Mmm, salty goodness, come to Momma.

B3.

Shit.

I watched helplessly as the bag of chips refused to fall and be claimed.

I had told the nurses I was a close family friend. In my defense, that lie was spontaneous and not my most intelligent. However, they seemed to accept I would be hanging around, maybe talking to myself in Miranda's room, maybe lurking around the floor, totally not on a stakeout.

I totally was on a stakeout.

We were sorely out of clues, and after the big news from yesterday, I had gotten desperate. Someone was bound to show up in connection to Miranda. Unfortunately, so far the most exciting thing after three hours was the snack machine just ate my dollar.

As I grumbled a few choice curses under my breath to fish out some more change from my bag, Miranda quipped, "Your diet is fascinating."

"Beats hospital food," I grunted back.

"A substantial breakfast would reduce the need to snack on empty carbohydrates."

She was judging my morning Poptart now.

"I was running late, and I had to at least show my face at the office this morning before I could lie about leaving to chase down a story," I sighed, retrieving my wallet once more, "I already know I'm fat by fashion industry standards, so no need to comment."

When there was no sarcastic rebuff, I looked up to find Miranda standing in the hallway, arms crossed, still inspecting me. I was tucked into the tiny break room on Miranda's floor that housed the vending machines and a coffee maker near the small lounge for visitors.

After a moment, she advised, "Nutrition is important, a busy individual like yourself could hurt themselves."

I blinked. She actually sounded concerned.

"I'll be fine," I muttered with an assuring grin before focusing on digging out the change from my wallet.

Something bright caught my attention against the sterile white of the hospital walls. Mustard yellow?

My eyes sought the color and located its owner, a woman in a very tight dress sitting in the lounge, long legs crossed, a magazine plopped on her lap. Her make up highlighted full lips, and the neckline provided a very generous view.

"Why are you staring at that woman?" Miranda's voice interrupted my observation.

"I'm not staring," I muttered dismissively out of the instinctual, bisexual panic at being caught, quickly looking back down at my hand full of coins to continue counting.

But something was just off. I glanced back up. Stylish heels. Slick hairstyle. Numerous accessories. Recent manicure. The dress…

"You are staring. Most intently," Miranda stepped closer, now inspecting the woman as well.

"I was looking at her outfit."

She quickly analyzed, "Hm. Dior. Last season."

"Right. Who wears that to a hospital?" I whispered, stepping back further into the hidden alcove of the breakroom, "Do you recognize her?"

When Miranda pursed her lips, I groaned, throwing the money back in my bag, "I forgot, you're the woman that needs assistants to stand behind you and feed you names on a daily basis."

She raised an eyebrow and coyly replied, "Others should strive to be more noteworthy and worthy of remembrance."

I slowly inched forward once more, peeking out the entryway at the small sitting area.

"She's not turning the pages."

"Elle hardly requires more than a fourth grade reading level, it shouldn't take that long to peruse."

"That's because she's not reading," I breathed out quietly, "She's watching your room."

I watched as our suspect's eyes darted from Miranda's room to a nurse walking by, back down to her magazine. A beat passed, she inspected the corridor and the room once more. Suddenly, she was on her feet, magazine discarded on the chair, and heels clicking as she made her way to where Miranda's body rested.

Miranda jerked her head towards the room. "A little urgency to ensure she's not pulling my plug shouldn't be so difficult, yes?"

I flinched, about to move at the instruction, but remained rooted. We had to play this very carefully.

"There's cameras all over the place, she'd be an idiot to try anything," I hissed, unmoving from my hiding spot, "If you're that worried, glide on over and peek through the wall, Casper."

Miranda narrowed her eyes with a frown, probably still not used to being told no, even from yours truly. When I still didn't budge, she huffed, rolled her eyes, and made her way across the hall, phasing through the wall and disappearing from sight.

I fought a smile. Even I had to admit ghost powers were pretty cool.

I waited. And waited. My heart pounded loudly in my ears.

When our mystery stranger appeared at the door, I turned back innocently to the vending machine, mimicking an indecisive patron, concealing my face. As she retreated down the hall, Miranda emerged from the wall with a slight shake of her head.

As I took a few careful steps into the hallway, she silently approached me and said, "She simply stared."

Interesting.

"So much for feeling special my name was on the list," I pouted, my eyes not leaving the yellow dress, "Apparently security lets anyone just waltz in."

Miranda hummed, "Special, is that really the word you'd use?"

"Careful, you'll hurt my feelings," I quipped back just as our new friend turned a corner, and I immediately started booking it behind her.

Miranda quickly caught up beside me.

"Where are you going?"

"Um, tailing her? This is our only lead."

She was headed to the elevators. I rushed to the stairwell and bolted down the multiple flights of steps. I was maybe more than a little breathless by the time I reached the bottom.

Thankfully, the color was easy enough to spot, and I picked up the trail in the lobby. When she made her exit, I hustled to the door, whipping my head around at the already crowded afternoon streets.

There! I started trailing her, remaining a few yards away, head down and powering forward seemingly like every other New Yorker.

The game was afoot.

Did it feel a little creepy stalking a woman across the city? Sure. Was it the weirdest thing I had done for Miranda? Probably not.

One thing was clear, this chick was a professional Clacker. I would know, I was one. No one else could fly across the city in heels at that velocity while dodging foot traffic. The endurance alone was impressive.

After a few blocks and a direction change towards Times Square, I looked up at the upcoming skyline. My mental map was working overtime.

"Condé Nast," I thought aloud before it hit me, "Vogue."

I turned to Miranda as I continued forward and asked, "Do you think Anna Wintour ordered a hit on you?"

Miranda snorted back, "Do you think if she did, she would send a mediocre employee to just check-in?"

I looked forward at our yellow target. "How do you know she's mediocre?"

"As I said, the Dior was noticeably last season, in a very obnoxious color," she sighed before continuing, "Anna could afford people that specialize in that type of thing and wouldn't botch it the first time."

"And how do you know that?"

She smirked almost imperceptibly. "I can afford the same thing."

"Oh gee, mafia assassin connections. I wonder why someone tried to murder you," I exclaimed sarcastically, earning a side eye from a fellow pedestrian. I'd forgotten my deceptive headphones in our rush.

"I'm surprised as well," Miranda drawled, "One could assume that would intimidate most would-be assailants."

I stifled a laugh. Before I could reply, my internal alarm bells sounded as the woman in the yellow dress dipped into the building I had suspected was our destination. I immediately bolted towards the doors, ignoring the flyer posted on the glass, and ripping them open to charge inside.

The foyer was grand and clean granite like Elias-Clarke. A security desk further in awaited guests seeking visitor's badges. Without thought, I pushed forward, speed walking towards my target, who was fishing an ID from her purse to swipe past the turnstiles leading to the elevators and offices beyond.

I had to get her before she made it past security. I pulled out my phone.

"What on earth are you doing?" Miranda's voice called behind me.

I flashed a quick smirk and muttered, "Being the press has its perks."

Here goes nothing.

I plowed into our new friend.

She yelped as I gasped, both of us somehow managing not to fall over. Her ID badge fell to the floor, and I made a show of my cell falling from my hand in the tussle (praise be to sturdy phone cases) and clattering against the floor.

"Oh, shit, I am so sorry!" I exclaimed, immediately kneeling down to secure my phone and her lanyard.

Once the surprise waned, she produced a polite smile and replied. "It's fine, really."

As I stood up and offered her the badge back, I lied with a dramatic shake of the head, "I was so busy trying to figure out where the heck I was going, I wasn't paying attention."

"Are you lost?"

Score.

"I'm a reporter, for the Mirror. Was hoping to find the Vogue office and see if anyone was willing to interview about Miranda Priestly," I explained with a shrug, adjusting my messenger bag on my shoulder.

The woman wrinkled her brow. "You know she worked for a different magazine, right?"

"Yeah, it's more a piece on her presence in the overall industry. Even competitors," I said sheepishly as I gestured vaguely at the building before leaning in surreptitiously, "You know, I keep getting people saying how sad it is, but then you hear all these rumors."

I watched from the corner of my eye, seemingly uncaring, as the wheels started turning. I really, really needed this to work.

Take the bait, Yellow.

After a moment, she hesitantly asked, "Is it anonymous?"

Hook, line, and sinker.

"It can be," I countered with a knowing smirk, nodding to a quieter corner of the lobby.

As we started to walk over, bumping elbows, she quietly admitted, "I was actually her assistant. Just over two years ago. Took months of therapy."

"Wow," I uttered breathlessly in my fake surprise, "I heard she was pretty tough to work for."

"You have no idea," she sighed as we stopped near a bench and potted plants, crossing her arms, "It's hard here too, but I was able to get into a department I loved."

"Have you seen her since then?" I asked casually, trying not to act desperate to solve a murder.

I watched as fingers nervously fidgeted where they rested on her arm. "You're sure it's anonymous?"

I gave her the nicest smile I could and gently observed, "I haven't asked your name."

She nodded, tucking a stray lock of hair that escaped a clean bun behind her ear. I saw the slow intake of breath.

"I snuck into the hospital to see her," she whispered, eyeing me warily. I was sure to widen my eyes to the appropriate shock level.

"Can I ask why?"

She winced as she answered, "I just wanted to see her vulnerable. So that maybe I could finally forgive her, you know?"

She looked at me now, eyes searching mine for what I guessed was validation. That, if I had been in her place, I would understand. That I was sympathetic to her plight.

Little did she know, her and I were not so different. I saw the hurt in her eyes, and I recognized it. This woman was telling the truth. She had simply gone looking for closure for her empty sadness, not some dark malice.

"Did you forgive her?" I asked before I even realized it.

She blinked, seemingly surprised by my question. Her gaze narrowed on the floor beneath us, body still rigid and arms still crossed.

"No," she muttered darkly, "the bitch can rot."

I could've simply nodded or prodded her along in support. The empathy was certainly there. I had been her. An excuse could've easily freed me from this dead end and I could've walked away.

Instead, I stood straighter.

"You know, I actually got to meet her," I began, looking around the foyer, "And I'm not saying she's the nicest person ever, but…she didn't really get to be a normal person. She had to be who she was to do her job. You don't get to be amazing and normal. And that's all she really wanted from anyone else. She holds up people like you or me to the same standards as herself. Problem is, she's just not normal. She's, well, Miranda Priestly," I assessed with a small chuckle.

I met the woman's eyes. She wasn't smiling back.

"It doesn't make it right," I continued firmly, "But maybe you can still think about forgiving her after seeing her vulnerable. Because it all still cost her something. Everything, it turns out."

Miranda's life meant something. Couldn't she see that?

She stared at me quietly for a moment.

"What did you say your name was?"

Crap.

"An-Amy," I stammered, "Amy Snacks."

"Miss…Snacks," she repeated slowly, narrowing her eyes.

Abort mission.

"Thank you so much for your comments, Anonymous," I immediately crooned before turning and calling over my shoulder, "Have a good day, best of luck with your career!"

I then very maturely hauled ass across the lobby.

"Snacks," Miranda deadpanned as she suddenly appeared next to me.

"Look, I realized once I started talking that using my real name wasn't a good idea, and I panicked," I whispered to my invisible companion as I pushed against the door to make my exit.

As soon as I stepped outside, it hit me that I had no next destination. I collapsed pathetically against the side of the building, pressing my back to the wall. I needed a breather after that stressful undercover ordeal. A man nursing a cigarette while on a call nearby barely glanced over before turning away to continue his conversation.

I stared at some tourists across the street bickering over a map of the city, fanny packs and all. It was hard not to relate to feeling lost right now. This paranormal detective shit was hard.

"Did you forgive me?" Miranda's voice interrupted my thoughts.

I turned to face her. "What do you mean?"

"Your speech," she clarified gently, inspecting me carefully, "Seeing me vulnerable, recommending she forgive me. Did you?"

I answered immediately, "Yes."

The neutral mask of her face twitched; I had surprised her. A horn honked in the distance as my chest kept hammering through the adrenaline of our chase and into the anxiety of whatever judgement she was passing.

She looked away and muttered pensively, "I suppose that dreary hospital lighting did some good."

"It wasn't at the hospital," I mumbled, shoving my hands in my jean pockets, "It was in your hotel room. In Paris."

She had been human. Real. After all she had sacrificed for the sake of honorable things like art and literature, she deserved to be cherished and loved for her genuine self, not the hollow persona she had become to attain greatness. I saw it. I thought she saw that I knew and understood.

Her voice sounded far away when she commented, "So it was pity."

I thought she saw me before she shoved me away.

I shook my head. "Never. I just finally understood you. Or at least I thought I did."

Her eyes found mine again. My chest hurt.

"I thought you did too." She almost sounded sad. Almost.

I shook my head, sighing, "It's not that."

I looked over her shoulder, searching for the right words. Instead, I spotted the flyer taped to the glass door behind her.

Wait…

"Is Elias-Clarke in on a publisher benefit tonight?" I asked eagerly, stepping towards her and nodding to the poster.

She turned around, inspecting the advertisement.

"Yes. This is a yearly function typically on my rotation," she explained confidently with a nod, "A few of our publications have representatives attend, mine included."

We were back in business!

"Huh. Well, luckily, I know someone that owes me a favor," I declared triumphantly, fishing out my phone from my back pocket to score an invite.

"Another cop that wishes to personally investigate your bedroom?" Miranda drawled as I typed a text.

"Ew, no. One of the assistants at Auto Universe. I fostered some kittens for him."

"An inspection under the hood then?"

I looked up from the screen and glared at her. "Miranda Priestly's ghost is haunting me with dirty jokes, unbelievable."

She rolled her eyes commenting, "I was merely under the impression you were with someone during your tenure as my assistant. There appears to be no non-spectral occupants in your apartment besides yourself."

I felt my face flush. First Paris, now this? Seriously?

"I was with someone, but that ended even before my 'tenure' did," I muttered before pausing and asking, "How did you know about Nate?"

"You spoke of him," she stated simply.

"To Emily."

"In the office."

"You were listening? To us mortals?" I countered back jokingly, starting to inch my way back to the sidewalk to begin the journey home.

She snorted, following me, showing no reaction to the pedestrians that passed through her in their commute. I managed to type out a text as I weaved through people and bodies. The benefit brought hope, and with it my mind started forming a game plan. I pocketed my cell and walked determinedly onwards, a new bounce in my step.

After a block, however, I could still feel her staring at me.

Ugh, fine.

I spoke up, still facing forward, "Nate hated my job. My life sort of revolved around you. Didn't leave room for much else."

There was just a contemplative hum beside me as we continued, and I hoped I sated her curiosity enough for that sensitive topic to drop.

Instead, from my peripheral, her beautiful face still looked at me and asked, "And now?"

And now, I'm still crazy about you is what I was not going to say.

"And now...you're still here. Clearly still can't live without me, and I really mean live," I jeered with an added melodramatic sigh, once again hiding behind a joke.

Time refocus on our real problems, not my love life.

"Our best bet is to get to that gala, listen for rumors, and see if surrounding you with members of the fashion world sparks any memories that'll help us."

I looked over to see if she liked the plan. Miranda smoothed back her hair despite not having a single white lock out place. Spirits didn't get frizzy, apparently.

"Do you believe that will work?" she asked airily.

That was a loaded question. I hoped it worked.

Hope, my God, I live on it.

Maybe she was hoping it would too.

I shrugged. "I thought about sneaking into your office, but this will have a lot of key players from the whole industry," I reasoned before snidely adding, "Plus, at this point, it's either that or call the Ghost Busters."

Miranda rolled her eyes and turned her head away from me, but not before I saw her smirk.