.

"Where the hell have you been?" I snapped. "I looked all over the grounds for you."

"I'm sure you didn't search the whole grounds," Aizawa told me, smoothly, as he sauntered across the suite to join us. "Are you looking at the news?"

"We were just talking about how to get started without you. You know, you could have told someone where you were going." I gestured to the laptop. "We're dealing with a bonafide psycho who just upgraded from kidnapper to serial killer, and you take off without your phone."

"Sorry," he said unapologetically. "I had to run home."

Judging by the clean look of him, freshly showered and shaved, somewhat rested, he'd spent the night at home, but it would take more than that to bite back the last of my worries.

"You should have taken your phone," I snarled. "You're lucky we didn't leave you behind."

Removing his sunglasses, Aizawa rolled his eyes and frowned at me. "Look, sorry if I scared you—"

"I wasn't scared."

"After yesterday, you've got no room to talk, Ide."

"Right. I made a mistake, so now we've all got free range to do whatever dumb thing we feel like." I laughed.

"Going home without my phone is nowhere near as dumb as walking into a club full of gang bangers. So cool it."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize being chief meant you get to do whatever you want without criticism."

Matsuda jerked next to me, suddenly, and gave an exasperated sigh. "Seriously? Can't you just tell him you were worried and you're glad he's okay?"

I shot him a glare. "I wasn't worried."

"It's really easy." He turned to Aizawa matter-of-factly. "He was really worried, and he's glad you're okay. Just like you were really worried about him yesterday."

"Thanks for clearing that up, Matsu," Shuichi muttered. "Please go get dressed."

Matsuda tromped away, at last, adding, loudly, "We don't have time for you guys to fight."

"Clean your fucking arm!" I called after him. "You can't complete your directive if they have to amputate it."

"Hideki." Aizawa touched my shoulder. "Calm down."

Remembering the way he'd pushed me off yesterday, I shrugged away from him. "I am calm. You're the one who can't seem to handle this."

His eyes flashed.

Mogi cleared his throat, loudly. "Matsuda's right. You both need to stop this." He looked back, first at me, then at Aizawa, expression bordering on stern. "We're in a crisis."

Still, the chief scowled at me, and I held his gaze, refusing to back down.

He growled, "You'd better fix your attitude, Captain." And then he ordered, louder, "Everyone get your stuff. We're checking out."

Darkly, I reminded him, "We don't have a plan yet."

"We don't need one. I know where to find Max Cooper."