"There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me."
—Jane Austen

»»—- —-««

The diner Dante takes her to is the standard cop hangout. Every city has at least one, with an interior that hasn't been updated since the 1950s, a cook who knows everyone by name, and food and coffee that are remarkably good considering the otherwise outdated, somewhat grungy appearance the place has. Sitting in one of the corner booths that overlooks the busy street outside, Lir picks at her omelette, only half-interested in it and the crisp hashbrowns accompanying it. Some sort of jazz plays from a jukebox by the door, soft enough that conversations can be held easily yet loud enough that eavesdropping would be difficult. It reminds her of Sunday afternoons when her father was alive, how he and her mother would dance on the worn living room rug to Frank Sinatra or Billie Holiday or Duke Ellington, but that leads her back to her dream the night before, which is quite effective at dampening her already non-existent appetite.

In a lull while the record switches, Dante sets down his fork and reaches for his coffee, studying her over the rim. "Hate to say it, but you look like hell. Rough night?"

"Something like that," she replies. When he opens his mouth, she shakes her head. "I don't want to get into it. Just bad dreams, nothing more than that."

He gives an idle shrug. "Suit yourself. You gonna eat that?"

With a grimace, she pushes her plate over to him, and he swaps it for his own empty one before setting in on the omelette, which he slathers with ketchup. It makes her wince, but to each their own is what she tries to tell herself, taking a sip from her own coffee. Both of them have been beating around the bush since he picked her up—Miller, her behavior yesterday—and she decides to put an end to it. "How much shit am I in?"

Dante chews thoughtfully for a moment before swallowing. "With Morrison? No more than you should be. Job's safe, and he's not looking to put any marks on your record. Apparently the D.A. said that, even without the confession, there's enough evidence to nail Miller." He pauses, then gives her a grin. "Honestly, I think Morrison's glad someone ripped into that sorry sack of shit."

"You think?" She tries to picture the gruff Chief being pleased about anything and finds that she can't.

"Sure. Hell, he did himself when he was a detective, from what I heard." He chuckles. "Might not seem like it now, but he used to be pretty wild, back in the day. Didn't really settle until he started climbing the ranks, and that's probably only because you can't let those higher-up pricks get under your skin."

She supposes that it makes sense. Relaxing, Lir leans back in her seat, watching as he devours the rest of their breakfast at a speed that leaves her surprised he doesn't choke on it. "Thanks."

"Huh?"

"For sticking up for me. I appreciate it."

He looks a bit embarrassed as he rubs the tip of his nose. "Ah, no thanks needed. We're partners, right? Gotta look out for each other. Besides, I wanted to throttle the guy myself. Your tongue-lashing just beat me to it." She smiles, but the expression fades when he asks, "You do that in Fortuna?"

"No," she says shortly.

Dante gives her a curious look. "You know, I never did ask what led you to comin' here." At her frown, he adds, "Don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I'm just askin'."

Lir mulls over the best way to answer, trying to figure out the short version of her life. "My dad was a cop. Never really made it higher than a beat cop, but he liked his job and what he did. It got him killed eventually."

"Shit, Lir, I'm sorry."

She waves it off. "Guess that's what drove me to join the force, too. Thought I could make a difference, you know?" He nods. "Anyway, Fortuna was nice. But there was a lot of whispering about how a woman made detective, a lot of insinuations, a lot of . . . I dunno. It's a pretty old-school place. Women raise families, men work. I wanted to get out before I wound up dead-locked with people I couldn't stand."

"Why Red Grave?"

"My father was here a long time ago. We moved to Fortuna when I was . . . I must have been around six, I think." Lir toys with her coffee mug. "Other than that, I don't have a real reason other than I liked the look of it the most." Looking up at him, she asks, "What about you?"

"Me? Been here my whole life, born and raised." He smiles, but it seems a little haunted, a little bitter. "My ol' man was a real piece of shit. Joined the force to stop people like him."

She opens her mouth to ask him how awful his father was. Wife beater? Drunk? Absent? Then she realizes that it's, quite frankly, not her place, particularly as he'd done her the courtesy of not prying into her past, and she swallows the questions, feeling them burning in the back of her throat. "I'm sorry," she murmurs.

Like her, he waves it off. "Doesn't matter now. 'Bout the only thing I got from him was my good looks, anyway." Lir huffs a laugh without meaning to, and he winks at her before sobering up. "Anyway, Miller might be taken care of, but we're still at a dead-end on Marsons. Got any ideas?"

"Did we get anything from the DMV?"

"No, and it's not lookin' like we will. You know about their feud with the police?" She shakes her head. "Ah, well. Lotta immigrants go there to get a license or permit or anythin' that helps 'em out, especially the ones who didn't go through legal channels. DMV wanted law enforcement to agree not to send info to the feds, our city's commissioner wouldn't agree, now we're stuck."

Lir swears loudly enough that a nearby table gives her disgruntled glares. "Perfect. Guess we need to set up a tip line."

"Yeah."

"Fuck." She slumps down. It's a necessary step to take, and Lir knows that it is, but tip lines are the bane of almost all investigations. Once they're open, everyone calls in, some with information that's actually relevant, some who just want to nose around, some who want their fifteen seconds of fame, others with nothing more to offer than a conspiracy theory or a completely fabricated story that winds up wasting precious time and resources. Add in the sheer manpower needed to run them, and they move from being a hassle to a nuisance. "Guess I'll bring it up to Morrison when we go in."

Having to wear a suit ranks fairly high on Lir's list of uncomfortable experiences. Even tailored well—which hers is, something that had cost her a pretty penny due to her short stature—it is stiff, itchy, and the tie at her throat feels choking. Her only solace is that Dante looks equally put out, though she's got a suspicion that it has more to do with the cameras, as she's never seen him in casual clothes. At the podium is Morrison, telling the city that there is a killer, that caution must be exercised in all things, and that they are opening up a tip line for anyone who might have seen something or knows someone who has. Lir had insisted that they not ask for people who saw the perpetrator; it's too hard, she had argued, for someone to view their neighbor as a potential murderer. But a witness? They could spin that story all day, and they were more likely to get relevant information from it.

"In short," Morrison says, "we have found ourselves, in the wake of this tragedy, seeking any information that will aid us. Please call the number at the bottom of your screens if you think that you know something, no matter how big or small it might be." He takes a deep breath. "We'll take your questions now."

A reporter at the front sticks up his hand. "Does this have any relation to the Devil's Knight case?"

Dante tenses, and Lir looks at him curiously as Morrison replies, "We've found nothing to lead us to believe so, no."

"But wasn't there religious paraphernalia found with the victim?" the reporter persists.

"I'm afraid I can't answer that." When the reporter opens his mouth again, Morrison smiles thinly. "The Devil's Knight case, as you called it, occurred twenty years ago, and the perpetrator of those crimes died while incarcerated. We can't rule out a copycat, if that's what you're implying, but we've found no evidence to support that theory."

A woman lifts her arm. "I have a question for Detective Thorne." Lir blinks, but steps up to the podium when Morrison beckons her forward, a dull wariness throbbing behind her temples. "Detective, witnesses saw you chasing a man across Fifth Street and Broad Avenue. Is he a suspect in this case?"

Lir clears her throat. "It's possible, yes."

"Are any efforts being made to find him?"

"As Chief Morrison explained, we—"

"Because it seems to me," the woman continues, "as though the Red Grave police have no leads, no evidence, no suspects, and no hope of finding Sophie Marsons' killer before he strikes again."

Anger throbs behind her temples, yet Lir does her best to keep her face and voice neutral. "The perpetrator in this crime was meticulous, but it doesn't mean he's infallible. Someone out there knows him, or has seen him, or can help us build a better picture of Marsons' life. That's why we're asking for your help."

("Make it personal," Morrison says, lighting a cigar. "They'll single you out, Thorne, because you're a woman. When they do, you keep the focus on Marsons. You plead for information. Make them want to help.")

Lir takes a deep breath. "What happened to Sophie was a tragedy," she declares. "It was senseless, it was violent, it was deplorable. She was, from what little we know of her, a bright, friendly young woman with her entire life ahead of her, someone who liked frozen margaritas with salt on the rim, who was interested in law. And all of that was brutally taken away." Morrison touches her elbow, a sign to close her statement. "We . . . No, I want to catch the one who did this. I don't want to see another victim. So, please, if you knew Sophie, if you saw her that night, call us. Or come in to speak with us. Thank you."

She steps away, ignoring the clamoring of the press as she returns to her original spot next to Dante. As Morrison brings the press conference to a close, Dante leans closer to murmur, "Good speech."

"Thanks," she mutters back.

By the time the press has dispersed and she's been allowed to change back into more comfortable clothing, the phones in the precinct are ringing off the hook. Dante spots her coming out of the locker room and grimaces, one pressed to his ear. Simmons is fumbling reassurances to someone on a different line. Everywhere, cops are speaking, passing notes, scrawling hurriedly to catch whatever information they can before moving on to the next tip. Lir takes in the chaos and the undercurrent of tension in the air, and then she heads to her desk, on which the phone rings shrilly. She answers, cradling the headset against her shoulder as she hunts for a pad of paper and a pen. "Detective Thorne."

"Did you enjoy the spotlight, Detective?"

The voice, distorted as it is by some sort of device, sends a shiver down her spine. Her heart pounds in her chest as she stares blankly into a drawer, the bitter taste of fear coating her throat. She doesn't know how, but she knows without a shadow of a doubt that this is their killer, that he, like so many others, now wants to make himself known. She grabs blindly and tosses what turns out to be a pack of staples at Dante, who startles and glares at her, only for his eyes to widen when she gestures to the phone and mouths wordlessly, it's him.

"You seemed . . . uncomfortable," the man on the other end of the line continues. "Quite unlike your father. He loved the spotlight."

Dante rushes into Morrison's office, and the two emerge after a quick conversation, Morrison gesturing for everyone else to stop talking. An eerie silence descends over the precinct as Lir asks, "My father?"

Morrison presses the speaker button, and that garbled voice fills the room. "Yes," he replies. "I knew him, though, perhaps, not as well as you." There's a pause, and then a grisly noise: wet and visceral, it sounds not unlike a butcher carving meat from a bone, and there's a hopeless sort of despair in her that she sees on Dante's face, along with fury, because it is the sound of another victim being claimed. "Tick tock, Detective," the man intones, and then the line clicks and the phone goes dead in her hand.

Morrison sends her home with an escort that remains parked on the curb outside of her apartment. Having someone babysit her is irritating at best and infuriating at worst—Dante is also equally at risk, but no one is batting an eye over his safety—but Lir understands the need for it. The killer had called her, had mentioned knowing her father, and her face had just been broadcast on live television. So, the idea that he might choose to come after her next isn't entirely unfounded. Still, as she opens the curtains and peers out, watching one of the officers lean on the door of his cruiser and smoke, she wishes that she had some true peace.

Yet she doesn't want to be alone, either.

Moving to her sofa, she grabs her phone from a cushion and scrolls through her scarce contact list. Joan's number sits comfortable below Dante's and above Morrison's, and Lir dials it, listening to the beeping and waiting for an answer. It comes just before the call would have gone to voicemail. "Hello?"

"Hi. Joan?" Lir clears her throat. "This is Detective Thorne."

There's a pause. Then, "I remember you! You came in asking about Sophie. Sorry, sugar, as pretty as your face is, I've seen a lot since then. What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if your offer for company still stands?" She winces as the words leave her mouth. They're too stilted, too formal, and she's too out of practice for this.

To her relief, Joan's reply this time is immediate. "Of course! Are you comin' to the bar?"

"No, I, uh . . ." She glances at the window. "I'm under surveillance right now. Because of the press conference. But I can give you my address?"

"Sure. Just let me find a pen."

Lir waits for the go ahead to rattle it off, along with instructions for which buzzer to press and what to say to the officers if they try to stop her. With that done, she calls the officers next, letting them know she has a guest coming over and what Joan looks like, agreeing when they tell her they'll still have to check her I.D. and frisk her as a precaution. Then there is nothing else to do but wait.

She tidies up her apartment, washing her few dishes and sweeping and making the bed, and she finds two bottles of wine and the meat and cheese tray the department had given her as a house-warming present a few days ago. Lir has just gotten the cellophane off when her buzzer goes off, and she hurries to let Joan inside.

The bartender arrives dressed like a knock-out, which is strange considering how casual her clothes are. From her dark turtle-neck sweater to her lightly distressed jeans, they imply comfort, but on her they look better than they ever would on the runway. Lir stumbles over her greeting as Joan hangs up her coat, and her nerves don't lessen until Joan leans over and gives her a kiss on the cheek. "I'm glad you called," she says, smiling warmly. "I was starting to think you never would."

"I'm sorry. Between work and unpacking . . ." Lir starts to say, but Joan merely shakes her head, so she changes the topic. "I have wine. Why don't you settle in and I'll get us glasses? Do you prefer red or white?"

"White, please." Joan sits on the couch while Lir heads to the kitchen, looking around curiously. "Gotta say, this is the first apartment I've been in that belongs to a detective. It's nice."

"Thanks."

Lir locates the corkscrew hiding in one of the drawers and carries the bottle of moscato and two glasses to Joan. She takes one, holding it out as Lir fills it, and while Lir prepares her own, she says, "I saw the conference. The press are some miserable bastards, huh?"

"I suppose so," Lir agrees.

"And to bring up the Dark Knight case," Joan continues. "It's like they want the whole city on edge. Probably do, now that I think about it. How else will they sell papers?"

"What was that case, anyway?"

Joan gives her a look of pure surprise. "You mean you don't know?"

"I mean, I've heard of it, I think, but . . ."

"Well." Joan takes a long drink of her wine. "Where to begin? You have to understand, I was a kid when it all went down, so you'll have to find the file to know more, but there was this guy who thought he was the modern day Jack the Ripper. Went around murdering women, leaving them in alleys like trash. Usually there'd be some sort of . . . Bible verse or somethin' similar with the bodies when they were found."

"That's horrible," Lir murmurs.

Joan nods her agreement. "It was. Women didn't go anywhere alone, 'cause he wasn't picky, other than them all being blondes. I think. Anyway, eventually he got caught and went to jail, where I guess he died. It's sort of become this . . . trademark of Red Grave, I guess. Not on any tours, but people still talk, and there's a vigil held every year for the victims."

"What was his name?" Lir leans forward, propping her head on the back of the couch. "The guy."

"I dunno. He had surviving family, so the name was kept outta the papers, even during the trial. Kids, I think."

"Mm." Lir closes her eyes, her brows pinched. Something about this feels familiar, but she can't put her finger on why. Had someone said something to her during her academy days? Or had she simply read about it at some point and tucked it away with all of the other things she doesn't need?

A hand on her thigh breaks her from her thoughts, and she blinks her eyes open to see Joan leaning towards her, her lips curled in a little smile. "But I say enough about murderers. Let's talk about us."

"Us?" Lir asks.

Then Joan kisses her, her mouth warm and tasting wine-sweet, and Lir lets thoughts of the case slip from her mind.