“I’m getting a major sense of déjà vu,” Marianna muttered as they walked alongside the road.

  Alna didn’t share the feeling herself, but said, “That’s understandable.”

  The museum they were walking toward wasn’t in sight yet, as the two girls had parked the car a couple of kilometres away, right next to a rather convenient farmer’s field. Alna would have preferred not taking a vehicle at all, but the museum they were walking toward, in full disguise, was too far out of the city to walk to, and it was unlikely any cab driver would take them out this far without charging a hefty fee that neither girl was willing to pay––even together.

  Alna and Marianna said nothing else for the next ten minutes it took to reach the museum, coming to the unspoken agreement that remaining as quiet as possible was in their best interest.

  Seeing as the road they were walking alongside was a highway, various vehicles passed them by as they went about their day. One vehicle, in particular, a black car with yellow stripes on the hood, even slowed down and pulled onto the shoulder. The driver, a woman who looked to be in her forties, opened the window, and leaned over as far as she could to address them.

  “You girls need a ride?” the woman shouted as a large, black truck zipped by, blasting music loud enough that it probably inhibited the driver’s ability to hear their surroundings.

  Alna let Marianna take the lead, wishing everyone would simply ignore them. This was already going to be hard enough as it was.

  “No, but thank you,” Marianna said, endlessly polite as she was. “We’ve got help on the way.”

  The woman nodded, looking relieved by this response. She clearly was not all that thrilled at the idea of picking up two hitchhikers, no matter how unassuming they looked.

  “Have a good day, then,” the woman said. She didn’t wait for a response before rolling up her window and pulling back onto the highway. Soon, her car had disappeared among the various passing vehicles.

  “We don’t look homeless, do we?” Marianna asked, sounding both bewildered and entertained. She reached up and fiddled with a few strands of her wig. The light chocolate curls had lost some volume since Marianna wore it last, looking more like corkscrew curls than the large, voluminous curls they’d been before. This was to be expected, since both of their disguises consisted of various items bought from dollar stores and thrift stores. Perhaps they would find Marianna a new wig after this.

  “Not at all,” Alna assured her. And indeed, they didn’t. That would have drawn too much attention, and that was the opposite of what they wanted. “We do, however, look as though we’ve lost our vehicle.”

  Nothing more was said after that until they reached the museum. The museum (for the owner had never given it an official name) looked no different from the last time they had been here. It was the same tiny village with its thirteen buildings, each depicting a part of Starla’s history. There was a gravel parking lot in front of the main building, which wasn’t the largest but was by far the most modern-looking in appearance. It resembled a small townhouse, barely tall enough for particularly tall people to walk upright in, had no more than three rooms in total on the top floor, and a basement that was off-limits. The only significant difference that Alna could see was not any about the house itself, or that the parking lot was practically empty, but the police car parked there.

  Crouched next to a tree, Marianna at her side, at least ten metres away from the building itself, Alna tried to observe the scene. She ignored the flicker of annoyance that sparked through her. That the police would leave someone behind to guard the crime scene, even after gathering all that they needed, was a possibility Alna had prepared herself to face. Still, she’d held onto the foolish hope that the museum would be deserted for their benefit.

  This complicated things, but did not make the task at hand impossible. She and Marianna would get in and glean what information they could from the scene of the murder. They had to.

  On her left, Alna could hear various cars and trucks zipping by on the highway. Just being outside made Alna feel exposed (especially with the police officer nowhere in sight), but they were safe for the moment. Somewhat.

  Alna leaned closer to Marianna, ducking her head as she said, “Do you see the police officer anywhere?”

  A light breeze swept through the air, rustling the green leaves above their heads. Alna would have found that calming if she hadn’t been so focused on the task ahead.

  “No,” Marianna murmured. She was leaning so close that the hair from her wig tickled Alna’s neck. “Do you think they’re inside the main building?”

  That was, of course, a possibility Alna had considered, but she didn’t begrudge Marianna for asking the (rather obvious) question. The main building of this museum served many purposes. Such as being the place Teagan McKenzie’s murder took place in, and the computer smashed.

  “It’s possible,” Alna muttered, staring at the quaint little building. This yielded exactly nothing, as all the curtains had been closed, blocking the murder scene. “In which case, we may have to come back at another time.”

  They fell quiet for a few minutes. Alna dared not bring them closer to the museum, for she had no desire for her or Marianna to be arrested.

  Some more minutes passed. Alna’s legs had long since lost circulation. She adjusted her position. Marianna, she noticed not for the first time, was becoming agitated. That was understandable. Although it sent a stab of guilt through Alna.

  Marianna’s nightmares were not as frequent these days, but they had not disappeared altogether.

  Noticing her gaze, Marianna immediately stilled her fidgeting, giving Alna an apologetic look.

  It was then that their opportunity finally came. As if something had predetermined a set of moves, a police officer exited the museum’s main building. Chinese heritage, dressed up in his suit complete with a gun strapped to his hip, the man gave off such an air of authority that Alna couldn’t help but think he deserved her respect.

  The officer then did the most convenient thing Alna could have hoped for, given the circumstances: he walked away, looking as if he intended to do a round of the museum. That could give her and Marianna anywhere between fifteen to thirty minutes, depending on how thorough the officer intended to be, how difficult getting into the actual building would be, and a multitude of other factors that flitted through Alna’s head.

  “Let’s go,” Alna said, placing her hand on Marianna’s shoulder and giving her a light shove. Marianna didn’t hesitate like she would have when they first started working together. She straightened up, striding toward the main building with long, purposeful strides. Already Alna could see her eyeing the front door, calculating how long it would take her to unlock if she were the one doing it. They’d agreed that Alna would do the lock-picking this time.

  Which was exactly what Alna did. As the police officer entered one of the many buildings on the museum’s premises, Alna took Marianna’s purse from her, her pace quickening. She wasted no time in crouching next to the front door, hastily removing the tools she needed, and proceeding to unlock the door for them.

  In under a minute, they were inside.

  The interior of the building didn’t look much different from the last time Alna had been here, well over a year ago. The main room had a desk across from where the door itself was located. On either side was a door, one with a sign, knocked askew, that said Private in large, white letters. This, Alna knew, was the door that led to McKenzie’s basement home.

  The door on the other side of the desk, however, was very much open to the public. This led to a washroom meant for everyone’s use, as well as a storage room, which was always kept locked. That was not what Alna and Marianna were here for.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  It was, in fact, in this very room that McKenzie’s life had ended. The empty spot on her oak desk, with few pieces of plastic or innards in sight, attested to her broken computer, and subsequently, the lack of security footage available. The police would have taken the old computer, monitor and all, to see if there was anything they could glean from it. Given the pictures Alna had seen of the computer, smashed nearly beyond recognition, Alna doubted they would find anything. But it wasn’t outside the realm of possibilities.

  Marianna wiped the soles of her shoes on the welcome mat. Without any instruction from Alna, she walked over to McKenzie’s desk, bending down to examine it, barren though it was. Alna was close behind, but instead of approaching the desk, Alna knelt next to the bloodstain in front of it.

  “How long?” Marianna asked, her voice low and anxious. Alna understood. Knowing that a police officer was on the premises kept Alna on edge, forcing her to look at the door often. Being caught could lead to dire consequences for both of them. Even more so than before.

  Without lifting her head, Alna answered lowly, “No more than fifteen minutes. Ten would be better.”

  Alna caught Marianna’s nod off of the corner of her eye.

  Alna went back to examining the bloodstain. It was far from fresh and indeed looked as though someone had attempted to clean it up to make the room appear less like a murder scene. Given that the floor was made of panelled wood, any finishing was worn down by the various people who walked over it. As a result, the blood had seeped into the wood itself, making it impossible to remove it without changing the wood panels altogether.

  The killers, Alna observed, had refined their technique since killing the security guard at Brigate Museum and putting Cherise Sawyer in a life-threatening position. Instead of bashing the back of her head with a random, nearby item such as a miniature statue, or stabbing McKenzie with her own kitchen knife, McKenzie’s throat had been slit from behind. This, according to police reports, left her dead in mere minutes. The killers had even thought to take the murder weapon with them this time, leaving less for the police to go on.

  Alna only needed thirty-one seconds to conclude that the bloodstain wouldn’t yield any relevant information. Unlike when Marianna’s former teacher, William Corday, had been killed in his living room, there was no careless footprint left in the blood and no other marks that could lead them to the people responsible.

  Standing up, Alna cursory glance around the room. Nothing immediately jumped out at her, other than that it was much less cluttered than it had been the last time she and Marianna were here. There was still a table at the left end of the room, various papers scattered across it that the police must have decided were not important to their investigation. Next to that table was a dresser that looked like it belonged in a bedroom more than anywhere else. Faded and quite old, the dresser didn’t give off the impression of holding any significant secrets, but given the size of this room, and the amount of stuff the police had removed to solve McKenzie’s murder, there was little else for Alna to inspect at the very moment.

  “Anything yet?” Alna asked as she walked over to the dresser. She ignored the flutter of anxiety that appeared in her stomach. They had a bit of time. If the officer on duty wanted to do his job properly, he wouldn’t be back for a little while yet.

  Alna opened the first drawer.

  “If I had found anything,” Marianna said, sounding stressed herself, “I’d tell you.” Her voice sounded farther away now, indicating she was now on the opposite side of the room from Alna.

  “Of course,” Alna said, closing the first drawer. There was nothing of importance in there, barring some paperwork from over five years ago that, after a quick scan, had no discernable relation to McKenzie’s death.

  Alna used her phone to check the time, resisting the urge to let out a curse. They had been in here for over eight minutes. Soon it would be time to leave. She went through the drawers with more speed.

  Nothing.

  Worthless.

  Irrelevant.

  Unrelated.

  Nothing, nothing, nothing.

  “Fuck,” Alna said, without meaning to. Startled, Alna silently berated herself for dropping such a crass, unnecessary word.

  Feeling Marianna’s surprised gaze on her, Alna once more checked the time. Over ten minutes. Alna’s lips thinned in annoyance. She turned to Marianna, who had paused in her research to frown at Alna.

  “Time to go,” Alna stated, allowing the frustration to leak into her voice. The dents between Marianna’s eyebrows only deepened at that and she gave the paper-covered table she was standing next to a forlorn look.

  “Okay.”

  They cleaned up after themselves. Getting out of the building was much harder than getting in. Not only did they have to be even more cautious––making sure the officer wasn’t close enough to spot them––but Alna also had to lock the door behind them.

  The officer, Marianna told Alna as she locked the door once more, was nowhere to be seen. That was both good and bad. Alna resisted the urge to work faster. Any scratches she left behind would be a dead giveaway of their presence.

  “Still no officer,” Marianna said, just as Alna finished locking the door. “But I think that person driving by saw us.”

  Alna made no verbal response. There was nothing to be done about it. She stood up, taking Marianna’s gloved hand in her own. The sun beat down on them as they ran back to the trees, and even through her wig, Alna could feel the oppressive heat warming the top of her head.

  Those who drove by the museum undoubtedly saw two girls running across the grass as they made their way back to the coverage of the trees as fast as possible. If they found this strange, no one stopped to confront the girls.

  By the time they had reached the safety of the trees, Alna was sweating rather more than she cared for. Summer was well on its way, proven by the increasingly warm weather, which was broken by drafts of wind that blew through the trees. Of all days Alna could have chosen for them to don disguises, this had to be the worst. As she rested her hand on a nearby tree, Alna could feel the sweat gathering on her scalp and dripping down her neck. She needed a cold shower when she got home.

  But Alna wasn’t ready to leave yet. So long as the officer stayed in the main building, Alna and Marianna should be able to continue their search in the very building the killers had stolen the book from. Not only had the killers smashed McKenzie’s computer, but they had also located the security cameras in the building in question, and smashed them, too. There was little to no chance of him being aware of their presence if they were careful.

  She said as much to Marianna, who, despite looking troubled at Alna’s change of mind, nodded her assent.

  A few minutes passed before the police officer appeared again. Evidently, he had done the mandatory check of all the buildings, as he was now exiting the miniature library. The last building, if one went through them in order.

  The officer swiped an arm across his forehead, looking miserable as he escaped to the safety of the main building.

  They wasted no time once the officer was inside. This time, Alna didn’t have to give Marianna any kind of signal. Instead of waiting for a cue from Alna, Marianna started forward, seeming to know which building they were heading for. It wasn’t the library, either.

  The book stolen from McKenzie’s museum had, in fact, been a replication of a journal kept by Gloria Brigate/Wallstone. It wasn’t worth nearly as much as the authentic version, which the killers hadn’t snatched during their break-in at the Brigate Museum. That one was well-protected, and, if sold, was worth more than her parents’ salaries.

  The copy at this museum would likely be worth at least a couple thousand dollars, considering its startling likeness to the original. More, if the killers convinced a potential buyer that it was the original. McKenzie had done the replication herself, as one sign said, using images online and a couple of trips to the Brigate Museum as references.

  McKenzie’s replicated version of the journal had been kept in a house meant to look like those people lived in over a hundred years ago. The journal itself once rested in the living room, laying open on top of a writing desk next to a window.

  There was nothing about the building that immediately drew the eye, other than how small it was. It was a small cabin that held five rooms, barely big enough to fit a married couple, much less their children.

  Marianna headed straight for the front door, obviously eager to be away from prying eyes. Alna was not quick to follow her. She slowed down.

  Just at the foot of the small stairway was a metal trash can, tethered to the deck by a chain connected to the rail. This in itself was not truly worthy of a second look, as its presence in the museum was obvious. Rather, Alna was interested in what may be inside. After all, the killers might have needed to discard something on their way out of the museum. Alna doubted the police had overlooked it, but even still, being thorough never hurt.

  After lifting the lid, Alna found nothing worthy of note. There were the expected candy wrappers, checkered paper that was once wrapped around a burger, and some cigarette butts. Alna dug around a bit with no small amount of distaste, but concluded there was nothing important inside.

  “Alna?” Marianna said as she replaced the lid. She sounded anxious.

  “One moment,” Alna said. She flattened herself on the healthy grass, peering underneath the deck. Without a flashlight, it was difficult to make out anything. Alna was about to pull out her phone when something caught her eye.

  The killers were getting smarter and smarter, Alna thought as she picked up the cellphone from the ground. Its case was a glittery pink, simmering in the sunlight as Alna held it. The screen was a mess of web-light cracks, looking to Alna as if someone had brought down a heavy object on the phone. A boot, perhaps.

  Alna couldn’t help smirking to herself. She sat up, holding up the phone for Marianna to see. “This should prove helpful.”

  Relief filtered into Marianna’s eyes. “So can we go now?”

  “Indeed, my darling Whitlock. Let’s go home.”