I can barely sleep at all when we finally stop working and go off to our rooms for the night. The rest of the day had been spent on the RoseBlood Killer; Emerson watching the footage from the hidden cameras at the funeral, Edith researching love letters and poetry and deeper meanings behind them, Elias trying to scrape up an image of who the murderer might be with me. We didn't need to recreate the crime. We didn't need to go back to what we knew. Because we already have everything figured out.

So who is it?!

I glare weakly at the ceiling as I lay in bed, like it'll give me the answer, one or two syllables that make up a name, any name. Rose, maybe, or a fancy, traditional female name. It's most likely nothing like I have in my head, something deceptively basic and boring. But I'll hate that name when I know it, and I'll hate hearing it again for the rest of my life.

That's if you hear it.

With a huff, I snatch my phone from the bedside table, bold numbers displaying the time. Just past four in the morning. Have I really been dozing in and out of a restless sleep for so long?

There's nothing new on my notifications. I'm not big on social media, and the only messages really I get are from Mia, or Lizzie. I've got nothing to update them on. I'm just missing the last piece to the puzzle, the most important piece, and they won't know. They knows as much as I do. We're all stumped.

And I hate it.

Giving up, I kick off the sheets and tug on a hoodie, wiping loose strands of hair away from my face when I put the hood up. I pause for a moment, my fingers grazing my neck, and I prod lightly at the bruise. It doesn't throb nearly as much as it used to now, but I still know that there's a faded, forced colour still lingering there on my skin, and grit my teeth at the memory of bloodguilty hands squeezing relentlessly, determinedly. I won't let those hands go anywhere near me again. I won't.

The Tyrels' home is dark and quiet as I push the bedroom door open and pad out into the hallway. I don't know where I'm going, but I know I need to clear my head somehow, and come up with an idea. A final idea. One that'll close this case for good, and one where I don't end up in a body bag.

I end up wandering downstairs, taking in the deep wood and vintage pieces all around the house as I go. Where could the killer be living? Right out in the open, in a normal house or apartment? Maybe even on own my street? Or they could be hidden away in a hotel room or something, lurking nearby. They don't know where I'm staying, I'm sure of it, but we both know that I can't hide for long. As soon as I have to go back to my house - and I will have to at some point, to sort things out - they'll pounce.

I frown to myself, pacing the kitchen, and eventually sit at the counter, all appliances sleeping with the rest of the house.

Or so I thought.

Gentle footsteps make their way downstairs, and I look over my shoulder in awareness as a figure comes down. I hold their dark, searching gaze, then turn back around, distracted by my thoughts. It's Emerson.

"Couldn't sleep either, then?" he questions quietly, and I shake my head, fiddling with the chocolate brown sleeves of my hoodie. "You're thinking too hard, Holly."

"Someone has to," I mutter, fingertips rubbing against the fabric.

Emerson hums, taking a seat next to me. I can feel his gaze examining my face, looking for clues to the chaos that's going on in my head. I finally raise my brows, meeting his eyes expectantly.

"Can I help you?"

He blinks, tearing his gaze away as he looks down in slight amusement at the counter's surface. "You're good at this. That's all."

"Good at what?"

"Detecting," he replies, looking back up at me, dark brown waves of hair flopping at his forehead. "Seeing every side of things. Even when you're the victim in the case."

"I'm no victim," I say, the word sounding weak and hopeless, even though I know what he means. "I've just always had a flair for crime-solving, for reading people, getting the truth out of them."

"Reading people?" he repeats in interest, and I nod.

"I study people's expressions. I'm good at it, so it's what I do."

"Hm," Emerson hums thoughtfully again, a brow raised slightly. "And mine?"

I roll my eyes, shaking my head at him with a deadpan look. "You're almost as closed-off as I am. Almost."

"Not closed-off," Emerson disagrees, but there's an amused half-smile on his lips. "Just... reserved. I suppose that your expression can give a lot more away than words can, sometimes."

"Yeah." I clench the sleeves in my hands loosely, running over the same idea again and again.

"What's keeping you up?" he asks, and I let out a short breath, shrugging.

"Who," I correct him simply, and Emerson catches on immediately, nodding slowly.

"That's the question," he says. "Can't have been anyone at the funeral. I've been over all the footage. Nothing remotely suspicious on there, and everyone who was at your party attended. Unless the murderer got some outside help. But that doesn't seem likely... no..."

"No, they didn't. This is too personal for them to leave it to someone else. Besides, your father died when he got too close to the truth, and so did Clarissa. The RoseBlood Killer will hardly trust anyone else with something as important as that."

"We've just got to look out for the poetry book with the ripped page, then, though that could be anywhere. So, if we have no clue of who it is, then what do we do next, do you think?"

"I don't know, Emerson," I sigh, looking at him with unhidden frustration and tiredness. "I don't know, and I always know."

"We'll get there, Holly," he tells me, a rare softness to his voice that makes me pause for a moment. "You're safe here. That's one thing we can all be sure of. Brunsley won't let any harm come to you as far as he's concerned, and neither will the Tyrels."

I scoff lightly, smiling a little myself now. "Is that right?"

"Yes," Emerson answers, his deep brown eyes fixed on mine. "That's right. I won't let you die, Holly. Not... not if I can help it."

I'm taken aback by his words, brows twitching in bemusement.

"Why?" I breathe. "Are you like this with all your clients and cases and, well, victims?"

"No," he admits. "But you're different, aren't you? You're Holly Cassia. The last Cassia. And you're a lot, lot smarter than the RoseBlood Killer thinks you are."

I don't know how to respond to Emerson, and so I don't for a long moment, breaking the eye contact and looking down at my hands.

"Well," I make myself speak up again, almost flustered. "Thank you, Emerson."

He nods, his half-smile back. "You're welcome."

We stay sitting in the kitchen for another half hour, until the sun starts rising, and Emerson goes back upstairs to get changed from his oversized jumper. I go outside and into the Tyrels' woods, the cool, fresh breeze of the early morning a comfort as it sweeps through my hair and past my skin. They really do live in a lovely place. Trees coat the house's decent-sized woodland, like a beautifully untamed forest of sorts. A squirrel dashes up a tree and peers at me before it carries on climbing when I round a corner, and I pull down my hood, taking long breaths in and out.

Breathe. Think.

Think, not about what you know, but about what's next. What's last. How to end this case.

I end up thinking about Emerson, about what we said. I've never really seen him as the gentle and caring type, but more like myself. Observant and smart and curious and a quick thinker. But there are hidden sides to both of us, I guess.

'You're safe here. That's one thing we can all be sure of.'

I slowly come to a halt, resting a hand against a tree trunk, replaying Emerson's words.

He's right. I am safe here. Supposedly waiting to face the inevitable.

I'm safe here. We can all be sure of that. I'm not going to catch the killer here, and they don't know where I am, so they can't catch me either. But there's one place I can go, I have to go, that's not safe, even though it should be the safest place you can think of. One place where the RoseBlood Killer will be ready and willing to strike, and with perfect, perfect timing and planning, I can somehow catch them in the act. I can come out on top. I can solve the case, for my parents, for Daniel, for me.

I need to go home.