Mac lends her another thousand dollars for the trip. Veronica promises to pay it back this time, but Mac shakes her head and calls it an investment. Veronica goes straight to the drugstore and stocks up on Keith's pain meds, facing the usual rigmarole when purchasing opioids in bulk under someone else's name. After the pharmacist makes the call to Keith's doctor, it's approved, and she walks out with a paper bag and enough drugs to last him two weeks.

Back in her car, she pulls out her phone and dials Logan's cell again. It took her multiple favors and connections to get it, and now she wonders if the number is even still active. It rings and rings, but no one ever answers, instead defaulting to an automated voicemail service, but she doesn't leave a message.

She drives through the morning traffic to the Balboa County Sheriff's Department. The building is the same brick sadness, the inhabitants mostly changed, bar one. Veronica approaches the front desk, greeted by a twenty-something redhead who pretends she doesn't recognize her.

"How can I help you, love?"

"Here to see Leo D'Amato," Veronica says.

Redhead shuffles some papers, "Sorry, the Lieutenant is out on traffic patrol today."

Veronica narrows her eyes, "I have a meeting scheduled."

Redhead shuffles the same papers again, "Sorry he's on traffic patrol."

Veronica picks up her phone and dials his number, she can hear the phone ringing from his office and movement through the partially opened venetian blinds. Leo picks up.

"Hey," he says.

"I'm out the front, and your gatekeeper won't let me through," says Veronica.

The door to his office opens, and he sticks his head out. Veronica hangs up the phone, Leo looks at the redhead with a smile.

"It's okay Zoe, she can come back," he says.

Zoe releases the latch on the door to let Veronica into the inner sanctum, she heads straight for Leo's office and closes the door. He sits back behind his desk and takes a bite of a brown paper covered sandwich, a little lettuce falls from his mouth. Veronica sits and waits for him to finish his mouthful.

"Sorry about her, she's new," he says.

"She's been here at least six months, she's on a power trip."

"What can I say, she's very protective of me," he replies with a grin.

Veronica periodically floated to Leo for his ability to perform competent intercourse when required. But his major draw card was the fact that he asked no questions. He knew the score, Veronica didn't do relationships, or cuddling, or even dinner. She'd be out of bed, putting her bra back on before the condom was off. Since Keith's diagnosis she had done nothing but care for him, be his co-worker, be there . Most days she had nothing left to give. Being with Leo afforded her a seven to nine minute break to escape, maybe even have an orgasm, most often not. She first slept with him after a drunken college party and a hastily sent message to fulfill late night urges. It continued on and off until his first marriage, then resumed after his first divorce. He had recently moved onto wife number two, so they hadn't had sex in over a year. Veronica found she didn't miss it.

Leo takes another bite while rifling through a desk draw, taking out a green manila folder and dropping it on the table in front of Veronica.

"Your request, my dear," he says, chewing loudly, and she wonders why she let that mouth anywhere near her own. But he owed her a favor, she'd helped him with some off-the-record surveillance and in return for her service and silence, he owed her one file.

Veronica reaches and picks it up, feeling a lot lighter than she would have expected. Opening it, she flicks through the pages.

"Where is the rest of it?"

Leo shrugs, "My guess is it's been redacted for the family, or some of it may be classified and I'm not high enough up the food chain."

"This is a cop killer who they have named; this thing should be a foot thick."

"Not my jurisdiction."

"What's been redacted?" she asks.

"How should I know?" he says.

She can see pictures of the gun in evidence, fingerprint matches, photos of the gunshot wounds, ballistics, blood test results, and photocopies of pages of statements from the officer who survived. The rest is the wrap sheet for Joseph Moyer and stills of the surveillance footage.

"Is there body camera footage?" she asks.

Leo laughs, "That was eight years ago. Even now we only have the funding for enough cameras for half of the officers out on any given day."

Veronica makes a slight groan as she thumbs the papers.

"It's on video, Veronica. Fingerprints. Police witness, what more do you want?"

"I want a cut and dry case, ironclad, ready to prosecute. I want so much evidence that he pleads out immediately."

"Relax, V," He supplicates her with a tilt of the head and she knows if he was close enough he would pat her hand, or her shoulder, "there's more than enough to lock him up for life."

"There better be," she says.

"Are you really going to look for him?" Leo asks, balling up the brown paper and throwing it in the trash. Veronica ignores his question.

"Where do you think he is?" he asks, again.

She doesn't reply. If she had to write a list of ten people she doesn't trust with that information, Leo D'Amato would be in the top three. She stands, collecting her handbag and the file.

"Thanks for this, you're a peach," she shoots him a sickly sweet smile.

"You're going to get yourself killed Veronica, if you keep pulling this shit," he says.

"You know me, Leo, safety first," she says, patting her handbag.

"Just be careful, and remember, you never got that file from me."

Veronica nods.

"How's your Dad?" he makes a final attempt to engage with her.

"How's your wife?" she replies, before walking out the door.


Veronica's apartment in the 'Sun Vista Villas' sounded idyllic, and maybe it once was. Before the communal pool turned green and developed a layer of lush vegetation, before the frogs hopped out from it at night and you had to dodge their plump, slimy bodies on the footpath in the mornings. Veronica shared a two-bedroom with Cora, a quiet middle-aged divorcee from Hawaii. She found her on Craigslist a few years ago and they coexisted well in that they rarely spoke and each kept to their designated side of the refrigerator.

As Veronica packed a bag, Cora appeared in the doorway.

"Are you moving out?" she asks.

Veronica pauses with a pair of jeans in her hands, "No, why would you think that?"

"Because you never go anywhere. I mean, other than work," Cora says.

Veronica shoves the jeans into the bag, grabs three shirts and two bras.

"Well, I'm only going away for a few days, I should be back by next weekend."

Cora hovers in the doorway, watching her.

"Is your Dad okay?" she asks.

"He's fine," Veronica replies without looking up, a standard answer to the standard question she's asked multiple times a week.


Duffel packed and in the trunk, Veronica drives to Mars Investigations and strides across the burgundy carpet to Keith's office lugging bags of groceries. She unpacks the items into the cupboards and fridge.

"Dad! There's frozen meals in the freezer. Fresh creamer and plenty of snacks," She yells taking out the trash and replacing it with a new liner.

"Did Mac leave anything?" she asks, strolling into his office. From behind his desk Keith points to a box in the corner of the room.

"She dropped it off this morning. She said there's maps, information, the specifics of what you need are all in there. There's a handheld satellite GPS for coordinates too as there may not be much cell reception."

Veronica crouches down and rifles through the box, thinking she should have packed a bigger bag. There wasn't time to read this all before the flight, she'd have to go through it when she got there.

Keith's hands are steepled, watching her, and she's making every effort not to make eye contact. She knows he's making the face, and she hates the face, especially now on his skinny frame.

"One last time. I just want this on the record that I think this is a bad idea," he says.

"Duly noted."

"Call me if you need anything. Leave your GPS on your phone at all times. Report back daily so I know where you are."

Veronica picks up the GPS unit, black with orange rubber casing. She presses a button and it makes an offensive screeching noise and a jumble of numbers appear on the screen.

"Veronica."

"Yes."

He pauses, waiting for her to look up at him, forcing her to look at him. She breathes in through her nose.

"Be careful."

She nods, bends in half and picks up the box, resting it on her jean-clad hip.

"Call Duc next door if you need any help; Cliff said you could call him too."

She doesn't tell him that she has a roster of helpers to come by each morning and evening to check on him. Keith had been in that wheelchair for almost twelve years now, he was quite capable of getting himself around, as proved by the black scrape marks on every single wall and hallway in the building. He had long ago mastered the art of pulling himself into the driver's seat, then pulling his chair behind him. But as the new cancer went untreated, and those tumors spread inside him, he deteriorated more each day.

Veronica walks to the door, stops and turns. She doesn't hug him, too scared to feel his bones beneath her fingertips, but she wants to.

Instead, she says, "Love you, dad."

He smiles like it hurts his face and she's hit with the fear she has every time she leaves this office. The fear rises up through her intestines like a taloned claw, it explodes out of her chest and clutches her throat. What if she comes back, and it's too late, he's gone? She could hold vigil by his side forever but it wouldn't change fate, only money could do that, she had to go.

"I love you, Veronica, always," he says.

She picks up her bag and leaves through the back door.


The cheapest flight Veronica can find takes her from San Diego to Salt Lake City. There she has a three-hour layover in which she falls asleep reading maps on the hard plastic chairs with an open packet of chips teetering in her hand. From Salt Lake she flies to Billings. The view from her window seat is her first ever sight of Montana. Mountains and rivers scar the landscape like veins. As soon as the peaks flatten, the square fields begin, each a slightly different shade from green to warm yellows.

Luggage collected, she rents a small blue SUV and drives the hour to Red Lodge. A single main street, dotted with red brick buildings, cafes, an old-school barber, a bakery and one grocery store, a dozen or so tree-lined residential streets forking off. With the beginnings of the mountains in the distance, it was so small-town America it could be a movie set. Originally a coal mining town, it now survives off a steady flow of tourism, gateway to the slopes in winter, easy access to Yellowstone in the summer. There are four hotel offerings to choose from, the Best Western at $88 a night is the clear winner. Checking-in, she's comforted by the inherent beigeness of the place.

"Are you here for the trout fishing festival?" the clerk whose name tag reads Vivian asks as she taps away on keys.

Veronica pauses, unsure if it's weirder for her to be there for the trout fishing or hunting a fugitive.

"Um, no, just here to visit an old friend," she says and then suddenly is unsure if that is a worse answer, leading to more questions.

"Oh, lovely. Make sure you stop by the historical society. They do tours on Tuesdays, Thursdays and the weekend. My Uncle Jim runs the place, tell him I sent you. It sure is the best thing to do in town. That is, of course, other than the mountains. They are just the best. If you're not into fishing, there's walks, treks, camping trips..." Vivian goes on.

"Thanks, I'll be sure to check it out."

Vivian hands Veronica the key and she takes one flight of stairs up to room 112.


Surrounded by a dinner of vending machine fodder, a can of Pepsi and a half eaten Snickers bar, Veronica sits amongst seventeen pieces of paper and four photographs from the Moyer file. She buries herself in Joseph Moyer's life and criminal history.

Second of four brothers, petty theft at thirteen, grand theft auto by seventeen, incarcerated at twenty where he then spent the next thirty years in and out of jail. His final stint was eight years for an armed robbery at a gas station. He was released from prison seventeen days prior to the police shooting in Burbank. Seventeen days. She wonders why, after finally getting out, someone would commit another crime so soon. It made sense if he wanted to go back to jail. He'd spent the better part of thirty years inside. A lifetime, almost as long as her own. Many people can't cope with going back to the real world. But Moyer didn't go back to jail, he ran.

Veronica looks for any link between the officers and Moyer, thinking of a possible vendetta, but Moyer's prison records show not one visit or call while he was incarcerated other than his lawyers. She makes a note to Mac to match the police officer's names and family members against prison employment records.

Frustrated with the lack of anything helpful in the file she turns to Google and scans through each news article she can find on the shooting. She finds the obituary of the Sheriff's Deputies that were involved. Juan Gutierrez was killed, a father of two, married. He had only been working in the force for two years. Rhys Arnold lived after four days in hospital, a bullet wound to the right shoulder. He was single, still serving in the force and promoted to the Gang and Narcotics division.

A further flick of the page and she finds the surveillance footage released to the public, pleading for information. There's no sound, just the black and white staggered frames of a patrol car in the dark. Another frame shows a man sitting by the coffee shop, much like Ricky sits beside her own office. His legs are outstretched, waiting, or sleeping, it's hard to tell. Something seems to rouse him and he stands and walks out of frame. The next shows a man approaching the vehicle, the tinted windows and the darkness make it difficult to see inside. He stands beside the car for three minutes; he appears to be talking to them. Then, he reaches inside the car, clearly visible is a pistol in his hand, the next frame has him running from the scene. The footage then switches to two other surveillance cameras, further down the street, showing Moyer running.

She holds up the picture of the pistol again, an OZ Standard 9mm, the serial numbers scratched off. Veronica takes photos of each page of the file and sends them to Mac for her opinion.

Shuffling the papers into a neat pile she places them on the side table and watches half an hour of The Rockford Files reruns before growing restless.

She opens her laptop and types into the search bar.

Logan Echolls.

263,000 results.

She trolls his Wikipedia page for any pertinent information, any nuggets about him that might help her tomorrow, but she reads nothing she doesn't already know.

Veronica summarizes out loud, "Okay. Rich boy (33), married Lilly Kane 2005 - 2015 (deceased), parents Aaron Echolls (deceased) and Lynn Echolls (57). Children, one, Piper Echolls (15)." Lives and deaths summarized and simplified in parentheses.

There is a photo of Logan and Lilly at a premiere, Lilly wears a coral low-cut dress, fanning out dramatically onto the red carpet. Logan stands to the right in a black tuxedo, holding her sparkling clutch. Cropped hair and intense brown eyes, his lips curl in the smallest of grins, looking directly into the camera. Veronica's probably seen this photo before as she flipped through magazines at one of Keith's countless appointments, but seeing it now, she feels a curl of anticipation with a side of dread.

Picking up her phone she calls his cell again, she listens to it ring as he watches her from the laptop screen. But again, there is no answer. She's about to hang up but at the last minute, she leaves a message. It's awkward and a little unclear and she instantly regrets it.

Veronica shuts the laptop so those brown eyes won't keep looking at her, brushes her teeth, strips down to her underwear. She slips bare legs between crisp white sheets, turns off the light and squeezes her eyes shut.


It's late. Logan sat up reading until his eyes blurred in the lamplight. He makes his way towards bed, noticing the crack of light from Piper's bedroom. He knocks twice and waits for her reply.

"Come in."

He sticks his head in the door, Piper rests the thick open novel on her bedsheets, the two dogs, Chelsea and Poppet, take up the space on the far side of her queen bed. They acknowledge him with a brief flicker of tail movement.

"Night," he says.

"Night Dad," she says, picking back up the wad of papers and delving back into the words.

He pads down the long hallway, goes in his room, closes the door. All is quiet. The silence when he first came here was overwhelming. After years in LA, there is always background noise, like TV static on a constant loop. But here, no cars, sleeping birds, pitch black nothing. He finds comfort in it now.

He brushes his teeth, strips off all his clothes but his boxers and glances at his phone, sitting on charge.

Two more unlisted calls.

1 voicemail.

He dials the voicemail and listens.

"Hi, ummm, Logan, I'm not sure if this is even your number. This is um, Veronica Mars, from Neptune High. Can you give me a call please, I need to speak to you. My number is 584 877-7210. Umm, thanks. Bye."

Logan listens to it again.

The silence disappears, replaced with the increased soft thumps of his heart reverberating through to his ears. He stares at the phone, 11:23pm. Too late to call, too late to find out what in the world Veronica Mars could possibly want.

Logan slips bare legs between crisp white sheets, turns off the light and squeezes his eyes shut.