“Well, now what?” Jane asked.

A full day had passed. They were sitting in the Grand Hall, eating lunch – Jane stabbing aggressively at pieces of schnitzel, Matt largely devoid of appetite. It had been more than twenty‑four hours since they’d woken up to the news of Ed’s death and the idea that the tragedy was anything but self-inflicted was seeming less and less likely. The police had packed up and gone, having recovered nothing from Ed’s computer but nevertheless having swept both roof and grounds and finding nothing to indicate foul play. The full report was due in a day or two but Matt already knew what it would say. He’d looked around the roof himself – albeit under close supervision – and sweet-talked one of the medical examiners who’d been first on the scene. Everything pointed to the same conclusion: Ed had been working in his lab alone, gone up to the roof alone, and jumped straight off, alone. He didn’t know enough about footprints and blood-splatter analysis to debate the police and paramedics’ conclusions – and besides, what reason did they have to lie? It was all consistent. Matt had exhausted every avenue he could think of, run down every so-called ‘lead’. Jane had helped as best she could between training, which continued unabated even in the face of tragedy – but Matt could tell she was only doing it as a favour to his feelings. Which was kind of sweet actually, if not a little belittling.

Of course, Matt had to keep reminding himself, there was still the text. But even he was starting to doubt whether that actually meant anything. The fire in his chest was fading, a part of him slowly turning towards the sad, miserable truth that everyone but him seemed able to believe. His friend had killed himself. Sometimes life sucks. And he couldn’t do anything but try to move on.

I’m so sorry it has to be like this. For the pain you’re going to go through. We both are.

“I’m going for a walk,” he answered. He put down his unused spoon, the bowl of pumpkin soup untouched, and pushed away from the table. He could feel Jane’s eyes on the back of his neck as he left, but if she had something to say she didn’t say it, and she didn’t try to stop him. Matt pulled on his coat and scarf and set out into the snow.

*****

Maybe he was wrong, Matt thought, as he moved between the pine trees – maybe the message had been some kind of genius thing. Maybe Ed had had one of his moments and just assumed Matt would get his meaning. Maybe it wasn’t a warning; maybe it was meant to be comforting. ‘I’ll be with you in the dawn,’ or something poetic like that. Or an acronym. ‘Don’t Anybody Worry Now’; ‘Damn Acolytes Were Nasty’; ‘Deer Always Want Nuts’. Except Ed had never much struck him as the poetic-nonsense type.

Matt sighed, his breath steaming in the cold air as he stepped over a downed log, boots compacting the snow, hands nestled firmly in his pockets. It was mercifully clear – no wind, no clouds. He didn’t know how long it’d last but he wasn’t headed anywhere particular. He’d set out west, where the snow from experience tended not to be quite as deep, but without any goal in mind. He’d been this way before, to pick plants or look at birds or something stupid – but today Matt just walked for the sake of walking.

He trekked for what could have been an hour, until the cold began nipping around his heels and Matt realised he should start heading back. As if on cue, a light dusting of flakes began to fall, their tiny white bodies nesting momentarily on his shoulders and hood before melting away into nothing. Yup. Definitely time to go back. Miserable as he was, Matt had no desire to be stuck in a snowstorm. He turned and trudged back in the direction of his own tracks, mutely remembering coming out here once before, to get herbs for that stupid tea that’d made Ed sick. His eyes prickled and a heavy tightness squeezed across his chest.

Preoccupied as was and with his hood up around his head, Matt barely had time to register the sound of running footsteps to his right before a grey-white figure came hurtling out from between two trees and almost bowled him over.

“Hey!” shouted Matt, stumbling backwards, barely scraping out of the way before the runner barrelled into him.

“Whoa!” yelled the stranger, skidding off sideways, almost falling into the snow. The man – because Matt could see now it was a man, a sullen-faced, mousey-haired man in his mid to late thirties – held out a hand and steadied himself on a tree trunk, breathing heavily. “Sheesh. Sorry. Didn’t see you.”

“Yeah, me neither,” replied Matt, with some hesitation, naturally wary of strange men who came running at him in the middle of the woods. The stranger glanced around them, bent over, resting his hands on his knees and panting a little, oblivious to Matt’s misgivings.

“You see a kid go past here?” he asked, the words whistling out from underneath a thick brown moustache. Matt shook his head.

“No,” he answered, distrustful. This guy seemed sane enough but that was probably how the more successful serial killers operated. “No kids. Just me.” He glanced as discretely as possible around him to see if there was a stick or other some other potential hitting implement nearby, just in case the need arose.

“You didn’t see where he went?” asked the man, sounding confused. He turned his head from side to side, squinting between the trees. “I don’t get it. I chased him for like ten minutes. Shouted, I- I could’ve sworn he was right there.” As he continued to look around, Matt took in the stranger’s strange appearance. He was dressed head to toe in patterned snow-camo – which might have explained why Matt hadn’t seen him sooner – with worn black boots and a grey hood hanging loose behind his neck. There was dirt under his fingernails, a day or two worth of stubble on his chin, and small brown hairs making their way out of an uneven nose. He was also clutching a chunky black camera in one hand, but the man almost looked like he had forgotten he was holding it.

“You lose your son?” Matt asked with trepidation, still leaning back and away from the stranger. The man scoffed, still peering around him.

“Do I look like I have a son?” he asked. Matt had a feeling that question was supposed to be rhetorical. “Nah, nah,” the man kept on, sounding distracted. He shook his head, still throwing the odd glance from space to space between the trees, “I’m only thirty-two.”

“Ok,” said Matt, a bit perplexed, unsure how deeply he wanted to investigate this rabbit-hole, “So… who’s this kid you’re after?”

“Hell if I know,” the photographer shrugged. He straightened up slightly, rubbing the small bald patch on the back of his head. “I was just minding my own business back at the tent when I see this little boy running between the trees.” He paused, shaking his head. “Couldn’t have been more than ten. All pale and stuff. Blonde, blue eyes.”

Matt’s breath stopped in his chest.

“What?” he whispered.

Death stalks Morningstar.

“Yeah, and so I mean I was worried,” the stranger continued, oblivious to Matt’s sudden vertigo, the hammering in his chest, “It’s cold, the kid’s in a t-shirt and shorts. I figured maybe he’s just started ‘porting, maybe he’s lost. I’m not a monster.”

“Where did he go?!” Matt demanded.

The man shrugged. “I don’t know,” he replied distractedly, craning his neck to look around, “That’s what I’m saying. I mean I’m just out here taking photos and-”

Suddenly he stopped. His eyes swung back to Matt and he let out a low groan, “Oh screw me. You’re an Acolyte, aren’t you?”

“And you’re paparazzi,” said Matt, his voice turning colder.

“Oh come on,” the photographer moaned at the contempt in Matt’s tone. He gingerly held up his hands, “Don’t say it like that. It’s just a living man. You know how it is.” He winced, scrunching up his face. “Please don’t hurt me.”

“Give me one good reason why not,” Matt growled as he glared daggers at the man, voice dripping with fake confidence.

“Come on!” the photographer pleaded, his hands still raised. “I’ve only been here a week! A buddy of mine, up in Boston, he said they’re paying two grand a piece for a shot of the empath girl, and if I just lay low enough I-”

“You take any photos?” snarled Matt, cutting him off.

“Only a few,” the stranger pleaded, “And they’re nothing, all crap, I swear.” He wilted under Matt’s fiery gaze. “I promise! Look, I got nothing, I’ll show you, I-” he held up the back of his camera eagerly, showing Matt the small preview screen, “See? Look, it’s nothing, just some people training…” he started flicking through, “…these guys walking around-”

A sudden idea struck Matt. “Hold on,” he ordered, “Were you here on New Year’s Eve?”

“You mean when you guys had that big party with all the drinking and the fireworks while I froze my ass off in the freaking snow?” the man replied, sarcastic despite his situation, “Yeah, I think I saw that one. Looked fun.”

Matt’s heart skipped a beat. “Did you take any pictures?”

The photographer blew a huff of air between his teeth. “Well of course I took pictures, that’s what I’m-” Halfway through the sentence he seemed to realise what he was saying. “Sorry,” he whined, “I’m sorry I’ll…” Even in the cold Matt could see sweat beading on his forehead. “Just let me go,” he begged.

Matt pushed forward, ignoring his pleading, “How much did you get?” he demanded.

The man winced. “All… of it?” he squeaked, squeezing out the words and squinting his face as though he expected Matt to lunge and hit him at any moment. “People drinking, people dancing, the fireworks going off, that big guy making out?”

“What about later?” Matt urged, dropping all pretence, “Did you see anybody on the roof?”

The stranger blinked. “What, you mean the jumper?”

“Yes!” Matt shouted, wide-eyed. It was as if someone had shoved an electric wire into his spine; every muscle went tense. It was impossible. “You saw someone jump off the roof?”

“Well of course,” shivered the photographer, his teeth starting to chatter in the cold, “Not much moving that time of night. Hard to miss.” His eyes narrowed into a shrewd expression and his raised hands drooped slightly. “Why do you care? What’s it worth to you?”

“What’s your life worth to you?” growled Matt, scrunching up his face and rising as tall as he could. He took a step forward and the photographer’s hands shot back up at lightning speed, swindling ambition instantly replaced with cowering remorse.

“Ok, ok, point taken, we’re cool, we’re cool,” he pleaded, wincing in pre-emptive pain, “Please don’t hurt me.”

“Tell me what you saw,” commanded Matt.

“What’s there to tell?” whined the stranger. His hands trembled as he stepped backwards, putting his back up against a tree, “A little before four, it’s quieting down, I’m thinking maybe I’ll pack up, but then there’s movement on the roof. I swing the lens round and there’s this scruffy Jewish kid going towards the edge. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am, straight off, straight down. Barely even flinched.” He paused, recoiling slightly at the look on Matt’s face. “I got the whole thing, see for yourself.” He held up the back of his camera again looking eager. “Frame by frame. Shot for shot.”

Matt didn’t hesitate. “Give me the photos,” he demanded. He took another step forward and was glad to see the paparazzi quail. “All of them. Every one.”

“Ok! Ok. I will, I will, just… just hang on.” The photographer’s fingers fumbled hurriedly with the clasp on the bottom of his camera. It swung open and he removed the memory card, gingerly holding it out with a trembling hand. Matt snatched it away in an instant, stuffing the card into his pocket, not daring to hope, not daring to believe. “It’s worthless, anyway,” the man spluttered, drawing his hand back to his chest and nursing it like it’d been burned, “I mean sure, yeah, there’d be an audience, no doubt, but nobody’d touch it, it’s against the law. Government won’t let you run stories on suicide.” He almost sounded mournful at the fact.

Matt ignored him, heart hammering in his chest. “You have half an hour to leave,” he told him, “After that I come get you.”

“You got it boss,” the photographer assured him, scrambling backwards, almost tripping over his own feet. “I’m out, I’m gone. You’ll never see me again. Nothing is worth this.”

“Or hear from,” added Matt, breathing hard. His eyes darted around him, searching for some explanation, some reason or set-up. He couldn’t believe it. This was insane. “Or about. You tell anyone, I’ll know it was you. One word and I’ll hunt you down.”

“Not a word,” swore the man, stumbling backwards, trying to face him as he ran away, “I promise. I’m quiet. I’m gone.” He bent low, shaking, sweat dripping from the tips of his moustache – then he turned and ran, pelting back off into the woods from whence he came. Matt watched him disappear back between the trees, and then the second he was gone he took off running, racing back along his trail of footprints, heart pounding in his chest.