Case Closed

• Thirteen •

Suspect: Charles Layton

She didn't know what to say. It was all slowly clicking into place, like fog wiped away from a window.

"Oh?"

"Sorry. I- I don't..." she stuttered helplessly. "Do you believe it could be him."

Potty Prof snarled, "I hope so," then shook his head vigorously. "No, no I don't. But not for his sake - I don't want to be associated with a murderer."

There was something menacing in his voice that made her nervous. She paused a second before continuing, "Have you interviewed him yet? Or any of them."

"No." He looked shifty again. "I... can you do it?"

Shocked beyond belief, she stuttered, "Can... can I... you what?"

"Stop it!" He barked.

A smug little smile was growing on her face. "Stop what? The great Inspector Layton, asking for help?"

Grumbling, he turned around and shuffled the files on the desk.

"Of course I will." Frozen for a second, then passing it off as nothing, he handed her the file.

"Read through and make the calls you need."

Frowning, she replied, "Why? Can't you find the numbers? I need to go get changed and... and eat, I'm starving!"

It was as if he was seeing her properly for the first time since she'd returned from the gardens. His eyes slid up and down, taking in her torn, muddied dress and dishevelled hair. "What happened to you?"

"Nothing..." Talking about it wouldn't change anything now.

"Don't lie to me!" He roared, eyes suddenly burning. The whole experience seemed to have worsened his temperament. For the first time, Lucy wondered if there was some way of helping him. A drug, or a therapy, so that he could control the outbursts. Recent events had proved that maybe, it wouldn't be long till it landed him in serious trouble. However, she always concluded, telling the Prof he needed help would probably send him off on one.

"You don't want to know."

Confusion tainted his response, "What? Why... I just asked, didn't I?"

"Ok then. After you drove off and left me alone in London, I wandered the streets for 'ours before sleeping in a bus shelter. I then woke up early this morning, 'aving only slept a short time, and paid stupid amounts of money for a taxi to bring me back 'ere, so I could check if you were ok."

"Oh. Um, sorry."

"Sorry? Is that the best you can do?"

"I'll drop you home. Take the day off, and rest for tomorrow. We'll start then."

There was no reasoning with him. The journey, while short, seemed to last for hours. Between them the air was charged with an awkward, silent energy; she wanted to run as far away from it as she could, but the Prof refused to let her out till they came to the base of her apartment. Her muttered Thanks was met with a grunt as the car pulled away.

Later that evening, as she sat curled like a cat on the fraying sofa, it was near impossible to believe that only 24 hours ago they had been dancing, together and peaceful, happy. Now, it may as well have been the first day she met him, almost a year before at the Mystery Room.

At first, he had charmed her with his genius, and his quick thinking. While reserved, he was polite, teaching her quickly what she needed to know. A true gentleman. Slowly, his Potty side began to slip through, pushing her further and further until that night when he had disappeared, off to the castle alone. She felt her heart race as memories of the panicked frenzy followed, where all she had wanted was to find him, safe and alive.

Alive, but broken. The chair, the ropes, the gun in his steady, firm hands. The hands that held her as they danced, swirling through the darkness, together. The body, blood, distorted in agony. And the gun. Always in his hands.

Muddled. Flashing. Bright, too bright. Twisted scenes sparked through her mind, bodies, cases, files, the gun in his hands, shaking, always trying to prove he was innocent. How could he be? The evidence pointed toward him, always. Now it was not Justin but him in the cell. Him, locked away, where she'd never see him again. The red hair hid his demonic eyes as he muttered one more sentence.

It runs in the family.

The door slammed shut, blocking her from him.

She shot bolt upright and fumbled for the switch. As light flooded the room she gasped for air, shaking, though her body was covered in sweat. Gradually, the feeling subsided, leaving her paralysed with relief. It was only a dream. Where the only person she still cares about was locked away, for a crime he didn't commit.

Needless to say, sleep did not come for her that night.