Clara managed only to get a few twenty minute cat-naps. By eight in the morning, she drove over to the Bagge's home. "Well good morning!" Muriel said as she answered the door. "How are you, dearie? My, you look a bit tired. Are you feeling alright?"

Clara blinked and had to process what she was asking. It was too early for these sorts of questions. "Morning Muriel. Er, yeah, maybe. I mean, can I use your phone? Francis hasn't come home and…" She still wasn't sure what to make of that phone booth debacle.

"Of course, of course, come on in. I'll make you a pot of some strong tea. Courage!" Muriel called upstairs to the writer as Clara made a beeline for the phone. "Courage, come down here please!"

By the time the lavender-haired dog in pajamas came down, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Clara was on the phone. Francis' phone went straight to voicemail once, twice, five times. She was getting frustrated. What now?

"Hey," Courage greeted her softly as he came to sit on the couch next to her. He was still in his pajamas, but he had a cup of tea with him. He held it out for her to take. "What's going on? Muriel said Francis didn't come home?"

Clara rubbed her temples before nodding and taking the tea. "No...and his phone is off. I'm not sure what to do." And it was true, she wasn't. Well, not in the way they thought. If she called hospitals or police stations, who knew what trouble she might accidentally cause for Francis. What if he got caught and her calling would damn him, or her, somehow? But what if he was hurt and he needed her? Clara ran a hand over her face before drinking the tea. Strong, sweet...good, she needed it today.

Courage's ears were flattened and he whined with worry. "I can help you call hospitals. I think the Computer can provide the numbers for all the nearby ones." He offered with hope.

Of course he wouldn't mention anything about a police station. To their Nowhere neighbors, Francis and Clara were the most average of folk. Clara nodded. "Okay, yeah." What else could she do? "And in between, I'll call his phone." Maybe he just forgot to charge it. Except...none of this had happened before, it was all out of his normal behavior.

"I'm sure he's okay." Courage said. When Clara didn't remark, he reached out and took her head. "Hey, I'm sure he's okay. You'll be okay." It sounded like a mix of a prayer and a statement.

"Thanks pup." She squeezed his hand and watched him walk up to the computer. She stayed seated on the green couch was, decidedly,not as comfortable as her own. That was fine though for what use did she have of sleeping? Ten minutes later, and some loud noises later, Courage came down with a page full of numbers. He poured Clara another cup of tea as she called the first hospital. She gave them a description of Francis and asked if there was anyone like that there, either upstairs or downstairs in the morgue.

For better and worse, they said no.

She called the second one. Third cup of tea. Nothing. She called his phone - voicemail. She called a third hospital, nothing. Then a fourth. Then a fifth. She then called his phone once more, expecting nothing but the voicemail. So when it rang, she felt her breath catch. "Courage!" She whispered, "It's ringing! His phone!"

Courage, who had stayed right next to Clara loyally through the past hour, sat up straighter. His ears perked up and gave a little 'yay!'. She could see that he had crossed his fingers on one hand as she held the other in her own. By the fourth ring, there was a click. Clara hesitated. "Hello?" she spoke.

"Hello?" It was a man's voice, but it wasn't Francis'. Clara's flesh prickled. "Who is this?"

"Who is this?" If Clara's voice was sharper than normal, it was only because she was scared now.

The voice seemed calm and collected though, unbothered by her own. "This is Officer Jared Mantle."

Clara felt like she was going to be sick, and was glad that she hadn't eaten anything. She must have gone green because Courage placed his hand on her back. "I'm calling about," please, she prayed quietly, let Francis have used his real name wherever he was, at least his first name, so she didn't blow his cover, "Francis. I'm his friend and…"

"Ma'am," the officer started, and a part of Clara knew what he was going to say, but didn't want to hear it, "I'm sorry to inform you, but Mr. Francis Dillard died last night. Suspected homicide." Blood rushed through her ears, drained from her face. Clara felt woozy but no one words, be it from the officer or from Courage, registered in her mind. She dropped the phone and everything started to go black. She passed out with the words ringing in her ear.

Francis...he was murdered.

Ice. Cold. Air.

That was all Clara could feel as she opened her eyes. Someone was fanning her. There were ice packs on her. She was shivering now. What happened? What's going on? She wanted to speak, but her lips wouldn't move and her voice wouldn't work. She took a deep breath and was able to move again, to sit up.

"Careful," a familiar voice warned her as a hand lightly placed itself on her shoulder, keeping her from getting up, "or you'll pass out again."

"Courage?" The name sounded garbled in Clara's mouth.

"Here, drink some of this." He held a glass of water up and, carefully sitting up just so, Clara took a few sips.

It took another couple minutes, but Clara was able to sit up without getting sick again. She shifted and leaned against Courage, who sat next to her. Muriel sat on a dining room chair that she had brought over across from them. "Francis...he's…" Reality started to crash down on Clara again.

Courage put his arm around her and Muriel, tears streaming down her face, reached over to hold her hand. "We know dear," Muriel managed to say between a hiccup or two, "the officer told us when we took the phone. I'm so, so sorry for your loss, my dear."

Clara's lips trembled, her eyes burned with the sudden rush of water, and her breathing hitched. Courage hugged her tighter and howled softly with his own sorrow. Within moments, they were all a sobbing mess, even Eustace joined. Clara covered her face with her hands and felt the harsh sobs wrack through her body. Francis...Francis had been killed. The man she had known since she was eight, the man who she had survived the streets with and gone on countless adventures with - he was gone. Her partner in crime and her best friend would never come back. She'd never hear his voice, his laughter, or see his smile ever again. They would never again dance and spin around the living room in victory.

After some time had passed, Clara felt as if every ounce of liquid had drained from her through her tears. Her head throbbed, her heart felt shattered, her eyes ached, and all she wanted to do was slip into oblivion and just not think anymore. She must have fallen asleep against Courage for the next time she opened her heavy-lidded eyes, it was dark outside and Courage was snoring softly. Muriel and Eustace must have gone to the kitchen or outside.

Clara shifted, her neck protesting from the odd angle she had fallen asleep in. She grimaced and must have made a nose for the lavender-haired dog started to shift as well. He rubbed at his eyes and looked down at her as she rubbed her neck. "Clara?" Courage's voice sounded like a mixture of a yawn and a whine. He shook his head. They both must have fallen asleep hard for when he moved his arm, which had been around her all this time, he made a face and waved his arm a bit.

Not trusting her voice entirely, she made a 'mm' noise and looked around once her neck felt better. She flinched at the 'click' sound of Courage turning the lamp on near them. Where had the Bagges gone? The more she looked around, the less she...felt. It surprised her. It alarmed her. The numbness was thick and growing only thicker, like a cattail plant that had been broken open. It felt like it could crush her, and Clara wasn't entirely sure she didn't mind it.

"I'll make you some tea," offered the young man. She nodded and followed him like a lost child into the kitchen, not wanting to be alone. She watched without interest as Courage got the kettle, filled it with water, and set it on the stove before turning it on. He looked through Muriel's collection of tea, no doubt trying to reason which would help with grief - as if it were so simple. In the end, he chose a chamomile valerian mix. Clara couldn't help but grin a little - yes, sedation was best for now.

They were quiet, the two, both lost in their thoughts. It wouldn't dawn on Clara entirely just then, but Courage had lost a friend as well. So did Eustace and Muriel. They had all lost a friend to violent ends. And Clara wasn't sure how to process or feel about that last bit. It was one thing when someone died from an accident or illness...but from malicious intent? She swallowed hard and shook her head. Now wasn't the time. Not now. Not in the Bagge house. She didn't trust herself.

The kettle started to whistle, prompting Courage to get up and complete the tea ritual. It was calming to watch him do it, to pour the hot water into the tea pot with the strainer full of sedation herbs. After a few minutes, he then poured them both a cup of the delightful drink before bringing the cups and their saucers over to the table where Clara sat.

"Thanks." She murmured, wrapping her hands around the cup, feeling the heat radiate. The dog nodded and blew on his. Clara just sipped and if she felt her tongue get burned, she didn't care. It was clouded over by that numbness.

There were no words to say. There was nothing to make it 'better'. Clara was emotionally short-circuited and Courage seemed to pick up on that. That was why just sitting here with tea with her was the best, and only, thing he could do, in silence. To exist with her, to exist without demand or pull or any of that 'he's in a better place' bullshit or, fuck forbid, 'everything happens for a reason', that was all Courage could do...and Clara cherished him all the more for it.

Some time passed before they heard the truck outside. Cups empty, the pair got up to walk over to the living room. Muriel and Eustace walked in from outside, a box in Muriel's hands. Clara tensed, already knowing what it was. "We went into the city to get Francis' stuff." She explained in the darling way she did, soft and sympathetic and with a bit of scratchiness that showed she had been in tears recently too. "I'll just set it here, dearie." She placed it on the couch gently, as if it were a living creature.

Clara stared at the box. It was a file box, a lid that had been written on. It was used, something they pulled from storage of police files to fill up with whatever had been with him, on his person or in the car. If Muriel was speaking more, Clara couldn't hear it. She was staring at that box, unable to process that this was what was left of her Francis, not able to think that his body was cold, gray, and decomposing in some morgue somewhere. She must have started to hyperventilate - which explained the ache in her chest - because the scent of ink, paper, and something distinctly lavender and of 'joy' wrapped around her, as did the arms of the owner of that scent. Courage hugged her tight and seemed unwilling to let go. Her breathing calmed down, but her eyes, still dry from crying out all the tears before, ached sharply.

At last, she was brought back to the moment and to her senses, feeling Courage's warmth and hearing him softly murmur words of comfort. She wrapped her arms around him and held tight, not wanting to let go of the anchor he had become for her. There would be no question of Clara spending the night tonight.

The next few days were a painful haze to Clara. By the grace of her friends, she was fed, hydrated, and took care of her basic needs. It wasn't enough, but it was enough as a baseline to keep her from withering away. They had to go into the city - of which Clara hadn't fully comprehended which city it was, but assumed it was the human one Francis had said he'd be going to - and pick up his body. They had to make arrangements. A coffin was picked out and Clara declared she would bury him under the bit of grass that managed to grown in the near-middle of Nowhere. There was no argument to be had over this decision.

The details of the murder had been explained and, honestly, how could Clara be unaware of them, as she had pulled the coroner's sheet halfway down Francis to his waist, beyond the level they had uncovered him at first. Stabbed. He was stabbed, beaten, bruised, and cut up. It didn't look like a peaceful, easy death. It was the exact opposite. She demanded to see the notes of the autopsy once he was done. She wanted details. She needed details. They did nothing for her but haunt her now, but later, one day, she would need to make use of these details to get revenge.

There were no suspects. Even a week later, there were none.

Between the first week and the second, Clara had managed to make her hands blister raw. She did this by insisting she dig up the ground by herself. The rock hard ground, barely softened by a watering that Courage tried to do before, had been a challenge. The shovel, of which Clara used without gloves, was harsh to her. Still, she dug a six foot rectangle and cherished the pain that it gave her hands for days after, as if it were a penance. A penance to what? An unreasonable amount of guilt.

With the help of Courage and Eustace, they managed to get Francs' coffin into the ground. Muriel spoke some words, Courage did too, but Clara remained mute. She insisted in burying him, but she didn't protest when Courage helped as well with his hands since there was just one shovel. Courage stayed a little bit later than the other two, who then picked him up late into the night.

Now...now that Francis was home, now that the paperwork had been complete, now it was time to be alone.

She still had no phone, no landline, and Francis' phone was now retired in the box of his things, placed in his room. His room had been untouched. Clara left it open, but she didn't go into it. Sometimes she'd sit on her bed in her room and look across the hall, but often she would close her door...or just leave. Being upstairs was too painful.

But then, where wasn't there painful memories? The living room, where they danced and laughed and watched television? The kitchen, where they cooked, broke bread from their successes, and cleaned together? There wasn't a place in the house that didn't make Clara's heart throb and amplify through the thick numb cloud of grief.

She couldn't say how many days it had been, but she found herself outside a lot more. At first, she would sit on the porch and just look out over to the grassy patch that wasn't as grassy, the one that held Francis. She would just...stare. Occasionally she remembered to drink or eat something, but it wasn't enough. She'd fall asleep outside until she'd wake in the cold desert night. She'd just move into the living room and fall back asleep, an ache in her heart. The doors weren't locked, not anymore. What did it matter if someone came in and murdered her too?

How could she manage schemes, scams, and thievery without her partner in crime? What was the point in life then? There was no pleasure, not anymore. Not in food, not in scams, not in...not in life. Soon she knew she wouldn't be able to make ends meet, but she didn't care. She didn't care anymore. Not the house, not her hygiene, not her health, not her life...nothing.

It was one day that was particularly hot even for the spring that something happened. Clara was laying out on the grass next to the mound of dirt, next to Francis. She was on her side, staring at the pile of dirt. There was no marker. Not yet. Would there be? She had no idea. The sun, she knew logically, was baking her...but she didn't care. She didn't feel it. All she felt was the void, the cold, empty ache that seemed to be growing bigger in her heart. So if she succumbed to dehydration or burned alive, so be it.

Clara started to hallucinate. If not that, then she must have been asleep and dreaming. Francis was back and he was sitting across from her on the other side of the mound. He was shaking his head and looking at her with sympathy, mouthing something. She tried to open her eyes wider, but the sun was just so bright. She closed them instead, whispering, "Francis...I'm so tired of being...so tired."

Splash!

"AH!" A shout was ripped from Clara's throat after a large sum of water splashed all over her. Clara sat up, heart racing and water dripping off of her. She rubbed her eyes, cursing as she tried to adjust to the bright sun. When she opened her blue eyes and looked up at the general direction of where the water came from, she wished she hadn't. Her throat went dry and her heart skipped a beat.

Katz stood before her. He wore a deep shade of purple pants and a shirt with a red vest, his hair slicked back, his ears twitching as his tail did. There was an empty water bottle at his feet. If it weren't for the water dripping off of her hair and into her eyes, she would have sworn that there was a look of amusement in his gaze as he stared down the end of his nose at her.

He shifted in his stance and that was enough for her. Despite the neglect she had done to herself, despite not having eaten a full meal in days or even drank half as much water as she should have, despite being apathetic and ready for death, adrenaline kicked in. Clara turned and planted her hands on the now damp ground, ready to push herself up and run like hell. Where? She hadn't thought that far ahead, but she knew she had to get away from Katz.

Before she could run, however, just as she stood, a hand grabbed her by the back of her shirt. Katz pulled her back without trouble as she had lost weight from the past couple weeks. Along with weight, she had also lost a lot of energy and strength from her self-neglectful habits. He spun her around and gripped her by her shoulders. "Get off!" She shouted while she tried to kick at him.

Katz shook her hard and easily sidestepped the kicks. He said nothing as she tried to break free. It was only when she had tired herself out did he do something. "Hm." He looked her up and down, his grip on her arms still tight. "So this is what you look like without your disguise. How disappointing."

Clara sneered and wished she could spit at him. Unfortunately, that, too, was not possible given her self-neglect. "Fuck you."

The red haired man gave her another once-over. "I'll pass."

Clara tried to get her arm free but gave up after a moment, worn out. "How did you find me? If you want to kill me, just do it already!" She felt torn between a sense of fear and of anger, both of which were exhausting. She felt herself start to deflate. Her legs were trembling, no doubt from a mix of exhaustion and fear, and she wondered if she'd be standing still if Katz wasn't holding her so tight.

Katz' sharp, vivid yellow eyes bore into hers. It took a long moment, one of which she blinked a few times due to the bright sun, before Katz' gaze slowly moved to the mound of dirt, and to where Clara had been lying. "I came to get revenge for my precious spider so many years ago...but I see someone beat me to it with your partner." The slow, careful enunciation of the words only made it hurt all the worse.

Clara's breath caught and she felt a hurt-fueled rage consume her. "You goddamn son of a whore!" She screeched as she swiped at him. Her nails caught his arm which made him loosen his grip ever so slightly. She took advantage of this and pulled her arm free, swinging at the man's face - it was only then, as an afterthought, that she realized his broken nose had healed quite nicely. She tackled him onto the ground, knocking him off balance, and started to wail on him without seeing or feeling anything, without any thought. Tears blurred her vision and her throat burned as she shouted things she wasn't aware of.

The wild attack only lasted a mere dozen seconds before Katz managed to flip them around. He pinned her wrists above her head and sat on her so she couldn't kick at him. He looked no worse than before, but certainly seemed agitated. It was only when Clara calmed down, tears dry and breathing steady, did he speak. "Here is what is going to happen, dear girl," his voice was low, steady, and edged with menace, "I'm going to stand up and you're going to do the same. I will escort you into your house, where you will sit down and say nothing. Do you understand?" The last three words were slow and taunt.

Her chest burned from her outburst. She hadn't used her voice so much the past few days. Clara closed her eyes tightly, feeling sick and weak and loathing every moment. Slowly she shook her head, refusing to look at the man. "Just kill me...be done with it." It sounded like a prayer, a plea, rather than a command.

For a moment, Katz did nothing. By the time Clara opened her eyes, he spoke, "As you wish it." Suddenly his hands were wrapped around her neck. Her eyes widened. It took little time for her instincts to kick in, for the will to live to win out. She grabbed his arms and squeezed, trying to free herself before she pulled at his fingers. It was only when her vision started to fade that he released her. Clara took large gulps of air, coughing in between as she tried to twist away from under him. He didn't budge though. "I thought not." He seemed annoyed as if he were tasked with dealing with a bug. "Do you understand my instructions, girl?"

Clara looked up at him once she caught her breath and glared with hate. Her throat was on fire so she could only manage to nod. Satisfied, he got away from her, stood, and pulled her up by her arm. Still holding tight, he led her back into her house. He seemed to know his way around well enough. He shut the door behind him and placed Clara on the couch. "Don't. Move." He ordered with a tone cold enough to make her shiver.

She watched him, curiously obedient, enter the kitchen. She heard the sink turn on for a few moments. There was movement, clattering of items. What was he doing? Clara looked around the living room, taking the moment to actually, really look. And damn, everything was filthy. There was a lawyer of dust, clothes were dirty and everywhere, she knew there was food rotten and dishes unwashed. Clara wondered seriously how many days had passed since the whole ordeal started.

She must have zoned out for longer than she expected because when she came back to the moment, Katz had entered with two cups of tea with saucers. He placed one on the stand next to her. She tensed and leaned away from him as he took a seat on the loveseat nearby. The cat hardly blinked as he took a long, silent sip, studying her. What was he thinking? Did she dare trust the cup he made for her? But why would he? Ah, she thought, he wanted to prolong her torture.

Clink. "Drink." Katz ordered as he set his half-empty cup down on the saucer.

Clara wanted to speak, but her throat, of which she was certain would bruise overnight, hurt. Reluctantly, she picked up the saucer and glanced at it. Simple green tea, visible through in the right light. She took a tentative sip. Nothing tasted off about it. She drank more and grimaced when she tried to clear her throat.

So it went on between the two, silently drinking and studying each other. The cool air inside made her distinctly aware of how damp her hair and clothes were - and how dirty they were. Not that she gave a damn about her appearance even before Katz. Not at all.

After some time had passed, she set the cup aside. There were no ill side effects. Perhaps the tea had been safe. "Why…" She flinched, her throat feeling raw.

Clink. "I told you to be quiet." Katz said matter-of-factly. At her glare, he smirked. "Why am I here, you ask?" She didn't answer, but she didn't need to. "I was telling the truth. I am here to extract vengeance for the theft of my lovely five years ago."

Clara tried to keep her breathing steady, calm. "How so?" Her voice croaked. "Are you going to torture me?" There was a shiver to her tone and she loathed herself for it. But even if so, Courage would come...which would make things so, so much worse.

Katz gave a sharp exhale like a scoff. "Torture you? No, no, no, dear girl...judging by your...haggard, filthy, and malnourished appearance, you've done that to yourself plenty." He looked satisfied to see her flinch. "I found my lovely once you and your...partner sold her. It cost me a pretty penny, but I got her back."

"You want money?" Clara spat out hatefully. Was this what it was all about? She just wanted to be left alone in her sorrow. "Fine, how much? I'll get you the money."

Katz didn't respond right away. He leaned back in the chair and studied her again in all her displeasure. "No." The word confused Clara. "What I want, we will get into another time." Before she could protest, he held up a hand. Surprisingly, it worked. "For now...I want you to recover. As a human, you're not terribly pleasant to look at to begin with, but looking like a homeless person only makes it that much worse." She held up her middle finger at him. To her surprise, Katz smirked. "You still have spirit in you, girl. That much was made obvious outside or else you would have allowed me to kill you and place you next to your...partner. You think you want to die, you think you want to give up...but you don't. But to get back to normal, you'll need my help."

"I don't want your help." She spat out, glaring now.

"It wasn't an offer." Katz was unbothered by her venom.

"And what if I refuse? What if I call the cops?" Bold words, they both knew, for a scammer. They both had their...side businesses and the mention of cops was a dangerous one for both of them.

The man hardly seemed bothered though. He kept that smirk on his face and she didn't like it. "You won't. If you do, you will lose this house...and your precious partner yet again."

Clara blinked, taken aback. "What? What are you talking about?" Confusion.

Now Katz just seemed to ooze self-satisfaction. "The house. When you and your boy bought the house, it was listed under Francis Dillard...and Winnie Dillard. You, my dear girl, are not on the deed to the house."

Clara felt her blood turn to ice. What? Since when? Why? Why had Francis...Francis had dealt with the paperwork. It made it easier that way. He must have used her street name and his last name to protect her. If anything had gone belly-up, if she had been caught, if he had been caught...that had to be it. If she was caught, they couldn't take the house away. But he hadn't planned for this situation where he was dead and Clara...Clara was alive. They hadn't planned for death, only ever capture.

She was shaking. She felt as if she had been plunged into snow. To lose the house, to go back to living on the street? Alone? To have to survive all alone, older now, wiser but now lacking a partner. To have to struggle and scrounge, to never know security again! She felt ill.

"Breathe, dear girl," Katz commanded, his silky, smooth voice capturing her attention. And though she hated it, she did as he said. Slowly, surely but slowly, her heart rate returned to normal and her color was back. "There will be some simple rules. Follow them and you won't have to pack your things. Disobey and...well. But I think soon you will see the benefit in doing as I say." Clara said nothing, smartly, for the first time, but glared. "Good. Let us start with the most pressing of matters: bathing." Clara's face warmed with embarrassment. "The bit of water I doused you with was hardly sufficient to scrub the grime off of your hair. As you shower, I will prepare a real meal...as I doubt you've consumed more than a mouse these past few days."

Clara didn't get up immediately. She seemed to be debating something. What, she wasn't sure. After a moment, she stood. Without a word, for she took pity on her own damaged throat, she made her way upstairs to take a much, much needed shower. As she passed Francis' room, which was still closed, she wondered if Francis would have changed what he did back then if he knew what situation she was in currently.