notes/warnings:
+ swearing like you wouldn't believe.
+ RAE SPELLED BACKWARDS IS 'EAR'!
Desperation
"Fuck," Raye says, slamming his hand against the wall. "Fuck fuck FUCK FUCK FUCK!"
"You aren't helping the situation," Naomi says wearily. L is still crouched at the edge of his bed, head in his hands. He's barely said a word.
"I'm going to go and check the perimeter again," her husband declares, and stomps out of the room. They've checked the perimeter five times, and the surrounding area twice. Mail is going through local security cameras as they speak. So far, they've found nothing. No evidence to even suggest someone was here.
"L, you know it isn't possible that anyone came to this room while you were awake, right?" she asks cautiously. "They must have taken Grace at the exact second that they shot you."
L curls one hand into a fist. He has fairly big hands, yet he always seems so small. Naomi worries about him a lot.
"I saw something," he says firmly. "My eyes do not deceive me."
"If that's true, then they must have gotten out through a hole in the ceiling, or something," Naomi replies. "It's not possible that they just disappeared."
"I know that," L says sharply. "What bothers me is that they appeared to."
"I can assure you both that there are no weaknesses, man-holes, or trap doors in this room or any other room of the building," Watari says gently. "L, you did all you could."
"If that's true," L says, raising his head, "then Holland has won. If the best I can do is not good enough, then we will be no contest. We had every advantage here."
"Well, evidence suggests he's not killing the children right away," Naomi tells him. "If we start work now, we should-"
"We need to be out there," L interrupts her. "Right now. Every car we've got, on the streets, looking for Holland. For Grace. For their base. Anything. I will not sit here another moment."
Naomi rocks back on her heels and bites her lip.
"L, you don't need me to point out to you that that is not the best possible use of resources. You were close to Grace, but we need to treat this as-"
"Now, Naomi!"
Naomi regards her boss. She's never seen him like this before. Angry and frightened and harassed and determined.
"Yes, boss," she says meekly. "Right away."
They cover the entire city in a few hours. Holland's car is crashed into the power pole that supplied their hotel. The satellite tracking on the microchip shows the car as still being parked outside his home.
Which means one thing. He found the chip. Clever fucking bastard.
"L?" Naomi's worried voice filters over the intercom. "Everyone else is back at base. You coming?"
"Soon," he says. He can't go back, going back is pointless. Driving is pointless. Holland is so competent that L isn't sure he can win any more. He timed everything perfectly, Grace's abduction happened in the few seconds between the electricity going down and the generator kicking in.
According to his estimations, there are at least two thousand and eighty-four places where someone could hide several small children. He could narrow that list down significantly if he knew what exactly it is Holland is trying to do.
He should stop and go back. They need to rendezvous with the police and start going through that list.
One more street. Maybe two. The others might have missed something.
His car is a modified disability vehicle, intended for paraplegics. It's perfect for driving around without ever having to break from his crouching position.
And right now, he needs all the deductive powers he can get.
That thing...that thing in his room. That person. Not thing. Not creature. Nothing paranormal. The person.
It was like they'd made Grace immaterial. Like they'd simply pulled her through the bars of her own bed.
"What the fuck have you done, Lawliet?"
L winces. He's been both dreading and expecting Rae's return. The Shinigami's voice is loaded with so much hatred it's practically dripping from the words. And there's more than a little bit of fear, underneath all the loathing.
"They got her," he says simply. Might as well get straight to the point.
Rae looks like it might actually explode. Its flames consume the entire passenger seat and half the dashboard.
"You bet your life, you scumbag!" it yells, accusingly. "How? What?"
"I'm certain that it's Holland," he says. "Well, about ninety-six percent certain."
"I DON'T FUCKING CARE HOW CERTAIN YOU ARE! SHE WAS IN YOUR CARE!"
L blinks.
You...why are you acting this way?
"I did everything I could," he replies, even though he doesn't believe it himself. He's hardly going to confess his own self-doubt to a Shinigami that attempts to destroy him on a regular basis.
"You...you don't deserve to live," Rae says, voice suddenly quiet and furious. "You ought to have been watching her-"
"You too," L snaps. "You knew I was running short on waking hours, and you still left. You're as much to blame as I am."
"I left to work things out!" Rae growls. "If you were a little less self-centered, you'd have realised that, too."
So, one minute you're acting as if no-one matters but yourself and your goals, and the next minute you're in tears because one little girl is in danger and you declare my own self-interest with disgust.
Which one is it?
Which one is the lie?
Who are you, Shinigami? What do you want?
Irrelevant, L reminds himself. Rae is of no consequence. The only important thing, right now, is Grace.
And saving her, no matter what.
Besides, he knows Rae's motives. There's no way they could possibly have changed. It's just playing a role, a new character. It's become better at pretending to take the moral high-ground. It's learning.
That's all.
"So what did you work out?" L asks, speeding down another side street.
Rae folds its arms across its chest.
"The king either doesn't know, or won't tell me."
"So it is another test," L concludes. "Does this mean you can pass a different test and we can both come out of this arrangement intact?"
The Shinigami stares at him for a long minute.
"Fuck you," it says darkly. "You've left her to die."
"And your entire venture was fruitless."
Rae grabs him by the collar and yanks. Hard. L barely misses a tree.
"And what's your excuse, Lawliet? You lost the ability to use a pen?"
"What do you mean?" L asks, slamming his hand down on the brake.
"Bernard Holland dies of a heart attack immediately after delivering all of the children in his care to the nearest police station," Rae says, its eyes glittering. They're more red and awful than he's ever seen them before.
"No."
"You didn't even think about it, you monster."
But oh, he is thinking about it. He'd give anything - almost anything - to have Grace safely back beside him. The thought of it is so attractive that his non-dominant hand keeps sneaking towards the hem of his shirt.
If I write my own name next, if I kill myself immediately, then I cannot become Light. So the world would be safe.
But then you would give this note to someone else. And I cannot be responsible for that.
He'll find Grace. He'll find her the same old-fashioned way he's always solved cases.
And he'll do it soon.
He'll have to. He doesn't know how much time she's got left.
It's kind of a miracle when dawn rolls around and you've managed not to kill, starve, or lose Gemma. She rolls over in her cot and stares at you with dark blue eyes.
Her father's eyes.
"Glub!" she announces, and inserts her thumb into her mouth inexpertly.
She's a perfect baby. She never gets sick, she eats well, she sleeps through the night, and she barely ever cries. Heck, she even seems to soil her nappies at the most convenient times possible.
Predictably, everyone adores her. She's already met most of the executive detectives in the Kira case. You expected L to be good with kids - after all, he used to have plenty of time for you, and you're sure you were a pathetic slob even as a child - but even Near seems to partial to her. He donated some of his own precious toys for her baby shower.
She's something of a mascot for justice
She's not even one, and she's already cooler than you.
You roll out of bed. There are crumbs on your mattress, and now they're stuck to your skin. Your belly jiggles when you move, and you hate it, you hate all of it. You don't keep any mirrors in your room, because you don't want to see what you look like.
You move one bottle from the fridge to the microwave, and pull the other one from the freezer to the fridge. Got to feed the baby, after all.
They're taking a stupid risk, leaving her with you for a whole twenty-four hours. Not that you're complaining, because you'd do anything for Matt, and you kinda miss living in this house. You were politely moved on after Gemma was born.
Now you live in Dwayne's basement. The two of you get drunk every night, and eat copious amounts of chocolate. It's okay, except for how he keeps trying to set you up with his sister.
But even safe in her own heavily-guarded home, Gemma is still in significant danger as long as she's with you.
You're untrustworthy, for a start. Near was horrified when he found out Matt had scheduled you as a babysitter.
They think you don't hear them muttering about you, but you do. You know what they all think. Fucking Near - who's so good at everything - rates you lower than most worms. You still fantasise about beating him, but it's such a pathetic premise that even you're embarrassed by it.
Near could beat you blindfolded and half-dead, with both hands tied behind his back.
He's the single most hated thing in your world. It was Near who finally convinced L to remove you completely from the Kira case, and Near who introduced Jasmine to Matt, and Near who keeps forcing you into situations where you're stuck with Dwayne.
And it's Near who keeps trying to drag Matt further away from you, inch by inch, a little more every day. Near cares about Matt, and he doesn't want him to suffer just because he pities you. Or so he says.
It's like he's just out to ruin your whole fucking life. And yet you...you want Matt to be happy too. If he asked you, you'd walk away and never speak to him again. All he needs to do is ask.
But he won't.
You pick Gemma up and cradle her in your pudgy arms. She has a scrap of strawberry blonde hair on her head. She's going to be stunning when she grows up.
She's not going to have any other choice, with the parents she's got.
You still remember the last time you believed you might have had any sort of chance with Matt. It was right before you went after Takada. Right before you almost got him killed. Right before you should have died.
You had resigned yourself to the fact that you needed to die. That that was what Near needed in order to defeat Kira. Back before you realised this case was so complicated that you could never possibly understand it.
Anyway, you weren't about to tell him about your pointless little sacrifice. You wanted him to be safe and protected and happy. You wanted him to live.
In a way, that part had worked out well. No thanks to you.
But you remember him standing right in front of you, close enough that you could have kissed him.
'You're going to live, right?'
'What are you talking about?'
'You're not thinking of letting them kill you, are you? You're going to walk away from this just the same as I am, right?'
'Yeah, yeah.'
He'd gotten even closer, then. Right up in your face. God, you loved him back then, too.
'Promise me.'
'What? What are you asking for, you idiot? I'm not going to die!'
'Good. Promise, then. Promise me you'll live to see the other side of this.'
But you couldn't. Weak. You'd just selected your favourite pistol from the stash under your bed. And you. You remember how you felt. Like you were going to miss him more than breathing, more than anything else.
You remember grabbing his arm, the most you'd ever let yourself do. You had gloves on, or something. There was still material between the two of you.
'Mello?'
Mello. No one has used that name in years. You're just Mihael, now. You don't deserve a nickname.
'Mello? Listen to me. If you're going, then I'm going too.'
You felt like god when he said that. You felt like you mattered to him. You lied extra hard after that, of course, anything to protect him from harm. And then neither of you died and the Takada incident passed, and from then on he acted as if he'd never said it. As if he didn't remember.
You understood. You still understand. People do crazy things when they think they might die.
And that's it. The entire memory. The first time you ever touched him. You don't know why you recall that moment so fondly, when he's hugged you a thousand times since then. Pity hugs, and relief hugs, and I-miss-Jasmine hugs. Plenty of hugs.
There's a lot you don't understand. You just trundle along and eat chocolate and try not to drop the babies you're supposed to be looking after.
Gemma drools on your shoulder. She's asleep again.
You don't hate Jasmine any more. Matt's been so happy since they got married that you can't begrudge her a thing.
You just hate Near.
"The police want an update," Raye says with a tiny, apologetic smile. It's the early hours of the morning, and L's only just barely gotten in the door.
The man seems to have wasted away overnight. He looks sallow and thin, and worn out, and the bags under his eyes have become positively enormous.
Naomi wants to tell him that it's not his fault, but she knows that would be pointless. L blames himself for everything, because he takes responsibility for everything. That's just part of who he is.
Sometimes she can't decide whether he's really arrogant, or just really, stupendously good.
But right now, he's mostly just a mess.
And he must be facing something of an internal dilemma right now. Updating the police means either lying to the authorities, or admitting they were outsmarted.
"We could bring Clarke in," Mail suggests. "She may know where to find Holland."
L stares at his sort-of son.
"Do you even know where she is?"
Mail shrugs.
"I know where she lives."
"But not her daily movements, her place of work, or her likely levels of paranoia," L counters, his voice utterly emotionless.
"I can ascertain so much from her blog updates, but that's it."
"Not good enough," L says harshly. "Not at all. Get a camera on her house. We need to make sure we acquire her in such a way that Holland isn't notified."
The last thing he wants is to make Holland angry, Naomi thinks. We need to be extremely careful.
"Does this mean we're convinced that Holland is Steve?" she asks curiously. "Anyone could have been the person you saw in your room, right?"
"I certainly didn't see a face," L agrees. "To be honest, I couldn't even comment on the intruder's gender, or general body shape. But it was too tall to be Holland."
"It was his car crashed into the fucking power pole," Raye says angrily.
"Yes," L replies. "He reported the vehicle stolen a good two hours prior to the event."
"So have we checked to see if anyone other than Holland left fingerprints in the car?"
L glares at her husband, eyes hollow and dark.
"And what would that prove? Holland is probably intending to frame someone for his crimes."
"We're testing everything, all the same," Naomi assures her husband. "Is there anything else you want us to do, L?"
He's crouched on the floor, the backs of his hands resting against the polished wood. He looks pathetic and beaten.
Naomi thinks that if it were raining outside, L wouldn't even be indoors.
"I want repeat autopsies on all of the murder victims," he says, after a solid minute of contemplative silence. "Starting with the Backstrums, and moving chronologically backwards from there."
"What will that prove?" Raye wonders.
"I don't know yet!"
Raye stares at their boss.
"Calm down. I was just asking a question."
"I am calm. I will be calmer when we find Grace."
"He's functioning just fine, Raye," Naomi warns her husband. "Back off!"
Raye glowers at her and folds his arms. He's not happy. None of them are happy.
"L," she says gently. "The police."
He regards her quizzically.
"Oh. Yes. We need them on board now, so you ought to tell them the truth. Grace has been taken, and we suspect the children are being kept somewhere in our list of possible hideouts. We require their assistance for a city-wide search. Immediately."
"I'll contact them," Raye says grudgingly. He's usually the most adept at dealing with the police.
"Thank you," L replies, his voice eerily quiet.
Naomi knows what's troubling him. They're running out of time. Holland wanted Grace badly, and that means he's probably going to act fast now that he's got her.
And they don't know what he's going to do.
"It might be nothing," she suggests softly. "He might just need her to meditate. He might just hypnotise her, or maybe he wants her spiritual energy, or something."
"Please stop talking," L replies.
The police are reluctant to assist, but not suspiciously so. They insist on conducting their searches in groups of fifteen or more. Each team is heavily armed and equipped with attack dogs.
"This is ridiculous," L says flatly, perusing the latest email from the Chief of Police via his dashboard-mounted computer. "There is no justification for such high levels of precaution. It would be far wiser to split the available officers into smaller teams and cover more ground."
"People are frightened," Naomi reminds him over the intercom. "We might be certain that this is all sleight of hand, but the media have convinced most ordinary people that Steve is wielding ghosts and demons."
L knows that. It's been thirteen hours since Grace went missing. He's back in his own car, investigating a few select locations on his own. The others members of his team are working in pairs.
There's one venue in particular that's piqued his interest. A disused gym about half a mile from the city centre. It's out of the way, and would be big enough for, well...
The problem is, he doesn't know what Holland is doing. Or planning to do. If he's keeping the children alive for any length of time, then he must be providing them with facilities. Running water, toilets, and a few rooms worth of floorspace, as an absolute minimum. If he's conducting scientific experiments, he should need a fully-fledged laboratory.
Then again, L has no reason to suspect that Holland is not, for example, taking them to some fortune-telling parlour, testing something on them quickly, and then killing them.
Or worse. Sacrificing them deliberately for some theoretical black-magic power.
That's why the list is so long. Any place that is disused, or that could have disused rooms. Any place that is associated with any occult or religious practices. Every place of worship. So many buildings, so many potential places to hide.
He needs to search all of them.
And still, the list itself may not be sufficient. If Holland is stashing his captives in someone else's home, well. They'd need to acquire multiple warrants, and he would have a hellishly difficult time deducing which of Holland's associates were most likely to be involved in something like this.
As far as L knows, he might not even have contacts, except the people he speaks to on the internet. In the entire time they've been tracking Holland, they haven't seen even one client, let alone any potential business partners.
And if it is something unnatural - it's not, but if it is - then he has no way of detecting it or beating it.
Kira. Kira all over again. Chasing my tail, round in circles. Always missing the most important thing.
He arrives at the gym and expertly breaks in through a half-open window. His search is fast, thorough, and methodical. Top to bottom, right to left, no cupboard left unopened, no speck of dust escapes his keen visual examination. By the time he's finished, he has established that there are only two levels, with no hidden rooms, and no inconsistencies in the infrastructure. Just a lot of cobwebs, and a few rusting shower cubicles.
L presses one hand against the wall.
"Rae?"
"What do you fucking want?"
"You can make yourself immaterial at will, correct?"
It's been bothering him. The one thing he cannot explain through technology or cleverness. Perhaps it is the key to unravelling Holland.
"You already know that."
"Yes," L agrees. "But can you make anyone else immaterial? If you wanted to? Just by touching them?"
"No."
"Is that a power that any other creature possesses, to your knowledge?"
"There aren't any other creatures!" Rae says hotly. "You're making fucking excuses."
"The locks were intact," L replies softly. "And the keys had not been moved. It...the intruder pulled her through the bars."
"That's not possible."
"So says the giant invisible talking skeleton."
Rae strikes him across the face with the back of its hand. L touches the mark left behind, skin warm and still stinging. He feels a tiny bit better.
"Shinigami are real! Nothing else is! You need to find this fucking creep before...oh god. Just find him. You're meant to be the smartest detective in the world. What are you doing just standing here?"
It's having hysterics. L observes it with mild interest.
"Processing. So you've never heard - even in folklore - of anything that could make an entire living person immaterial, even for a few seconds?"
The only logical explanation would be that Holland's associate has some sort of ultimate skeleton key, able to unlock any lock he or she encounters.
Rae grabs him by his shirt and hoists him up in the air, trapping him against the wall.
"Use the death note," it rasps. "I don't even care if I benefit or not-"
"You're a very good actor. Of course you would benef-"
"THEN SURRENDER IT TO ME!" Rae howls. "GIVE IT UP FOR A MOMENT SO I CAN USE IT! I DON'T CARE. YOU CAN'T JUST LEAVE HER, SHE WAS OURS. SHE WAS OUR RESPONSIBILITY!"
"And then you'll give it to some other, slightly weaker, person and become king."
"You shouldn't care more about me being king than about Grace being alive!" Rae yells. "Even if you're so screwed in the head that you really do think I'm evil, I'm hardly going to be able to hurt anyone! Holland is hurting people right now! Just kill him! Go after him with a gun! Hire a hitman. I don't even fucking care!"
It's actually shaking him. L stares. And then, very, very slowly, he speaks.
"Have you heard of anything in the folklore?"
Rae drops him unceremoniously, and regards its own hand with obvious confusion.
"I don't...of course there was. All sorts of things have all sorts of abilities in folklore. But you need to focus on reality."
L tilts his head, one thumb pressed to his incisors.
"What just happened?" he asks, quietly.
Rae doesn't seem to see him. It seems to be struggling with something.
"I'm not going to stop," it whispers viciously, possibly to itself. "I'm always going to look out the window, so shut up."
L has no idea what that is supposed to mean, but he doesn't have much time to dwell on the Shinigami's apparent mental breakdown.
You care for Grace, he thinks. And there's a forty-nine percent chance that that is the reason you couldn't see her lifespan. As king, you are more impaired than ordinary Shinigami by humans that you care for. Probably to stop you from falling in love and dying.
It doesn't seem to have worked that out, though.
Maybe he'll tell it.
One day.
Their searches turn up absolutely nothing. No clues. A thousand possibilities, but none that are more likely than chance.
Ideally, they would be tracking Holland himself, but there have been no reported sightings of him whatsoever since before last night. Obviously, he knows they're after him. He's hiding in his base, wherever that may be.
Always one step ahead, Light.
Rae helped him with the search, too. It trawled the city on its own, wandering through some of the buildings that were too dangerous or too illegal for the others to enter. L didn't go back and check on its findings. Right now, he trusts it as much as any other member of his team. It cares for Grace, and that gives him the sudden and welcome ability to predict its moves and motives.
And L...L cares for Grace. And now she's missing. Gone. Possibly...
Time is running out.
L still needs sleep. He curls up in an armchair while the Penbers are arguing and Mail is busy downloading all of Clarke's documents and files.
He dreams of the Shyster, towering over him, looking down.
Second best. Second best. Second best.
When L wakes up, the early morning light is filtering through the window, bleaching everything in the room to a sickly grey. Mail is counting his beads again. Naomi and her husband are hovering over one of the computers.
Watari is still out on the streets, patrolling, looking for clues. He won't come back until L instructs him to do so.
Sometimes L wonders if Watari actually has more self-control then he does.
Sometimes, he thinks that wouldn't be hard.
Rae is sitting on the floor, one hand snapping open and shut rhythmically. It's frightened, and it's quiet. In some ways, L wishes the Shinigami was not so profoundly affected by the recent events. It's just one more testimony to the fact that Holland is untouchable, and unreachable. Twice as intelligent as L is, despite his manic one-sided conversations.
You won't be alone any more.
Is he intending for the children to be friends with something? Is he intending to try and make the children into some sort of creature?
Who did you think you were talking to? L wonders. Could it be another Shinigami, after all this time? Rae is operating under very unique conditions, after all. Maybe setting Rae and Rem as his Shinigami standard had been a mistake. Maybe there are other types of death gods with other abilities and motives.
Yes. That would explain everything quite neatly.
"L!" Naomi says sharply, whirling around.
"What is it?" he asks, blearily.
"We've just got word from police. Steve has struck again, less than an hour ago."
"What?" Rae says sharply.
"What?" L asks, equally shaken. "Again? So soon?"
"Apparently," Naomi replies tersely. "Over the west side of town, family called Smythe. Father was a millionaire. Huge house. All the security fittings you could dream of. No forced entry - no signs of any entry at all. Both parents shot in the back. Their four-year-old son, Gregor, is missing."
If he's taken another child, does that mean Grace is...
No, it's not certain. But it's likely.
Seventy-one percent, at least.
Rae looks a little sick. L can empathise with how it must be feeling. He peers at the photographs on the computer screen. The Smythe parents were both dark-haired and blue-eyed, while Gregor has honey-coloured hair and eyes.
"Did anyone witness anything unusual around the time that the murders took place?" L asks delicately. He's desperately in need of clues. Hints. Anything.
"Well...yes and no?" Naomi says, sounding strangely awkward. "There was definitely a complication."
"Complication?"
"Rhianna Smythe was having an affair," Raye says bluntly. He clicks the computer screen once, bringing up a picture of a curly-haired man with freckles and buck teeth. "With Roger Butterworth, a primary school teacher who lived down the road."
"Sordid, but is it relevant?"
"Well, yes," Naomi says carefully. "According to the neighbours' police report, Mr Smythe came home early. It's likely that he caught them, er, together. Steve struck only a few minutes after he entered the house."
L reaches blindly for the sugar bowl he knows he left somewhere at the base of his chair.
"So there were three fatalities, then?"
Surely the third person would have had a chance to turn around? What did that mean to you, Holland?
Although it's not you that goes in, is it? It's your accomplice, whoever he may be. Who apparently moves so fast he's almost a blur, and can transport children right through walls.
And does not wish to be seen. How did he handle it, this extra person in the room?
"Only two shots were fired, apparently," Raye concludes. "Both Smythes were found dead in their bedroom. Strange thing is, no one has been able to find Butterworth."
L runs one hand through his hair.
"He's taken an adult this time?"
"Maybe," Naomi concedes. "No one was ever seen leaving the apartment, and he hasn't returned home. It's weird, that's what it is. Where would he go?"
"The police are trying to keep it quiet," her husband adds. "Of course, the media will say that he saw the demon and was frightened out of his wits."
"Of course," L agrees. He's trying desperately not to think about Grace. "There is likely to be nothing in the house. We know that whatever Steve is doing, he's removing all of his equipment from the house extremely rapidly after the murders take place. It's possible his accomplice is only there to make sure the gun device is procured safely."
"That doesn't explain what happened in our hotel room," Mail says boredly, kicking the toe of one dirty boot against the side of his desk.
"That is all the explanation I have at present," L says wearily. "My concluding statement is this; despite there being a consistent lack of evidence left at the scene of crime, I would like to visit the Smythe's house. As soon as possible."
It's something to do, at least. Something to focus on, other than Grace, and how she might be dead.
"You bastard," Rae says from the floor. "What have you done?"
It's worried. Too worried.
Was her life-span due to run out today, Shinigami?
He wonders, but he doesn't ask. He doesn't want to know.
It would be unpleasant, L thinks, to know exactly when the people around you are going to die. He supposes that is why it is against the rules for a Shinigami to care for a human.
The Smythe house turns out to be a glorious affair, with thick plush carpets and perfectly polished floors, and an atrium the size of L's entire base. There are live plants and man-sized statues all over the place, and a few very expensive original paintings adorning the walls. Several of the plumbing fittings have real gold plating, and the fridge is big enough that his entire team could comfortably take a nap in it.
"Wow. I wish we had the money to buy a house like this," Raye says, awed.
"We probably do, honey," Naomi murmurs. L's eyes flit from one item of furniture to the next, examining every nuance of the room. Lastly, he checks the bolts on the door. Not even the slightest hint of tampering. As expected.
So how did you get in?
"The master bedroom is upstairs," Mail reports, checking his laptop. "Gregor's bedroom was right next door."
"Nice. Cheating on your husband a few metres away from your sleeping kid," Raye says disgustedly.
"I would consider that a heck of a lot better than shooting two people dead," he wife reminds him.
"Possibly three," L says thoughtfully. "It is physically plausible that Holland's associate could have lined up two of the victims so accurately that one bullet killed them both. But if that is the case, then where is the elusive third body?"
A five-year-old child is a relatively easy burden for an average-sized adult. A grown man would be nearly impossible to carry, regardless of whether he's alive or dead. L doesn't understand where he could have gone. Surely he's not simply hiding out of fear, or embarrassment.
He was caught having an affair. People tend to react irrationally in highly emotional situations.
"Raye," he says abruptly. "It rained last night for approximately two hours, correct?"
Raye frowns.
"Er, yes. While you were asleep."
"Only about half an hour prior to the time of the attack?"
"That is correct," Mail deadpans, typing furiously.
"Then there should be a set of footprints somewhere in the yard to indicate that Butterworth left this house again, if he ever did so," L says thoughtfully. "Beyond that, we should only see footprints from the intruder, and Mr Smythe."
There is a path, of course, an elaborate one of concrete and decorative stone. But the gate that it leads to is seven-foot, sturdy, and fingerprint-locked. Therefore, Butterworth must have left the property same way they entered it; directly over the fence. Which means his feet must have touched the ground at some point. All of the earlier prints would have been washed from the ground by the rain.
"Good point," Raye agrees. "I hadn't thought of that."
"Please check the perimeter, plants, and other sharp edges for clothing and skin fragments, as well," L continues. "It is possible in his terror that he scraped himself on something."
"Right!"
Raye spins on his heel and heads back outside. Naomi folds her arms, clearly awaiting further instruction.
"N, M, I want both of you to search upstairs. M, please check the master bedroom. N, I want you to go through all of the other rooms. I will search the lower level."
"Understood," Naomi says firmly.
"Fuck, these statues are ugly," Mail comments, poking a marble replica of Michelangelo's David with the end of his pencil.
"Any evidence of tampering or strange wiring is important," L tells them both, "but mostly we are still trying to find out what happened to Butterworth."
Naomi nods, already halfway up the stairs. Mail follows her, head down and shoulders hunched.
L waits until they are out of sight.
"Can you please do a sweep of the rooms upstairs, as well?" he requests, once they are gone. "We must finish this as quickly and thoroughly as possible."
"Got it," Rae grits, and disappears. It hasn't been talking to him much, today, but at least it's compliant. They have a shared goal, after all.
One that is rapidly becoming less and less achievable.
He has a tiny camera in one pocket, and a canister of fingerprint powder in the other. He has a magnifying glass in one sleeve. He rarely needs anything else for basic sleuthing.
He works quickly and methodically. He checks the walls for hollows, and the ceiling for cuts and manholes. He checks the security grille over the windows. Then he lifts the rugs and checks the floor. Finally, he checks every available container and vessel he can see. Cabinets, drawers, ovens, ornamental vases, everything.
It's strange, the way there isn't evidence of anything strange. Whatever Holland is using, L doesn't fully understand it.
"Nothing upstairs," Rae reports irritably. "Have you found anything? We need to go. Jeevas has some data on Clarke now, doesn't he? Wouldn't it be best just to question her?"
"I thought you despised me for torturing people," L says softly. "Or is it okay because this is someone you care about?"
"I can't believe you can be so calm," Rae says, shaking visibly. "I can't believe how evil you fucking are! For the love of god, just-"
"You are a god," L points out distractedly, examining a dirty fingerprint on the wall. It's definitely Gregor's.
"I can't fix this! You can!"
"You can help. Why don't you search the entire city, top to bottom, every building, every home, every room, every vehicle. She must be somewhere!"
"That would take days."
"Shinigami can travel the world in a matter of hours, can't they?" L asks.
"I can still only process so quickly," Rae snarls. L touches the wall lightly.
"I think, at this point, that would still be the most beneficial use of your considerable talents," he says slowly. "Rae. There is a distinct chance – thirty-one percent – that we may never find her through any other means."
Rae folds its arms. The fire inside its chest is pitifully dull. It is hurting, and it's worried.
"Done," it says darkly. "Lawliet, if anything has happened to her, I swear to…I swear I'll kill you. And after everything you've done, you won't be going to the next world. That much I know."
Hell for me, is it, Shinigami?
Do Shinigami know such things, then? Is it written over my head, alongside my name?
"I understand," L whispers. He can hear the distinctive footsteps of Raye making his way back to the house. "And thank you."
The Shinigami whirls out of the room with one sweep of its knife-sharp wings, leaving him completely alone for a few seconds.
"L," Raye says, a few seconds later. "Absolutely nothing outside. Butterworth never left the building, unless he can fly."
"If they hid a body, they certainly didn't hide it down here," L replies.
"L!" an unfamiliar voice hollers from upstairs, and it takes L a moment to realise that its Mail's.
Who hardly ever raises his voice. Unless he's really irritated, or something has gone horribly wrong.
Raye charges up the stairs, and L follows him at a brisk shuffle. They collide with Naomi on the way to the master bedroom, where Mail is standing with his back to the wall, looking even paler than normal.
"Hey," he says gruffly. "Do you want the good news or the bad news?"
The master bedroom is predictably enormous, with a king-sized canopy bed in the centre, a statue of a man right beside the nightstand, and expensive potted plants in every corner. There's a large but tasteful mural over the head of the bed, and the wardrobe knobs seem to be intricately detailed porcelain.
"Both would be desirable," L says quietly. The Penbers are each gazing around the room, with identical expressions of confusion.
L isn't sure what has spooked him, either.
"Right. One thing. The Smythe's were found here and here, right?"
He indicates a spot on the other side of the bed, and then one between himself and the nightstand.
"That is correct."
"Okay. In that case, I've found Butterworth."
L's eyes are drawn to the walk-in wardrobe a few feet away from Mail's right hand.
"Is that the good news?"
"Yep."
The younger man makes no move to actually open the wardrobe, and L waits impatiently to hear what else he has to say.
"But they bad news," he drawls, "is, uh, I have no idea what the fuck we're dealing with any more. Because this dude? He's got some serious powers"
"What on earth makes you say that?" L asks carefully.
Mail looks almost green around the edges of his face. L hopes his depleted immune system isn't finally being overridden by some horrible disease.
"Because that," he says, jerking his thumb in the direction of the oddly-placed statue, "is Butterworth."
The statue has buck teeth and curly hair, and it is clad in a polo shirt, with a life-sized stone rolex around its wrist. Naomi's not sure how none of them marked it as strange to begin with.
Other than that, she can't quite process what is going on.
It takes just seventy seconds for all four of them to run back to the car, and L instructs her husband to drive at no less than one hundred kilometres per hour until they are back at base.
"It turned him," Raye pronounces, "into fucking stone."
He's said the same sentence about fifteen different ways since they've left the Smythes. Naomi briefly touches his hand. He's not in any fit condition to drive, but he still seems to be slightly better off than both Mail and L, who look like they've been hit with a bomb.
"It's happening all over again," L says distantly. "I honestly believed this case wasn't grounded in the paranormal."
"How did it turn him to stone?" she wonders. Mail inclines his head.
"It's most likely because he got a look at it, right? L, weren't you saying earlier that no-one had actually seen this thing? And you only saw it from the back. Its face-"
"No more speculation," L says. He has his laptop propped up on his knees, clicking as if his life depends on it. "I need to know what this thing is. I know nothing really about mythical and legendary creatures. I never really thought I'd have to know. Again."
L, of course, is now convinced he's dealing with some reincarnation of Light. Which Holland is not.
"Gorgon," Raye says, barely audible.
"What?"
"Gorgon," he says, more loudly. "Gorgon, gorgon, look it up. Most famous one was called Medusa."
L blinks, momentarily roused from his obvious downward spiral.
"It's the most infamous monster that – according to popular literature – could do something like this," Naomi explains to him. "It turns people to stone if they look in its eyes."
"That would make sense," L murmurs. He's practically sucking his thumb. "Can gorgons make people immaterial?"
Naomi shrugs. The silence stretches for several minutes, punctuated only by rapid keystrokes.
"Only about two percent of online content states the gorgons are capable of such a thing," Mail reports dutifully.
"So it's a possibility," L concludes. "What about moving at impossibly high speeds?"
"Is this really helping?" Naomi asks. "We know what this thing can do! We've seen it."
"No, I think it is safe to say that we have not seen it," L corrects her tersely. "And before we go any further with this investigation, there is some equipment we're going to need, or we are all going to end up like Butterworth."
"That's right," Raye agrees, voice grim. "And even if we can give this creature a name, that…that doesn't mean we know how to beat it."
"Just get us home," L commands. "As quickly as possible. Now."
L would really like two things right now. One, a tower of cake taller than he is. Preferably chocolate. He really craves chocolate when he gets stressed. Sometimes he hates having Mail around.
And two, he wants his Shinigami back. Because he has only the faintest of ideas as to what he ought to do, and yet he needs to act immediately, if not sooner. Not that Rae has been an awful lot of help so far, but it's still the best connection L has to whatever it is he's fighting.
First of all, he has Watari prepare the sunglasses. Then he calls the Australian branch of his favourite firearm provider, because if he had to make a completely uneducated guess as to what might harm a supernatural, immaterial being, he'd choose something shiny and semiautomatic.
And then he sends Raye and Mail to check Holland's house, one more time. Especially the garden.
According to Clevatt's Mythical Creatures, gorgons are supposed to have 'vaguely female bodies', and hair 'made entirely of live serpents seeping from the scalp'. Only, if the literature isn't one hundred percent accurate about the abilities, there's a high chance it may be mistaken about the hair.
And one thing that resembles a snake is a really, really big earthworm. So he wants them to take the interior apart, find any evidence that might possibly be inside that house, and then dig up the garden. For completeness.
There is no longer time to be cautious. He needs to act without certainty, and he needs to do whatever it takes to succeed.
This is his best possible chance of finding Grace – or Gregor, or any of the children – still alive.
Fifteen percent likelihood.
Naomi returns back to base from her own mission, with a blindfolded and handcuffed Amanda Clarke in tow. The young woman's face is waxen and terrified, but she refuses to respond to his questioning.
"I am loyal to my Lord," she says quietly.
Watari is finished with his earlier task, so L instructs him to begin straight away. They don't have a proper torture chamber here in the hotel room, but they have a near-soundproof bathroom and portable instruments and his handler has always been very good at making do in difficult situations.
L is pacing up and down the corridor. Naomi can hear the muffled sounds of Clarke intermittently screaming and crying.
She'd really rather not witness it. L seems to be far more inclined to torture people when he's stressed or frightened. She disapproves of the way it seems to be almost a knee-jerk reaction for him.
"There is," he says softly, finally coming to a stop in front of her, "at least a seventeen percent chance that Holland is trying to make those children into carbon copies of his gorgon creature."
"That makes sense," she replies, barely repressing a shudder. "I'm not sure how he'd go about it, but if he doesn't have another one to breed from, I suppose trying to convert children somehow is the next most logical step? For a psychopath, anyway."
"If Holland believes he has special abilities, he may believe he is capable of making a monster from a human," L says with a shrug.
Holland had said things about not wanting to be alone. She supposes he's trying to build himself an army of things that can turn people to stone at a glance.
Which is…almost worse than someone with a death note. Holland would be unstoppable. Absolutely unstoppable.
"If he is continuing to take children," L continues, "then either he is destroying or mutilating the victims during the process of trying to change them, or it's such a long process that he's trialling it on as many subjects as possible because failure would set him back by months."
Yes, she knows that. She knows there is a chance that Grace is dead, and such a chance increased when Holland attacked yet another household.
But…god. That little girl wasn't just their charge, she had become a part of their lives. Their mascot. Their friend.
"Which of those two scenarios is more likely?" she asks, closing her eyes.
She hears L shuffle and fidget.
"The former, I believe," he whispers sadly. "Although I do not like to think about it."
"We'll get her back," Naomi says thickly. "If she's alive, if we possibly can, we'll get her back."
"Yes."
He doesn't believe her. She's not sure she believes herself. Holland has all but broken L, and if L gives up, the man has as good as won.
And she's not about to let her boss step aside and let the next Light assume his undeserved, pseudo-divine throne.
The bathroom door slides open.
"Miss Clarke is convinced that Holland's regular place of work is a little shopfront located at 22 Clifford Street, Paddington," he says politely. There's blood on his gloves. "She has met him there once, a few months ago. She also thinks the place had a basement level, which she did not enter."
L jerks visibly. Naomi can tell just by looking at him that he's riding on adrenaline.
"Thank you, Watari. Are you sure that is all the useful information she knows?"
Watari bows slightly.
"Not yet, L."
"Keep going, then," L advises. "N, we need to-"
"I know," she interrupts. "The guns, the glasses, and the fastest car we own, right?"
"Yes."
He sounds a little relieved. Sometimes it strikes Naomi that she might be the closest thing L has to a friend. Or at least, an equal.
She's pretty sure he'd prefer Matsuda, but that's no longer a choice he can make.
The sunglasses are amazing things. Watari put them together in just fifteen minutes. The lenses are about an inch thick, and consist of a network of carefully-placed mirrors, so that they allow panoramic view that is constructed entirely from a series of reflections. She takes two pairs. They aren't perfect – they were a rush job, after all, and some of the inside edges are still sharp – but they're a darn sight better than nothing.
Naomi really doesn't feel like getting turned to stone today. Or any other day. Ever.
L is pulling out of the driveway before she even makes it to the bottom of the stairs, and she is forced to run and jump into the moving vehicle. She bites back a nasty retort as L attempts to break every speed limit in the universe getting them to Paddington.
It's not as if any self-respecting police officer would ever want to be responsible for pulling him over.
"I have come to a conclusion of my own," she says. It's a somewhat heartening one, and L needs all of the positive sentiments he can get.
"What is it?"
"It sounds like this creature is either being possessed or blackmailed by Holland," she tells him.
"How does that change anything?" L enquires. "I agree that is a distinct possibility – probably sixty-four percent – but it does not benefit us in any way."
"It means that you're earlier estimation of supernatural creatures still stands. This thing probably never would have done anything to come to human attention had Holland not found it."
"Ah. So you thought that telling me might boost my ego?"
"More like your morale," she says gently. "And also, this thing may be completely reluctant to follow Holland and may even turn on him if we can free it. There's also a chance that it dislikes what it's doing and probably won't murder and kidnap if acting under free will."
"Conjecture," L says dully. "Everything is conjecture. The reality is that we are about to engage in conflict with a dangerous man and a creature with powers we cannot predict."
"Yeah," Naomi agrees.
It's what she signed up for, after all.
Watari contacts them about seventy seconds before L reaches Clifford Street.
"Yes?" he says brusquely.
"Holland has allegedly mentioned he has family in Washington, United States," Watari informs him diplomatically. "I believe that is all she knows."
"Thank you," L says impatiently. "Please inform the police as to the steps we have taken, and release her into their custody."
"Understood."
L is authorised to hold suspects for questioning, just as he's authorised to use any means necessary. He doesn't like torturing people, but he doesn't have any other choice.
This is for Grace.
The shopfront is crammed between trendy designer clothing stores and coffee shops on a little Clayton's mall. When viewed from a distance, it appears to be a tiny little place, maybe forty square metres of floor-space. But as he gets out of the car, L can see that the building extends backwards significantly, making up for its lack of width in length.
There is no chimney on the roof, and no high-security waste disposal containers outside.
So it isn't likely that he's conducting typical scientific experiments in there. Which fits with his personality, of course.
Light would have been as logical as possible. L is a little relieved to see some difference between the two, at last.
He pulls his sunglasses on. His view of the world is unaltered, thanks to Watari's expertise. He needs to keep them about half an inch down his nose, however, because there's a sharp edge that sits a little too close to his left eye.
My hand has been forced. Holland moved too quickly and now we are struggling to keep up, cutting corners and forced to make uninformed decisions.
Holland is running scared. If they don't stop him soon – today – then L suspects he will pack up and leave town overnight.
He slips his gun under his shirt, so that the barrel rests against his death note. He had almost forgotten about the damned thing, what with Holland and Grace going missing and monsters who turn people into stone and Rae having a mental meltdown all over the place.
Just when he needs Rae to be its usual high-functioning, ridiculously intelligent self, it turns into a gibbering nonsensical mess.
Not that that matters now. He can hear the soft sound of footsteps inside the building, and Rae might be two or three days away from completing its citywide search.
"Someone is inside," Naomi points out needlessly. "Basement level, I think."
"I concur," L agrees, and points towards the door. "But the visible level is designed to give the impression that the building is unoccupied. The lights are off and the door is closed. But once we take a few more steps, we'll be in range of the cameras."
Naomi's gaze flits to the tiny red light on the porch roof.
"Ah," she says. "We'll have to run from here?"
"In one moment," he replies. "The first level is a simple fortune-telling parlour, much like the inside of Holland's home. The stairs ought to be in the centre of the room, if it is structured similarly to other buildings in the area. However, there's a chance that there may simply be a hatch in the floor. Whatever happens, we need to get downstairs and incapacitate Holland."
By his estimations, Holland ought to need to ascend to the visible level in order to leave. There are no other apparent points of entry.
"And the monster?"
L sucks in a deep breath.
"We must presume that he is indeed controlling it, so therefore, it will not attack anyone who is holding him hostage," he states quietly. "If, for example, I manage to take him hostage, you ought to point your own gun at the creature, just to be safe."
"We're actually going to see its face," she says, sounding a little sick. "I hope these glasses work."
"No more time," L says. He despises running, and he despises guns. His deductive powers are going to be seriously damaged by the lack of hunching and the need to hold things with his entire fist.
For Grace.
"Let's go," he says, and they run.
Naomi kicks open the door, and L leaves her behind after that. He jumps the first and second tripwires, and goes around the third one. Once he gets past the curtains and plush couches, and into the back of the shop, he has to avoid every fifth tile or so, because they're obviously electrified.
Holland is definitely doing something untoward, and he's been expecting them.
There are alarms going off all over the place, and he can hear muffled curses and noises coming from downstairs.
The staircase is spiral and positioned exactly as predicted.
"Stop!" a voice commands over the loudspeaker. "Go no further, or I'll kill them all."
"The only people you want to kill right now is myself and my colleague," he shoots back.
He thunders down the stairs three-by-three, carefully avoiding the five that have been spread with superglue, and the two that collapse on contact. The light in the basement is glaringly florescent, and the walls are asylum-white. The place is neatly divided in two, with a scowling Bernard Holland standing in the doorway between the first and second, darkened room.
"I will kill you if you take another step!" Holland snarls. He's wearing a plastic mask – the sort one usually purchases for children at fetes and fairs – with golden cherub hair and an angelic smile.
How predictable.
More pressingly, on the floor and strapped to a small but sturdy chair, is Gregor Smythe. His blue eyes are wide with fear, and his face is pale, but he's obviously still alive.
"Are you a monster?" he asks L, utterly terrified.
"I work for the police," L assures him. Gregor is probably frightened of monsters.
"And you are under arrest for wilful murder and deprivation of liberty," Naomi adds from right beside him.
"Oh look, you brought a woman down here," Holland jeers. "It takes a true gentleman to put a lady in danger. Too scared to come alone?"
"I see you are a misogynist," L says softly, and steps right over Gregor and his tiny chair, putting himself within reach of Holland. The man has already seen his face, after all. This needs to end now, one way or another.
He needs to know – needs to know – what is going on out back. Because the whole room is distressingly silent, and if he's keeping the other children somewhere, then…
They should be making some sort of noise, right?
Maybe he's just gagged them.
"There are cuts on Gregor's arms," Naomi says carefully. "Like…little bite marks."
"I know," L says.
"See, the reason I'm trying to do this," Holland says, with the dramatic air of the misunderstood, "is to rid the world of scum like you."
"You are delusional," L replies, taking one step forward.
"I am god!" Holland howls at him, and touches the worm-head pendant around his neck. "Kill them both!"
The gorgon materialises right next to Gregor, who flinches and screams. It raises it's head and looks straight at L.
L stares at it with fascination. A tattered, inky-grey robe covers most of its body. Its hands are human-shaped, but its flesh is fetid and pale, and reminds L of the bags under his own eyes.
But the face…the face really bothers him. Beneath its hood is a fairly young-looking, almost elfin face, with huge dark eyes that resemble L's own. Its hair coils and twists around seemingly independently of the creature itself. L realises that every tendril is actually a blind, fanged earthworm.
Ah. The worms.
"Hello monster," L says softly.
It groans softly. L suspects it isn't actually capable of human speech.
"What?" Holland spits. "What is this? Why aren't you changing?"
The creature's eyes widen, and it garbles something unintelligible and glances at the nearest twirling worm. L realises with a jolt that it ends in nothing but an empty tube. No head.
Worm's-head pendant.
I understand.
The creature turns around to face Naomi while Holland curses loudly and grabs him with beefy hands.
"You won't get away with this," he screams, slamming L up against the wall. "I'll kill you both for standing in my way. Heathens!"
The creature murmurs something, possibly in dissent.
"Shut up!" Holland snaps. "Get the rifle!"
It flies across the room in a blur of motion, impossibly fast. L twists his arms out of Holland's grip and kicks him in the chin in one fluid motion. The man doubles over, and L grabs the chain at the back of his neck and deftly tugs it over his head.
The gorgon comes back into focus, makes an angry high-pitched noise in Holland's general direction, seizes the chair with small child still attached, and disappears.
"No!" Naomi cries, reaching out a second too late. "Gregor!"
"Too late," L warns her, shoving past Holland into the second room. "Grace! Grace!"
There is nothing. Not the muffled sounds of a gagged prisoner, not the movement of feet against shackles, nothing at all.
L takes a flashlight from his back pocket and switches it on.
Cages line the wall, each one stretching from floor to ceiling, large enough to fit a small child. There are seven of them, all completely empty. There is nothing along the far wall, but L can make out a faint line that might indicate some sort of second, underground exit.
"My pendant!" Holland roars from the next room. "GIVE ME BACK MY SOLDIER, YOU HEATHEN!"
"Don't you dare move!" Naomi says firmly. "L? We need to go."
L turns the beam of the flashlight to the other wall. And there, a few metres from where he stands, is a collection of half-sized statues. Children.
Nine of them.
"No," he says softly.
They've been dumped here. Most have toppled over or been piled on top of each other like ordinary garbage. The faces he can make out are distorted in terror or decorated with tiny stone tears. All of them have bite marks on their arms identical to Gregor's own injuries.
Nine is too many.
"I said don't move!"
"Fuck you, you stupid bitch," Holland says, and a second later L is grabbed and shoved up against a wall.
"What have you done?" he whispers. "What have you done, Holland?"
"I wouldn't have to do this if people would just accept me," he spits. "It's your fault, officer! Gods oughtn't need to prove who they are!"
"A true god wouldn't have needed to do something like this," L mutters.
"Let him go," Naomi commands. L can barely hear her over the roar inside his own head.
"Give me back the pendant!" Holland says. L thinks he might be shouting, but it's hard to tell. "Give it to me, and I'll release your friend."
"Release my colleague, or I'll shoot you," Naomi counters
L stares at Holland.
"You killed them all," he whispers. He doesn't care. He doesn't care if Holland gets shot, if Holland strangles him, if he's about to die. He doesn't care about any of it. He clenches his fist tightly around the glass-encased worm-head. The motion makes strange muscles hurt in his hand.
There are nine. Nine.
There is no way to undo what Holland has done.
L attempts to kick him again, half-hearted and distracted, and Holland jams his knee between their torsos and drives his hand right into L's face.
L feels the pain explode inside his skull like it belongs to someone else, like he's watching it on a television screen. He's trained to deal with pain.
He has never trained himself to deal with sudden loss of depth perception. The world shifts and alters slightly, Holland grabs his hand, and Naomi pulls the trigger, all at once.
She gets Holland in the forearm, which L thinks is about the same spot Matsuda once shot Light. Holland yells in pain, but yanks the pendant from his hand all the same. He presses something inside his pocket and a door slides open in the back wall.
There's glass in L's eye, and nine little statues at his feet. Holland bolts, and he grabs at empty air. Naomi runs after him, and the door slams shut in her face.
"Goddamnit!" she screams, impossibly angry. So angry. It's contagious. L feels his fingers curl as he sags against the wall.
Naomi shoves at the door, but it's sealed perfectly into the wall, no handles, barely any seam. L drops to his knees and crawls. He never crawls. He sorts through the statues – oblivious freckle-faced toddler, dead-eyed Asian girl, cowering three-year-old boy – until he finds her. Five-year-old girl. Curly dark hair and brown eyes.
Well, not any more. Stone hair. Stone eyes. Stone frown. Forever immortal, forever gone.
Naomi is rattling at the wall, and talking loudly on her phone at the same time. One of the others has come, but he doesn't look around to see who it is.
L hunches over and presses his forehead to Grace's.
"I'm sorry," he says, so very, very quietly. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"No," says the newcomer, voice gruff with denial. "What have you done? What have you done?"
Rae.
"I said I'd save her," L tells it, as if it cares what he thinks. "I said I would, and I didn't."
"I will kill you!" Rae wails. "I'll kill you for this!"
"Yes," L says. He doesn't care what Naomi thinks of his behaviour right now. He can feel his own rage bubbling up behind the grief. He can feel that unstoppable, overwhelming fury that he hasn't allowed himself to feel since he was six years old.
There's blood trickling down his left cheek. It isn't Holland's.
"Call M," he instructs Naomi. "We need to find out where he's heading."
Naomi regards him for a moment, holding her phone halfway to her ear. Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy.
"It's her, isn't it?"
"Yes."
The last time he got truly angry – as angry as he could possibly be – he put someone in the electric chair.
Last time it was a six-year-old boy. This time it's a five-year-old girl.
He needs to hold himself down. He needs to fight this. He needs to hang onto the grief.
Or there will be more than one monster unleashed on the world tonight.
tbc
a/n:
+ thank you to everyone who reads this. those of you who are reviewing, thank you most of all. I'm trying to respond to reviews through PMs now, so let me know if you don't want this to happen to yours.
+ much love to my real-life beta, who tirelessly puts up with me dumping 10k of words in her lap every week and demanding she turn my drivel into something semi grammatically correct.