He takes a breath.

Then another.

Maybe Piper was right? It was time to listen, to stop fighting it. Veronica's here now, in his space, in his barn, surrounded by the aroma of horse and warm manure. Her eyes are pleading with him to hear the words that teenage Logan wasn't ready to hear.

"Okay," he says, reclining against the wall, waiting.

"Okay, what?"

"Say what you've been trying to. I'm listening."

She looks at Logan, shock on her face, but then peers down when she realizes how acutely he's staring.

He clung to this moment with her in his childhood like a talisman. If you let yourself open up, they will crush you. If you trust, they will betray you. Everything that came over the years, the bad and the good, seemed to grow its branches from this starting point. Veronica gave him his first kiss. His first heartbreak. Those butterflies that floated in with her flew quickly away. Sixteen-year-old Logan replaced them with a cloud of gray, with practiced speeches he would never remember in the moment. Hindsight calls it a pivotal moment. Teen Logan just called it being pissed off.

"Really?" she asks.

"You better take this opportunity now, before I change my mind."

She looks put on the spot. Like you've been practicing for a school debate all weekend and they change the topic the moment you walk to the podium.

Veronica holds out her hands and says, "I fucked up."

Logan's a little shocked, expecting a fight, expecting explanations.

"I didn't tell you when I should have, I should have called the moment I found out."

"Why didn't you?" he asks.

"I don't know. I saw him with Jessica and then I went back the next night, because I had to see more."

"And you saw Britany?"

She nods.

"When I saw Britany, I got scared. Fucking terrified. So I went to my Dad," Veronica says with hunched shoulders, and eyes relaying the feelings she had in those past moments.

He sees it, what he missed all along. She was not that different from those young girls, neither was he. They were teenagers, trying to navigate adult problems. He imagines Piper in her situation, finding an empathy he could never access before.

She straightens and continues, "You know what I realize now, that it didn't matter if I sold the pictures or not. I was sloppy, without meaning to be, it didn't occur to me they might be compromised."

"I was just so blindsided. You could have called me, told me when it happened. But you didn't. So this sledgehammer just came from nowhere and threw me down, threw us all down."

"I was sixteen and what I saw fucking terrified me. I was scared for you, I was scared for me. I went to my dad because I didn't know what the hell to do. Logan, I was going to tell you. I was just waiting till you got home...to tell you in person," She pauses, "Obviously not one of my more brilliant ideas."

He sighs, pressing his palms against the wall. A fly buzzes past them, down the length of the barn, "I know that eventually it would have got out, I know that. I'm not angry that it all came out. He deserved all the shit he got. It just happened in the worst possible way."

Lynn arrived back into the country the morning the news broke, her head under a jacket at the airport to a swarm of cameras. Logan was followed to school, followed home again. It was the beginning, the horrible beginning of a years long nightmare. Of paparazzi hounding them, of constant tabloids, of speculation, of a media filled trial, and ironically, the thing he desired most, the beginning of his parent's divorce.

"I tried to find out who did it, who found the pictures, who sold them. I spent weeks tracking back, with nothing. The newspaper wouldn't give me the name, saying it was an anonymous cash payment. Whoever it was got six grand," she says.

"Six grand?"

Veronica nods.

"Fuck."

"I thought I'd find out who it was, I really did. I thought I'd come to you one day and be able to tell you the truth about what happened. But, I still don't know. Dad had the USB. He doesn't know how he lost it, he figured it fell out of his pocket. There were different workers and contractors there over that weekend, it became impossible to nail down one culprit."

He kicks at the ground, at pieces of hay floating around on the concrete.

"If it's any consolation, I was just as angry at myself for starting the whole thing, for asking you to take those photos, as I was with you," he says, quietly.

In school he passed her for three more years in silence. He told no one it was her, not a soul what had transpired between them. Instead, he found it easier to pretend she didn't exist, walking by her in the halls with a downward glance. It was only a few weeks and one kiss, he told himself. It was nothing.

"I think I always knew he'd get away with whatever he did in life. He was slimy like that. He never made another movie. I guess that was a type of punishment for him," he says.

Veronica nods, "The law is fucked," she says, emphasis on the fucked.

He laughs for the first time, "That it is."

"He died not long after, living in a Vegas penthouse with a 23-year-old cocktail waitress. Apparently, Ambien and an evening of vodka don't mix."

"I heard," she says.

"I never spoke to him again, after that day. After the news broke. Not one word."

"Do you regret it, not talking to him?"

He shrugs, walks over and pats Banjo, feels the velvet of the horse's fur, runs a hand behind his ear. A white patch on his forehead, the shape of a wolf howling. Logan traces the outline as the horse tilts his muzzle, touching his owner's face with his in a private moment of calm.

"I regret not telling him how he hurt us. I regret not punching his face, not breaking his nose, not making him bleed. I regret all those things in life that I was angry with that really stemmed from my anger at him. He was the catalyst for it all."

She nods.

The silence is broken by footfalls and the sound of panting from behind them. Houdini rubs against Logan's leg, leaving a patch of white molting fur. Bill appears not far behind, watching the space between Veronica and Logan curiously.

"Veronica, this is Bill. Bill, Veronica."

"Hey," she says raising a hand, Bill mumbles something that sounds like a hello before walking into one of the further stalls.

The presence of another person has broken the moment and Logan takes a step back from her.

"So, um, I don't really want to talk about Aaron anymore, or about the past."

"I get that. I'm not so keen on it either."

"What are you doing here, Veronica?" he asks before turning and walking into a stable. He collects a lead rope, hooks a clip onto Banjo's chin hold, pushes open the door and walks out, horse by his side. Veronica pins her back up against the wall. He inclines his head for her to follow. She comes along but leaves a wide distance between the horse's hind legs and herself. From the tack room, Logan collects a red blanket and pulls a saddle down from the wall.

He works while she speaks, "I'm searching for someone, someone I think is hiding out nearby."

"Okay."

"Do you know about the pocket of land on the west of your ranch? A hundred and fifty acres."

"Yeah. It was a re-zoning of the original national park boundaries years back. Legally it should have been offered to the old owners of this ranch but it was advertised and sold without their knowledge."

"Well, I believe someone's living there, in a cabin or a shack or something. I have satellite images showing a structure there. According to the land title it's one of the aliases of Joseph Moyer who is wanted for murder."

Logan scrunches his nose, looks at her head tilted, "If that's the case, then why aren't cops storming it?"

"Because I don't know for sure. I need to do some surveillance, prove his whereabouts."

"What is it with you and surveillance?" He asks with a smile that's bordering on a joke.

"Like before, kinda need the money," she admits.

Logan diffuses her admission, "Do you still take an armful of candy?"

"It's essential to any good stakeout," she says with a soft smile.

"Who did he kill?" he asks, placing on the blanket, running a hand across Banjo's back and loins.

"He shot two cops eight years ago, one died. I just need your permission to use your land to get to him, I'm just going to hang back, take some photos and leave. I submit them to the LAPD, they do the rest."

"So you're telling me, of all the murderers you could be chasing in the US, you found one in my backyard?"

"Pretty much."

"It's like the madness follows me," he groans, shaking his head, "Is he worth it?"

"He's worth a hundred thousand," Veronica says, and Logan sighs.

"How are you going to get there?" he asks, curious.

"I've got an SUV rental, I could use that until I get closer, then walk."

He chuckles, "Your little SUV isn't going anywhere."

"Why?"

"This ground is full of granite rocks, as soon as you get a few miles west of here things start to get steep, then you can barely penetrate the woods, you've got two rivers to cross, one is a good forty foot wide this time of year."

"I'll hike then," she says, and he shakes his head again, hoisting the saddle onto the horse's wide back, sliding it back and forth into position, kneeling down to buckle the girth strap beneath its belly. Banjo's head cranes around watching Logan's progress, pressing a nostril into his backside with a snort.

"What if this man isn't who you think he is, what if he's just some poor guy who bought a block of land and he just wants privacy?" Logan makes eye contact with her, then looks back at his own house. He understands the need for sanctuary, feeling his own borders breached.

"What if he's not? What if he's a murderer, like all the evidence points him to be, and he's living next to your property? Right next to your family," she says, eyebrows raised.

"That's a low blow."

Girth strap tied and tight, he picks up a brown leather bridle, a gentle hand over the horse's head. He places his hand flat and guides the bit in his mouth. The horse kicks his head back slightly, but allows it in. He buckles the bridle, loops the reins around the horse's head. Walks Banjo in a tight circle and tightens the girth strap again.

"Please Logan, I've got all the maps, GPS, I will trek through, I won't disturb anything on your land."

"I don't know what to say, Veronica. I don't know what the right answer is here. Can I think about it?"

She nods quickly, "Yes, of course."

He lifts his left foot, places it into the stirrup and pulls himself into the saddle, wiggling his backside, getting his feet into position. The horse moves forward and he calls out a "woah."

"How about you come by tomorrow, bring your maps, show me what you're looking for, we can talk about it some more?"

"Thanks Logan," she says, "and again, I'm sorry."

Logan nods, squeezes the horse with his thighs, signaling him to move, Banjo begins to walk but a gentle press of his right boot turns him in a circle, right back to Veronica.

"How did you find me?" he asks, curious.

"Tenacity mostly."

He levels his eyes at her, and she confesses, "Remember Cindy Mackenzie?"

"Punk nerd, right?"

"That's the one. She has a finely honed set of skills."

"Hmm," he replies, "I might need to have a chat with her."

Logan squeezes the barrel, walks the horse slowly out of the yard. Once they pass the gate through to the field, the horse starts into a canter. The paddock opens out, tufts of grasses turn into neatly sewn crops. They've all turned their heads, crisped by the warm days, yellowed and ready for harvest in the coming month. When he passes Bill's stone cottage, Banjo sufficiently warmed up, he transitions into a gallop. Swift legs and thunderous hoofbeats on the ground, the air whipping past him, straightening his hair and stinging his eyes.


Through the wide panes of the kitchen windows, Piper watches their exchange. Her dad, who had left the house bristled and shaken, had relaxed as they talked. His shoulders dropped, his fists unclenched. When she saw the woman, Veronica, approach him from behind, she almost pounded on the window to alert him, but she didn't. All she could do was stare at their conversation in rapt attention.

She wished for a listening device, a small bug she could place in her dad's pocket, or stick to the back of his phone. She'd looked them up on eBay once, $65 including delivery, but she didn't order one, preferring the idea of it more than the reality. Their body language suggests some familiarity, but they're keeping a distance. She notices their feet seem to move in unison. Her dad goes into the stables, Veronica follows, she can still see them as they linger near the door, near Banjo's stall. The words exchanged at her front door that seemed to have so much venom had subsided now; they had calmed, her dad even smiled. She watches him take Banjo out, saddle and bridle him before riding away into the southern fields.

Veronica stays behind, watching him, black boots on the gravel. Piper loses sight of her father, and so does Veronica as she makes her way back down the path, back to her car. Piper waits until her SUV has gone the entire length of the driveway, outside her field of vision before she takes the stairs, two at a time up to her room.

She presses the home button on her iPad, it comes alive. A click of a browser, the typing of two words.

Veronica Mars.

The search brings up an old website for Mars Investigations in Neptune. It has nothing personal, just a few old testimonials, general details, a contact form. It's out of date and half of the links are broken. The other results are references to her in newspapers, credit for solving a burglary, a mention in relation to a witnessed assault, a photo of her in freshman year at Hearst.

She goes to her bookshelf pulling out the Neptune High yearbook. The pages are dogeared. The photo she seeks is bookmarked with a blue ribbon she won in her 5th grade spelling bee where she beat out Carly McCraven with the word perseverance .

Peering at the black and white class photo, her eyes find her mother first, she knows her place, front row, third from the right. The sheen has disappeared over her face where she ran a finger so often.

Piper covets the space her mother once occupied. Fascinated by not just who she was, but the secret fragments of her. At any time she could place a DVD in the player and watch hours of her, watch her laugh, watch her dance, watch her kiss random handsome actors. But that person she could access online and onscreen was not her mother. Her voice was different, both colder and warmer somehow. Her mother was playful and confident and bold, her mother giggled with her, read her inappropriate romance novels at seven and tied her hair before school in the morning.

She remembers these things and she focuses on them. She holds the snippets front and center in her mind, making them bigger, making them real. All to try and bury those other moments, the ones where Lilly would be absent for days, for weeks, when she would spend all day in bed, unable to move. When she'd return late at night, breath smelling sour and wake her daughter to tell her debaucherous stories that breached the lines of fantasy and reality.

Lilly died when Piper was just nine. When she was barely four feet tall, when she lived a different life, one surrounded by people, by cameras, by the sea. So she sits in this room, by the mountains all alone, and she seeks the past.

A painted pink fingernail moves to her dad. He's taller, placed in the back row beside Dick, his face in a borderline grimace. His stature long and gangly, like most of the boys in her class. Not like now, where he's rigid and wide like an impenetrable wall. Literally and figuratively. She worries about him, the growing responsibilities he takes on. The constant pressure he puts on himself for growth. Like he's listened to all those things the media told him about himself, and he spends every waking moment in the constant endeavor to be the exact opposite.

But he's none of the things they say. Not one.

They learned to ride horses together, fall off them together. When she tells him "love you, Dad," he looks at her, an ethereal smile, like no one's ever said it before, like she's the first time, sometimes she's worried she is. He loves her with every molecule of his being, and she knows this wholeheartedly.

Her eyes scan the other smiling faces until she finds what she's looking for. Second row, in a hooded denim jacket. The person who stood on her front porch today.

Veronica Mars.


Logan's shirt is sticking to his chest, he's windswept and fine grains of dirt pattern his face. He turns on a rusty tap on the side of the barn, places his face underneath, scrubbing his hands back and forth across the stubble, filling his mouth with the cool water, spitting it onto the ground.

Bill is shoeing Opie when Logan strolls up and watches him. He sits upon a small stool backward, the horse's front leg is curled back in his lap, the base of the hoof to his face. Grimy fingers drag a long metal file back and forth in sweeping shifts across the front of the hoof. The horse stands completely still, eyes lolling closed for his pedicure.

"Who's the girl?" Bill registers Logan's presence and asks in a rare display of interest in anything that isn't four legged.

"A PI, someone I went to school with. "

"Old girlfriend?" he asks, a curl of a smirk on his lips where the stump of a cigarette lies.

"No."

Bill looks disappointed.

"What's she doin' here ?"

"She wants to go out to the block by Whitetail Peak."

Bill stops his movements and looks up, "Why?"

"She thinks someone's living there."

"In the shack?" Bill asks.

Logan nods.

Bill says something indistinguishable, pulls out a large pair of cutters, and begins making small cuts along the outer hoof in a semicircle. After all the cuts are made a circular piece of black nail falls to the ground and Houdini scrambles across on his belly and starts chewing on the fetid piece of cartilage. Bill resumes filing again.

"Did you tell her it's there?"

"No. She said she saw it on satellite images."

"Who does she think's living there?"

"A man wanted for murder. Some big reward. She needs the money. "

Bill processes the information, the cogwheels turning in his mind a visual process with the skewing of his eyebrows and the movement of a puzzle of forehead wrinkles.

"You gonna take her?"

Logan shrugs, "She wants to trek there herself."

"Well that's fuckin' ridiculous," Bill says as a gust of wind blows his cigarette smoke into Logan's eyes and he blinks twice. Bill throws it down and stomps it out with the heel of his boot. He then drops the hoof to the ground and drags his stool to the rear leg.

When Logan doesn't speak, Bill does, "What ya gonna do?"

"I'm not sure yet."


Veronica lays back in her hotel room, her calves ache, her head pounds, everything just feels like too much. She's drained from yesterday's travel, but mainly she's exhausted by today.

Seeking a friend, she calls Mac.

"Hey,"

"Hey you, how'd it go?" Mac asks.

Veronica can hear the television in the background, Luke watching his sitcoms. She wants to be on that couch with them instead of alone in this hotel room.

"I don't know. Good. Bad. I'm still not entirely sure."

Mac pauses, "He spoke to you?"

"He did... eventually," she says, pulling at the tightly tucked sheets on her bed so she can scramble beneath them.

"And will he let you use his place?"

"He's thinking about it."

"Well, that's better than a no."

Veronica sighs, "It could still be a no."

"Your Dad's fine, I went there this afternoon. He was none too pleased with my arrival," says Mac and Veronica chuckles. Keith always fought any help anyone tried to give him, he'd been fighting off Veronica's help for years. It was good to hear that his grumpiness wasn't reserved solely for her.

A comfortable silence forms between them as Veronica listens to the television in Neptune, to the sound of Mac's breathing.

"Are you okay V?" She asks.

Veronica pulls the covers up to her neck quietly, thinking about the question.

"I don't know."