It’s been two weeks.

You go to visit her, but she’s just lay­ing on her couch (why does her of­fice have a couch?), eat­ing a gi­ant pan­cake.

They killed him. Does­n’t she care?

She should be out look­ing. Out hunt­ing them down!

“You’re bor­ing.” That’s what she said. The case? Bor­ing too.

“For now,” she says.

Un­til what? Does she have any leads? “Nope.” Is she do­ing any­thing to find any leads? “Not at all.” Does she even know any­thing?

“Not re­ally.”

You just stare. You don’t even glare. How can you re­spond to that?

A fly flies into your mouth.

She spits out some pan­cake as she laughs at you.

The only way any­thing’ll move on this case, she says, is if you be­come less bor­ing. Well, you’re sorry she finds you so bor­ing. It’s not like you can help it.

You ask her why she does­n’t try be­ing less bor­ing, but it was a re­ally fool­ish thing to say, as she’s cer­tainly any­thing but bor­ing. She’s… well, the op­po­site of bor­ing, what­ever that is.

An enigma.

And she knows it.

You turn to leave. You don’t know what to do. You don’t know how to hide your tears.

As you leave, her voice calls out:

“They like the num­ber thir­teen.”

She does­n’t elab­o­rate.