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“And?”

She bites her lip. “I wanted to wait to open the email with you. So, you ready?”

I nod my head eagerly, impatience ballooning in my chest.

She opens the envelope first and slides out the results. Laying them flat on the island, we both nearly bonk heads in our pursuit to read them.

…concerning the two samples provided, it has been determined that the handwriting…

“Oh my God. It’s a match!” I squeal, almost breathless from excitement.

Daya grins, giddy with her own excitement.

“Okay, now for the real test.” She slides her laptop closer, her email already pulled up. She clicks on an unopened message.

Daya,

I checked into the serial number like you asked. It was pretty fucking difficult, whoever scratched that number did it pretty good. But not well enough to get past me. The serial number was tracked down to a buyer by the name of Frank Seinburg. Hope this helps.

James

“Oh my god!” I shout, nearly jumping out of the seat with excitement.

“Holy shit,” Daya breathes, her expression full of shock and awe. “He did it. It was fucking Frank.”

"He was in love with her, and he must've found out about Ronaldo and killed her in a fit of anger," I conclude, nearly stumbling over my words.

Daya whips around, grabbing the bottle of Grey Goose sitting on the counter. "This calls for a celebratory shot. We can finally bring justice to Gigi. Even if Frank is dead, at least the world will know that he was a piece of shit.”

I grin, a weird mix of emotion clogging my throat. I'm thrilled that we solved her case. But I'm also sad. And I'm struggling to pin down why exactly. This murder investigation consumed a large part of my life for the past several months. And letting it go almost feels like losing a small piece of myself.

"We still don't know who hid the watch," I muse before taking the shot. My face screws up from the taste. I don't care what anyone says. Alcohol tastes like shit when it's not mixed with something. I will die on that hill.

But I do relish in the burn as it slides down my throat and settles in my stomach, fire blooming and warming me from the inside out.

I scoot the shot glass back to her, signaling another.

Daya glances at me, and what looks like shame is clouded in her sage eyes.

"What?" I ask flatly.

She points towards my refilled shot glass before shooting hers back. I follow suit. This time it feels like this shot is to gain courage. For what, apparently only Daya knows.

"So, I uh, Frank’s note wasn’t the only one I sent in," Daya starts, hesitation prominent in her expression. Her hand lifts to fiddle with her nose ring, but she catches herself and twists her fingers together instead.

"Okay," I say, narrowing my eyes in suspicion. She's being weird. And not the kind of weird that involves us taking our pants off and dancing to I'm a Barbie Girl at three o'clock in the morning while drinking boxed wine.

That’s only happened once, but we both woke up the next morning with regrets.

She sucks in a deep breath, and I'm tempted to tell her that we're sharing the same oxygen—she's not going to find any particles in there that will give her superpowers and make her brave. I'd know, because I want to run and hide from whatever she's about to say.

She picks up the manilla envelope and slides out two more pieces of paper. Shooting one last glance my way, she sets down the documents and we both read them over.

One says it’s a match, and another says no match.

“What am I looking at?”

“The handwriting in the confession note matches your Nana's handwriting," she rushes out so quickly, it takes several beats before I comprehend what she said.