There were two rules in my house growing up: the first was that you always obey the ten commandments— or before I could read, what Momma declared the ten commandments to be. Even though I was pretty sure Moses didn't go thumping people on the head with his Bible, declaring that elbows on the table were against Jesus's fundamental rules, I wasn't really in a position to argue.

The second rule was to serve your country, your fellow human beings, etcetera. At least that one sounded a bit more biblical than "don't bite your fingernails" or one of my mother's other paraphrased biblical passages. I'm pretty sure the Lord didn't speaketh unto man, "Don't put your feet on that chair, Violet Marie!"

If you wanted to survive in my family, you listened to the rules and didn't argue even when they sounded ridiculous. I knew that I wanted to have a good life. And even if my mom was a little out there, she was still a good woman with genuine intentions. Life and death sort of hung in the balance of the delicate fabric of the universe. At home, she preached of heaven, but outside in the real world, hell seemed a bit closer.

When I was younger, going through that angry, misunderstood teenager phase, I asked my mother how she believed in God while she was doing the dishes. She dropped the ceramic plate she was holding and it shattered in the bottom of the metal sink. I knew right away that it was a bad question, even before she turned around, calmly dropped the shards of the plate in the trash, and reached for her Bible.

I didn't ask the question to be combative, but rather because I didn't understand how she could still believe in God, even after my father left, and even after Grandpa Richie died. It baffled me. After an extensive biblical lecture, I finally gave up with my questions and figured that when I died, I would be having an extensive conversation with God or something like that.

Later that same afternoon, I made one of my favorite teenage discoveries: my mother's collection of Stephen King novels. You can guess why I found Carrie to be both enthralling and close to home. A religious mother and a paranormal teenager aren't just aspects of a fictional world, but the real one as well.

I'm thinking about this while I'm getting ready to go out with Joel because the powers I was born with have always affected me, one way or another. My reflection has changed dramatically since I was growing up, but inside I'm still scared of what I can do, and still unsure if I'll ever be able to change it.

I emerge from my bedroom in a warmer outfit, knowing the city is going to be much cooler tonight than it was earlier. Joel gives me a once-over, and I know what he's thinking without him saying it. I wasn't really trying to dress up initially, but subconsciously, I guess I wanted to look more put together than I feel.

"What are you in the mood for?" he asks. "Are we getting Chinese? Pizza? How about a burger? Nothing screams comfort food like meat and french fries."

"Not everyone has the same definition of comfort food," I say.

"Are you telling me you don't like burgers?" He feigns shock.

"I love burgers—" I start.

"Exactly!" he exclaims, cutting me off. "So how about I buy you the best burger of your life?"

That I can't refuse.

Surprisingly, he took the subway over to my place, which means we're riding the train to the restaurant. I don't mind the commute, especially because I'm layered up, wearing gloves, and it's not super packed tonight.

"I still can't really read the subway map," Joel admits. "Can you help me find our train?"

"Wasn't this your idea?"

"I don't want to risk getting lost."

I decide to give him mercy. "It should be the W train."

"Lead the way," he says.

There aren't subways in Seattle, as Joel explains to me a few stops in. New York is easy to get lost in, especially when you haven't lived here very long. He seems to like the city anyway, even though he'd much rather drive when he gets the chance. I'll never understand that one. I don't like traveling above ground unless I have to.

I've never been one to like anywhere overly fancy, so I'm glad the place he chose is pretty casual. He must be a regular because one of the waiters calls him by his name and rushes over to take our drink order almost immediately.

When the food arrives, I've poured enough ketchup to cover half the country. As I swirl one of my fries around in the puddle for the eighth time, it occurs to me that my appetite is MIA.

Joel, however, has eaten half his burger, all of his fries, and is chattering on about everything and nothing as though he can't read that I'm really not in the mood for talking. I can't tell what's wrong with me. Whatever it is, it's making it really hard to look at the burger I only took a bite out of without wanting to hurl.

He stops, examining me. "Are you feeling well? You've barely touched your food."

"Sorry," I mumble.

"You're doing it again, Vi," he says.

"Doing what?" I try to ask the question with nonchalance and fail miserably. My words sound more like a squeak than anything else.

"You know." He pauses, his eye contact never breaking. "That thing where you stop letting yourself enjoy the good things because you'd rather carry the world on those shoulders of yours."

I take a bite of the fry I've soaked with more than enough ketchup. "See? I'm enjoying this fry."

It takes me a second to place what's irking me. We're close to where Valerie died, and it's making it hard to be present. The diner itself is a nice place, with a nice view and a jukebox playing in the corner. I like the ambiance and the nice waiters, but at the same time, my head is still fitting the puzzle of what happened in that alley together. I have to know. I need to know.

"Aren't we a few blocks from the scene?" I ask him.

He laughs a little. "You want to further a murder investigation on a first date?"

I twirl my straw around nervously. "It's not a date."

"Right," he says. "I forgot about that."

"I can't stop thinking about it. It's driving me crazy. I feel like we're so close to something and I need to figure out what it is."

"I get it, Vi," he replies. "Don't worry about it."

When the waiter comes by again, he asks for the bill without hesitation, and hands over his credit card before I can get my own cash out. When he gets the check back, he winks at me, sliding his wallet back into his pocket.

"So, where to?" he asks.

"The alley," I reply.

At first, I wonder why he's being so patient, but then I realize it's his job to be. Work comes first, pretty much all the time.

I can't help but pause in the entryway, reaching for my phone to turn the flashlight on. There's a look exchanged between us before we walk forward. It's even more eerie at night over here. I've never liked the dark, and as if Joel senses that, he stays close.

I don't know what I'm looking for, but the twisting of my stomach indicates some decent evidence has to be around here. I can't quite place why or how I know, but I have this feeling that we're missing something.

Joel mimics my actions, shining his flashlight around. The streetlight does little to help us see anything. The old pipe is still missing from where we took it, and bloodstains still mark the pavement. It seems like a lost effort, but I refuse to believe so. I refuse to just give up on the whole thing.

Come on, I think to myself. Come on, come on, there has to be something here.

As I shine the beam further up the brick wall before me, I see something I never noticed before.

"Oh my God!" I exclaim. "Is that what I think it is?"

Joel takes a few steps forward to get a closer look. "It's a security camera."

"How did we miss that?" I ask. "How on Earth did multiple cops, two detectives, and God knows who else miss that?"

He scoffs. "No idea. But it's in a dark corner, kind of off to the side. Who knows if it's even running anymore?"

It was hiding in plain sight. The fact it was so easy to overlook shocks me. We're lucky to have even found it now.

"If we missed it, then there's a good chance the killer did too," I realize slowly. "You have to call this in."

He nods, quickly dialing the station and lifting his phone to his ear. "This is Detective Reed. I need security footage reviewed for a camera on Eighth street."

He describes where we are, down to where the camera is in the alley. Someone on the other line is probably typing away, already trying to trace the feed. I'm eager to find out if there's anything to go off, or if it's just a useless machine. I'm trying not to get my hopes up, but it's hard.

"You'd make a good detective, Vi," he says. "Thanks to you, we might have a real chance. As far as we know, the camera has been working."

Before I can stop myself, I'm in his arms, hugging him tightly around the waist with my face buried in his chest. He's warm and he smells like home, like the sort of person who I can feel safe with.

It surprises him, sure, but he hugs me back, resting his chin on top of my head, hands falling to the small of my back.

"We might be onto something," I whisper to him excitedly. "We can solve the case!"

I don't have to see his face to know he's probably smiling that smile of his, just as excited as me at the notion of finding the answers we've been waiting on. It doesn't matter that we're technically off the clock. They should have the footage for us by the time we get back to the station, and that can't wait.

I make sure to text Stan. He isn't going to come in tonight since it's his wife's birthday, but he requests that I keep him informed. I will. It's more his case than mine since he's a professional and all. He doesn't say much in his messages, but I know he's proud of us.

I know how to get to the NYPD from virtually anywhere in the city. The route is easy to find, and despite having to switch trains a few stops in, Joel and I arrive in a half-hour, all but rushing.

H2 is quieter now. It's almost ten and most people have gone home from the night. A few workaholics occupy desks in the corner of the office, typing madly at their battered computers, a haunting glow from the screen shadowing their faces.

Joel slides into his desk chair, I take one of the chairs from a desk near his and sit beside him. I watch as he opens the email from the employee who retrieved the footage. Several clips with dates from the past week are attached. Sure enough, the time for the murder is listed and accessible.

"Okay," he says, loading the file. "Let's find our killer."

For a second, it's all just a grainy, blank screen. A man takes out the garbage from the bar, drops it in the dumpster, and disappears back into the building. A stray dog runs by. It's nerve-wracking, waiting for the footage to either skip forward or reveal the knowledge we've been waiting on. Both of us are probably hoping it hasn't been tampered with.

It starts with Valerie.

She's pretty on film, wearing a cardigan and jeans with a hole in the knee, her hair curled and her glasses on. She's laughing too.

Kevin Grant is with her.

They talk for a few seconds, but once they're in the shadows of the alley, I watch as he reaches for the pipe, takes it in his gloved hands, and swings it like a baseball player about to hit a home run.

It collides with the back of her head and blood splatters like a black and white horror show. I make out the terror on her face as she goes down, her stepfather beating her head into a messy pulp.

There's such savagery in it. He doesn't falter at all. He has absolutely no remorse, and it's absolutely awful.

Joel turns the video off before we can watch him finish covering it up, which I'm sure includes putting the pipe back in place, stripping her, and bolting to catch a flight like he didn't just commit a horrendous crime.

He murdered her.

He murdered her, and there's concrete proof he did it.

Joel forwards the video to both Stan and the chief. He's so calm, all while my world is spinning way too fast.

The way the pipe dangled from his hands as he smiled that sadistic grin of his plays on a loop in my head until my brain spins around and launches itself upside down.

"J-Joel," I stammer. "I—"

Next thing I know, I'm puking what little is left of my dinner into the trash. I feel Joel's hands in my hair as he pulls it away from my face.

"Just let it out," he tells me. "Breathe, Vi, breathe."

I wipe my mouth on a tissue, shaking my head as a few tears escape. "I don't understand how he could do something like that. It's like he never loved her at all."

"That's because he didn't," Joel says grimly. "People like that can't love anyone. They aren't capable of it."

"Why?" I wonder aloud. "What did she do to him to deserve that?"

He doesn't have an answer and I don't either. In the silence of H2, it's hard not to get wrapped up in all the questions I have. The issue of who has been rapidly replaced with the issue of why.

I watch Joel for a few seconds, waiting for him to tell me what comes next.

Suddenly, he speaks up. "Here's how this is going to go; I'm calling for backup, we're driving to the house, and Kevin Grant will be behind bars before midnight."

His words are both confident and chilling. He says them with finality and gets to his feet to make it happen without another thought.