“Ngh.”

I pull myself up, trying to adjust my eyes to the light. How long have I been asleep?

I look around. The room is a barren little thing, with red wallpaper, a wooden desk and the metal bed that somehow managed to not break my back while I slept on it. I know my Feng shui has always been a bit behind the times, but I’ve got enough taste to make my bedroom at least a bit better.

Which is to say – this is not my bedroom.

What happened? I remember I found the corpse. I called the police. They took my statement. I—Right. We checked the camera footage of the building lobby. The only thing of interest on it was the delivery person carrying along a large package to the elevator. The guy in charge said he’d look into whether or not anyone received any delivers, but I’m pretty sure that’s the culprit.

Doesn’t explain how they did it, though. They left empty-handed just fifteen minutes later. And the whole thing played out while I was having the little chat with Magnussen. They couldn’t have gotten in.

I hate locked rooms.

So much that I… went to ask for… help.

And I went… to her house. We had coffee.

And then…

Then…

“Damn it.” I sigh.

“You’re awake!” I hear her voice come from the little radio on the floor.

“You spiked the coffee.” I say, getting on my feet.

“The sugar, actually. Tsk-tsk! I would’ve expected more caution from a Chief Prosecutor. God knows how many enemies you’ve made by now.”

“I didn’t think to have my guard up with friends.”

“It’s the friends ya gotta watch out the most.”

I stumble to the desk. The only thing on it is a cream-colored envelope.

“What is this?” I ask.

“It’s a gift. You said the guy’s name was Victor Kudo, right?” the voice says.

“No, I said that was the message left by the corpse.”

“Same difference, probably.”

I rip open the envelope, pulling out a stack of papers.

I know what these are. They’re court transcripts.

State vs… Byrde? Well, I’m sure that isn’t a coincidence, or anything.

I flip through it. My heart skips a beat at the defense attorney’s name. Calms through indifference at reading the prosecutor’s. Victim was Glen Elg. Poisoned at a restaurant. Victor Kudo was one of the two witnesses to it.

“It wasn’t easy to get.” she says. “Most of the old case thingies got lost along with the old precinct’s records room. Thankfully, there’s always some nutjob collector or two that made sure to get copies long before the blast.”

“Thanks.” I say, sliding the papers back into the envelope.

I head for one of the two doors the room has.

“Whoa, hey, where ya goin’?”

Locked. Other one it is, then.

“C’mon, Athena.”

I open it.

And find myself in the exact same room I’d just left.

The door slams behind me. I hear the click.

“You didn’t think it’d be that easy, did you?” the radio asks.

“I hate your house.” I say.

She giggles. “What makes you think we’re still there?”

Way back I locked. So, I try the way forward. Again.

And again, I find myself exactly where I’d began.

And again. Surely, it’s just a psychological tactic. There’s only like two or three identical rooms lined up one after another. They stop at some point.

And again. Maybe not. I can’t spot a single inkling of a difference between the rooms. Bed, desk, doors. Same down to the little scratch of the desk.

And again. I put the envelope on the ground.

And again. The envelope is exactly where I’d left it.

Okay, I guess I’m trapped.

I groan, throwing the envelope back on the table. “I’m not in the mood, you know.”

“You shouldn’t be in the mood to go out there and try and solve a crime, but that’s exactly what you’re gonna do the moment I let you go. Just relax. You’re fired up. I get it. You just found a corpse in your home.”

“I feel like that gives me ALL the justification in the world to go out there and figure out what’s going on.”

“When you’re calmer.” she says.

“I AM calm.” I insist.

“Mya-myah-myah-myuh. I’m your friend. And I say you’re definitely not calm.”

“I thought I was supposed to watch out when it comes to friends.”

“You are. That’s why I’m watching. You. But lovingly.”

I sigh, sitting at the desk, flipping over the transcripts.

Two hours later, I’m finished. And utterly baffled.

“I don’t understand.” I say.

“Fun read, isn’t it?” the radio agrees.

“It’s nonsense. It’s pure and utter nonsense. It’s like I’ve just spent reading a middle-schooler’s first attempt at writing drama. What is this? Like—I’ve seen a lot of stupid things happen in that courtroom, but there’s NO way anyone could ever get through the bailiffs with a cardboard badge. And don’t even get me started on that ending. There’s bluffing and then there’s BLUFFING. No court would ever actually accept that as evidence of any kind. And with a system like ours, I can’t imagine it would’ve been enough to let Byrde off the hook.”

I throw the stack of papers in the corner of the desk, rubbing my temples. “And then there’s plan itself! Furio Tigre – by the way, seriously? – and Viola Cadaverini teamed up and did this whole complex scheme where they first poisoned the dude, then re-created the poisoning in front of another witness, and had all these disguises for… for what? They’d already poisoned him without any witnesses the first time! Why go through all this trouble? Just… dump the body in the trash somewhere! Get him as far away from the restaurant! Or, at least, that’s a street away from where you work, man!”

“Personally,” she chimes in, “I hated the way that Jean Armstrong guy was written. Feels very late 90s.”

“That’s the thing. That’s the thing! The whole thing feels like it was written! Made up!” I stand up. In my frustration, I take a few more laps through the chain of endless rooms. “Are you sure the nutjob collector you got this from wasn’t… more nutjob than collector?”

“I was skeptical, too. So, I reached out to a few more. They call came back to me with this thing.” She yawns. “But, you know, I mean, Daddy DID cross-examine a parrot, you know.”

“I know! Everyone knows about the parrot! But this… this whole thing just… reads weird!”

“So, what are we thinking?”

I chuckle. “Well, your mind’s as mystery to me as it ever was. As for me, I—I don’t know. I don’t want to believe it, and I can’t imagine why, but it’s almost like someone forged an entire case file.”

“Easiest thing would be to ask the principal actors, though, right?” she suggests.

Of all the people on this list, though, the only ones I would put a remote amount of faith in are long-gone. All I’m left with are the witnesses and the defendant herself. And of them, who knows if they’re all real. Furio Tigre. Furio Tigre, for crying out loud!

“I just don’t understand. Is it, like, a prank of some kind? Did someone just plant this in the evidence room for the hell of it?”

“I’m not sure.” she says. “But I can tell you that Glen Elg was a real person who definitely died. I found the obituary and everything. Even mentions the restaurant – Tres Bien.”

“I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse.”

“Worse. Probably. Anyhow, if you wanna discuss it, I’ll be waiting in the café across the street.”

The radio crackles.

“What? Hello?”

No response. The white noise is gone.

I pick up the papers and once again head through the unlocked door.

I’m standing in the middle of a snow-covered street. It’s night. It’s cold. I just realized I don’t have my coat.

The door slams behind me. The sloppy, hand-written sign on it says: LARRY’S HOOLAHOOP SHOP.

Across the street is a café.

I see her sitting in the booth by the window. Wearing my coat. Grinning from ear to ear. She adjusts the round tinted glasses, pretending like she’s just noticed me, and waves. As I walk across the deserted street, she takes a drag from her trusty metal pipe. Her magic wand, as she calls it.

Trucy Wright.

Magician extraordinaire.