She awoke just as they slowed to a stop. She stretched, yawning, and groaned as her bones popped into place. Peter has never told me, but from looking at him in moments like this, anyone could tell that he loved them.

“Welcome back, Thorn rose.” He chuckled, “You ready to rock?”

She glared at him briefly as she rolled her shoulder. “Always. Don’t call me that. You ready?”

He smirked. “Let’s roll.”

The apartment complex was pulled up from modern red brick, with a metal callbox and matching name plaques next to the door. Peter rang the buzzer three times, but no one answered.

Shack checked the time. “How much trouble are you in if we sneak in?”

Peter sighed, watched her finger hover over the call button below his hand. “Find the boy.” He decided, “We can worry about legalities later.”

With a smile, she smashed the button. “Watch this.”

There was a soft click. “Hello?”

“Ah, hi.” She bounced with suppressed glee, but her voice didn’t echo it. “Ehm, hi. This is embarrassing.” She took a breath. “This is Clarissa, from the apartment above you? I spent the night at a friend’s, and I locked myself out, could you buzz me in?”

There was a grumble on the other line, and the door buzzed as it opened.

“Thanks!”

Peter groaned, “That should not work as often as it does.”

“Know your neighbours.” She smirked as she slipped past him. “Come on, apartment three-five.”

“Incorrigible.” He huffed a laugh as he made sure the door was closed behind them.

There is something you should know about Shay. Her past is eclectic and mysterious, and there are parts of it that even I can’t figure out. Sometimes, when I ask her about something seemingly innocent, her face will go blank, her posture will close off, and I will not see her for days. Sometimes, she laughs and tells me an improbable story, and I’m left trying to figure out what is real. As a result, I know several things: firstly, she knows how to pick locks, and can do it almost silently and quite fast; secondly, she always carries around a set of picks, wherever she goes; and thirdly, I have no idea why she knows this, when she learned, or who taught her. I asked Carlyle about it, once, but he just smiled sadly and I decided to drop it.

Needless to say, the door to the apartment didn’t really slow them down.

The place was small, a living room that just fit a sofa and a TV, an open kitchen with a tiny table, and two doors to their right that lead to a bedroom and a bathroom, presumably.

It was as tidy as her parents’ place, some scribblers and a notepad stacked in a neat pile on the table seemed to be the only sign someone was living there.

“Tidy.” Peter stepped further into the room, “You could learn something.”

Shay opened the door to the bedroom. “I prefer messy.” She scanned the made-up bed, the closed wardrobe, the mopped floor. “Makes it much easier to find clues.” She glanced over her shoulder. “You look at the scribblers, I’ll see if I can find something in here.”

“Look for a diary.” Peter was already leafing through the papers, but they seemed to be her attempt at budgeting. “Or photos.”

“You look for a life.” She rolled her eyes. “Not one of your lackeys, Pete.”

“I’m a police officer.” He’d moved to rummaging through drawers. “Pretty sure the good guys don’t have lackeys.”

“Pretty sure police aren’t always the good guy.”

He gasped dramatically. “How dare you.” He closed the drawer. “Anything on your end?

She’d found the diary, but the drawer was just too small to get it out comfortably. Smart. “Yeah, but Clarissa knows how to protect her personal stuff, at least.” She jimmied the drawer, but there was no way she could force it open further without breaking it. “Do we have budget for breaking things?”

He stuck his head around the doorframe. “Not after I have to bail you out for breaking and entering.” He watched her work. “What’s wrong?”

“Drawer’s jammed.” She stuck her arm in as far as it went, but she couldn’t find the problem.

Peter leaned down next to her, peering past her arm. “You pull the front,” he decided, digging through his pockets for his knife, “I’ll try to work the dowels loose.”

“What’s a-” She pulled her hand free, grabbed the front board and pulled. “What’s a dowel?”

“The wooden connect-y bits.” He worked the knife between the two boards, prying it open until she could pull it off. A dowel fell to the floor.

“These things.” He smiled at her.

“We call ‘em deuvels.” She reached in for the diary and its keys, clicked open the lock and handed it to him. “I think we hit the jackpot.” She reached in for the rest of the drawer’s contents. “The secret emotional stash-jackpot.”

She pulled out some papers, a small stack of pictures, and another scribbler, which landed on the floor between them.

She flicked through the pictures. Photos of her, some holiday snaps, the same family picture, some polaroids that seemed more recent… Her eye was caught by one in particular.

(There was a copy in Peter’s notebook, so for once the description isn’t second-hand.)

A boy, probably Chase, was smiling brightly into the camera. He seemed to be sitting in the lap of a man, about forty years old, who was sticking his tongue out to the camera. Next to them, her arm outstretched out of frame and her smile as bright as Chase’s, was Clarissa.

And best of all for the two of them, she’d written the date at the bottom.

“This was taken yesterday.” She showed him.

He studied it. “Background’s dark.” He closed the diary. “Last night, maybe?”

She gathered the photos together. “Want to make a bet on who the man is?”

“No.” He stood, held out his hand to pull her up. “But I’m willing to bet on where he lives.”

“London.” She decided, “Though he’s probably somewhere in a caravan in the Lake District, by now.”

“I’m thinking Slough.” Peter propped the front against the drawer, cleverly concealing the gap. “Why else would she move?”

She hummed, looking down at the girl’s bare arms.