The first rule of being a teen super-sleuth is to never listen to the police. Ever. They tell you to leave town, ignore them. They tell you to stop investigating, just keep investigating. They yell freeze, you run. That’s what I did. I lost them five blocks ago. I’m a fast runner. Not as fast as my brother was though…
I slip down an alleyway and toss the bloody knife in the dumpster. It’s a shame to throw away a good knife like that, but I have more. Lots more. I’m not really concerned about the police, but it would be bad form to not at least try to hide the evidence. I’m not running any more. I’m walking casually, as if I don’t have a care in the world. It’s true that I’m feeling lighter than usual, more buoyant. Almost… happy. But not quite. In other words, I fell the way I usually feel after killing someone.
This was the third person in the city that I had to take care of. Somehow, after a mere twelve years in jail, a man named Billy Richards had been released. He was an arsonist. A criminal. A monster.
I had put him in jail, me and my younger brother. The Case of the Frozen Firefly. When Richards got out of jail, it fell to me to make sure that he couldn’t commit a crime ever again. I am confident that he won’t. Dead men are just about as good at committing crimes as they are at telling tales.
It used to be that I killed a lot of people that my brother and I had put in jail, who were let out later, but recently, not so much. There’s not very many of them left. Now, I mostly solve new mysteries, catch new bad guys. It’s not the same without my brother. He came up with all the case names. Now I don’t name them. I barely bother to remember them.
It’s only a ten minute walk to the hotel I am staying at. I arrive in eight.