AN: In the novel it starts out Part Two like this. Now Part 1 was written in first person, but was told from the character Magnus was based on. The next few chapters are actually in the character Laxus is based (the actual detective). I hope y'all like it. If you don't like it I'll go back to third person and what I was doing.

I only have one shout out today;

Dear CliffordTheBigSteeleMan: Thank you for the lovely review! I can't take all the credit, but thank you! I hope you like this chapter too! I'm curious as to what you think, I'm staying very close to the actual novel just changing a few things, like it mentions WW2 and Churchill in this chapter, and I've changed a few actual things. When I found this story, I was looking at old magazines (I'm a history major and my professor collected a bunch of old magazines) called Colliers. It was a October edition. It ran from October to November 1942 as a seven-part serial. I tracked it all down and I loved it. I bet your not dumb! I had a thousand one ideas going through my head as I tracked it down lol I hope you are in good health as well.

Part 2

Laxus Dreyar's POV 1st Person

I will be documenting my findings on the Lucy Heartfilia case. I know that Magnus has been keeping the public enthralled with his version. But his version has lead the man to have 5 hours of sleep, a quart of black coffee, and three hearty meals to keep up his strength. I suppose he had intended to fit the story to one of those typical Lydecker last paragraphs where a brave smile always shows through the tears.

I am going to document the rest. My writing won't have the smooth professional touch which, as he would say, distinguishes Magnus Lydecker's prose. God help any of us if we'd tried to write our reports for the Magic Council with style. But for once in my life, I am going to forget shorthand and express a few personal opinions.

This is my first experience with citizens who get their pictures into that part of the funny papers called the Society Section. When these people want to insult each other, they say darling, and when they get affectionate they throw around words that a Jefferson Market bailiff wouldn't use to a pimp. Poor people brought up to hear their neighbors screaming filth every Saturday night are more careful of their language than well-bred smart-alecks. I know as many four-letter words as anybody in the business and use them when I feel like it. But not in writing. It takes a college education to teach a man that he can put on paper what he used to write on a fence.

I'm starting the story where Magnus ended . . . In Montagnino's back yard after the third brandy.

As we stepped out of the restaurant, the heat hit us like a blast from a furnace. The air was dead. Not a shirttail moved on the washlines of McDougal Street. The town smelled like rotten eggs. A thunderstorm was rolling in.

"Can I take you home?"

"No, thanks; I feel like walking."

"I'm not drunk." I said.

"Have I implied that you're drunk? It's my whim to walk. I'm working tonight." He started off, pounding his stick against the pavement. "Thanks for the feast," he called as I teleported off.

I knew that I didn't want to go home. I didn't feel like going to the gym or pool, my mind wasn't sharp enough for poker, and I've never sat in the lounge in all the years I've lived there. The steel furniture in my bedroom reminded me of a dentist's office. There wasn't a comfortable chair in the room, and if you lay on the couch the cover wrinkled under you. These are all the excuses I could find for going to Lucy's apartment that night. Maybe I was just drunk.

Later, when the thing that happened caused me to question my sanity, I remembered that I had performed the acts of a sober man. I had the key in my pocket and I let myself in as coolly as if I'd been entering my own place. As I opened the door I saw the first streaks of lightning through the blinds. Thunder crashed. It was followed by the stillness that precedes heavy rain. I was sweating and my head ached. I got myself a drink of water from the kitchen, took off my coat, opened my collar, and stretched in the long chair. The light hurt my eyes and I turned it off. I fell asleep before the storm broke.

Thunder sounded like a squadron of bombers above the roof. Lightning did not flash away immediately. After a few seconds I saw that it was not lightning at all, but the lamp with the green shade. I had not turned it on. I had not moved from the long chair.

Thunder crashed again. Then I saw her. She held a rain-streaked hat in one hand and a pair of light gloves in the other. Her rain-spattered silk dress was moulded tight to her body. She was five-foot seven, weighed about one-thirty, dark eyes slightly slanted, light blonde hair, and cream colored skin. Nothing wrong about her tits either.

"What are you doing here?" she said.

I couldn't answer.

"What are you doing here?"

I remembered the wine and looked around to see if she'd brought any pink elephants.

"If you don't get out this moment," she said, and her voice trembled, "I'll call the police."

"There's no need to be afraid," I said.

My voice told me that I was alive. I jerked myself out of the chair. The girl backed away. The picture of Lucy Heartfilia was just behind her.

I had a voice. I spoke with authority. "You're dead."

My wild stare and the strange accusation convinced her that she was facing a dangerous lunatic. She edged toward the door.

"Are you . . ." But I couldn't say the name. She had spoken, she was wet with rain, she had been frightened and had tried to escape. Were these real evidences of life just another set of contradictions?

I don't know how long we stood, facing each other and awaiting revelation. For a crazy half-second I remembered what my grandmother used to tell me about meeting in heaven those whom we had lost on earth. Peal after peal of thunder shook the house. Lightning flashed past the window. The ground seemed to be trembling below us and the skies splitting overhead. This was Lucy Heartfilia's apartment; I felt in my pocket for a cigar.

I had bought a paper. As I unfolded it, I said: "Have you seen any newspapers lately? Don't you know what's happened?" The questions made me feel sane again.

She shrank away, clinging with both hands to the table.

I said: "Please don't be frightened; there must be an explanation, if you haven't seen the papers . . ."

"I haven't. I've been in the country. My radio's broken." And then slowly, as if she were fitting the pieces together, she said: "Why? Do the papers say I'm . . ."

I nodded. She took the paper. There was nothing on Page One. A new battle on the Eastern Front and a speech by Toma had pushed her off the front pages. I turned to Page Four. There was her picture.

Wind howled through the narrow court between the houses. Rain spattered the window panes. The only sound inside the house was the rhythm of her breathing. Then she looked over the paper into my face and her eyes were filled with tears.

"The poor thing," she said. "The poor, poor kid."

"Who?"

"Diane Redfern. A girl I knew. I'd lent her the apartment."