Sitting in her car, Sara stared at the number on the scrap of paper, her phone sitting on her lap. Heat filled the space as the car engine purred, providing warm relief from the cold night air.

This scrap of paper means something.

Either it's Leah's, or it's Darius' and is therefore some kind of evidence about what he's hiding.

And it's not Leah's paper – that's Darius' handwriting. Leah writes too quickly for it to look that neat.

Steeling her nerves, Sara picked up her phone and dialed the number, growing tenser at each number pressed. Finally, she had dialed the whole thing and pressed the phone to her ear, her leg shaking as she waited for the owner of the number to pick up.

"Hello?" The voice was male, gruff.

Sara was ready with her lie. "Hello, is Tom there?" she asked in a cheery tone.

There was a pause. She could just imagine how confused the guy was, and hoped with all her might his name wasn't Tom. "No, you've got the wrong number."

"Really?" Sara asked, rustling the paper in her hand like she was consulting it. "No, this is the number, he gave it to me. It's even in his handwriting. Look, the joke's not funny, just get me Tom, okay?"

"I'm telling you, this number doesn't belong to Tom!"

"Then who does it belong to?" Sara challenged, not daring to hold her breath. "Is that you, Mark? Don't you dare tell me Tom's not there, I know he is! Just because you and your parents don't like me is no reason –"

"This number belongs to Eugene Michaelson!" the man bellowed. "I don't know any Toms, I don't know any Marks, I don't know their parents, and I sure as hell don't know you!"

He hung up.

Sara set down her phone, feeling strangely satisfied. And yet, at the same time, anger twisted around that satisfaction, filling all the empty space inside Sara with insidious rage. Eugene Michaelson. Darius had the phone number of the witness, of Leah's so-called "lover." Now, why would he have that?

And Leah found it. Perhaps she called it, like I did. But how is that connected to her death? What was Darius doing that Leah found out? Why did he kill her? And how is Eugene Michaelson connected?

Sara stared at the paper for several more moments before picking up her phone, opening the map app and typing in the name of the bar. Within a second, she had directions from Leah's house to Leo's Bar.

Time to find out what this place is.

Backing out of the driveway, Sara paused once in the road to slip the Take This To Your Grave CD into the disc drive, which she had taken from Leah's album rack. As the beeping of a phone kicked off the first song, the heavy guitars and Patrick Stump's vocals quickly taking over, Sara allowed all her anger to rise to the top, humming, to match the raw anger of the music. It was the perfect fuel for her quest for justice.

"I hope you choke on those words, that kiss, that bottle. Confess, bury me in memory."

It felt like Leah could be talking to Darius and Sara relished the thought of Leah singing Fall Out Boy at her husband, even if it was only from the grave. It would be exactly Leah's style, to tell Darius off using the opening track off of her favorite CD.

"So bury me, in memory."

It took twenty minutes for Sara to reach Leo's Bar, which was tucked at the far end of an alleyway, for some reason. It looked like someone had tried hard to keep it inconspicuous, hard to casually find.

Well, there had to be a bad reason it was written on that scrap of paper, right?

She turned the car off, cutting off a song in the middle of one of Pete Wentz' screams, which summed up her mood pretty accurately. Carefully, Sara stepped out of the car, placing her hand reassuringly over the gun hidden in her coat pocket. After locking her car, she started into the alleyway, slowly heading for the door into the bar.

So, what was Darius really into? And how does it involve the witness and the bar?

Sara tried to make a mental list of all the horrible things Darius could be doing, but she didn't get past the second item on her list – drug dealer – without summoning up another memory of Leah.

"I still think it's funny your job is basically working as a licensed drug dealer, Sara."

"Yeah, well, someone's gotta do it, right?"

"You mean sell drugs?"

"No! I mean work as a pharmacist. Someone's gotta make sure that the medicines you and all your kind prescribe get to the right people."

"Oh, so now I've got a kind, do I?"

"Yeah, you and all the other doctors and nurses."

"Look at us, a perfect pair. I find the clients and you sell the merchandise. Except it's perfectly legal when we do it because look! Education! Degrees! Licenses!"

"As long as you never put it that way to anyone else, Leah, yeah."

Sara pushed away the memory as she approached the door to Leo's Bar. A rotten sign hung over the door, the painted letters faded and barely legible between the missing paint and the rotting wood. The snow around the door was thin and dirty, pockmarked with many footprints heading to and leaving the bar. Cigarette smoke lingered in the air, causing Sara to snort forcefully, covering her nose and mouth with her hand.

Keeping her other hand on her pocket where her gun was, Sara took a deep breath, wrinkling her nose at the smell of smoke. She had no clue what she was walking into, just that whatever it was, she would confront it. For Leah. For justice.

This is all for you, Leah.

Sara shoved open the door.