Author's note: This is getting very good. Thanks to my two angels. you know who you are.

-+-

I never advertise my relocation. The less this matter was known, the better. People might just think that I had moved, or simply died. Besides, the case was solved before it even got to the press, and I was more than happy not to press charges. The ex-wife, however, did. She felt responsible for it. That was her choice, of course. The important thing here was my anonymity was preserved, and I also get to move away from that part of Los Angeles without much undesired pomp and galore. The next time they flip the yellow pages looking around for a private eye and see mine, they would think of a new setup trying to capitalise on the first Mick St. John.

When relocating to a new location any business is usually slow. So I was rather pleasantly surprised when a letter arrived on a Wednesday a week later. It came from a Cynthia Watts. In the letter she stated that she had been trying to locate my office for the last two months, and finally did about a week ago. Furthermore in the letter she said that she was in town and wondered whether I could help her with some problems.

Although this sounded like a variation on the theme of the irate husband case – and even Josef pointed that out, too – I thought that I should not waste my time. It had been already one and a half week, and nothing was coming my way except for this. I could not overstay my welcome in Josef's bank accounts, either. I agreed to meet her, but the meeting had to be in my office. She agreed to it and that was that.

I was rather surprised when I saw a woman in wheelchair came through my door. She came alone. Very young – or young looking. Probably she had good genes in her. Her strawberry blonde hair was cut fashionably short, and she was surprising athletic for someone in her condition. For a moment I wondered how she navigated the corridor.

"I'm sorry," I began, "for not coming down to greet you. I thought – "

"Don't worry, Mr St. John. I have a driver downstairs, which is help enough. Besides, your corridor is more accommodating than most."

"I'm glad you approve, Ms Watts," I replied. "Please sit – uh, sorry..." I motioned to her wheelchair.

She instead laughed loudly and merrily. Something I had never heard in a very long time. "Are you unintentionally funny or are you trying to impress me?" she asked when her laughter ended. "And do call me Cynthia."

"Neither, I think, and not doing a very good job at both," I said. "Just call me Mick. What can I get you, Cynthia?"

She would like some ice cold water and I got it for her. As she sipped on her tall glass she asked:

"Have you ever had a high school crush?"

"Everybody does," I said. Mine, however, was almost seventy years ago.

She smiled. It did not hold long, however. "Everybody does. But the stories never end the same, do they?"

I shook my head. I had forgotten who my crush was.

"When I was in high school, I had a crush on this boy. We both became close and later on became an item. I had pictures of us in my locker. I even put stickers on them, you know, the heart-shaped ones. I used to keep everything that we shared – concert tickets, notebooks, ice-cream wrappers –"

"Ice-cream wrappers?" I blurted out in amusement.

Cynthia rolled her eyes. "I know. I was bordering on obsessive. But everything about him was wonderful. His eyes, his hair, the way he looks at me when we were sharing food or singing along in a concert – it was just wonderful. Then the big breakup came."

"Another girl?"

She nodded. It must have hurt her badly back then, because I could see pain flashing in her eyes. Cynthia blinked out the hurt. "It still tears me up inside, really, just thinking about it. But it had happened, and I was angry that I had to see it personally. Now, there's just a dull ache inside."

"So, is this about the girl or the boy?"

"I'm boring you, am I not?" she asked with a smile.

"No, Cynthia. It's just that if you're looking for revenge, well, I just don't go there."

Cynthia shook her head. "If I were, you won't be able to find her. She's died two years ago in a plane crash."

Okay, thank goodness for that. "Do you have his name or photo?"

She turned to fish something out of a sling bag she had beside her. It turned out to be a school yearbook. This was going to be tough. People age, and especially in Los Angeles, people change their appearances. Going under the knife is after all, a lucrative business around here. A school magazine is never a good friend of a detective looking for missing friends.

Cynthia turned the pages and stopped, pushing the magazine to me with one finger upon a colour passport photo. I smiled inside when I saw the face. No wonder Cynthia was still hurting.

In the photo, the teen had bad boy written all over him. Piercing blue eyes that even the fading print could not dim, a crease between the furrowed brows, dirty blonde, unkempt hair, and thick neck that belied something of a star quarterback or a power athlete. Under the photo was printed Duvall, Aaron.

"I know this is close to nothing, but it's the only photo of him I have," Cynthia said.

"But I thought you have photos of the two of you kept someplace," I recalled.

"You men may keep photos of ex-girlfriends like trophies, Mick, but women burn any useless bridges." Cynthia tried to hide the bitterness in her tone but it seeped out.

Some don't, I thought. I burnt her. "If that's the case then I have to ask from you for more time."

"I understand. I hope that you may find him after all these times."

"Excuse me for asking this, Cynthia. Why do you even bother about him?"

Her surprised expression meant my question was something she did not expect. I went on:

"He hurt you in the past, probably made you fall into a deep depression, screwed around with your head and emotions, but now you're looking for him. Why go through all the difficulties for someone who did you wrong?"

Cynthia sat in her wheelchair with her arms wrapped around her front. Her dainty nostrils flared softly once. Then her arms fell away as she took in a deep breath before replied, "Forgiveness, Mick. Yes, I confess that he hurt me bad enough – I mean, I caught him red-handed cheating with another girl! He left me, making me think that I was a fool. Then I graduated after high school, but he did not. He got involved in some gang fight, lost concentration in school, and failed the exams. I got an offer from a good university and studied, got a degree, started my own company, and pretty much became successful. Him I never heard about ever since."

I shook my head, unable to comprehend the reasons. "I still cannot see how you want to forgive someone who hurt you this much."

Cynthia's face broke into an almost enigmatic smile. I had to wonder what else was coming. "Why don't I tell you after you manage to find him, okay? That will be your bonus."

With that Cynthia left. I wondered as later I lie inside my little cold chest and fell asleep.

-+-

I uploaded the next chapter already! Please do review!