The heavens smiled fondly down at Seth Dawson, or at least that was what the funeral director claimed. Sunshine's yellow brush painted Moorwell's graveyard in glowing strips, dandelions and grass swaying and emblazoned with bold, lifeful colours, the church spire above piercing only blue skies. It gleamed practically white, the sun bouncing off it in such a way that several onlookers had commented the spire's tip appeared to hold a daylit star. Befitting of Seth, apparently. Streaming banners trailed the church grounds, dotted with white and silver stars upon glossy midnight-hued backdrops, and the teenage actor's face was plastered an infinite number of times amongst them. If Tristan didn't know any better, he'd have thought this church had converted religion and chosen Seth as its new god.

But he did know better, and so did the crowd, despite the absently-flung darts of optimism exchanged in sprightly mutters. The sun grinned and the skies basked in spring's tail end, but down on the ground, the sobering sensation of tragedy clung like mist and dew. Bloodied mystery had brought them here, and no-one had truly forgotten that. Least of all him.

He'd ducked entering the service itself; churches weren't his favourite places, and he had no desire to listen to some weeping eulogy. Besides, it was far easier to go unnoticed on the outside, where footsteps didn't have a hollow echo and watercolour glasswork didn't have eyes that seemed to track his every movement. The air was far simpler to use as a cloak. Wrapped in his usual brown jacket with his hands in his pockets and his face turned aside, he lingered on the outskirts of the gathering, practising the art of blending with the background.

An old gravestone sat at his feet. His eyes had scanned its inscription several times by now and yet he still couldn't entirely recall what it said; his attention was elsewhere, his focus channelled into picking out voices and glimpses of faces in his periphery. Drab black-and-whites swam past. Suits and dresses, all neatly pressed, some even glittering with tributary stars of their own. Everyone here was practically screaming with a desire to stand out, to be noticed, despite the reason they were attending and the reason they wore such colourless shades. It was clear that Seth and his family kept a very particular kind of company. Adjusting his jacket's collar, Tristan forced himself not to shrink inward, providing himself another reminder that he did not deserve to be regarded with any contempt, by these people or otherwise. He had the right and reason to be here of his own.

Perhaps the collective wardrobe had indeed become distracting, for it took him a few seconds longer than it should before he noticed that Kordyn had arrived. The folds of her skirt rippling like a pitch-black night sky, she paced with the slow, meandering stride of a shark, curving this way and that with disguised precision. As a result, it was difficult to tell what direction she'd come from. Wariness was sharp in all the angles of her expression. She'd come armed with silent secrets.

Tristan remained where he was, watching her out of the corner of his eye, though excitement's faint, steady hum hovered in the back of his mind. There was a certain satisfaction in seeing a theory come to fruition before his eyes.

Her spine straight as a rod, Kordyn's shadow-clad form drifted in amongst the crowd, losing clarity as they shielded her. She seemed to be craning her neck to look over the gathered heads as if searching for someone. A hand snagged her wrist, and she jolted to a startled halt.

Subtly, Tristan let his head turn in her direction. She'd been stopped by a tall, older couple, grey flecks splashing conditioned jet-black locks and their clothes perfect: the man's suit was stiff and neatly folded, and the woman's modest dress flowed with ocean wave-like grace around her figure as she moved. It was her who now grasped Kordyn's hand. Her skin was polished and olive, and though her expression was hidden from Tristan, there was a certain quiver in her hands which betrayed her emotions just as well.

The familiarity of the man's features in particular was uncanny. These were most likely Seth's parents, very much famous in their own right. Had they met Kordyn before, then? Breath held, Tristan edged around the grave and forward a few steps, tracing an arc wide enough to catch a glimpse of Fiona Dawson's face.

Thick make-up and a gentle, forced smile made it difficult to tease out any sign of recognition, but Kordyn's tension radiated in stiff, wiry waves. Her eyes had gone wide. She blinked, and the surprise narrowed into something more concealed, but the reply her lips moved to shape was very brief. She offered a short flicker of a smile and tugged her hand free with jagged grace. The exchange only lasted a few more words, most of them from Fiona. There might well have been fresh tears surfacing in her eyes, though her smile was fixed as if set in cement. She dipped her head, and with what might've been a goodbye or a hurried offer of condolence, Kordyn excused herself and pattered back into the midst of the crowd.

This time, her predatory stride was that of a big cat slinking through undergrowth, claws hidden behind softened pads and destination straight ahead. She was aiming for the back of the church, beyond the graveyard, where a side street weaved towards a busier road. After clocking the location of the Dawsons to ensure they weren't moving any time soon -- they could be useful sources of information, once this umpteenth bout of grieving had passed -- Tristan headed for that road. With any luck, he could catch Kordyn as she stepped off the grass and keep watching as she travelled to wherever she was headed.

Low, dejected mutters strung the air he ducked his way through, jarred only by the occasional sniffle. That was one aspect of funerals he could admit he quite liked. They were quiet, lacking in energy, themed by sombre emotions and darkness. There was a peace about it.

Of course, however, his peace never lasted long. A sparkling woman dashed out from behind a group and only veered out of his way a split-second before collision, resulting in her shoulder knocking against his. Balance thrown by the impact, he stumbled and spun around, tongue sharp. The woman yelped and skittered back, leaping to speak before he could.

"Oh, gosh, I'm so sorry!" Her words tripped into one another, thoughtless and yet deeply emphatic at the same time. She clattered with the jungle of sound that was jewellery, bracelets tinkling as they knocked into one another and hooped earrings swinging wildly, all various shades of starry silver that provided stark contrast to her flowing ebony ponytail. She flung up both her hands and pointed her palms at him, though she only got a couple of rapid waves out of them before they stilled. Her mouth rounded in an exhausting flood of shock. "Wait. Oh! I know you!"

She pointed, her long silver nail jabbing at his chest. Tristan straightened, puzzled. "You do?"

"Yes, I--" She drew in a sharp breath, then snatched her hand back in a hurry, some kind of realisation spilling over her features. "I mean, uh, no, I don't know you."

Curiosity simmered, diverting his attention within the instant. He cast a glance in the direction Kordyn had vanished, internally sighed, and focused his gaze on this new woman. "But you clearly recognise me. Why?"

She reached up to play with her earring, unclasping and clasping it with a tiny scraping clink. A nervous giggle escaped her, and she edged a step back. "You know, I've just... seen you around. Walking. Yeah." Another step. "I'm going to go over here now."

"No." Careful to keep his movements slow and calm, he moved to block her. She gasped, flinching back, eyes darting around as if searching for aid from onlookers, but they were cast in the shadow of the church and just out of easy view. He shifted a little more to somewhat pin her closer to the wall and held her gaze. "Who are you?"

Her lower lip jutted out in a pout. "You don't know?"

"There'd be no use in asking the question if I did."

She swept a sleek velvet lock of hair behind her ear with a girlish huff, despite the fact that her facial structure clearly identified her as mid-twenties. "I'm Savannah Dawson. You do live under a rock, don't you?" Light laughter trailed her words, pricking holes in her apparent offence in a way that implied she didn't particularly mind not being recognised at all.

Perhaps it was her choice of words that instigated the memory, the way she spoke them as if repeating someone else's phrasing, or even the amount of time Tristan had spent mulling over the contents of a certain digital letter, but the connection clicked into place immediately. If this place was less public, he might've smiled. "Savannah," he echoed. "I believe we do know each other."

"No." She shook her head, earrings noisily tossed side to side. "No, I think I'm, uh... mistaking you for someone else. Yes. But it was nice to meet--"

"I feel you should know, Savannah, that I'm a detective." He tossed a quick glance over his shoulder. Kordyn hadn't reappeared, but he might've found his lead anyway. "There's no use in lying to me. I know everyone who is relevant to my case."

"Why would I be part of your case?" Savannah asked innocently, scratching her ear again.

"I'm investigating someone named Kordyn Jha."

Seth might've been a star actor, but his elder sister had not inherited the same skill. Her flinch was a downpour, emotive recognition tumbling from her expression and swelling in her eyes no matter how much her lips pinched together to conceal it. "Mhm." The hum's pitch danced higher than was natural. "That sounds interesting. Who is she?"

He folded his arms. "I expect you know better than I do, considering you were in her office the day before last."

She twitched. A shaky laugh slipped from her lips, tight with fear's constricting edge.

Something of a smile tugged at Tristan, small as he made it. It was rather satisfying to make someone crack. "I said there was no use in lying."

Stiff, she trailed her gaze across the crowd. Tristan didn't miss how long her attention lingered on her parents, ensuring they were sufficiently out of earshot, before she whispered her response. "How did you know?"

"I figured Kordyn was speaking to someone before I knocked. Yet the room was empty when I entered, and she was clearly rattled, and very hastily trying to get me to leave." He shrugged. "The natural assumption is that she was hiding someone. What I would really like to know is why you would go to such measures to keep your relationship a secret."

She rocked back on her heels. "I never said we were in a relationship."

"That I have another source for." He dug a hand into his trouser pocket for the USB drive, letting it poke out just enough for the hand-drawn crimson heart to be visible before he dropped it out of sight again. S. D. It really should've crossed his mind that there might be another significant player who bore those initials aside from Seth.

Savannah sucked in a heavy, ragged inhale and pulled again on her earring, her shoulders shrinking inward. Tears welled up in her eyes. She blinked hard, lip trembling as she looked down at her feet. "Look," she said, "I never meant for any of this to happen, okay? It was just... It all happened so fast, and I was scared, but it was so promising and I... I just wanted..."

Her words tumbled like a waterfall, flowing thick and fast without any real coherence, their sound muffled, indiscernible thunder. Tristan caught her gaze. "Tell me what happened."

She visibly swallowed, but nodded, a few short bobs of her head. "There was this... this girl. She had" -- she gestured with both hands, the motion outlining her head and curving at her shoulders -- "like, short-ish yellow hair, like straw, and round gold-rimmed glasses. Kind of pretty, in a subdued way, I guess. She said she was a journalist or a reporter or something like that. She wanted us to invite this group of people round to our parents' house while they were away, have them stay for a while -- five specific people, ones she gave us the names of. Kordyn was one of them." She sniffed and averted her eyes, the tears escaping to trail down her cheeks. "Seth didn't even want to do it. I... I convinced him it was a good idea. I'm the reason it happened."

An itch squirmed up Tristan's spine like it was coated in sand. He shifted from one foot to the other, though the unease did little to dampen his intrigue. "What drove you to convince him?" he asked, already guessing the answer. "Something the girl said?"

Savannah swept an inky lock of hair behind her ear and glanced up at him, lips twisted into something between a smile and a grimace. "If you read my message, you already know why. She said she could help me and Kordyn disappear." Another sniff. "Maybe I could've found another way but... Me and K, we've been together in secret for months now, and I guess I wanted someone to meet her before I ran. Seth wouldn't understand, but at least he'd know who she was. He would've liked her, I bet." She laughed lightly, a sad sound that fought its way free amongst the crying. "Stupid, I know. I got him k-killed over sentimentality."

Tristan swallowed, frowning at her persistent tears, her broken tone. A stronger smile wove her expression, gaze upturning with something teasing. "You're not very comfortable with this, are you?"

He clasped his hands together behind his back, chewing at his tongue, not entirely sure how to respond.

She laughed again. "It's alright. Seth never liked tears, either. Felt all awkward." Sadness flooded her eyes again, though sharper this time, honed into determination. She lifted her chin and stared him in the eyes. "If you want the facts, then both me and Kordyn were outside when it happened. She only went back inside when she heard noise. Leave her out of this, please. I did something wrong, not her."

He held her gaze. "There's no chance you're lying to me?"

"No point, like you said." She wrapped her arms around her middle, the brief surety fading as grief's shadow fell over her once more. She squeezed her eyes shut as her voice wavered and squeaked. "That girl killed my brother, and I... I just let her."

Sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth, Tristan hesitated, then stepped forward. His hand lifted and fell away again. How was he supposed to react to that? This kind of outburst hardly solved anything; tears were strange, useless, and failed to turn back time. He shook himself and reached for what he knew: the questions, the simple things. "So this girl, the journalist, did she--"

"That's enough." A firm hand landed on his shoulder, and his skin became hardened frost.

Tense, he looked to his left. Inspector Halley stood there, her navy police cap pulled low to shield her eyes from the sun and expression as tight and cold as her grip. She yanked, and Tristan stumbled back, watching as another police officer slid in protectively in front of Savannah. A third figure lingered behind him, glaring daggers Tristan's way. Kordyn. He noted how her gaze deliberately avoided trailing to Savannah.

"Good morning, officers!" Savannah tried to say with cheery innocence, finger swiping an underline beneath her eyes to dab at the lingering tears. Halley ignored her.

"Mr Young." Her voice had a stalking prowl to it, a sharpened, targeted quality that matched the pointed annoyance in her eyes. "We've been informed that you have been gathering information regarding police business alongside a loose relationship with the law. We will now escort you from these grounds. I suggest you comply; lack of cooperation may well result in a more severe punishment."

Tristan had no intention of being moved anywhere. He looked back at her evenly, connecting the dots. Kordyn had reported him, it seemed. Oddly amusing, considering he may well presently be about to prove her innocence. "I'm a registered detective," he said simply. "I have the right to do my job."

"I'd say your personal interest in Seth's case introduces some immoral bias." Accusatory bite loomed behind that corporate statement.

He didn't flinch. "I am capable of objectivism, I assure you."

Halley sighed, rough fingers curling into his shoulder. "Please just agree and come with me. It will make your life a lot easier." She briefly showed her teeth in a forced, unfriendly smile. "You're free to surrender any additional insight you might have to me and my team so it can be examined properly. I assure you, we have plenty of desire to see this case closed as quickly as possible."

"What's the matter here?"

The intruding voice meandered in with far less commanding force. It had the texture of cracking cement, or perhaps clay heated in an oven, which might have better matched the fake leathery tan slathered onto Seth's father's face. Ralph Dawson looked somehow even more neatly trimmed than his son had. Fiona Dawson hovered by his side, though her attention was on Savannah, her hand laid protectively on her daughter's arm. Savannah's lip was curled, her flickering smile taut with falsehood.

"Apologies to your family, Mr Dawson," Inspector Halley said with a dip of her head, apparently far more respectful to a well-known celebrity than anyone suspected of murder. Fair enough, Tratan supposed, though he still grimaced when she made another effort to manhandle him backward. "This man shouldn't have been allowed anywhere near you. I'll see to it that he is dealt with."

Fiona tugged at Savannah's arm, panic in her gaze. "How awful. He didn't hurt you, did he, darling?"

With a sharp shake of her head, Savannah wrenched herself free, her hands clasped daintily before her. Her breathing had accelerated to a clearly put-on level; there was no real fear hidden behind her forcibly wide expression. "No, stop!" she cried. "T-there must be some misunderstanding. What has he done wrong?"

Exasperation etched a scowl into Halley's face. "That is yet to be proven in full, but--"

"He's my friend." Savannah's voice trailed into a rather pathetic whimper, skittering in to sever the response. She sniffled and snatched up Tristan's hands before he could pull away, gripping him bone-achingly tight as she pressed his knuckles against her chest. His flinch proved useless. "He's helping me," she added, eyes wet and pleading. "Please, don't take him away. All I want is... is to bring justice for Seth, and..." A sob shuddered up abruptly to crash over her pitiful voice, and before he could predict it, she was flinging her arms around him, tearstained face buried in his chest.

Her cries were loud enough to make him wince, surely resounding off his ribcage in a discordant, abrasive harmony. The crowd of startled eyes that turned his way was another set of scratching notes. Savannah shoved her head in harder, arm squeezing in such a way that it felt like she was nudging him to do something, though it took him a few seconds of processing before he worked it out.

An embrace. The battle not to cringe was hard-won.

Still, stiff as a board, he managed to bring his arms around her slender figure and place his hands on her back. It felt awkward, but it would have to do. Ralph was approaching Halley.

He held out a hand to shield Tristan and the attached Savannah from the police inspector. "Officer, forgive me, but I can't let you part my daughter from her clearly beloved friend. This is a sad day for us. I'm sure you can understand, and overlook whatever petty crime you've convinced yourself this man has committed. He is welcome here."

Halley's grimace twisted in a way Tristan very much related to. She folded her arms. "All due respect, Mr Dawson, but the investigation Tristan Young is conducting can't be allowed to--"

"But I want him to investigate." Savannah's plea became less muffled as she lifted her head, though it wavered plenty.

That was enough for Ralph. He tilted his chin up. "Does it not matter more whether we, as the centre of his issue, allow it?"

Halley inhaled. "Well--"

"Then we allow it." With salt-and-pepper coif fraying in the graveyard's breeze, Ralph Dawson turned to face Tristan. "Well then. Who do you believe killed my son, detective?"

Whether it was from a man seemingly made of plastic or not, that title had a warm glow in Tristan's heart. He'd have intelligently adjusted his glasses were his hands not presently preoccupied with touching Savannah's back. He cleared his throat instead, lining up the connected dots in his mind. It was a good time to be asked such a question. All those dots led to one place, like stepping stones across a misty, milk-white river.

"I'd like to talk to the girl I call suspect number one," he said. "Constance Clark."

Chapter Wordcount: 3530

Total Wordcount: 24477

I'm just kind of writing words by this point and hoping for the best. But hey, we're getting somewhere :0

Savannah is my new favourite tbh. She's funny.

- Pup