Of course, the staff around the house either did not care, or were too distant from Avan for them to conduct a proper interview. There were hints of his personality (Kind, Selfish, He either locks himself in his room or he goes out with his friends), but nothing astronomical to further the investigation.

“He must be filthy rich, to hire so many staff.”

“He is.”

August turned to Dolores.

“He is?”

“He is, didn’t you listen to Benjamin?”

She repeated.

And with a small smile:

“You idjit.”

He hung his eyebrows down and looked at his notebook.

“Next is… the village chief himself, Howard Kjolsrud.”

“How about his wife?”

A quick glance at his notebook.

“Died,

apparently.”

“Any children besides Avan?”

“One.

A Credence.”

The notebook closed with his fingers,

And they filed towards the direction the maid was walking towards.

“He’s a writer, too.”

August looked back at Dolores.

“Credence?”

“Howard.”

“You read it?”

“Yeah.”

“Was it good?”

Before Dolores had time to answer,

“We’re here.”

(The maid).

Books.

Books strung everywhere.

If not flung randomly on the floor, bookcases embezzled the wall, giving space only for the door in which they had just entered.

“I’m working.”

The voice carried a dismissive tone. No intonation stuck to it. Bland. Uninterested.

No movement.

“I’m working.”

Irritance.

“Sir, there are guests.”

“I’m working.”

The typewriter stopped tapping its melody and the manipulator finally looked at them.

“I don’t even…”

Grasping for words, still not orientated to verbal expression,

“I don’t even know them.”

“We’re the police.”

August started but he has already resumed assaulting the keys of the keyboard.

“The law says that in the course of an investigation, the police are granted full authority.”

A hint from Dolores.

“I’m working, can’t you see?”

“Your son just died.”

Another hint from the pale girl.

“What about it?”

“Are you not in the least concerned of it?”

A break in the rhythmic tapping.

“I can type while answering questions.”

Dolores opened her mouth to object but August has already sat down.

There was only only two chairs in the room.

Dolores looked around and finally (flustered) resumed standing.

A light tap on her side for her to sit down,

Then a head turn to his poor companion.

He stood up, but

“It’s alright.”

He sat down uncomfortably.

Howard’s eyes flicked up.

“So? What of Avan?”

August didn’t need to flick open his notebook.

“He’s dead.”

“Besides that.

I’m not an idiot.”

“There was one survivor from the incident.”

A nod from Howard.

“Well, she died.”

If there was alarm of any sort from Howard, he didn’t show it.

“We did an autopsy on her and it turns out she was strangled to death, but there were no fingerprints on her neck.”

The rhythmic tap tap tap of the typewriter continued.

It was Dolores who continued speaking:

“Which leads us to conclude,

She was strangled using gloves.”

“You with us?”

“Yes.”

His glasses reflected their silhouettes back at them.

Cold. Distant.

“What about gloves?”

“You see, you were one of the two people in the village said to have in their possession gloves.”

“I lost them.”

“What?”

“I lost them.

You could ask her,”

A thumb at the maid.

“Don’t really care for them.”

A turn of heads to confirm with the maid waiting at the door.

The maid’s green hair bobbed up and down.

“The young master took it, I believe.”

Dolores cocked her head slightly.

“Which?”

“Credence.”

An exchange of looks between each other.

“Well, where can we find Credence?

We haven’t seen him here.”

“The Grange.”

An immediate response from Howard.

“Well, sorry for wasting your time.”

Striding steps to the door,

The maid turned the door knob when

“Wait.”

(From behind the typewriter).

August turned around

“What?”

“Just because there were no fingerprints on…”

The same struggle earlier repeated.

“No fingerprints on her, doesn’t mean that the killer must’ve worn gloves.”

“What do you mean?”

A mood of apprehension.

“The killer could’ve just placed a piece of cloth between him and the victim before strangling her.”

The pair stood there, dumbfounded.

(They haven’t thought of that.)

“If you’re just going around searching for gloves, it would be a wild goose chase.”

And a slam of the door.

Dolores’ face was flushed red.

“I can’t believe I haven’t thought of that!”

“Well, I didn’t either.”

“It took him a few minutes to think of that!”

She’s on the verge of ranting, you see.

“He’s smart.”

August admitted.

A silence.

“Do we still find Versas Totten?”

August nodded his head.

“Credence?”

Another nod.

“Actually,”

August stopped nodding,

“Versas works at the Grange too.

It’ll be interesting to see what relationship they have.”

“Anyway,”

August looked at Dolores.

“Do you believe what Howard said?”

“As in?”

“His body language says that he cares little of his two boys.”

“And?”

“Do you believe it?”

Dolores’ look commanded inquisition.

“A man who does not care for anything becomes the village chief?”

“Maybe they just made him the village chief because he has six bands.”

“The ranking system doesn’t even matter in a small village like this!”

Dolores motioned to her sleeve.

“Besides, I have six too.”

“How much do I have?”

“Five.”

August observed the scrawling on the band that he had with him when he awoke on the train.

“So is it better to have more or less bands?”

“More.”

Dolores eyed him.

“You’re telling me you don’t know the system?”

A shake of the head.

(Sigh).

“On living star, we rank our intelligence levels by bands.

For humans, our average is three to six.”

August stares at his band.

A stare from Dolores.

A cough, and

“Well, returning back to the topic,

I think Howard is hiding something from us.”

“He’s the killer?”

A suggestion from Dolores.

“Imagine.

He blames Lindsey for Avan’s death and kills her using gloves and gives them to Credence.

He then misguides us by acting as if he doesn’t care for his sons and saying that someone could’ve used a cloth to strangle Lindsey, causing us to drop our suspicion on him and allowing him to get away scot-free.”

“Then wouldn’t it be easier to just blame everything on Versas?”

“Lindsey’s father is Versas.

It’s hard to blame someone who would have no good reason to kill the victim.”

“Maybe, then.”

August shoves his hands into his pockets and walks on.