December 26th

Paul Vine's house has been cordoned off by very official-looking police tape, bright yellow-and-black against the misty colours of the rest of the street. Everything's very blurred, except the sharp yellow-and-black edges. The houses, painted a creamy white, and the doors, dawn pink and muted blue, and the roses arranged in the front gardens; all of it says 'you are welcome here'.

The police tape says 'go away, you aren't wanted', and maybe that explains why Matt likes it more than he's liked anything since Mello left. He takes a long drag on his cigarette, not really paying attention to it. "We need to get in there without being seen," he says to Near, who is clinging to his arm. Again. The only reason he's letting her is because if she doesn't hold onto him, she starts walking like she's drunk, and that will draw far too much attention.

"There isn't anyone around to see us," Near points out. The concussion must be having quite an effect on her, because there are people around. There are several police officers prowling around and babbling into radios, and there are odd, disorganized groups of people who are leaving flowers and letters at the house, but they're sprinting away as soon as they've got rid of their offerings, as if it's going to curse them if they linger too long. Death is not contagious. Superstition is.

There's a girl walking up to them with smudged make-up and clothes that don't quite match. She looks like she's been crying. Matt instantly likes her. It's not that she's blonde and she's wearing black leather over her ripped dress. It's not that she reminds him of anyone or anything like that.

There's a bunch of newspapers tucked under her arm. "They're fifty pence each," she says before he can even open his mouth to talk to her.

She isn't wearing lipstick. He thinks he wants to kiss her. "I like you," he tells her.

She looks at him like he's gone mad. He thinks he might have, but he also really wants to kiss her. "Do you want a newspaper or not?"

"Yes," Near answers for him. "I think we have enough money."

Matt nods clumsily, fumbles for coins in his pocket, and manages to scrape together enough money. It's embarrassing how little he's got. Maybe £30 more before he has to resort to theft. "Uh, yeah. We have enough."

The girl frowns at them. "It's okay. If you're that poor you can have it for free."

He insists on paying her, though Near keeps tugging at his sleeve and glaring at him and mumbling about the fact they need to go. As soon as the girl (it turns out her name is Henrietta Fountain and she's an artist and she's sixteen and she lives in a tiny apartment miles from here and she looks just like Mello) manages to extricate herself from the conversation, Matt allows himself to listen to Near.

"Give me the newspaper," is the first thing Near says once they are alone, followed by "We need to find somewhere to read this. Alone."

January 1st

Misa has a pack of glittery gel pens. There's a code that paints a rainbow over the white pages of the Death Note: red is for arsonists, orange is for rapists, green is for violent assailants, blue is for murderers, and black is for those who dare defy KIra.

She's using purple ink right now. It's the pen she uses when she wants to dare herself to die.

The ink glistens in the bright light of the room. She's chewing strawberry flavoured gum and listening to cheerful pop music. She's writing 'Amane' in the Death Note. How far can she get without dying? It's a rush that makes her hands shake and her head ring, but it's also a strange euphoria that mingles with her blood and tells her she can cheat death. There's one character left to write. Her whole body is buzzing. She might die. She might actually die right here in her pink room, dressed up like a doll, chewing on strawberry flavoured gum and with bland, bubbly Europop blasting into her ears.

When there's just enough written that it's on the thin balance between killing her and not, she slams the Death Note shut and leans back in her chair, breathing heavily. She could die in the next minute. Her heart's beating much faster than it should be. Her heart might stop soon. If she does die it will all be rather romantic. All thirty-six kilograms of her - trembling body and tight nerves and fluttering heart and pretty little useless brain - suddenly becoming thirty-six kilograms of dead meat and bone. She wonders if it will hurt.

Misa checks the clock. If it happens, it's going to happen in ten seconds. She wonders if Light will miss her. She wonders why Light hasn't killed her himself yet. He hates her, it's obvious, and it's also obvious that the only reason he didn't kill her was because Rem would kill him for it.

Rem's dead. Misa misses her. Do humans go to the same place as Shinigami do when they die?

She'll find out in three – two – one – no, she isn't dead. She picks up the red pen and gets back to work.

December 26th

Near's curled up on Matt's lap, holding the newspaper open with the arm that isn't broken. Matt's watching Henrietta Fountain from the vantage point of a small bench. She's wearing black gloves and a black jacket and her fringe is even across her forehead. He wonders if she likes chocolate.

"It's rude to stare," Near says absentmindedly. "And she's not Mello."

"I know she's not – I – what do you mean?"

She turns another page in the newspaper. "Your fantasies about him –"

"I don't have any fantasies about him!" he says a bit too fast, a bit too defensively.

"Then tell me all the ways Henrietta's different from Mello," Near says with a smirk. She leans back so that her head is nestled in the crook between his neck and shoulder.

"Uh – she's a girl, and she's probably not quite as smart, and – oh, and she isn't an orphan, and she goes around selling newspapers so she has enough money to live on her own. And – and she's a girl, so I'm not gay!"

"Right. Isn't it strange how you decided you liked her so quickly after seeing her for the first time?"

Matt really, really wants to push Near off his lap and start beating her up again. Maybe that would shut her up about Mello. He doesn't want to think about Mello until he's safe, because while the murderer's still out there there's a possibility that Mello will die. He can't think about him because if he does, then images sneak into his mind: images of Mello's body split open, images of Mello's bones being used as decorations, images of Mello's blood painting the world red. It's all rather disturbing and all rather tempting and it's making Matt sick to think about this.

It's Near's fault Matt's thinking about this.

There are already bruises blossoming on her porcelain-white skin, in shades of burgundy and indigo and grey. One of her bones is broken. He's given her temporary brain damage. It's still not enough. She made him think about Mello, and so she should pay for that. Her body should be split open, her bones should be used as decorations, her blood should paint the world in brilliant crimson.

Her breath is warm against his neck. "Tell me what it says, then," he says, just to distract him from thoughts of wrapping his hands around her neck and squeezing the life out of her. Or kissing her. Either would be bad.

"The victim's name was Paul Vine. He was 50 years old. His body was found in his bedroom. His head was found in the kitchen. He was a journalist. I don't see why he was chosen to be killed, but I can't actually see very clearly at all right now, thanks to the concussion you gave me."

"And anything else interesting?"

"A woman went missing a few days ago after coming back to England. There is a strange article in the newspaper that was apparently Vine's last piece of writing before his murder."

"The font's too small for me to read it," he says with a shrug, hoping Near will believe him. "Can't you just tell me what's strange about it?"

"If you read it you'll understand."

Matt wants to get out his lighter and set the newspaper on fire. Set everything on fire. "Near. I am literally incapable of reading it. Please just tell me."

"The sentences seem rather stilted. It is likely that whoever wrote this – I don't think it was Vine -included some kind of secret message."

"Well, what's the secret message?" He wants to beat it out of her. Or maybe he just wants to beat her up. Probably both. "Surely you've figured it out by now."

He doesn't realise until she pulls herself away that his arms were draped around her. "I don't know," she says blankly, getting to her feet as she speaks. Matt feels like it would be polite to look up but he doesn't.

"I thought you were meant to be smart."

"I have a concussion. Because of you."

Maybe he's supposed to apologize for that. He gets out his lighter and starts flicking it on and off. It helps him focus a little. A cigarette would be better but he doesn't have enough of them. "I'm so- " he starts, then shakes his head, because he isn't sorry. "No, I'm not. Once it's dark we can get in the house and look for anything the killer left behind."

"Beyond Birthday."

"What?" He looks up then. Near's wearing a rather unsettling vacant stare.

"The killer. His name. It's Beyond Birthday."

"That's nice, I guess."

"I feel drowsy. If someone with a concussion develops extreme drowsiness they should be taken to somewhere where they can have proper medical care."

Matt checks his pockets; there's enough money for one more night at the motel, though he'd rather save that in case it snows and they can't sleep outside. "You can sleep on this bench, but you're going to have to be cold, seeing as you didn't bring anything warm."

Near blinks at him. "Can't you give me something warm? My body is not quite able to keep its own temperature constant right now, because of the temporary brain damage. The temporary brain damage that you caused."

Matt sighs and gets out a red-and-black striped sweater from his backpack. "Fine. Put this over you. You can sleep on me if you want. But just until it's dark. When it gets dark we're going to go break into that house."

Near lies down on the bench and gently places her head on Matt's lap. She almost looks cute except that he's fairly sure there's nothing remotely cute behind those glassy eyes. He puts the sweater over her and is quite relieved when she closes her eyes and he doesn't have to look at them any more.

It's still quite early in the evening, but the cold is still seeping into his bones. He almost feels sorry for Near, then reminds himself that he never feels sorry for anyone, except maybe Mello. The sky is a dull grey, and the street is a dull brown, and everything is so dull.

"Can I have my teddy please?" Near asks. Matt flinches like he's been stung, but fishes the teddy out of Near's backpack anyway. It's a disgusting thing, covered in grime and messily sewed up scars, and he doesn't really want to have it anywhere near him.

If he threw it into the road, it would be destroyed before Near could stumble her way over to it. Maybe it would destroy Near too. He tucks it into Near's arms anyway. "Now go to sleep," he orders.

"Please can you stroke my hair, too?" she mumbles into his coat. "Like you did yesterday? It helped."

He does, but it's only so she'll fall asleep. By the time he stops, the sky is already beginning to darken. He lights up a cigarette; the smoke blends in with the hazy clouds.

December 1st

L's lying on his grave, his arms folded up on his chest, his eyes closed. If Light didn't know better he'd say he was dead.

"Tell me about your childhood," he says. The graveyard is empty; most of the headstones are so crumbled with age visitors wouldn't know who was who anyway. L's is a simple white cross. It doesn't even have his name on.

"You wouldn't be interested."

"I don't care. I want to know." He wants to know everything. He wants to know L's name, he wants to know why he isn't dead, he wants to know why he is the way he is. He wants to know how he can kill him. That's what it's all about, isn't it? Knowing him enough to pull him apart.

L sighs. "I lived in England with my parents until I was sixteen. Then I became a detective. Is it really that interesting?" He resumes his familiar crouch, wiping the grass from the back of his shirt. "Why did you bring me here?"

"It's your grave. I wanted you to see it while you're alive."

"Are you planning on putting me in it?"

"What? No, god, no," he shakes his head, "I don't want to kill you, you're my friend." It's strange. The words feel like they could nearly be true.

December 26th

Near wakes up to an indigo sky dotted with blurs that might be stars, and the smell of smoke. She clutches her teddy a little closer. "I'm awake," she says quietly. She realises that Matt's hands are around her shoulders, and that she is very cold, and that she can smell smoke.

"Why didn't you wake up sooner?" he growls.

"I was tired. I'm sorry." She sits up and shuffles onto the bench. There are constellations in her eyes that are hard to see past.

"Well, it's nearly six in the evening and it's getting dark. We need to get in the house. You better not fall asleep when you're inside."

Near rubs her eyes. "How are we going to get in? The police will stop us."

He breathes smoke into her face. "Me and Henrietta're going to distract the police, and then you're going to just walk in."

"Henrietta?"

"The newspaper girl. She talked to me when you were asleep."

Near closes her eyes for a moment and attempts to focus. Her head feels like someone's filled it with rocks. She doubts she'd be able to solve even a Rubik's cube in this condition. The night is growing darker but the roads are cast in an orange light by the streetlamps. "What time are we – "

"Now," Matt says, and throws his cigarette down. Near just stares as he puts it out with his boot. "Go on, just run to the house!"

It's pretty impossible for Near to run without collapsing into an inelegant heap, so instead she just walks and hopes she'll stay on her feet long enough to get to the house. Thinking is very hard right now. She recites prime numbers in her head until reaching the door.

The door's unlocked. She assumes the police haven't spotted her yet. The house is incredibly messy and the clutter is getting to her head. There are piles of old, unwashed clothes in every corner, and in the kitchen plates are piled high. It smells like something's rotting, and everything probably is. The only room that seems somewhat clean is the study, and that just smells of blood.

There's a shopping list on the desk next to the laptop. She stuffs it into her shirt. She briefly considers taking the laptop as well, though doesn't because that would be ridiculous. The shopping list is also ridiculous but at least it isn't hard to carry.

She can hear footsteps. It must be Matt. If it isn't Matt she's going to end up arrested. She can't quite remember the law about this but she's sure it will end badly for her in some way.

"This is the police," someone says from not far away in a surprisingly gentle voice, "and you're trespassing on a crime scene, so you're going to have to come out, hmm?"

Near crawls under the desk and starts twirling her hair around her finger in an attempt to make her brain work the way it should be working. The way out should be coming to her so easily. Escaping should be as simple as passing a test.

They would have had a test today. She would have scored 100%.

She can't see the top of the doorway from here. She can see the feet at the bottom. "Hey, kid," the owner of the feet says, "come on out and we'll get you back to your brother, alright? You can't just come running in here, it's a crime scene. You're lucky your brother told us you were in here before you could get hurt!"

Near plays along as the little innocent kid, because that's a part she's been playing most of her life. She feels kinda sick. The whole point of being a detective is to help the law instead of dodge it.

"I got a shopping list," she tells Matt once they're on the way to Henrietta's apartment.

Matt stops walking and presses his hands over his face. "A shopping list," he repeats. "That's all?"

"It's got spilled ink on it. It looks like it was written in a hurry."

"God, Near. You're such an idiot."

She nods.