The sun was rising, the birds were singing, and people were throwing more beer cans at me. A few of them weren’t even empty!

  I looked down at the clothes and bags strewn on the sidewalk. ‘Couldn’t you guys give me a chance to pack?”

  My now former roommate and former friend Jamie, sighed. “We gave you two weeks, Dylan.”

  “You nearly got us all arrested last night!” Another guy yelled. I honestly only remember him as Nose Piercing.

  I popped open one of the beer cans. “It’s not my fault the cops in this city are so hung up on underage drink -”

  Nose Piercing tossed out the last few cans and slammed the door shut. Jamie gave me a tired little smile. “You’re not a bad guy, you know. Just…” He struggled to fill the silence. “There’s a good rehab center out of town, if you want that, or, um…” He scratched the back of his head.

  The beer tasted flat. A touch of bitterness, too. It’s nice to start the day with a wholesome breakfast. Jamie now seemed content to let the silence stretch between us. Even in the shadows, I could make out the colored highlights in his hair, even the small tattoo on the back of his wrist. He always liked standing out in the most unremarkable ways.

  “Hey man,” I muttered, afraid I wouldn’t have the courage if I waited any longer, “I know I haven’t been the roommate, and I am so, so sorry –”

  “Of course you are.” He muttered. He kept glancing at the road. Was he waiting for a taxi or something? I tried to think of something else to say.

  “I’ll figure something okay. Get you the cash for the rent and stuff ′′

  “Already paid.” I finally recognized the glazed-over look in Jamie’s eyes. He’d already written me out of his life. He was just reading out his lines on the script.

  A car finally stopped front of us, a grey old thing that was definitely older than its owner The window rolled down until I could see my brother’s face. Not a smug expression, or even a sad one. Just… distant.

  “Tell the others I said goodbye.” I opened up the trunk of Ryan’s car, and shoved all my stuff inside. I had to struggle to close the damned door.

  Don’t look back. I thought, climbing into the passenger seat. I’d used to think of it as a lifestyle choice. These days, it felt like the only way to stop myself from shattering. I stared out at the traffic in front of me, already sluggish as treacle in this thrice-damned city. “Who’d you pay to keep an eye on me this time? Jamie?”

  “Sheila, actually.” He said, and I winced. “For your information, I didn’t pay her off or anything.”

  ‘Yeah, yeah.” I drummed my fingers against the windshield. “So, what crime are you heading out to fight this time? Terrorists? Kidnappers? I’ve heard there’s a really weird cult in Galloway Park –”

  “A teacher.” He snapped, not turning to look at me. “A dead schoolteacher. You can stay in the car if you want.”

  *

  It might have been the traffic that woke me up. The heat, maybe. Or the screaming children.

  I groaned, sitting up and whacking my head against the roof of the car. Ryan’s car, strewn with empty cups and dog-eared files. A pine-tree freshener dangled from the windshield, the scent dulling the edge of my new splitting headache.

  A car left in the parking lot of a school, right in the middle of the day. Not a high school, the kids here looked a touch too young for that. One of the little bastards was poking my window, with a steady tink tink tink.

  I rubbed my temples. What was I doing here?

  For a glorious moment, I thought his detective business had flopped. No way, unfortunately. Golden Boy probably would’ve gotten a job at the FBI or something if this hadn’t worked out. I rummaged in the dashboard, noting he’d left a wad of cash. Out in the open. Just begging to be taken.

  For paying someone off? Or did he plan to just lob this at me and walk right back out of my life? That made a strange sort of sense. One last favor for the failure, and he could walk away with a clear conscience. How kind.

  Tink tink. I scowled, and stuffed the pile of notes in my pocket. Raising my hand to block the sunlight, I opened. There were way more kids out here than I’d thought. Was this recess time for them?

  They jeered and giggled as I stumbled out of the car. The usual comments and a few more creative ones.

  Couldn’t blame them. There was a week’s worth of stubble on my chin, I sniffed my jacket, noting an old vomit stain. A little voice in the back of my head, some last vestige of my pride, started whispering. But it’s easy to ignore, and only grew fainter with time.

  The gate was right there. They probably wouldn’t stop me from walking out. And yet… I looked back at the school. Why had he come here, of all places? Why this case, of all cases?

  Call it curiosity. Call it decency. Call it whatever you want, because I don’t know myself. I shrugged out of my jacket, hanging it over my arm, then walked through the two red wooden doors.

  It was recess, damn it. I had to struggle through clumps of chattering children. It was a busy school, probably in one of the seedier parts of the city. The cracks in the corners and mold on the ceiling, were covered with shiny red banners that kids were hanging up everywhere. Even if the some of the kids had worn out gear, they laughed and punched each other like I had back when I was…

  I blinked, fighting the urge to laugh. I’d been one of those kids a few years back. It was maybe a little early to start downing the nostalgia juice. Ryan and I had been sent to a high-end school. Not daily school blazer nice, but better than most. I’d been placed a step higher than most of these kids would ever reach. Me being me, I used those chances to become a dropout with half a literature degree.

  What was I even doing here anyway? It wasn’t like I could just rummage through the whole school to find – ah.

  I stopped outside a classroom. A normal one, mostly. Except for the noticeboard nailed into the wall beside the door. Dozens of photos were pinned on it. A few hand-scrawled letters, their ink smudged. A single glittery card, decorated with shaky hands. A teacher. A dead schoolteacher. I hoped the kids hadn’t had to see it.

  The photos showed a thin guy with wire-rimmed glasses and a receding hairline, building models of the Statue of Liberty. Wearing a Robert Kennedy costume in front of the class. Birthday parties, a group trip to a hospital. I didn’t have the stomach to read the letters.

  Most of the children had scuttled out of the room by now, and I heard a quavering woman’s voice from inside. I took a deep breath, and walked in.

  The teacher speaking was older than she sounded, with crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes and faint age lines. She struck me as birdlike, with messy dark hair and cheekbones I could cut cheese with. She turned as I walked in, pale brown eyes glaring.

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  “Good to see you, Dy.” My brother said, as if I’d just stepped out for lunch. “I was just updating Miss Bracken here on the case.”

  “He is your… assistant, then?” She asked, pointedly ignoring me.

  “Freeloader, actually. So, who got murdered? What did he teach, anyway? Did one of the kids do it?”

  She spluttered, face turning red. “I’ll have you know the children loved Mr. Bailey! He was…” She faltered. Ryan nodded at her to continue. “I’ve seen him spend hours here in school. Working with the slow learners, the kids with poor English. He brought out the best in everyone he taught.”

  Ryan frowned at the pictures framed on the wall. “What kind of teaching style did he use?”

  Unless one of the kids was mad about it, why the hell would that be relevant? But hey, I wasn’t the detective here.

  “He was very informal. Almost playful. Constantly pushing kids to figure out things on their own.” She tutted with slight disapproval. “Not very efficient, you know. He’d dress up and throw pranks on his students. His classes mostly got good grades, though.”

  Ryan opened his mouth to ask another question when his phone buzzed in his pocket. “I’ll have to take this.”

  The teacher watched him go, her face changing from grief to a nervous, almost hopeful expression. It took me a moment to figure it out. I’m not good at this kind of thing. A tall, dark, reasonably good-looking investigator investigating her colleague’s death. I grinned at her. “You’ve got no chance.”

  She started, face turning red. “What?”

  Ryan appeared in the doorway, waving away a few curious students. “I’m sorry, Miss Bracken, but we have to take our leave. Thank you for your help.”

  She said something, but was drowned out by the shriek of the recess bell. He nodded at her, and stepped back outside.

  She didn’t look surprised as he left, or even sad: just the weary kind of acceptance of someone used to being forgotten. Something inside me twisted.

  “He tends to get pretty laser focused during his cases,” I told her, quietly. “You have his number, right? Give it a few days before making a call.”

  Her eyes widened, and it felt like she was looking at me for the first time. “I’m sorry?”

  I waved cheerfully. “Have a nice life.”

  *

  We fell back into a car and I sighed in relief. After the screeching and scorching heat of the school, the AC and the pine scent felt downright homely.

  “I just moved into a place not far from here. If you need a place to stay, Dylan…” My brother began. I was sick of thinking about my future. So many other interesting things to think about.

  “That dead guy’s face was familiar.” I scratched my stubble. “I don’t think I recognized it from the news or anything” An image came to my mind’s eye: only a flash. Me spewing my guts out in some kind of building. Pockmarked white walls, with dark stains. Lots of yelling. Some kind of overwhelming smell. Not smoke, but something close.

  “The shooting club.” I muttered. “My old club. He was a member.” Was he the guy whose hat I had put three bullets through? Dear god, I hoped not.

  Ryan’s eyes met mine, grey clouds suddenly full of lightning. “Go on.”

  The memories were blurry and jumbled, but I could make some things out. “He was a regular. Not great, but good. Preferred handguns, mostly. That teacher had it right. I remember him being a bit of a prankster.” I coughed, and drummed my fingers against the window as Ryan started the car. “That’s it, really. What happened to him?”

  He pulled the car out into the main road. “Tobias Mallory did attend to a shooting club. And he did take a gun home with him every night A Wickersmith 811.”

  I whistled. “Good model. Fairly accurate, even with a short barrel. Kinda pricey, though.”

  “Yeah. Mallory had a sister, Sierra. It was common knowledge she was the local weed distributor, but a lot of people hinted she also dealt with harder stuff. Nothing concrete, though. If she did, she was the type to get high off her own supply.”

  Ryan turned into a side road, one boxed in by tall, wooden fences. Then through a huddled collection of clothing stores. Then a group of huddled buildings rising up at its very end.

  “Sierra Mallory went in and out of rehab a few times, and ended up living with her brother.” He parked, and stepped outside. “Come on.”

  I looked around. The apartments had vines climbing up the crumbling brown bricks. The vines were dotted with purple flowers; someone had encouraged their growth. Odd, really. Most places around here were just endless walls of lifeless brown and grey. I squinted, trying to link the place to a news report, but came up with nothing.

  We stepped inside. Most people were at work. After the school, it felt empty enough to be creepy. Ryan pressed the button on the elevator, and it opened for us immediately. “Three days ago, Mallory – I should probably call him Tobias – was seen entering with his sister by the building’s cleaners. They were arguing, apparently. Though some people claimed Sierra was already high as a kite. Roughly fifteen minutes later…” My brother made a finger gun gesture. “People heard a shot.”

  “They had to break down the door. Tobias was found in his reading chair with a bullet through his head. His sister was sleeping in her bed, tests revealing traces of cocaine in her system. Police then discovered a broken, twisted pistol in the middle of the drain outside. Getting fingerprints was out of the question, but, well…”

  The doors opened with a cheerful ding. “Let me guess, it was a Wickersmith 811.”

  Ryan nodded. The hallway was lit only by a few small windows, the scattered beams of light and dark red carpet reminding me even more of a horror movie. “Well,” I said, “seems like an open and shut case to me.”

  We stopped in front of room 402, and Ryan slipped a key out of his pocket. “The police certainly agree with you.” He shoved the door open Bookshelves lined the walls. An electric kettle lay in the corner, still plugged in. I looked down at the floor, at a larger circle that still smelled faintly of bleach. “I’m guessing this is where the chair was?”

  Ryan nodded, and pulled up a photograph on his phone.

  I had seen crime scenes before. A few even in person. Honestly, what disturbed the most was how little I felt about this one. Tobias was still lying in the chair, a newspaper open and streaked with red on his lap. He’d been shot through the side of his head. The left side. I looked back up.

  “He was shot through the window?”

  Ryan pointed. “He kept it open at night. Habit, probably. But the bullet… it’s not from a rifle. Most of us agreed it would have to be from the Wickersmith.

  “Here’s where it gets interesting: look at the bedroom doors. They’re right in front of him. The current police theory is that the victim brought her up to bed with like a dozen drugs in her system. She got up in a drug-addled haze, grabbed her brother’s gun and shot him. Then she threw the murder weapon out of the window and went back to bed. It’s not a bad theory. The door was locked from the inside, and there aren’t a ton of other options.”

  A flash of memory. “I remember Toby was the careful type at the club. He wouldn’t have the gun just lying around. Did he have a safe?”

  “They didn’t find one.” He cocked his head. “Which is interesting. He might have worried she could force it open somehow.” He shook his head. “Either way, let’s go with the police theory for now. Assume she already had access to the gun. She probably wasn’t in that state to look for it when she woke up.”

  He moved his finger towards the bedroom door. “Her brother is busy reading, so she steps out of the door, practically ready to put a bullet between his eyes, and then… she shoots him from the left?” He waved towards the window.

  I could see where he was coming from. There was so little space between the chair and the glass. She’d have to wedge herself between them to fire from that angle. Which, again, made no sense.

  He might have been turning his head at the time, but the position of death seemed to rule that one out. Maybe the sister had messed with the body?

  “Look,” I said, trying to be kind, “it’s definitely weird. But it’s not exactly overwhelming evidence, either.”

  Ryan curled his lips in a snarl, going down on one knee to check the floorboards. “That woman had enough drugs in her system to down an elephant. There’s no evidence she’d even touched a gun before. You’d expect her to miss at least once, even from this range.” He shook his head. “It’s wrong. It’s all wrong. Every instinct I have screams against it.”

  He ran his hands over the wood. “If there’s something else going on here, the murderer must have framed her. Too many coincidences otherwise. So I asked to take a look at the fragments of the gun. The fall dented it up pretty badly. But the serial number was filed off. And as far as I can tell, it’s brand new.”

  I frowned. “I heard Tobias used a Wickersmith for years. He was the type who wouldn’t shut up about his habits.”

  Ryan nodded. “Very odd. The sergeant tried to claim Miss Sierra filed off the number so she could commit another crime with the weapon. But it’s enough to make me wonder if the victim’s weapon is still here.”

  “In the apartment?”

  “If the murderer knew the gun has been hidden, yeah. As long as no one finds it, it’s the perfect crime. I couldn’t convince the local police to do a more complete search – the detective in charge seems to view the existing evidence as more than enough. But I called in a favor and got a chance to look myself.”

  He stood up and shrugged. “It’s worth a shot, anyway.” My brother stepped into Mallory’s bedroom, and I was left staring at the walls.

  I did poke around for a few minutes, poking the vents and other spy movie-worthy hiding places. Eventually I got bored enough to skim the bookshelves. They lined the walls in almost room. Even the freaking kitchen.

  A small Moe Waterson collection, some fluorescent yellow survival books. An Alcoholics United Guidebook, a great monster of a thing. I rolled my eyes. I’d gotten the exact same book from an uncle on my last birthday. It’s the sort of book that has letters you have to squint to read properly. Bullet points at the end of each chapter. Little illustrations painfully designed to be cute. I frowned at the accusing red letters on the spine, and looked away.

  What else? Let’s see: Oliver Green’s comic books (not bad), Lily Whitman’s poetry (somewhere south of nauseating) and, and… damn it.

  What had that teacher said about Mallory? Informal, playful, a prankster – that matched every faint memory I had about the guy. What hiding place would a man like that choose?

  I pulled out the AU Guide book, almost staggering with the weight, and pulled it open. There was a hole dug out in the middle of the book.

  And a Wickersmith 811 nestled inside.