You’ve al­ways had mem­ory prob­lems. Not like her.

You star­tle. Was that—?

You’re sure she must be chas­ing you. You’re sure she must be right on your tail.

The De­tec­tive.

They say she al­ways knows. They say she rarely par­tic­i­pates in a case. They say if she par­tic­i­pated in all the cases, there would­n’t be any crime. Every­one’d be much too scared to com­mit any.

She would­n’t want that.

It would­n’t be fun. Her fun is in the chase.

You don’t know why you run. You don’t know why you hide.

So you killed the boy. You don’t know why, you don’t care. Some­one wanted him dead.

He was sup­posed to die, be­cause that’s what you were told to do, and that’s what you did, and that’s that.

Peo­ple die every day.

But The De­tec­tive does­n’t get in­volved every day.

You won­der why she’s so in­ter­ested. What’s so spe­cial about the boy?

Only now do you be­gin to wish you knew why you killed him. Per­haps if you had known, you would­n’t have. Per­haps if you had known, you could have guessed she would get in­volved. Per­haps, if you had known, you would have re­fused.

Did you miss some­thing? Could you have fore­seen this?

You search for the lit­tle piece of pa­per with your or­ders.

You should prob­a­bly burn it–or at least plant it on some­one else–but you don’t, and it’s not like she needs it to find you any­way. She’ll know you when she sees you.

If she does­n’t know you al­ready.

It’s a funny job.

Killing a boy? That’s nor­mal. Easy. Noth­ing strange.

But the ex­act­ing con­di­tions for the body, down to blood smears, scuff marks, and light an­gles?

And you’d never po­si­tion the light that way. Not that you’re an artist.

Are you an artist? You could be. Stu­pid fuzzy mem­ory.

You can’t even re­mem­ber what you were paid. You hope you charged a lot.

Then again, soon, it prob­a­bly won’t mat­ter.

She’ll find you. Just as soon as she gets bored.

Shh! What was that? Is it—