The Lobster Shack was smaller than I imagined, and smelt a lot worse. I could feel the bile rising in my throat, told my self to hold it down. Vomiting showed a sign of weakness, and weakness meant no answers. I walked, stun gun in hand, to the entrance, where a acne-ridden teen stood, waiting to take orders. "What you want?" he asked in broken English.

"Do you know a Donald Wascoe? Works here, may not have turned up for a while?" I inquired. The boy, who identified as Ralph from his name tag, shook his head, though I could see a troubled look in his eyes. He knew exactly who I was talking about. "Listen kid, if you know anything-" I started before noticing the knife in his hand. He must have grabbed it from the cutting board inside. I raised my stun gun. "Put the knife down kid" I said in a level voice. I did not want to startle him. It wasn't just my life in danger any more. It was the baby's. "Stop asking questions!" Ralph yelled, visibly shaking. He didn't have it in him.

The sound of a motorcycle caught my attention as Weevil pulled in to The Lobster Shack. "Why, if it isn't my old pal, Veronica Mars" he said.

"Weevil" I respond, taking in his leather jacket and the stench of motorcycle oil. Since he was shot by Celeste Kane, things have been hard for Weevil, forcing him to rejoin the PCHer's in an attempt to control the corruption of Neptune and provide safety for his family. As far as I've heard, it hasn't worked.

"Cleaning up the criminal element I see" he says, eyeing my stun gun pointed at Ralph. I give him a sarcastic smile.

"Just doing the corrupt sheriff's department's job, as per usual"

"You really think you can change things around here?" Weevil asks, unconvinced.

"Well, someone has to. Besides, my video of big bad Sheriff Lamb sure got things rolling last time." I laughed. I still couldn't believe Lamb had fallen for the hat-cam. Now that's what you call a bumbling sheriff.

"So, what's going on here, Ralphy boy?" Weevil asks menacingly. The kid's so scared he nearly pee's himself.

"I can't say, I can't say! He'll kill me!" he screams, worried. Now I was scared. Stolen shoes had somehow lead me to an apparently dangerous criminal. I decided to put the stun gun down, and crossed to Ralph, in concern. "Ralph, what's going on? What's Donny's doing?"

"I can't say anything, they'll kill me!" he pleaded.

They?

"What do you mean 'they' Ralph? Who is Donny working with?" I asked, infuriated. Ralph wouldn't talk, and he knew something. Something important. He was working himself up, pacing back and forth, breathing hard. Weevil was giving him the stink eye, standing protectively behind me. For a second, Ralph looked up, meeting Weevil's glare.

Ralph promptly fainted.

It was 8pm that evening. I'd tracked down Ralph's, who turned out to be Ralph Maccio, address. He lived at home with his mother Barbara in a single storey house on the same estate where Weevil used to live. I parked the car under a flickering street light, and was suddenly aware of the silence. I could faintly hear music pumping through the night air, I could see kid's walking down the street; hear them muttering in Spanish. But the rest of the street was silent.

I exited the car and walked up to the house. The front yard was littered with coke cans and cigarette butts, and a rusty tricycle. Ralph's childhood. I knocked on the door, saw the light was on in the house, heard the buzz of the TV. No one came to the door. I knocked again.

A heavily overweight woman with greasy brown hair appeared at the door, cigarette in the corner of her mouth and beer can in her hand. She gave me a look down with a bored expression. "What do you want?" she asked in a gruff voice, chugging back her beer. I almost puked.

"Hi, I'm Veronica, I'm a friend of your son's, I was wondering if I could talk to him? I think he left something at my house the other day" I responded.

The woman eyed me suspiciously, then shrugged; opening the door for me to step in.

I was hit with the stench of old food and smoke, and the generally unkempt appearance of the place. I struggled not to hold my hand over my nose, though I knew I'd be sick the moment I left the building. Barbara Maccio sat down on the sofa, tossed her beer can onto the dirty floor, and picked up another. "He's in his bedroom" she snarled. I clung my bag to my stomach, already in defence, as I picked my way across the litter strewn floor to the room Barbara Maccio had pointed to.

Ralph's body hung from a pipe running across the length of the ceiling. The rope still swayed in the light breeze coming from the open window. His CD player continued to blast out The Black Eyed Peas. My stomach rolled.

I looked around for a pair of scissors, finally finding some under a pile of homework. Tossing my bag onto his bed, I crossed to Ralph, tilting his head, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. He was stone cold, his lips turning blue. Still, I couldn't stop. I was a parent now, wouldn't I do the same? I tried cutting the rope, swearing loudly as I failed. I could hear Barbara shuffling off the couch and coming to the door. I didn't want her to see her son like this. I moved to the door, closing it in the nick of time. "What's going on?" Barbara asked, annoyed.

"Mrs Maccio, I don't think you should see this. Now, you need to call 911-" I started, but Barbara pushed me away, concern on her face. A hefty woman, she shoved me out of the way and opened the door. "RALPH!" Barbara Maccio screeched, tearing across the bedroom and clambering at the rope. The woman started shaking, crying, as she desperately tried to get her son down. I dialled on my phone, crossing to Barbara to comfort her. I noticed the unmistakable smell of urine, and noticed the wet patch on Ralph's trousers. That settled it, then. He had killed himself.

I asked for the ambulance, despite knowing it was too late. I asked for the sheriff's department and rattled off the house address. Then I noticed something. 'I didn't say nothing!' read a note taped to the wall.

It was all becoming clear to me now. This was about more than a pair of shoes.