BAD: LOGAN

1

Billie POV.

'This business is done for our thrill, our passion.' I repeat Frey's words in my head again and again. 'we dont owe anything to the government. We do the cases that the yards decline. That nobody wants to do because nobody cares' I always considered Frey a genius- he did solve several murder mysteries that surprisingly went well for our country- although they weren't supposed to.

Everything here is done to feed our itching curiosities.

I am not curious however- it is not because of my lack of interest but rather because of my lack of anything interesting. I joined the Armer's organization 4 months ago and so far the only mystery I solved is the reason behind the fowl smell behind Jim's office- a dead cat. Would have been better if it were a person, but unfortunately there are lesser people who care about dead street cats.

I hate cats so thats another thing.

My head throbs with the dooming reality. I have nothing to do, no where to go to and it's 8PM on a Friday. I spend most of my morning in the office working as an extra assistant to Frey. I sometimes stay late at night to give my seniors some company while they bust their brains out searching for clues. I, I simply envy them at a corner.

I dont have a home- unless you call my sisters basement home, I really dont. My mother thinks I am a proper detective like the ones she used to read to me in excerpts from Sherlock Holmes when truly Im even more jobless that her.

She runs an old age home- you dont even do that.

My life is pathetic and depressing and there is not even a single thing that truly inspires me. My boss Frey is happy that I dont have many responsibilities while his boss- Jim, is always severely disappointed at my lack of passion. The thing is- I am passionate. I really do want to sit down and solve a good old case, but nothing reaches me before the better, more experienced members have a go.

My current case is to visit a stadium. I am driving up to the site with my satchel on my lap. I use my sisters old mini- van-the one she used before her divorce, before her family wrecked into two halves.

I take a sip from my coffee, roll my sunglasses down as I stop my car near the entrance.

This should be it.

It is the 12th of April. A few hours ago Jim called me in his office. My heart raced with such joy- maybe finally my itching hands would fall on a worthy case. Just maybe.

Jim brutally burst my bubble when he said, and I quote "a dead body was found in a stadium we need someone to assist the site investigation. Billie, you are not leading or part of this case. We just need someone to overlook the investigation, make sure everything's okay. I would send someone else but everybody is busy- you are not."

Sigh.

Did I mention I hate my life?

I step out of the grey minivan and straighten my satchel. Let us go.

I show my ID and documents and in a few minutes I am let inside the stadium, through the halls and through a large mirror door.

I look unbothered. My thick red hair is tied in a painful pony, my satchel sticks to my abdomen. My brown clothes remind me of my lack of money. Ah. And probably fashion sense because what was I thinking wearing a brown skirt and a brown shirt- with bright green socks. My face seems tired- how funny when I have been nothing but unproductive the past month. My freckles are prominent- more prominent than my deep green eyes- eyes I once considered beautiful but now are the distracting element from my dark circles.