As the evening goes on, I put the casebook down and raise a hesitant hand to my neck, fingers brushing over the bruise from earlier. I hold back a flinch when I press a bit too hard against the panging ache, and my eyes squeeze shut.

They got you when you had your guard down. That'll never happen again.

It's ridiculously frustrating at this point, trying to figure out who the hell this twisted person is, what set them off to kill my mum and dad in such a symbolic and specific way. Could Dad have upset someone this much? I didn't think he had it in him, but I can't really be sure of anything now. Maybe he didn't mean to draw someone in, but it got out of control, and he panicked and said the wrong thing. Or maybe it was Mum who pushed them to act, always genuinely straightforward with people, a bit like me really, and giving them distracted smiles as she busied herself with work, work, work.

There's so much to pick apart and make sense of that I feel like I'm getting a headache all over again. I can imagine any other normal girl my age and in my position not wanting anything to do with piecing together this sick puzzle, staying in bed, crying and accepting hugs and sympathy. Helping investigations with everything they know, but not getting too much into it in case it gets them upset.

I scoff out loud at the idea. Normal things bore me.

A quiet knock on the door makes me look up, and it's Edith, a smile on her face.

"Hi. I'm gonna turn in for the night soon, so I just wanted to make sure you're alright. You know where everything is, don't you? My room's just down the hall, right between my brothers. If you want water or something to eat or anything at night, just treat this place like a second home, okay?"

I smile and nod. "Okay."

The boys aren't far behind her, Elias poking his head over his sister's shoulder with a smirk.

"Night, Nancy Drew."

I raise a brow in amusement and wave at him, Edith rolling her eyes as she pushes him back down the hall. Emerson is left standing near the door, eyeing me in brief curiosity before his annoyingly neutral expression replaces it as quickly as it came.

"I'm interested to hear about what you've gathered on the case," he says, glancing at my book beside me on the bed. "It's a good idea, keeping it all written down in order."

"Yes, it is," I agree. "Easier to keep track of things. I'm not taking a break from all this, not even for a few days. I'm sure people think I should, trauma and all that, but-"

"But there's no need for that," Emerson takes the words out of my mouth, and I blink. "You're perfectly capable of getting involved in the investigation. It makes sense, anyway, since you're the most connected to it all. I'm sure you can handle it."

I'm quiet for a moment, until I force myself to reply. "I can. Grief hasn't hit me yet, I don't think. Not like it should, anyway."

"Nothing to worry about," Emerson assures me, stepping halfway into the room and leaning against the doorframe. "Grief works in different ways. You might not be able to cry about it or feel so wounded about it right now, but that could change at the funeral, or a few months. Or when the whole case is over, and we know who's responsible for their deaths."

I can't make myself respond to that. I open my mouth, then close it, lost for words for a while as I look away and shrug half-heartedly. When I look back up, Emerson's expression seems to have softened a little, dark eyes gliding to the window, a gap between the curtains letting the fading grey-blue light in.

"My father died in suspicious circumstances," he tells me, and I try meeting his eye, searching his face to get any kind of inside look. But his voice is steady, and his gaze is focused on the view out the window. "Quite similar to this, in truth. It was a cold case until your parents died too. Elias was close to giving up, we all were, but we'll solve it this time. I'm sure we will."

"How similar?" I ask, his eyes finally locking with mine. "You mean the killer is the same one who got to your dad? That doesn't make any sense."

"Yet," Emerson says. "We will solve this case, Holly."

"Yeah. I know."

"My point is that grief is different for different people. It might not have struck you yet, but that doesn't make you unfeeling or anything. You know that."

My brows twitch in interest, and I dare to ask him straight out. "Has it struck you, Emerson?"

Now it's Emerson's turn to blink, and he stares at me for a long, curious moment. The moment is gone when he speaks up again.

"We're not talking about me."

I frown, not bothering to hold back my annoyance as he refuses to give anything away yet again. "Smartass answer," I mutter with a weak glare.

Emerson hears, and the corner of his lip twitches up ever so slightly. "Good answer. Maybe next time, I'll give you a proper one."

He stands up straight, making his way out the door and pulling it closed after him. "See you in the morning, Holly."

I lean back against the headrest of the bed when the door clicks shut, biting my lip and staring at the wall opposite me in bemusement. Emerson Tyrel. What do I have to do to understand him? Do I even want to?

Yeah- one case at a time. Let's focus on how you're going to deal with tomorrow.

Tomorrow I'll be trading information with the Tyrels. In a way, I'd rather not, liking the advantage of having more insight than a group of unique private investigators or an experienced police detective, but working with the Tyrels could speed things up. Every day, it'll get harder to solve the case, because every day, the RoseBlood Killer has time to cover their tracks in their own ways, hurt more people, and do whatever they want while they're free. The fact that they must have been right under my nose for quite a while is sickening, and I slide off the bed, getting changed into a loose top and cotton shorts to go to bed in.

The bed is soft and comfortable, but it still feels new and wrong to me, to sleep somewhere other than home. The bookcases that surround my proper bed at home, stacked with murder mysteries and old novels and spare, random notebooks, aren't here at the Tyrels' grand house, and neither is the big, heavy chest that usually sits opposite my bed, filled to the brim with bittersweet memories. The scent of paper from old books and delicate vanilla wax from the candles Mum used to buy me for my room has been replaced with a creamy, clean flowery scent.

Sleeping is on and off for me tonight, and at one point, I pull the covers right over my head, the deafening silence of the house smothered with sheets, giving me a silly but somewhat comforting sense of protection, a thin barrier between my curled-up frame and the woodland outside, and the path leading to the rest of this city and eventually back to my own. At some point, that path will branch off obliviously to wherever the RoseBlood Killer is sleeping like I'm supposed to be, and I close my eyes to the same blackness that's already filling the space around me until I manage to sleep until morning.