Ever notice how everything you make just tends to lean a little to the left?

Shipping Meme

2009-08-03T02:00:13Z

I've been pretty quiet on her as of late, so it may surprise some of you to learn that I'm writing fic again. Some of it's been "just for me," and the rest is planning for projects I hope will turn out in the long run. So bear with me, and I may produce.

At the same time, all the fandom thinking as of late made me want to fill out the shipping meme lazaefair posted a few days ago.

"One True Pairing" ship:
Harry/Hermione, Harry Potter

What can I say? At 14, back when I first read Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, I fell in love with these two. I know that canon evidence past GoF pointed towards Hermione/Ron, but I just couldn't shake my love for these two. I don't mind Hermione/Ron, but I've just never felt Harry/Ginny, mostly because I never felt like she was developed enough as a character. I feel like the Ginny that resides in JKR's mind is probably better suited for him, but I'm not sure how well that character translated to the pages of the books.

"One True Threesome" ship:
Hermione/Fleur/Snape, Harry Potter

As lazaefair puts it, I'm too "vanilla" to have a OTT. But I did read an awesome fic once at Restricted Section that featured these three in a strange scenario where Snape cast the Imperius Curse, but it didn't take, but they went along with his sexy scheme anyway...

"Canon" ship:
Logan/Veronica, Veronica Mars

They're definitely one of my OTPs, but since they're canon (while H/Hr isn't), they didn't win out. Coming into the VM fandom from HP was an interesting experience, since I just assumed every fandom was tearing itself apart with shipping wars.

"Not Quite Canon but Should Be" ship:
Fred/Angelina, Harry Potter

What happened after the Yule Ball? In my world, he left school at the end of OotP, in part to be with her. In reality, Fred didn't make it to the end of the series, and according to JKR, Angelina ended up with George. But since George (at least in my opinion) is really, really gay...

"If This Happens I'll Stab My Eyes Out with a Spork" ship:
Veronica/Piz, Veronica Mars

Really, my eyes were bleeding EVERYWHERE circa April 2007.

"You Are One Sick Bastard" ship:
Mac/Dick, Veronica Mars

Just stop pairing them together. I recognize that there's a lack of suitable male characters for Mac. That does not mean you can overcome years of Dick being a DICK in canon.

"I'm One Sick Bastard" ship:
Sirius/Lavender Brown, Harry Potter

One of the earliest drafts of Truest Power called for pairing Sirius with someone MUCH younger, which over time evolved to Lavender. Of course, this was before the release of HBP, so it was before Lavender had much of a personality. It made sense at the time, I swear.

"I Dabble a Little" ship:
Logan/Mac, Veronica Mars

I don't want to give too much away, but I've felt myself going in this direction lately in some cases.

"It's Like a Car Crash" ship:
Spike/Buffy, Buffy the Vampire Slayer

I never liked Buffy/Angel, and these two really were like a car crash. Also loved Angel/Cordelia on Angel, but I'm not sure if they were quite a car crash, since the problems weren't of their own creating.

"Tickles My Fancy but Not Sold Quite Yet" ship:
Rachel/Joey, Friends

I never supported Ross/Rachel. They just seemed too different for me. I did, however, feel like something about Rachel/Joey worked. Then again, I loved the Lisa Kudrow/Matt LeBlanc pitch that Phoebe and Joey were having casual sex all along...

"Makes No Canon Sense but Why the Hell Not" ship:
George Weasley/Lee Jordan, Harry Potter

It's not canon and I know it, but don't try to tell me it...

"Everyone Else Loves It but I Just Don't Feel It" ship:
Ross/Rachel, Friends

A stable relationship teenage lust does not make. I never felt like either of their reasons for caring about the other were well-explained on the show. Why would someone as geeky and intelligent as Ross want someone as shallow as Rachel was in high school? Her looks! But I never felt like his reasons deepened or evolved as her character did.

"When All Is Said and Done" ship:
Logan/Veronica, Veronica Mars

Come on. They can't stay away from each other. No matter what happens, no matter how big a bitch she is or how stupid he acts, they belong together.

"Guilty Pleasure" ship:
Draco/Ginny, Harry Potter

Makes no canon sense, but I love Fandom!Draco, the one who fights for the light. It does kind of make Ginny the "fandom bicycle" (lazaefair's term, not mine), but I love it nonetheless.

"I Can't Believe I Read It and Liked It" ship:
Snape/Hermione, Harry Potter

Again with Restricted Section... I can't deny enjoying the subset of fics where he keeps he from serious harm at the hands of the Death Eaters.

Favorite "Older/Younger" ship:
Monica/Richard, Friends

Although my Friends OTP is definitely Monica/Chandler, rewatching the third season this summer made me see Monica/Richard in a more positive light. He was right for her at the time, and now I can totally relate to not wanting the same things as someone you care deeply for...

My First "I Could Never Abandon You" ship:
Elizabeth/Tom Watts, Sweet Valley University

I wrote a lot more Elizabeth/Conner when I started reading Sweet Valley Senior Year, but it never struck a chord with me the way Elizabeth/Tom did. I never liked Todd Wilkins, probably because I preferred SVU to SVH. I know, I know. I'm a big nerd. But Sweet Valley was the first fandom I ever loved, ever wrote for, every obsessed about, so it deserves a shout-out here.

"Favorite Devotion" ship:
Lupin/Tonks, Harry Potter

I still can't believe JKR took our suggestion and killed it off. At least Orphan!Teddy, I imagine, had a happier childhood than Orphan!Harry.

"Favorite Never-Met" ship:
Veronica/Dean, Veronica Mars and Supernatural

I haven't read what I would consider a "convincing" portrayal of this yet, but if that means I must write my own, so be it.

"Favorite Pervy" ship:
Richie/Margot, The Royal Tenenbaums

Not really incest, but still a little wrong. I can't get enough of these two.

"Favorite Dominance Battle" ship:
Booth/Brennan, Bones

Lab and logic or heart and intuition? I love the battles they wage, and I want desperately for them to be together. At the same time, I think the writers would be crazy to give in. It would certain ruin the show.

Quick politicized rant.

2009-08-01T14:13:59Z

I wish people arguing in favor of the death penalty would stop asking, "Well, what if they guy admits he did it? Why shouldn't he be sentenced to death?"

BECAUSE PEOPLE WHO ADMIT TO MURDERS GENERALLY DO SO WITH THE STIPULATION THAT THEIR CONFESSION MEANS THEY WON'T GET THE DEATH PENALTY.

Everyone's entitled to their own beliefs, but come up with a better argument.

I hate the state of Illinois.

2009-06-17T04:09:46Z

So I'm driving downtown in Springfield around 10 p.m. today. I'm going to go out with some friends. In front of me, the green light turns to yellow. I probably could have gone through, but I would have had to accelerate, so I rolled to a stop. By my own estimate, I was probably about a foot past the "stop line." The woman in the car next to me - she'd been texting - slammed on her breaks and landed on the stop line.

Twenty seconds later, I get pulled over for "driving aggressively." The officer yells in my face, asks me if I know about the woman who got hit in a crosswalk and broke her leg last summer, and when I hand him my proof of insurance, he asks me what kind of car I drive. I'm shaking and crying at this point, but I manage to tell him it's a Volkswagen Jetta. Since this is abbreviated as "JOP" for some reason on my insurance card (nevermind that the make, year and color clearly are the same), he accuses me of not carrying proper insurance and says he'll have to call it in.

After 25 humiliating minutes, he issued me two citations - one for failing to stop (I WAITED 15 SECONDS FOR THE LIGHT TO CHANGE) and the other for driving aggressively (AGAIN, I ROLLED UP TO THE STOPLIGHT, WHICH CHANGED AS I APPROACHED IT). As I hung my head and bawled HYSTERICALLY, he told me I better look at him while he was talking unless I wanted another citation. Then he had the audacity to describe the incident as a "friendly contact between law enforcement and the citizenry." Seriously, what the fuck? Shouldn't the woman next to me, the one weaving in and out of lanes and riding my ass and slamming on her breaks when she noticed a stop light, have been the one to get a ticket? Methinks it was the Missouri license plate.

As a child, I was always taught that law enforcement officials existed to protect and serve people like me - people who obey the laws. I usually tend to side with the police when there seem to be two sides of a crime story. It's cautious, but it makes sense, right? Err with the people meant to serve justice?

Increasingly I'm seeing that it's not true, that law enforcement doesn't exist to protect and serve but rather to send undeserving individuals on much-needed power trips. I felt like a fucking criminal tonight. Note to cops: try not to piss off sympathetic, college-educated, upper middle class young adults. If they don't trust you, will anyone?

Theft

2009-05-01T04:35:36Z

Because I commented on clevermonikerr's post, I suppose I have to repost this as well.

The first FIVE people to comment in this post get to request a drabble/ficlet. In return, they have to post this in their journal, regardless of their ability level.

I'll write Veronica Mars, Bones, Supernatural, Harry Potter or cracktastic crossover fic.

And I will keep it under 500 words.

I hate this fucking university.

2009-04-30T17:25:59Z

I wrote down the wrong day for a final on my iCal... it's actually on Monday, May 11 at 8 a.m., not Tuesday, May 12 at 8 a.m. Yes, that's right. I have a final at 8 a.m. the day after my 21st birthday in the most impossible class I've taken. So I won't be going out on my 21st. I will be huddled up among my books, trying to survive the experience.

In other news, Tiger Walk, that iconic thing graduates get to do with booze around the columns, will be held on May 7. Bring photo ID (to prove you're 21). WELL HOW CAN I DO THAT IF I WON'T BE 21 FOR ANOTHER THREE DAYS?

This has been the worst goddamn semester. Isn't this just icing on the fucking cake?

/endrant

Fic: King of Pain (Keith, Veronica) PG-13

2009-04-26T19:21:07Z

Title: “King of Pain”
Author: em2mb
Pairing/Character: Keith, Veronica.
Word Count: 4,165
Rating: PG-13
Summary: He fixes the bathroom door and paints Veronica’s bedroom, but deep down he knows a splash of color can’t mask the grey in their lives. The hero is the one who stays, but sometimes it’s natural to want to run.
Spoilers: Through 1x01, “Pilot.” Takes place pre-series.
Warnings: Discusses the Pomroy party.
Author's Notes: Another fic generated from one of the “pockets of evil” (lazaefair’s terminology, not mine) in my brain. Title from the Police song.

They’d been living on top of each other for exactly two weeks when Keith saw the first lock of blonde hair fall into the sink. He didn’t say anything as he waited patiently for his turn in the bathroom they now shared, just watched his daughter cut her hair through the hole in the broken door. If it had been meant as an act of teenage rebellion, he hadn’t slept well enough on his lumpy mattress for it to register much.

He missed his master bedroom and two-car garage, his job as sheriff and his wife. But perhaps most of all, he missed Veronica’s laughter, her smile, and the twinkle in her bright blue eyes. Her laughter had died with Lilly; her smile vanished with his job. He’d held out hope he wouldn’t lose his baby girl completely, but at the end of the first week of December, after Lianne left and the bank foreclosed on the house, even the sparkle disappeared. Keith knew he only had himself to blame.

Still, he tried. He fixed the bathroom door and painted Veronica’s bedroom, but deep down he knew a splash of color couldn’t mask the grey in their lives—no job, no money, no house, no friends, no Lianne. When Veronica didn’t come home right after school one night, he was terrified, sure his actions had driven her away, too.

He wanted to berate her for not calling but caught himself when he remembered having to cancel her cell phone just the week before. So he let her pad quietly back to her room and checked the LeBaron, not sure when he’d become so paranoid. The odometer suggested a trip to Los Angeles and back, and Keith wondered what the city had to offer.

At night, he stared at the ceiling and pondered the answer. He questioned his every decision, from closing in on Jake Kane to remaining in Neptune. It wasn’t so different than his days, spent trying to find a job in a town clearly ready to see him go. Every interview was a reminder he wasn’t wanted there any longer.

Maybe if he hadn’t been so insistent on staying, they wouldn’t be locked into this apartment with its paper-thin walls. Maybe his soundtrack wouldn’t be rejection, betrayal and Veronica’s quiet sobs in the next room. Maybe he wouldn’t feel like such a failure, as a sheriff, as a husband, as a father.

* * *

As Christmas approached, the only decorations in the Mars’ apartment were account statements and loan applications spread across the kitchen table. Keith couldn’t decide which was worse, his lack of presents under the tree for Veronica or the obvious answer to their financial problems. Sure, he had access to twenty thousand dollars that didn’t involve being rejected by the bank again, but he’d earmarked that money for her education.

Not that Ivy League meant much with the rent past due, when the only thing in the cabinet was a jar of a peanut butter and a loaf of bread. Keith took a deep breath. “Honey?”

Veronica, curled up on the sofa with a book, lifted her head. “Did you get it figured out?”

Ten banks in Neptune, and not one of them would give him a loan to start his own business. “You were right about your college money, Veronica.”

“One hundred dollars a month adds up over sixteen years,” she said, returning to her book. “Is it enough?”

Keith’s voice caught. “It’s more than enough.”

“Then that’s your answer, isn’t it?”

“I can’t take your money, Veronica.”

She shrugged. “It’s your money, Dad.”

“Money I meant for you.”

“But now you need it.”

When she didn’t even look up, Keith could feel his heart pounding. “Do you even care that this might mean I can’t afford to send you to college?”

Another shrug. “I’ve been thinking about getting a job.”

“Veronica,” Keith asked, his voice shaking, “do you even care? I’m asking you to trade away your education, and you won’t even give me your full attention.”

His daughter’s eyes were cold when she slammed the book shut. “It’s for class, Pops. I figure keeping up with the reading and getting good grades might help my chances at a scholarship.”

Veronica headed for the door before Keith could respond, and he braced himself for shouts from upstairs neighbors when she slammed it. Someone stomped angrily on the ceiling instead, and he could hear the LeBaron shudder to life out in the parking lot.

That’s it, Keith thought, sighing as he settled heavily in his chair. That’s my answer. You were wondering if she hated you for what you did? Well, there you have it. She does.

But she was also right—they needed the money, and Keith had few options other than self-employment. Private security wouldn’t even take him at this point, let alone any of the surrounding counties’ law enforcement agencies. He couldn’t even convince the landlord to let them out of their lease, meaning he was out of options.

The phone was still shaking in his hand after he talked to the bank, when it rang ten minutes later. “Hello?”

“Hi, this is Sharon with the YWCA of Greater Los Angeles. May I please speak to Veronica?”

“She’s not available at the moment.” Keith knew he should offer to take a message, but he decided he’d rather draw more information out of Sharon, first. He wanted to know why Veronica would drive to the YWCA in Los Angeles when there was one in the town next to Neptune.

“Is there another number where I can reach her?” Sharon asked. “I tried her cell, but the number was disconnected.”

Keith thought of Veronica’s phone, probably still sitting on her dresser where he’d last seen it. “I can have her call you back.”

“Please do,” Sharon said before rattling off the number. “It’s very important.”

Keith couldn’t find a Post-It, so he scribbled a note on his hand. But instead of looking for paper when he clicked off the line, he grabbed his laptop and pressed it against the wall, figuring he could crack his neighbor’s wireless password. He had watched with an amused smile enough times when Veronica did it, and he was the one starting his own detective agency.

It took him forty minutes, total. Three minutes to realize Fido’s name unlocked the internet connection, seven to realize the number was a direct line to sexual assault crisis services. Another thirty minutes found “Dealing with your Sexual Assault” brochures buried in Veronica’s sock drawer and bookmarks for various counseling centers in the area saved on her computer.

Pieces fell into place as Keith took another forty minutes to empty his stomach of bile in the bathroom. He scrubbed his hands under scalding water before picking up the mess he made in his daughter’s room. For a second, he considered calling Lamb, but he knew Veronica was really the only one who could report the crime.

He had an entire speech prepared when she treaded lightly back into the apartment around midnight, but his resolve crumbled when she apologized. The low light obscured his silent tears as he muttered about Stanford and Yale. The next day, Veronica made a red and green paper chain to decorate the apartment, and she started talking to her dad again.

Still, Keith couldn’t forget about the literature, hidden away like she was ashamed he would see, or the bookmarks buried in a folder of schoolwork. When Veronica offered to work after school as his receptionist, he took it as an opportunity to keep an eye out for signs of damage.

* * *

With Mars Investigations off the ground, he was anxious to slip into a routine, but knowing what caused the change in his daughter didn’t help Keith sleep at night. She wasn’t as distant as she was before, but he still heard her cry from night to night. He would take her water now, bringing her Kleenex and murmuring platitudes about Lilly and Lianne, but when she would hug him, he’d hate himself.

When Veronica was thirteen, gang violence had surged in Neptune’s poorer zip codes, and a string of girls hardly older than his baby had been the victims. He always saw his daughter’s face behind their tears, and even after he brought in a counselor to put the department through mandatory sensitivity training, he didn’t trust even his best deputy with any of the girls.

He couldn’t imagine having to go through the process with his Veronica, so he’d sat her down with Lilly and given them a stern talk about the dangers of alcohol and drugs when partying. He’d reminded them to watch their drinks carefully and stick together. He’d warned them to stay away from Neptune’s bad neighborhoods but also to watch themselves around boys they knew because people weren’t always trustworthy. And, God forbid anything did happen to one of them, they needed to go to the sheriff’s station for help straightaway.

Lilly had assured him automatically that she would, like totally, though the look in her eyes clearly said things like that didn’t happen to girls like her. Veronica had been more serious, nodding somberly, a silent promise. Now, Keith had to wonder if she’d gone to Lamb. He wanted to think she did, since she clearly had the sense to get help elsewhere. At the same time, she was a minor, and he thought he’d remember a phone call telling him come to the station: his daughter had been raped.

Not that he put much past the sheriff these days. He was considering a chat with Lamb after Veronica woke up for the third time in the same night, crying out and hiccoughing desperately as the tears subsided. Keith sat on the edge of the bed until she regained composure, though she begged him to leave.

“Can’t do it, kid,” he said, ruffling her hair. “I’m your old man. Got to keep an eye on you. Are you sure everything’s okay?”

“Just Lilly,” she said, and she sniffled.

He might have believed her, but then she flinched when he lifted her chin. Deciding this was it, this was the night, he swallowed hard. But he couldn’t get the words out of his mouth. So he asked, “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Veronica finally relaxed, grabbing a handful of his worn Padres shirt as she burrowed into his shoulder. “You know I do, Pops.”

In fact, Keith knew the exact opposite, but he didn’t press his luck. He tucked her back in when she yawned, yearning for the day Lianne left, back when he’d been worried about how to relate to a teenage girl, not his daughter, the rape victim.

At work, he was piecing together a mental case file. He knew Shelly Pomroy had a party on December seventh. He doubted it was a coincidence his daughter was out all night, or that she chopped off all her hair the next day. He remembered the unseasonably warm California winter and the jeans and sweatshirts Veronica had worn despite that.

The only thing that kept Keith from launching a formal investigation was his receptionist, the petite blonde daughter who made sure every hour he spent in the office was a billable one.

* * *

Veronica’s voice, strong and resolute from the receptionist’s desk, floated into Keith’s office one afternoon in mid-March. He was looking into a divorce case that could only be described as “tawdry” (it was a personal favor to lock in a lawyer on retainer), and though he welcomed the break, he knew what was coming.

“I want to help,” she said.

“Aren’t you already helping?” he wanted to know, leaning against the doorframe.

“I’m answering phones and greeting clients,” Veronica said, exasperated. “I want to do more.”

Keith grinned, clapping his hands together. “I knew I’d get you to cave on envelope licking!”

His daughter made a face. “My aversion to tongue contact with adhesive still stands. I mean with cases, Dad. I want to help.”

“Absolutely not.”

“We’re getting a decent in-office caseload every week, and we’re going to have to start turning clients down if you keep running off to chase bail jumpers.”

“Bail jumpers bring in the big bucks, sweetie. I’d rather promote justice than the fears of irrational spouses, anyway.”

“Irrational spouses can still bring in two hundred bucks a night,” Veronica said, “and it’s not like I don’t know how to use a camera.”

Keith sighed, pressing his hands flat against her desk. “All right, Veronica, which motel tryst has caught your interest?”

She hesitated. “None of them,” she said softly, sliding a file forward. “Marjorie Sanchez. Her parents were in two weeks ago, and you haven’t even given the case a second glance.”

“That’s because she killed herself three months ago. Case closed.” Keith started back to his office.

“But what about other girls?” Veronica demanded. “Her parents know who raped her, Dad. So what if he didn’t kill her? She’s dead because of him. He just needs to be brought in.”

Her words caught Keith off guard. “You actually think I’m going to put my daughter on a case where a young woman has already ended up dead? What kind of a father do you think I am, Veronica?”

“Then put me on the Batliner divorce case! Just take the Sanchez case already! Marjorie had the rape kit! She knew who raped her! You said yourself all the police would need was Tony Ramirez to make the DNA link!”

Keith was glad he wasn’t still facing his daughter; he knew the pained look on his face would give him away. He didn’t know how to tell her she was the reason he couldn’t bring himself to get involved. Still, he saw the flaw in his own logic. Just because he couldn’t broach the subject with his baby girl wasn’t a reason to keep another rapist out of jail.

“The police don’t care,” Veronica continued desperately. “Shouldn’t somebody?”

Her plea answered so many questions he’d had for the last few months that she almost broke him right there. Making a mental note to have a “chat” with Don Lamb once he’d been assured legal representation, Keith finally nodded.

“You’ll go to the Camelot tonight. You’ll take Backup, and you won’t, under any circumstances, leave your car. You’ll shoot the pictures if you can get them through the window, but if you can’t, you’ll leave. You won’t stay for more than an hour, and you will be back home at eleven.”

“And you?”

“And I will talk to Mr. and Mrs. Sanchez this afternoon to dig up all the dirt I can on Tony Ramirez. But Veronica? This is a one-time deal. I am only letting you take this case because we need to impress McCormick and I don’t have time for both.”

Veronica wasn’t listening. She knocked her chair over and flung herself into her father’s arms, almost taking him down, too. Keith just prayed he wouldn’t regret this.

* * *

This kid, Keith thought, watching Ramirez leave his Los Angeles apartment in a wife beater and black jeans, lit joint in hand, this kid is trouble. He snapped a handful of pictures as his suspect left the neighborhood in a car so patched together he could identify parts from a half dozen makes and models.

Marjorie Sanchez had been a good girl, a student at the local community college who took a semester off while she waited tables to earn money for tuition. Her parents didn’t have a lot, but they’d wanted to help. Marjorie had been stubborn, moving to the city with a couple of girlfriends, determined to make it on her own. She took a job at a total dive, but she worked hard and made good tips, her roommate said. But then she didn’t come home one night, and the roommate had to pick her up at the hospital in the morning.

She never said what had happened, just stopped laughing, stopped talking, stopped smiling. She’d been saving diligently for school, but then she’d quit her job to live off the money. For three months, she avoided her parents’ phone calls, refused to answer her roommate’s questions, and finally put a gun to her head. Her parents didn’t know she’d filed a police report until after she committed suicide.

Three months, and they wondered why the police weren’t moving in on the man they were sure had caused their daughter’s death. As Keith followed Ramirez’s rustbucket down side streets and back alleys, he had an answer, though not one the Sanchezes would like. Guys like Tony Ramirez might sell crack from their apartment or heckle waitresses at the diner down the street, but they maintained a low enough profile that the cops didn’t care. After all, he didn’t pull the trigger. He didn’t have to. He simply had to offer Marjorie a ride home, rape her, and wait for her to self-destruct.

Keith waited until Ramirez was long gone from his place before doubling back. He crept into the building, but he didn’t even have to pick the lock on the door of 2B. Securing his gun, all he had to do was wait for Ramirez to return.

He’d been following the asshole for eight days now, renting a room in L.A. so he didn’t have to make the drive again and again. He checked in with Veronica constantly, calling her when she was at home, at school, at the Camelot during a stakeout. He didn’t care if she was sick of picking up or if her English teacher was sick of her bag vibrating, not so long as she was safe, in Neptune, not entertaining thoughts of suicide.

On his fifth night out of town, Veronica wanted to know why he was attacking this case with such diligence after ignoring it for so long, and though he had an answer, it wasn’t one he could give her. Before Marjorie Sanchez, Keith had never even considered the girls who never got help, who simply gave up because everyone else gave up on them. Now, when he tried to catch a few hours of sleep between stakeouts, he saw blood mixed with blonde hair in the bathroom sink, Veronica’s still form in the shadows of his nightmare.

Veronica would call him sometimes, too, usually with developments in the Batliner divorce case. He felt a little surge of pride when she spotted the pattern to Samuel Batliner’s evening trysts, but he kept it silent, hoping she wouldn’t develop a taste for the seedier side of Neptune. He could already tell he wouldn’t be able to tell her no if she wanted to take another case after this one, as he’d give in to her every demand if he thought it would keep her from the same fate as Marjorie.

With Ramirez out of the apartment and Keith finally in position, there was nothing to do but wait. His plans for the near future involved dragging a limp and bleeding rapist to the Los Angeles cops. Keith knew they wanted this guy, even if they weren’t looking for him amid the city’s murderers and drug dealers, and he figured they’d appreciate having the legwork done for him.

Though, Keith could already tell stopping at limp and bleeding might be a problem. Across the apartment, the door creaked slowly open. He raised his gun and waited as Ramirez, humming, dropped a stack of mail and a bag of groceries on the counter. Silently, he crept across the kitchen, and with one well-placed blow, Ramirez went down.

“What the—” Ramirez started, but he found himself on the receiving end of Keith’s pistol. “What’s your problem, man? I don’t even know you!”

Keith dragged Marjorie’s rapist up by the shirt collar, careful to ram his head into the edge of the kitchen counter on the way up. “I know what you did, Tony,” he said, repeating the movement. Ramirez moaned. “I know you hurt Marjorie, and you’re not getting away with it. Not any longer.”

“Marjorie’s a lying bitch,” Ramirez sneered. “She makes up bullshit stories because she doesn’t want to admit she’s a whore.”

“How’d she end up with bruises on her wrist, Tony?” Keith demanded, slugging Ramirez in the face again. “Her stomach? Her legs? How’d she end up dead, Tony? How’d she end up dead?”

Ramirez lost his condescending tone. He began to plead. “Man, I’m sorry,” he said, spitting out blood. “Just stop.”

With a sharp crack, Keith’s fist connected with Ramirez’s jaw. “That’s for Marjorie,” he said quietly, dragging the young man up. He knew he should stop, but he couldn’t help himself. He punched him one last time, ignoring the sting of his own bleeding knuckles.

“And that’s for Veronica,” he added quietly, wondering if he’d ever get to make his daughter’s rapist pay. He knew he should be more worried about getting his daughter to ever open up, but in that moment, he couldn’t help but feel slightly vindicated. “Come on, Tony. The cops might not be looking for you, but I doubt they’ll mind locking you up.”

When he dragged Ramirez into the nearest precinct, he casually announced the rapist’s arrival before dumping him on the floor. A couple of officers took over from there, and Keith left his number with the receptionist if they needed a statement. He imagined what he’d just done constituted as vigilante justice, but he decided he could live with the justice part of it. He slid back into his car, dialing Veronica’s number with shaky hands.

“Hello?” her voice was sleepy.

“Hey sweetie,” Keith said, wiping his hands clean on a rag in the Crown Victoria. He heard rustling on the other end, imagining she was in bed. It was awfully late.

“Are you coming home, Dad?”

“I am,” he said, holding the phone with both hands.

“Did the police arrest Ramirez?”

“They did.”

Veronica’s end of the line was silent for a second. “Good.”

“It is.”

“I got the photos of Sam Batliner and his mistress,” Veronica said finally.

“Did you have to get out of the LeBaron?”

Another pause. “Maybe.”

Keith sighed. “We’ll talk when I get home, young lady.”

“Dad, I—”

“I don’t care, Veronica.” He started the car. “I’m on my way back to Neptune now.”

“For what it’s worth, thank you,” Veronica said softly.

Keith’s frown faded. “You’re welcome.” This time, he paused. “I can’t imagine how the Sanchezes must feel.”

He could hear Veronica shuffling again. It was his way of saying that he knew, and for a second, he thought she might have gotten it. “I promise you you’ll never have to, Daddy.”

Keith clicked off the phone, somehow knowing he’d never get any closer to the subject with Veronica.

* * *

Two weeks later, Angelina Batliner dropped off a check for services rendered, smiling smugly over the violated pre-nup. Cliff McCormick signed a twelve-month contract to provide representation in the event of legal proceedings against Mars Investigations. And Los Angeles police had charged Ramirez with raping Marjorie Sanchez.

Mrs. Sanchez gripped Keith’s hand tearfully as he tried to refuse her check. “Nonsense,” she said. “I told your secretary the same thing when she called.”

Oddly, he’d never told Veronica he didn’t plan on charging the Sanchezes a dime. Though not sure if they really were on the same wavelength or if his daughter had privately decided to play the Samaritan, he still planted a kiss on her blonde head when he returned to the apartment that evening.

“You know I love you, right?”

Veronica perked up. “Enough to let me take another case?”

“Enough to support you, no matter what.”

“Like, support my detective dreams by letting me take on some of your light cases?”

Keith sighed, something he had a feeling he’d be doing a lot in the coming months. “You’re insufferable, kid.”

Veronica jumped up, her turn to drop a kiss on her old man’s bald head. “I love you, too, Dad.”

He didn’t say anything, just smiled as she served him a chicken breast over a bed of rice pilaf. Veronica was humming as she scooped dinner from the pot, and though he knew better, though he knew it was every bit his place to say something, he didn’t have it in him. After all, they talked – just about other things, and he already planned to use her desire to work on cases as an excuse to make her take self-defense lessons. Maybe he had avoided the subject. Maybe he had gone about this completely the wrong way.

But as they jokingly negotiated the terms of Veronica’s surveillance work, Keith watched her eyes sparkle for the first time in months, and he couldn’t imagine thinking of this girl who wanted to serve justice and nab adulterers and help her old man as a victim anymore.

Fic: All the PI’s Men (Logan/Veronica, Ensemble) NC-17 (3/7)

2009-04-22T18:16:53Z

Title: “All the PI’s Men”
Author: em2mb
Pairing/Character: Logan/Veronica, Mac, Keith, Weevil, Wallace, Piz, Sacks.
Word Count: 9,211
Rating: NC-17
Summary: “All... right,” Piz said slowly. He picked up the potato hunk, practically pointing it at her. “But if the next words out of your mouth are an alibi saying Logan was with you, like, with you, just know I’m making you go on my radio show.”
Spoilers: Through 3x20, “The Bitch is Back”
Warnings: Violence, language, sex, character death. Even Cliff McCormick probably wouldn’t defend this one in a court of law.
Disclaimer: Strangely enough, they still don’t belong to me.
Author's Notes: This old thing? *bats eyelashes*

Chapter One | Chapter Two

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Mac sighed exasperatedly. “You’re still not telling me something,” she exclaimed, pressing her free hand flat against the desk in front of her. Her other palm was so slick with sweat she worried about dropping the phone. She stared expectantly at Logan through the glass.

“It’s complicated,” Logan muttered. “Look, Mac, can’t you just—”

“No, Logan,” Mac interrupted. “I can’t just anything. I want to believe you. I really do. But my best friend is dead, murdered in cold blood. If I’m going to help you, then I have to be certain—and I mean absolutely certain—that you had nothing to do with that.”

“Seriously, Mac, just drop it,” Logan pleaded. “I’ve told you everything I can. I’m not holding out anything that could help my case.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“No,” Logan said firmly. “I can’t risk—”

“Then I can’t risk helping you,” said Mac, moving to hang up the phone. Her heart pounding, she hoped Logan would change his mind about withholding information before the guard noticed she was signaling to leave.

“Mac, wait,” Logan mouthed through the glass. She grabbed the phone and sat back down. “Look, what is it that you feel you have to know?”

“The night Veronica was killed, you wouldn’t let me in your hotel room. Why not?”

Logan shook his head. “Look, Mac, like I said—it’s complicated.”

“What would be complicated is if I showed up to talk to you when you were in the middle of murdering my best friend,” Mac said sweetly, then sighed in frustration. “Look, Logan. If you weren’t killing Veronica, what were you doing?”

Logan hesitated. “You’re not going to like this.”

“Were you killing her?”

“No!”

“Then try me.”

Logan took a deep breath. “I was with Gory Sorokin.”

“From the Castle?” Mac asked incredulously. Her eyes narrowed. “Couldn’t you have picked a better time for your induction into the Billionaire Boys’ Club?”

“Mac, I called him,” Logan admitted. “Look, you remember what it was like when Veronica was missing. We called everyone she’d known since kindergarten and then some trying to track down a lead. I thought it was an angle someone should be exploring.”

Mac’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You honestly expect me to believe you were catching up with the guy whose face you’d knocked in that spring?”

Logan just rolled up the sleeve of his orange jumpsuit. There, on the tender underside of his forearm, someone had burned a crude rendition of a castle. “Needless to say, Sorokin didn’t appreciate my meddling in his affairs.”

* * *

Sunday, December 16, 2007

Logan hastily clicked his phone shut. He felt as though he were suffocating, holding a ticking time bomb that could go off at any minute. Contacting Gory Sorokin had been one of his most dangerous moves to date. He tried to appear casual as he walked back into the Balboa County sheriff’s station, where Mac was waiting for him.

Three days. No one had seen Veronica in three days. It didn’t matter how dangerous his move had been if it brought her back safely. Taking the seat next to Mac, he silently implored her for an update. She shook her head, eyes rimmed red from lack of sleep.

“They didn’t find anything,” she said quietly. “Sheriff Mars is headed back now. I already called Wallace.”

Logan felt his jaw tighten. Even as he’d shakily called in a favor to one of his father’s former business associates, even as he’d dialed Sorokin’s number and left a rasping voicemail, he’d hoped this latest lead would pan out. He’d still have been in deep with the son of a known mobster, but at least he would have had Veronica back to help him sort the whole situation out. Now, it seemed, he’d be playing this one on his own.

The memory of Sorokin’s death threat sent chills down Logan’s spine, but if the Fitzpatricks didn’t have Veronica, then it had to be the Castle. He could envision Veronica’s state of disapproval if she’d known what he had done, but at this point, he wanted her home even if it meant facing her wrath.

“It’s not over yet,” Logan found himself saying. He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince. “Tomorrow’s another day. There will be more leads, and we’ll—”

“Logan,” Mac interrupted gently, “I know.” Her hand covered his on the shared armrest. “You don’t have to convince me. It’s just—” she broke off.

“It’s just what?”

“I wish there was something else I could be doing,” Mac said, frustrated. “Something other than sitting here. I wish I had pressed harder when she asked me to override that security system for her. I don’t know. Anything that would make me feel remotely purposeful.”

“Ditto,” Logan muttered. Their fingers still intertwined, she gave his hand a squeeze. He considered admitting right then he’d called Sorokin, but he snapped his mouth shut as soon as he’d opened it. He was the last one to have seen Veronica. He was the one who should have kept her from leaving that night. He alone would assume whatever risk it took to get her back.

Mac had propped her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes for the briefest second when his phone began to trill, and he bolted up in his seat, jarring her abruptly. “Sorry,” he said hastily, not bothering to check the number. “I have to take this. Hello?”

“Hey man.”

The sound of Dick’s voice caused Logan’s hope to vanish immediately. His heart stopped pounding uneasily in his chest.

“Hello?” Dick repeated.

“Hey,” Logan said, taking a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m kind of on edge.”

“Yeah, man, totally,” Dick said, a surprising touch of sympathy to his tone. “Any, uh, new news?”

“Half the department ran out to search some—” on the other end of the line, Logan could hear Dick shuffle uncomfortably, and he realized his voice was cracking. He cleared his throat. “No. No news.”

“I’m sorry.” Dick shuffled again. “I know, uh, Veronica’s important to you.”

Logan sighed heavily, still taking refuge in the dark hallway off the waiting area where Mac sat. “She is.”

“The Pi Sigs are organizing another search tomorrow,” Dick chimed in helpfully. “Somebody will find her, Logan. And when they do, I’d be happy to, uh, leave the two of you alone for a few days—if you know what I mean.”

“Right,” said Logan, far too weary to even consider the possibility himself. “Thanks for everything.”

“Anytime.” The surfer paused. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“No—” Logan began, but he broke off. “Actually, do you mind staying at the house anyway for a few days? I might need the hotel.”

On the other end of the line, Dick chuckled. “That’s the spirit, man! You’ll totally get Veronica back!”

“Right,” Logan muttered. “Night, man.”

Dick ended the call with a click, and Logan stood with his phone in his hand for several seconds, fighting back tears. He hated to think the situation had grown so dire that even Veronica’s least favorite fraternity was pulling for her safe return. When his phone trilled in his hand for a second time, he nearly dropped it. This time, he checked the number—he didn’t recognize it.

“Hello?”

“Meet me at the Neptune Grand in twenty minutes.” The line clicked off.

Back in the lobby, Logan hastily excused himself. He was sure he sounded desperate as he gave Mac the brush off, but he couldn’t think about that right now. All he could think about was getting Veronica back—and hopefully not risking his own life in the process. Of course, that didn’t keep him from running three red lights on his way back to the hotel.

Logan reached the Grand with six minutes to spare. He gripped the elevator railing tightly behind him as he made the ascent to his floor, desperately trying to get his breathing under control. This will work. They’ll have Veronica, and she’ll still be safe. It doesn’t matter what I have to sacrifice to make it happen. He swiped his keycard and flipped on the lights.

“Most people don’t have the nerve to demand help from a man who wants them dead.”

Sorokin put out his cigarette on the upholstery of the hotel chair, studying Logan’s unkempt, out of breath, still-healing appearance. He chuckled.

Logan pulled the door shut behind him, keeping one hand firmly on the knob. “Just tell me where she is,” he said.

“Who?”

Logan gritted his teeth. “Veronica Mars.”

Sorokin laughed, standing up. “I don’t have much use for her, either. What makes you think I have her?”

“She has video of you implicating your own father in a mob killing?” Logan suggested helpfully.

“The world really would be a better place without her.”

Logan sprang forward. “Take it back,” he growled, his hand at Sorokin’s throat.

Sorokin just shrugged off Logan’s grasp. “Why help you?”

“Because this is the kind of thing that will lead back to you. Because if you hurt her, Keith Mars will make you pay.”

Sorokin laughed. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

Logan did not laugh. “I would.”

“Make it worth my time, Echolls—and don’t bother offering me your trust fund. I don’t need your pathetic father’s money.”

“What do you want, then?” Logan ran his hand through his hair. He was so used to being able to buy what he wanted that he failed to recognize that these people could outspend him any day.

“The hard drive,” Sorokin said. “All the information on it. An assurance that she retains no copies.”

“How am I supposed to get that?” Logan wanted to know.

Sorokin shrugged. “Not my problem.”

Logan turned in exasperation, pounding the door once with his fist. “Say I can come up with what you want. What do I get in return?”

“Whatever information I can turn up.”

“But you don’t know where she is right now?”

Sorokin just smiled. “I know where you are.”

“What—”

Logan’s world went dark.

* * *

Friday, March 21, 2008

Mac dragged a fry slowly through the same trench of ketchup on her tray for about the twelfth time. What, exactly, had convinced her lunch dates with Piz were a good idea? Sure, their schedules were similar on Fridays, but they always ran out of things to talk about before they even sat down.

“So Wallace is really getting involved with Invisible Children again,” Piz said, changing the subject for the seventh time. “He kind of—he kind of got sidetracked a few months ago, but he thinks he might go back to Africa again this summer.”

Right, your best friend has been distant since his best friend died, and his best friend happened to be my best friend, so here I am, eating with you.

Finally popping the fry in her mouth, Mac almost choked on the tomato taste and had to gulp down half her soda to recover. She smiled at Piz, nodding encouragingly, hoping he’d go on.

“But anyway, I’ve been going to meetings with him, hanging flyers, writing letters. It’s neat,” Piz said, crumpling the wrapper of his burger and tossing it on his tray. He opened his mouth, promptly shutting it again. “That’s it. I’m out. What have you been doing?”

Monitoring countless hours of audio playback from the bug I planted in the Sheriff’s station, trying to find anything that might help Logan’s case. Thanks for asking.

“Oh, you know. More classes than I should have taken, long hours helping Max with the business,” Mac said instead, taking another rescuing slurp of her soda. “You?”

“We’ve done me,” Piz said dryly. “Seriously, Mac, is everything all right?”

Not by a long shot, Beaverton. My best friend’s still dead, but now I’ve taken up the impossible task of trying to help her ex-boyfriend prove he’s been framed. I’d tell you about it, but you are, coincidentally, another one of her ex-boyfriends.

“Yeah, fine,” Mac said.

I’m not talking about it. It’s our unspoken rule, and I’m not breaking it. Wow, this feels a lot like a game of ‘I’m not touching you!’ with Ryan.

“Right,” Piz said, “because you’ve been dragging the same fry through your ketchup for ten minutes, and you don’t even like tomatoes. You know, Mac, I know we’re not the closest, but I’m a pretty good listener.”

Mac shot him what she hoped was a joking smirk. She wasn’t entirely sure if she could smirk, so she punched his arm playfully for good measure. “Says the deejay of the top rated show on Hearst radio.”

She’d filed away the nugget of information during their third awkward lunch date, sometime in early February. It had come in handy on a number of occasions.

“Who still would love for you to come on and talk about how you were switched a birth with one of Neptune’s bitchiest heiresses.” Piz leaned in, pretending to hold up a microphone. “Tell me, Cindy, was it difficult decision to go public with your past?”

Lunch five, mid-February. How much did I not want to talk about Logan? Enough to let slip the very private fact that I was switched at birth with Madison Sinclair. Stop staring at me like you’re afraid I didn’t take it as a joke. You know, that was probably a less awkward conversation than this one’s becoming.

“Not really,” Mac quipped. “I hope my birth parents will finally give me the BMW I should have rightfully received when I turned nineteen. I’m tired of seeing their fake daughter cruising around town in it.”

“You know, Mac, I’m going to bite,” Piz replied. “I think—I think we’re both thinking about the thing we never talk about, and since we’re both thinking about it, I think, why don’t we just talk about it?”

Mac cocked her head to the side. “You sure you want to go there?”

“Wallace doesn’t say much,” Piz said. “Except—and this is my best Wallace—damn news media poor V can’t believe this. And, you know, I wouldn’t mind getting a load off. Not—like that.”

“Have you ever been told you don’t say things very directly?”

“Occasionally. Look—just forget I said anything. You’re right. We shouldn’t go there, and I’m sorry I did.”

“Logan’s innocent,” Mac blurted.

Piz dropped his fry. “All... right,” he said slowly. He picked up the potato hunk, practically pointing it at her. “But if the next words out of your mouth are an alibi saying he was with you, like, with you, just know I’m making you go on my radio show.”

Her eyes widened. “No!”

“Joke, Mac,” Piz said. “So hit me. I mean, yeah, the guy pummeled me that one time, but I guess I liked him well enough before.”

“So the cops have a lot on him, right?”

“Right,” Piz said. He began to tick off on his fingers. “His testimony, some eyewitness, the gun—”

Mac shut him up with a glare. “They’re making a big deal out of the fact that his story changed, but come on—would you have told Sheriff Mars you’d had sex with his daughter?”

Piz spit soda across the table. “I-I never had sex with his daughter.”

“Exactly!” Mac said earnestly. “It’s the only detail in his story that changed, and since Sacks got a match on the DNA—”

“The DNA?”

Mac leaned in, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. “They found semen in the backseat when they found Veronica’s car. It’s definitely Logan’s, and they’re trying to say he—”

“How do you know this?”

“I bugged the Sheriff’s office,” Mac said, waving her hand. “Besides, Logan told me. Anyway, the gun—you know how Logan and Veronica were at the River Styx that night?”

“Right, the Irish pub,” said Piz, who still seemed to be trying to wrap his mind around her last revelation.

“Veronica took the gun!” she said excitedly, realizing just how much she’d been aching to talk about her investigation to someone, anyone. “When they left the bar, she had the gun, and she never gave it back. So all we need to do is prove that at least one of the bullets fired doesn’t match, or the car was disabled some other way. Obviously, if she had his gun, whoever attacked her could have had access to it.”

“Wait, Logan told you this and you just believe it?”

Mac stared at Piz. “He never would have raped her, Piz. Not after everything with Cassidy.”

Piz swallowed hard, and his nod told Mac he was familiar with the story. “That’s uh, why we—you know what, never mind. How did—wait. Rape?”

“The DNA,” Mac said impatiently. “So an eyewitness saw Logan grab Veronica’s arm outside the bar, and since they never released the bruises to the public, that’s why they arrested him, right?”

“Mac, you’re listing evidence against Logan!”

“The eyewitness is a prostitute!” she exclaimed.

“She knew details unreleased to the public!” Piz countered. He leaned back in the chair, folding his arms across his chest. “Look, Mac, I don’t like the fact that one of our friends or acquaintances or whatever was responsible either, but—”

“Logan is innocent!” Several heads turned, and Mac realized she was hovered about the table, about to leap out of her seat. She sat down, mouthing ‘sorry,’ and focused on Piz. “Look, Piz, I know you liked Veronica, a lot, but Logan loved her.”

“Enough to kill her?” Piz wanted to know. “So you believe differently, I know that. So you do things different in Neptune, I know that too. And maybe I’m not warped and twisted enough, but I believe they usually catch the bad guy.”

Mac had already gathered her things. “Sorry, Piz,” she said. “I think our lunch dates are cancelled—effective immediately.”

* * *

Piz watched Mac storm off, head still spinning. It wasn’t like he’d never thought about it before. He stopped to ponder the question of Logan’s guilt nearly every day. What happened to Veronica was terrible. Logan’s responsibility in the matter? Even worse. And like he’d said to Mac, he hadn’t lived in Neptune long enough to be as seriously jaded as everyone else seemed to be.

He had just stopped shaking his head and had started to contemplate skipping his afternoon class when a man in a business suit slid in across from him. Piz’s brow furrowed, sure he recognized the man from somewhere. “Do I—?”

“Mark Jarvis,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m a reporter covering the Logan Echolls murder investigation, and I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with your girlfriend.”

Piz laughed nervously. “She’s not my girlfriend, sir.”

Jarvis waved his hand. “Unimportant,” he said. Then, he clasped his hands together on the table in front of him. “Ye-ah, so I overheard the two of you talking, which really doesn’t matter because KRBZ already had our own lead on the DNA information.”

“Right,” said Piz, tugging at his collar.

“Yeah, I’m going to need you to leak that on your show tonight, kid,” Jarvis said, flashing an incredibly fake smile. “Think you can handle it?”

“You want me to what?”

Jarvis reached into his briefcase and handed Piz a slip of paper over the debris from lunch. Piz skimmed the news brief, which outlined what Mac had said—Logan’s semen had been found in the backseat of Veronica’s car. Given the amount of blood and the shattered glass, authorities were now charging him in the assault, kidnapping, murder and rape of Veronica Mars. Piz’s stomach lurched, and he shoved the paper back.

“No,” he said. “I don’t even know if that’s true.”

“I have sources,” Jarvis offered, returning to his briefcase.

Piz scooted away from the table. “I don’t care. I’m not releasing that. Besides, why would you want a college deejay to scoop your lead?”

Jarvis gritted his teeth for a second. “Ye-ah,” he said, stretching out the syllable again, “we’re kind of under a gag order after releasing information about the ballistics test. Law enforcement officials are calling it media frenzy, I’m calling it the public’s right to know. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“No,” Piz said. He shook his head vehemently, unable to believe this guy. “No way.”

“So where are we on your show?” Jarvis pressed.

“No!” Piz repeated, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I think you need to get off campus before someone calls security.”

Jarvis smiled coolly. “I think you need to change his mind.” Drawing out a mini cassette recorder, he pushed play. Mac’s voice was faint under the noise of the cafeteria, but her admission to bugging the sheriff’s office was clear.

“That’s not legal,” Piz sputtered.

“More so than what she did,” Jarvis replied cheerfully. “So what do you say, Piznarski? Take care of that release for me, and I make sure no one ever knows what your girlfriend—”

“Friend.”

“—what your girlfriend did. Don’t take care of it, and I tell the sheriff she’s working to clear Echolls because she was also involved in the murder of Veronica Mars.”

* * *

Sunday, March 23, 2008

Logan licked his lips as the guard jerked him away from the dining area, spreading the coppery taste of blood. He started to spit, but the guard gave his head a three-fingered shove.

“Don’t,” he growled, gripping Logan’s arms ever tighter. “Someone has to clean these floors, rich boy.” Guiding Logan into a cell at the end of a long, cool hallway, his first move was to shove the younger man in the direction of the sink. “Spit.”

“Thanks,” Logan said, sitting heavily on the cot. The guard was already locking up.

“Congratulations, Echolls,” he said, “less than two weeks and you already had to be removed from the general prison population. Hate to break it to you, but murder carries a sentence of twenty-five to life.”

Logan didn’t say anything. He was tired of proclaiming his innocence, tired of trying to make people see. He imagined all of Neptune was convinced of his guilt now, thanks to one Stosh Piznarski, and the San Diego prison population seemed to agree.

Three times in as many days now, he’d been jumped from behind. Easing back on the cot, Logan winced at his swollen ribs. Apparently, victimization of tiny blondes doesn’t go over well, even here. And if other convicts were throwing punches over dinner, he didn’t hold out much hope for felony-free populace.

“Don’t have anything to say for yourself, do you?” the guard sneered. “Even your old man was more popular with the guards.”

He tromped back down the concrete hall, and Logan tried to make himself comfortable. Even when he managed to relieve the pressure from his bumps and bruises, he could still hear the guards razing him with their usual “like father, like son” commentary. At least his eye, which had been popping out when Mac visited him last, was starting to heal.

Even when the overhead light went off, Logan couldn’t fall asleep. He tried staring at the ceiling, counting sheep, finally closing his eyes. They sprang open when he heard shuffling in his tiny cell.

“Following in my footsteps, son?” Aaron asked, his voice cold as he ran a hand across the lip of the sink. He inspected the grime that came up. “Hmm.”

“Go away,” Logan said, closing his eyes. At least he knew he’d finally fallen asleep.

“What? You haven’t seen me in months, Logan, and you’re already trying to get rid of me?” Aaron wanted to know. He crouched down, leaning over Logan’s cot. “What does it feel like to be accused of a crime you didn’t commit?”

Logan swung his legs over the side of the cot and sat up, forcing his dead father out of his face. “You killed Lilly, Dad. You admitted as much to Veronica.”

“What did I tell you about a convincing performance, son?” Aaron continued, somehow managing to pace within the confines of Logan’s cell. “A jury will believe anything if you just make them believe it.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll just make them believe all the evidence against me is purely coincidental,” Logan muttered bitterly.

“My, my, my—you’re innocent and you’re not even fighting as hard as I did.”

Logan scrambled to his feet, matching his father’s height. “Wait, you—”

An unpleasant smirk turned the corners of Aaron’s mouth upward. “Even in death, the bitch didn’t shut up.”

“What?”

But Aaron was gone.

* * *

Monday, March 24, 2008

Mac wasn’t surprised to see Piz lurking outside the sociology building as she left her last class on Thursday. He stepped out of the shadows when he saw her, squinting in the bright California sunshine. Adjusting her shoulder strap, she walked briskly in the direction of her dorm.

“Mac, wait!”

She whirled around, almost taking out a tour guide leading a group of potential students around campus. “What do you want, Piz?”

He caught up with her, dropping his hands to his knees as he tried to catch his breath. “To talk to you.”

“So talk,” Mac said, sweeping her arm theatrically before grabbing the strap of her book bag. “What do you want, Piz?”

“To apologize,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Look, this guy? Mark Jarvis?”

Mac’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, Mark Jarvis. I know him. He’s the reporter who had Logan convicted before Sacks even made an arrest.”

“I had to do it, Mac. You don’t understand. This Jarvis guy?” Piz begged. “He knew things. He made me do it.”

“Did he now? He made you?” Mac challenged.

“Yeah, Mac, he did.”

Her eyes flashed. “No, Piz. No one made you do anything. You always have a choice. Do you not get that? Just admit it. Outside influence or not, you would have leaked the story.”

“What are you talking about? I’m not like that.”

“Yeah?” Mac said, folding her arms across her chest. “Why’d you get involved in the first place, Piz? Last year? You knew Veronica had a boyfriend, and you made a move anyway.”

“Only after they’d broken up. Some good it did me. I seem to remember getting the short end of that day, or maybe you’ve forgotten the violent heart-crushing way she let me down.”

“Don’t,” Mac said, closing her eyes. “Don’t you even drag Veronica into this.”

“She wasn’t a saint, Mac.”

“Yeah? She was my best friend, Piz. That mean anything to you?”

“That maybe you should accept that she was murdered and let the authorities put her killer behind bars?”

Before she knew what she was doing, Mac had slapped Piz soundly across the face. “Like I tried to tell Parker,” she said. “You just don’t get between those two.”

She left Piz standing dumbfounded on the sidewalk, blinking rapidly, the passing tour group pointing and whispering. Breathe, Mac, she reminded, trying not to sprint towards her room. There were six hours of tape she needed to sort through from the Sheriff’s office, but all she wanted to do was curl up in bed. She’d just have to call Max and cancel their plans for the evening.

Her hands were still shaking when she reached the door, and she trembled as she pulled her keys from her pocket. It took her two tries to unlock the door, and she threw her books down immediately. Closing her eyes, she leaned against her dresser and tried to calm her nerves.

“Cindy.”

Mac jumped, unable to think of a single positive reason why a man would be in her dorm room. She whirled around. Keith Mars was sitting on the foot of her bed.

“Mr. Mars,” she said, her heart still racing.

He gave her a little wave. “Sorry if I scared you.”

“No, no, not at all,” Mac said slowly, turning her desk chair around and sitting down. “Can I help you with something?”

Keith folded his hands in his lap, glancing across the room to the window. “Tell me something I didn’t know about my daughter.”

Mac blinked, unsure what her friend’s father was asking. “What do you mean, sir?”

“Anything. Just something I didn’t know about her.”

“She was trying to learn how to sew when she died,” Mac blurted. “She’d taken a couple of lessons at the craft studio, and she dragged me to the fabric store to look at sewing machines once.”

A small smile crossed Keith’s face. “Tell me something else I didn’t know.”

Mac stood and moved to sit next to him on the bed. “She was going to take a pre-law class this semester, just so she could apply to law school to prove she could get in. And she wanted to speak at graduation, just so she didn’t have to listen to anyone else’s commencement address.”

“That’s my girl,” Keith said wistfully.

“She worried about her relationship with you a lot,” Mac said, unable to stop herself. “She worried the two of you were fighting too much, but she didn’t know how to make things right with you, either. She said once she wasn’t used to having people in her life that stuck around, but you always did. And sometimes she was scared to admit she needed you and her friends.” She laughed nervously. “I figured that one out on my own, actually.”

“I know you think Logan’s innocent,” Keith said softly.

Mac nodded. “I do.”

“I know you’ve been visiting him, even after they transferred him to San Diego.”

“Yeah, I have.”

“Why?”

“Because he loved Veronica,” Mac said simply. “And she loved him.”

Keith stood. “Thanks for your time, Mac.”

“No, Mr. Mars,” Mac said. “I’m not crazy.” She followed him to the door, her arms folded across her chest. “You wanted to know something you didn’t know about Veronica?”

He stopped, his hand on the door. “What?”

“Veronica went to a party once,” Mac said softly. “And she took a drink from someone she didn’t know. Shelly Pomroy’s house, sophomore year. She woke up the next morning without her underwear.”

Keith’s lip quivered, and for a second, Mac thought he would cry. Instead, he raised a fist and slammed it into her door. Mac bit her lip, took a deep breath, and continued.

“It took her awhile, but she thought she figured it out. She’d had consensual sex with Duncan, just couldn’t remember it. Only that didn’t explain how she ended up with Chlamydia. Woody Goodman molesting Cassidy Casablancas?” Mac wrung her hands as she said her ex’s name. “That did.”

Tears were now streaming down Keith’s cheeks. He was shaking his head. “Why are you telling me this?” he demanded. “That’s my little girl you’re talking about.”

She touched his shoulder lightly. “I just don’t think the guy who spent an entire summer holding her while she cried, assuring her he’d be there, ferrying around her dumb friend who’d gotten involved with a sociopath, would turn around and do the exact same thing.”

Keith nodded, tears still caught in his eyes.

“Why did you arrest Logan, Mr. Mars?” Mac wanted to know.

“I don’t know, Mac,” he said, his voice shaking. “I don’t know.”

* * *

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

“Loretta Cancun’s in holding cell two, Sheriff,” Deputy Sacks said, poking his head into the office. Keith didn’t look up from his paperwork. “Sheriff? Did you hear me? Loretta Cancun’s been arrested again.”

“Cliff’s on speed dial two, Sacks,” Keith said finally.

The deputy nodded, turning to leave, but stopped short. He hesitantly stepped back into the office and crossed to his boss’s desk. He frowned when he saw Veronica’s autopsy results spread out again. “Keith,” Sacks asked, “are you sure you need those out again?”

His elbows propped on the table, hands resting on his baldhead, Keith cast a sidelong look at Sacks. “It’s an open murder investigation, Jerry.”

Sacks flinched as he lifted a photo detailing the damage to Veronica’s abdomen, dried blood the color of rust against her torn porcelain flesh. “It’s your daughter, Keith.”

“Have they run the DNA on the Dog Beach blade?” the sheriff asked. They’d recovered a bloody knife three days before and were waiting on lab results.

“Not yet,” Sacks said, sighing. “But there’s not a print to be found, Sheriff, even if it is the murder weapon.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Keith countered. “Keep me updated.”

“Right,” Sacks said, quietly replacing the photo. “Keith—”

“What about the gun?” the Sheriff interrupted. “No new hits in the state ballistics database, right?”

Sacks shook his head. “No new hits,” he echoed.

“Thanks, Jerry,” Keith said, finally looking up from the coroner’s report. His eyes were red-rimmed. “Let me know about the Cancun booking?”

“Of course, sir,” Sacks responded. He was halfway out when Keith’s phone rang.

“Hello?” the sheriff asked, his deputy still hovering. “This is Keith Mars.” His brow furrowed, and he suddenly pushed back from his desk and stood. “Of course, I’ll check it out right away.”

“Sir?” Sacks said questioningly, watching Keith tuck his gun in his holster.

“Someone tripped the silent alarm at Mars Investigations,” Keith said, brushing past him on the way to the door. “Let Halls know what’s happening and follow me in a squad car.”

“Of course, Keith,” said Sacks, following his boss out of his office. Keith locked the door behind him before jogging lightly to his car.

He turned on the siren as he made his way across town but flipped it off as he turned the corner towards the office. The building was dark, and nothing seemed out of place from the street. Grabbing his gun, Keith slipped past the dentist’s office downstairs and made his way silently to his office. He could hear shuffling on the other side of the door.

“Sheriff’s Department, hands where I can seem them!” Keith shouted, throwing the door back. He hit the light switch. “Logan?”

Half the filing cabinets behind the receptionist’s desk had been torn apart, and Veronica’s ex-boyfriend was sitting in the midst of the mess. “Hey, Sheriff Mars,” Logan said nervously, starting to lower his hands.

“Uh-uh,” said Keith, still pointing his gun at the young man. “I didn’t say you could put your hands down. Mind telling me what you’re doing?”

“Nothing wrong, sir, I swear,” Logan said. “I just—I just knew Veronica was working on a case against the Fitzpatricks. I wanted to see if she had any notes about the case lying around.”

Keith finally lowered his pistol. “And you don’t think I’ve scored this office a thousand times? You don’t think we’ve taken apart her hard drive?” he asked, shaking his head. “You can put your hands down.”

Logan lowered them slowly. “Thanks sir,” he said, averting his eyes.

The sheriff crossed the room quickly, immediately snatching the case file Logan had been absorbing. He started gathering papers and files and returning them to the proper drawers. “What the hell did you think you were doing, Logan, breaking into the office of the sheriff?”

“I don’t know, sir,” the young man mumbled, realizing it would be a good time to clear out. He hovered against the wall, several feet from Veronica’s desk. “I just—I just need answers.”

Keith stopped his sorting. “And you think I don’t? She was my daughter, Logan. I know she made it look easy, busting cheating spouses and solving petty crimes, but real detective work takes time.”

“Right, I just—”

The door Keith had carefully shut burst open again as Sacks flew into the room. “Backup, sir!” he called. “Everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine, Deputy,” Keith said, watching Sacks’ eyes fall on Logan, who for once didn’t have much to say.

“Sir, should I...?” Sacks started.

Keith started to shake his head, but stopped, focusing instead on the papers still littering the office. “Cuff him, Sacks,” he said wearily. He glanced up from the framed photo he was holding—one of Logan and Veronica, actually, that she’d always shoved in a drawer when she thought he was inspecting her desk too closely. “I’m sorry, son, but we have to take you in for questioning. It’s procedure.”

Sacks crossed the room, reading Logan his rights. Keith watched out of the corner of his eyes, trying to pretend the sight of Veronica’s ex in cuffs didn’t rattle him. He’d had his doubts about the boy when she’d dated him, but he looked positively stricken as the metal slipped against his wrists. Sacks began to lead him out.

“Logan?” Keith said, unable to help himself. The young man stopped, causing Sacks to run into him. “It wasn’t the Fitzpatricks. We—we followed every lead we could since the two of you were there that night, but... nothing. Their alibis are airtight between one and five that morning, and unfortunately we provided them.”

Sacks’ eyes went wide. “Keith, we—”

“I’ll see you at the station, Jerry,” Keith said gently. “I’d like to interrogate him if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, sir,” the deputy replied, leading Logan out.

Keith could hear them on the stairs, Sacks prodding the young man along. He shook his head and continued to straight the office. On his way out, Veronica’s desk still didn’t look quite right. Shuffling back around, he pulled the framed photo of her and Logan out of the top drawer. Replacing it on the corner of the desk, he reset the alarm and slipped out of the office.

* * *

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

“Your eye is finally healing up, Mr. Echolls,” Harvey Kuner said, his voice dripping with false sincerity as the guard shoved Logan in the direction of the bench in the visitor’s area. On the other side of the glass, he swung his briefcase onto the little ledge and popped the clasp. “Let’s talk about your case.”

“You’re all business, aren’t you, Harvey?” Logan asked, propping his elbows on his side of the ledge.

Kuner arched a perfectly manicured eyebrow behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “You pay me by the hour, Mr. Echolls. I hurry along for your sake, and because my second wife is a swimsuit model who hates to spend too much time alone.”

“I’m doing well, thanks for asking.”

“Need I remind you you’re being charged with murder?”

Logan lifted his arm so his handcuffs rattled. “Haven’t forgotten,” he said cheerfully. “So where are we on getting me out of here?”

“I think you’ll be pleased, Mr. Echolls,” Kuner said, sliding papers under the glass for Logan’s inspection. “I talked to the DA yesterday, and I think we’re approaching a deal. I’m still pushing for the possibility of parole, but I can assure you won’t receive the death penalty.”

Logan’s brow furrowed as he studied the papers. “Plea bargain?” he asked, shaking his head. He slid the papers back to Kuner. “No way.”

Kuner pushed the papers back. Logan returned them a second time. “Mr. Echolls, twenty-five to life doesn’t sound like my idea of a good time either, but like I said, I think I can get you out on good behavior.”

“When?” Logan demanded, pounding a fist on the ledge and receiving a warning look from the beefy guard posted at the door. “In fifteen years? Twenty?”

“Quite possibly less, Mr. Echolls, if you can refrain from pissing off the rest of the prison population in the future,” Kuner said, his lips curling in a snarl. “Though I daresay, judging by the gash above your eye, it’s unlikely.”

Logan pretended to bat his eyelashes as his hand flew to his face. “I daresay, this?” He narrowed his eyes. “I thought you said it was looking better. No one likes a liar, Harvey.”

“No one likes a smartass, Logan,” Kuner echoed. “I’m going back to renegotiate tomorrow, but I’d advise you take whatever the DA has to offer, Mr. Echolls.”

“But I’m innocent.”

“Of course you are.”

Logan slammed another fist against the ledge, this time hard enough to rattle the glass separating him from Kuner and earn the scorn of the guard, who started towards him. Kuner raised a hand on the other side, shaking his head. He smiled smugly while Logan drew in deep breaths, trying to calm himself.

“I did not kill Veronica,” Logan said through gritted teeth. “I loved her, and I lie awake in my cell every night trying to figure out where I went so wrong in that relationship to end up accused of brutally stabbing her to death.”

Kuner didn’t look the least sorry as he started shoving papers back in his briefcase. “Mr. Echolls, do I need to remind you we go to trial in little over a month? Admissions of love are not going to convince the jury Miss Mars’ blood isn’t on your hands. A key witness or three could, yet you haven’t provided me with a single name who might want to save your sorry ass.”

“I told you to talk to Cindy Mackenzie,” Logan said stubbornly.

“And I told you juries aren’t very receptive to computer programming majors. They just don’t speak the same language as the rest of the population. Besides, there’s no way a jury would buy her loyalty to you or even her friendship with Veronica, and eleven of them would probably mistake her testimony for a love letter to you.” Kuner made a face. “To which you responded that I might go fuck myself.”

“No, you told me there was no way a good girl like that would even talk to me, called Veronica a whore, and suggested I got off on brutally stabbing my ex to death,” Logan retorted. “To which I responded for you to go fuck yourself.”

Kuner arched an eyebrow. “Is that not what I just said?”

Logan folded his arms across his chest. “I have half a mind to fire you.”

“You’ve already run through two of Southern California’s best criminal defense attorneys. Between rumors of your attitude and the smoldering stack of evidence the bumbling sheriff of Balboa County somehow managed to gather, there’s not a lawyer in the state willing to touch your case.”

The man had a point. Logan chose to ignore it. “And you can’t get Keith Mars on the stand?”

“Mr. Echolls, I thought I’d explained this, but I’ll try again.” Kuner gestured with his hands, as if he were trying to drive the point home to a five-year-old. “Think of ‘subpoenaed to testify for the prosecution’ and ‘willingness to testify for the defense’ as double-dipping. You can only do one or the other. Do I need to explain subpoenaed, also?”

“Fuck you,” Logan said.

“Community soap,” Kuner leered. He looked thoughtful. “Not that you’re allowed to play with the other prisoners anymore.”

Logan slouched in his seat. “With friends like these, who needs enemies?” he muttered.

Kuner gathered his briefcase. “I’ll renegotiate with the DA tomorrow.”

“Don’t bother. We’re going to court.”

“Not with you as the defense’s only witness, we aren’t. I need another name, Mr. Echolls. Someone who wants less than I do to see your sorry ass rot in jail for twenty-five to life.”

* * *

Saturday, April 12, 2008

“An AMBER alert has been issued for a six-year-old Encinitas girl. It is believed that Amanda Kohl was abducted from her front yard by a man driving a white—”

Wallace took a deep breath as he pulled the key from his ignition, halting the radio announcer mid-word. He’d already let the engine idle for five minutes outside the Mars’ apartment (of Keith’s apartment, but he still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that Veronica didn’t live there anymore, or anywhere), and he couldn’t put this off forever.

At the front door, he shifted his weight from foot to foot, triple-checking the saran wrap on the cookies his mom had asked him to deliver before he knocked. He didn’t want it to be obvious he’d snatched one in the car.

He’d have taken two, but as much as he hated to admit it, his mom’s snickerdoodles didn’t hold a candle to Veronica’s.

The door opened, catching Wallace off guard. He forced a smile on his face as he extended the platter to Keith. “Hey Mr. Mars. My mom sent me over.”

“Did she?” Keith asked, smiling warmly. He held the door open, clearly expecting Wallace to follow. Seeing no other option, the young man tried to brush off how awkward he felt returning to Veronica’s apartment. “Come on, sit down. I think I have some milk in the fridge—oh, Mac’s here.”

Wallace’s brow furrowed. “Hey,” he said, glancing at the living room, where files were spread from one all to the next. Mac gave him a guilty smile and a small wave as he tiptoed through the mess and took a seat on the couch. “So, uh, what are you working on?”

“Class project,” Mac said quickly—almost too quickly. Jumping up to help Keith in the kitchen, she wiped her hands on her jeans and smiled widely. “Mr. Mars has been helping me with a project.”

“Criminology,” Keith said, jumping in, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “Mac wanted my opinion on a report she’d written, and I was so interested in the topic I asked to see her research.”

“Yeah?” Wallace said, reaching down and grabbing the nearest paper. “So what’s your project about?”

“Imprisonment!” Mac blurted. She squeaked, slapping a hand to her mouth. “False imprisonment.”

This is bad. Wallace couldn’t help but critique her style, having watched Veronica cover her ass so many times. Had this been the Mars family improvising, their story would have blended seamlessly together. “Logan Echolls’ false imprisonment?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Keith just continued his ministrations with the towel, but Mac rushed towards him. “Please, Wallace, don’t be mad. We have good reasons to be helping him, okay?” she said breathlessly, plopping down beside him.

“It’s cool, Mac, really,” Wallace said. “Piz said you thought Logan was innocent.”

“Damn roommates who still talk to each other,” Mac muttered, watching as Keith started silently towards them, somehow balancing the cookies in one hand and three glasses of milk in the other.

“So what do you think, Wallace?” he asked, striking a tone balanced perfectly between father and sheriff. He handed one glass to Wallace and, after glancing at the remaining two, one to Mac. “I remembered to buy soy this time.”

“Thanks, Mr. Mars,” Mac said, grabbing a cookie, her eyes never leaving Wallace, who shrugged helplessly.

“Yeah, I don’t know, Mr. Mars,” he said. “I mean, you know I was really messed up for awhile there, and whoever killed Veronica, I want him behind bars. But... she’s not coming back, no matter who they arrest or convict.”

“That’s a very healthy attitude, Wallace,” Keith said, dunking his own cookie. “So how’s your mother?”

No you don’t, Wallace thought, but he imagined Veronica had learned how to change subjects from a master. “She’s good. Already freaking out about sending Darryl to middle school in the fall.”

Keith chuckled. “What about you? How’s school? Mac tells me you’re headed back to Africa this summer.”

“Mmhmm,” Wallace said, taking a swig of milk so large he nearly chocked. “Seriously, Mr. Mars. Are we gonna do this? Tell me about Logan.”

Mac and Keith exchanged a look, and she started talking. And talking. And talking. And finally, she snapped her jaw shut, waiting for his reaction. Wallace could practically feel his head spinning—and Mac’s eyes burning hopefully at him.

“So Logan’s more throw-a-few-punches than revenge-on-the-ex,” Wallace said. “I can dig it. But if he didn’t kill Veronica, who did? The Fitzpatricks? The Castle?”

Keith winced. “Most twenty-year-old girls don’t have quite as many enemies,” he said wistfully. “Honestly, Wallace? We don’t know.”

“That’s why we’re going through all these files again,” Mac injected. “We’re trying to see if we missed anything before.”

“What about the Fitzpatricks?” Wallace wanted to know. “If they were threatening to kill her that night, aren’t they the logical suspects?”

“That’s the thing,” Mac said. She slipped off the sofa and reached for a file, rubbing her temples as she studied it again, probably for the hundredth time. “Logan admits he’s not sure about that part. He knows for sure he heard them plotting something, even discussing a woman’s murder. But he’s not sure at this point if he just imagined hearing her name over the wire in his grief.”

“They have airtight alibis to boot,” Keith said, running his hand over his bald head. “We were doing random sweeps of the bars all night. Everywhere else we dropped in for an hour or two, then left, because the entire sweep was a sting for Thursday night drug traffic at the River Styx. Unsurprisingly, they must have had a tip—no cocaine, and even Danny Boyd was on his best behavior.”

“So we’re investigating the Castle,” Mac said. “Only—we don’t now that much about the Castle.”

“Uh-uh,” Wallace said automatically. “I ain’t putting on another shock collar any time soon.”

Keith chuckled. “Don’t worry, Wallace. We still have the hard drive, and we’ve been able to glean a lot off of it, but nothing useful so far.”

“We actually lost a lot of ground because Nish published that list of names last summer,” Mac said, glancing up from he floor. “Unsurprisingly, every one of those people has disavowed all knowledge of the Castle and pointed out all the squeaky-clean highlights of their careers.” She scoffed. “I’m ninety-nine percent certain they’ve regrouped under a new name, like the Chalet, or the Mansion, or the Skyscraper, or maybe even the Snooty Billionaire’s Club.”

“So we’re exploring other angles,” Keith said, mouthing ‘does she always ramble like this?’ over Mac’s head.

“Like?”

“Anything that gives Logan a fighting chance. For awhile we thought it might have something to do with Vinnie Van Lowe’s disappearance, but it’s been four months and the sheriff’s department has even fewer leads.”

“So Veronica didn’t happen to mention anything to you, like ‘I’m involved in something really dangerous, here it is,’ or ‘In case I mysteriously disappear, here’s who to look to,’ did she?” Mac pressed.

“No,” said Wallace, scratching his chin. “Wait, did you say you thought it had something to do with Sheriff Van Lowe’s disappearance?”

“Do you know something?” Mac said anxiously, her eyes wide and her hand resting on Wallace’s knee when she whipped around.

He shrugged. “Just what I told Sacks. A day or two before Van Lowe disappeared, she was supposed to meet me for dinner but was running late. She rushed into the food court, all out of breath, asking if I’d mind swiping for her in one breath and mentioning the Sheriff had stopped by in the other. She scoffed, muttered something about how offensive it was to refer to him as a man of the law, and ran off with my ID card to grab two helpings of lasagna.”

Keith and Mac exchanged glances before lunging at the same time for a pen and a pad of paper. Wallace just stared at them. “What? You didn’t know that?”

“No,” Mac said, scribbling furiously. With her taking notes, Keith had abandoned his own pen. He stared inquisitively at Wallace.

“Do you remember anything else?”

“A week or so later, she baked me a batch of cookies and told me we were long due for some concentrated BFF time, but I could tell she was trying to butter me up for a favor,” Wallace said. “I told her I was done—no more bugging, no more file stealing, and definitely no more nudity. She dropped by on Thanksgiving because she’d already eaten everything in sight here, and we had coffee a few times, but that was it.”

He wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, noticing how Mac and Keith both pretended not to notice. Brushing it off, he reached for a file off the floor. He cleared his throat.

“So what can I do to help?”

* * *

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Piz might have still had a thing or two to say to Wallace, but Mac had long since run out of things to talk about with Parker. She imagined it didn’t help that Parker still planned to provide character testimony for the prosecution at Logan’s murder trial. Nothing she had said or done could convince Parker of his innocence; according to the blonde, the beating he’d dealt Piz and the cavalier way with which he’d tossed her aside were precursors to murder.

So, when Keith finally walked her to her car in the apartment parking lot at one thirty in the morning, Mac had driven not to Hearst, but to Max’s apartment. It wasn’t like she talked to her parents more than once a month these days anyway—they didn’t seem to suspect she’d moved in with her boyfriend in the slightest. Fumbling at the door with her keys, she let herself in, yawning sleepily. There was no way she’d make her eight o’clock class the next morning.

Hoping not to wake Max, Mac shuffled through the kitchen without flipping on a light. She slipped into the bedroom and stripped out of her jeans, swamping them for a pair of loose-fitting boxers from the pile of laundry on the floor. She cringed when she stepped backward into another soft heap of clothes. There was a chance she’d sort of let go of housekeeping in recent weeks.

After brushing her teeth, she unhooked her bra and pulled it through her sleeve, sliding under the covers of Max’s bed. She assumed he was asleep, but when she went to fluff her pillow, he wrapped an arm around her waist.

“Hey, sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“That’s three night in a row you’ve been out,” Max grumbled. “I never thought I’d say this, but can’t you run out to bars and make me worry you’re cheating like other girls?”

Mac giggled. “You know I only have eyes for you.”

Max let go of her, rolling from his side to his back, leaving Mac alone on her side of the bed. “Right, me and Logan Echolls. No competition there.”

“You know I haven’t seen Logan in two weeks. Five fights—he didn’t even start any of them, but he still lost visitor privileges.”

“Two girls from your sociology class stopped by,” Max said. “You were supposed to study with them?”

“Oh, God, I completely forgot,” Mac breathed. “Damn. My phone must have been off.”

“Are you completely forgetting something else?”

Mac’s eyes widened. She slapped her forehead. “I can’t believe this. I have a test in there tomorrow, and I haven’t cracked a book in weeks.”

Max stiffened on his side of the bed. “I mean our date yesterday. I was going to take you out, celebrate our ten month anniversary? You completely blew me off, Mac.”

“I am so sorry,” she gasped. “I don’t know how it slipped—”

“And Mac?” he interrupted. “You know how you made me go to classes this year?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That goes two ways.” Max rolled away from her, tugging the sheets with him. Mac wrapped her arms around her pillow, wondering how fast she’d be able to find a new place to crash.

* * *

Author’s Notes: Yes, I’m back. Yes, chapter four is already in the works. No, I don’t plan to keep you waiting for over a year. I’m aiming for between one and two weeks, given that you’ll get at least 8,000 words when I do post again.

I’m also committing myself to a number of other writing projects in the Veronica Mars fandom, including my table at 100_situations. But I need your help. Here, I’ve left my impassioned plea for you to take a look at my table and tell me what word to tackle next.

Let's do this thing

2009-04-20T16:53:06Z

Here's the deal. A very, very long time ago, I signed up for a table at 100_situations. At the time, it seemed like a good idea - I would write, and the prompts would provide me with jumping off points.

Of course, then life got in the way and I took a break from fandom. I'm back now, trying to clear old projects off the hard drive, with the better part of 100 stories waiting to be finished. But it's something I want to do, even if one-word isn't quite the jumping off point I hoped it would be.

So here's where you can help. Go, take a look at my table, and pick a word, any word. Anything that's not in plain text (not italics or a hyperlink) is fair game. Leave me a comment with a line, a word of dialogue, a one-sentence prompt, anything that gives me a little more to work with. You can even issue a challenge within a challenge. And I'll start writing them in the order requests are received. You'll get credit for your inspiration and more Logan/Veronica fic to read.

And look for chapter three of All the PI's Men by the end of the week.

Fic: You Don’t Need a Weatherman to Know Which Way the Wind Blows (Logan/Veronica, Ensemble) R (1/?)

2009-04-19T20:51:05Z

Title: “You Don’t Need a Weatherman to Know Which Way the Wind Blows”
Author:em2mb
Pairing/Character: Logan/Veronica, Lilly, Duncan, Mac, Wallace, Weevil, Lamb.
Word Count: 3,374
Rating: R
Summary: Berkeley, 1967 – Lilly snorted. “A part of me wants to see Duncan get drafted. I wonder how much Daddy would support this war if his son had to fight it.” It won’t be much longer before Veronica has to choose a side.
Spoilers: Through 1x22, “Leave it to Beaver”
Warnings: Character death, rape, and gratuitous nostalgia for a decade I didn’t live through
Author's Notes: A very long time ago, vm_library hosted a “Different Time and Place” challenge for which I (quite clearly) missed the deadline. But more than a year later, I haven’t managed to shake the idea of Veronica attending UC-Berkeley in the late 1960s. Title cribbed unabashedly from the position paper of everyone’s favorite radical domestic terrorist group, the Weather Underground Organization, which they borrowed from Bob Dylan’s “Subterranean Homesick Blues.” Apologies for any historical inaccuracies. I’ve done my very best. Written in part for 100_situations. Prompt: war.

Berkeley, California
October 3, 1967

Lilly Kane’s lips pursed to form a perfect pout as she examined herself in the full-length mirror. She held up a low-cut brown sweater, stretching the fabric tight across her bust before tossing it over her shoulder with a frustrated sigh. She whirled around. “I’ve got a secret,” she declared, throwing herself down on her roommate’s bed. “A good one.”

“Lil-ly,” Veronica Mars complained, trying to keep the mountain of books piled high around her from collapsing avalanche-style. She sighed as they hit the floor with the flood. “I’m trying to study.”

“Please,” Lilly intoned, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder. “Like you need to study. We both know the only degree you’ll ever need in life is your M.R.S. in marrying my brother.”

Veronica’s face flushed. “I’m not marrying Duncan,” she said quickly.

Lilly slipped cat-like off Veronica’s bed, rolling her eyes. “Really?” she asked, bouncing across the room to the ironing board. “Then why are you going to meet the parents tonight?”

Veronica didn’t answer. “What’s your secret?” she asked.

“No time to talk, Veronica. I have a date.”

“So it’s a secret lover?”

Lilly paused, her eyes flashing. “Maybe.”

Veronica giggled, pushing off her bed. She waded through Lily’s shoe collection to her closet, where neatly folded sweaters were stacked on the shelves. “You’ll have to tell me all about it.”

“Obviously. God, Veronica, I have to do all the living for both of us anymore.” Lilly’s voice was muffled from beneath the ironing board. “Want to drive down to Oakland with me next weekend?”

Veronica eyed the steam rising from Lilly’s hair suspiciously. “What’s happening in Oakland?”

“Stop the Draft Week.”

“I don’t think so.” Veronica carefully pulled out a shawl.

Setting the iron aside, Lilly offered her roommate her most innocent smile. “But it’ll be fun, Veronica,” she begged. “There’s no way your dad will hear about it all the way in Neptune.”

“I’ll think about it,” Veronica promised, her mind already made up. “How do I look?” she asked, slipping on her headband.

Lilly put her hands on her hips. “Bland,” she declared. “Boring. Celeste is going to love you.”

Veronica smiled nervously. “Do you really think so?”

Lilly snorted. “No way. Face it, Veronica. There’s no winning over the ice bitch. She hates me, and I’m her flesh and blood.” She undid the top two buttons of her blouse, twirling in front of the mirror. She turned to Veronica, flashing doe eyes and cleavage. “What makes you think you have a chance?

“Do you plan to go out like that?”

“Of course,” Lilly declared, expertly plucking her pocketbook from the piles of clothing strewn about the floor. She pulled open the door, blowing Veronica a kiss. “I have to run and meet my lover, but I’ll see you at the house later.”

Veronica mustered a half-hearted wave, nervously wrapping her shawl more tightly around her shoulders as Lilly flounced away.

---

Celeste Kane hated Veronica with every inch of her daggered stare, causing her to choke with every few bites or sips of water. After Veronica’s third coughing fit, Celeste cleared her throat.

“Perhaps if you slowed down a bit?” she suggested, her voice dripping with contempt. Veronica nodded shyly, suddenly very interested in her napkin.

Jake Kane, deep in a conversation with his son about the governor, ignored both his wife and Veronica. “Just let me make a few calls,” he was saying. “I’m sure I can get you an internship in Reagan’s office this summer.”

Veronica glanced shyly at her boyfriend, who did not look up from his pork chop. He dragged a piece through his mashed potatoes. “I don’t know, Dad,” he said lightly. “Everything he said about cleaning up Berkeley… well, if what Lilly says is true, then there’s going to be a tall chal—”

“And where might your sister be tonight?” Celeste demanded, this time forcing her husband to take notice of her interruption. “I thought I was quite clear when I said Letty would serve dinner at promptly seven o’clock.”

Duncan shrugged, finally letting go of his silverware with a clatter. This earned Veronica another dirty glare from Celeste. “I’m not sure.”

“Well?” Celeste rounded on Veronica. “She’s your roommate.”

“I—” Veronica stammered.

“Please, I’m right here.” In seconds, Lilly had materialized in the entryway of the Kane’s formal dining room. “No need to get your panties in a bunch, Celeste.”

At his wife’s indignant gasp, Jake finally gave in. “Lilly,” he said warningly.

Lilly beamed. “Hi Daddy,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him on the cheek. “How’s work?”

“Fine,” Jake said, his tone suggestive that he’d already lost interest. Lilly winked at Veronica as she plopped down at the table. “I mean it, Duncan. Reagan’s politics are the future of this state, maybe even this country!”

“I’ll look into it,” Duncan mumbled unconvincingly.

Lilly laughed. “God, Duncan. He’s still grooming you for politics? When is he going to learn—”

Celeste was practically seething. She knocked her napkin from her lap in her haste to get up. “That is quite enough from you tonight, Lilly!”

“What?” Lilly glared at her mother, helping herself to a serving of mashed potatoes from the bowl in the middle of the table. “I just got here, mother.”

Celeste stormed out of the dining room. Jake’s eyes followed her for the briefest second, then he punched his son in the shoulder. “If you’ve had enough to eat, come have a smoke with me, son.” He stood. “Veronica, it was nice meeting you.”

“So kind of you to have me over,” Veronica muttered, knowing full well her boyfriend’s millionaire father wasn’t listening. She looked to Duncan for rescue, but he just shot her a helpless look as he exited the room.

Lilly giggled. “Do you ever think he wishes he were smoking something stronger?”

Veronica was taken aback by the question. “Lilly! Of course not!”

“Relax,” Lilly said, but a devilish grin had spread across her face. “So… notice anything different about me?”

“Ugh, Lilly,” Veronica sighed, taking in her friend’s rosy cheeks and mischievous eyes. “You reek of sex.”

“I know, right?” Lilly said cheerfully, stabbing at her pork chop. “You’ll never guess who with.”

“Probably not,” Veronica agreed, refusing to give her best friend any more satisfaction than she was already deriving from this moment.

Lilly pushed her chair back from the table. “I don’t even like pork. Let’s walk out by the pool.”

Veronica knew better than to say anything about skipped meals and table manners. She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with the napkin one last time before making haste to follow Lilly outside.

“Where are we going?” Veronica wanted to know. Lilly was moving so fast that Veronica barely had a moment to take in the splendor of the Kane home.

Lilly threw up her arms and twirled around beneath the stars. “Anywhere that’s not under Celeste’s roof,” she said, falling dramatically into one of the patio chairs. Despite the chill that had Veronica rubbing her sweater sleeves, Lilly looked relaxed and comfortable in her thin blouse. “My mother has a terrible habit of eavesdropping,” she explained.

“She hates me.”

“Please. Celeste hates anybody she thinks Duncan might love as much as her.” Lilly grinned. “That’s right, Ronnie. My little brother loves you.”

Veronica blushed. “Where were you?”

Lilly waved her hand. “Here and there,” she said vaguely, suddenly springing to her feet. “Let’s walk down the block.” She tugged Veronica up behind her, pressing a finger to her lips. “Shh.”

“What?” Veronica wanted to know. Lilly tried to hush her. “What did you see?”

Once they were out of earshot of the house, Lilly withdrew her finger. “Celeste at the window.”

“Oh.”

“I take it that your mom doesn’t make a habit of monitoring your every move?”

“I guess not,” said Veronica, who had a different kind of tumultuous relationship with her mother.

“Though I forget, that’s probably because your dad already has whoever you’re with framed in the sight of his gun.” She linked arms with Veronica. “Do you know who lives there? Aaron Echolls.”

“The movie star?”

“I dated his son once,” Lilly said matter-of-factly.

Veronica didn’t believe her. “No.”

Lilly smirked. “Try ‘yes.’ We were pretty hot and heavy the summer I was seventeen. But it didn’t last. He ended up getting sent to an all-boys boarding school.”

Veronica didn’t particularly care about one of Lilly’s long-ago conquests. “God, Lilly. Movie stars live on your street?”

“Just one,” said Lilly, as though this would lessen Veronica’s awe. They had come to a stop in front of a mansion several doors down from the Kanes’. “Money buys the best neighbors.”

Veronica picked up on the sarcasm instantly. “Remind me again exactly what your father does.”

Lilly shrugged. “Kane Industries,” she said. “They design defense systems. Made Dad a fortune during the war.”

“Right.”

But Lilly wasn’t done. “If the war in Vietnam continues much longer, it’ll make him another.” She snorted. “A part of me wants to see Duncan get drafted. I wonder how much Daddy would support this war if his son had to fight it.”

Veronica tried to imagine Duncan, gun in hand, running through the jungle. She shuddered. “Don’t say that, Lilly.”

“What?” Lilly challenged. “Please, it’s not like Duncan wouldn’t get a deferment. Why should he get to stay here and live while the poor have to fight and die?”

Veronica knew better than to say much when her roommate got like this. She held her tongue until Lilly started shuffling back towards her house. “You really dated Aaron Echolls’ son?”

“Mhmm,” Lilly murmured, her eyes distant and unfocused. “Wait, what?”

“Aaron Echolls’ son?”

“Oh, Logan, right,” said Lilly. She folded her arms across her chest, top two buttons of her blouse still undone. “You know how he is.”

“No?” said Veronica quizzically.

Lilly starred at her. “You know, shaggy hair, bad clothes, drives that God-awful canary yellow Camaro? He lives in our dorm, Veronica.”

Veronica’s brow furrowed. “The one that always peels out of the parking lot?”

“Unfortunate, right? I don’t know what I was thinking.” At the end of the Kanes’ property, Lilly pulled herself up on her tiptoes to look over the edge of the fence. A sultry smile spread across her face. “Check out our gardener,” she hissed.

Veronica joined Lilly at the fence, having to climb up several inches to see over. A shadowy figure moved in the distance. “Who am I looking at?”

“Let’s go around,” Lilly suggested, hopping down and tearing around the corner. Veronica sighed, far too used to trying to keep up. She trotted after. “Eli!” Lilly called.

A young Mexican man stepped into the low poolside light. “Evening, Miss Kane,” he said, his tone surprisingly sarcastic. The shovel he was carrying scraped against the patio brick. “Didn’t I tell you to call me Weevil?”

Lilly arched her eyebrows as if to challenge Weevil. “This is Eli Navarro,” she said to Veronica. “He’s Letty’s grand—”

“Who’s your friend?” Weevil interrupted, resting his chin on the shovel handle. He extended a hand to Veronica. “I’m Weevil.”

“Veronica,” she said, finally stepping forward from Lilly’s shadow. Weevil’s palm was gritty with dirt.

“What does Daddy have you doing at this hour?”

Weevil chuckled, taking a step closer to the two girls. Veronica stepped back. She wasn’t afraid of Weevil, but the intense chemistry she could sense between him and Lilly made her uneasy. Had Lilly had an affair with the gardener?

“Celeste wants her new brick walkway ready for the dinner party she’s hosting on Saturday night.”

“So that’s why she didn’t want Veronica around this weekend,” said Lilly knowingly. “Veronica is dating Duncan.”

“Is she?” Weevil said, again stepping forward to close the distance between him and Lilly. He stage-whispered, “Your friend is a regular shrinking violet. What’s Celeste worried about?”

Lilly’s throaty laugh had Veronica shying further away from the unlikely pairing. Increasingly, the meeting on the patio felt like a private moment. “Tell me about it,” Lilly said. “I can’t imagine what she and Duncan do for fun.”

“Never mind what they do,” Weevil murmured, resting one of his hands on Lilly’s hip. “What are you doing later?”

“Another lover?” Lilly suggested playfully, making Veronica suddenly very interested in her shoes. Her heart was pounding. Was her best friend trying to get caught? Hadn’t Celeste been watching from the window just minutes ago?

“Don’t make me angry, Lilly,” Weevil warned. His lips brushed Lilly’s ear. “We both know I’m the best damn—”

“Get away from my daughter!” Celeste’s voice was frantic as she charged from the house, Jake on her heels. “Don’t you dare touch her!”

“What are you doing?” Jake demanded, grabbing Weevil roughly by the shoulder and yanking him away from Lilly. The shovel he was holding fell to the patio with a clatter. He began to shake Weevil. “What did you do to her?”

Now Duncan was coming from the house to check out the commotion. He made a beeline for Veronica, grabbing her elbow and trying to jerk her away from the pool, but she stood frozen, unable to look away from the melee.

“Don’t touch me,” Weevil growled, roughly trying to throw Jake off his arm. Swinging blindly, his open hand finally made contact with the millionaire’s face.

Jake stumbled back, landing solidly next to the shovel. He had no sooner picked it up than Celeste had snatched it away, holding it in front of her like a battering ram. Her eyes were cold. “That’s it,” she hissed. “You and your grandmother are both fired.”

Weevil dropped back. “Not my grandmother,” he begged. “She needs this job. My cousins, she has to take care of—”

“Get off my property,” Celeste rumbled. She jerked the shovel forward several times. “I said, get off my property!”

Weevil glared at the Kanes, but he didn’t need to be told a third time. Jake had to restrain Lilly to keep her from following him as he sulked away. Finally, unable to shake her father’s grasp, she shouted, “Call me!”

Celeste slapped Lilly solidly across the face. “That’s enough from you,” she hissed, her voice dangerously low as Weevil made an obscene hand gesture in parting. “Quite enough.”

“What were you thinking, Lilly?” Jake demanded. “Who put it into your head that it was okay to chat up the help?”

Now Celeste rounded on Veronica, still in shock, still resisting Duncan’s attempts to haul her away. “Oh, I don’t think we have to look very far for the answer to that question. It’s been nothing but free love and protest with Lilly since you moved in with her.”

“Mrs. Kane—” Veronica started, very much wanting to assure her boyfriend’s mother that Lilly had been that way when they’d met, that she often tried to check Lilly’s most raucous and rowdy behavior. But she didn’t have time to find the words.

“Don’t speak to me,” Celeste fumed. “Nothing but trailer trash from downstate. Not nearly good enough for my son.”

Veronica hung her head. Fortunately, Jake had materialized behind his wife, quietly urging her to show some restrain. “Duncan, why don’t you take Veronica home?”

Duncan nodded impassively. “Come on, Veronica,” he urged, still leading her by the elbow. Once they were out of earshot of his parents, he added, “I think you’ve caused enough trouble for one night.”

Veronica remained silent as they walked to the car. In the distance, she could hear Jake and Celeste berating their daughter. “The help, Lilly, the help!” Jake kept repeating, his mantra peppered with interjections from his wife that that was not how they’d raised her.

“Honestly, Lilly! The shame could kill me, if I don’t kill you first!” Celeste chided.

In the driveway, Duncan’s imported Triumph roared to life. Veronica wordless slid into the passenger seat, refusing to indulge her boyfriend’s attempts at small talk. They drove in silence back to the UC-Berkeley campus.

“I didn’t do anything, Duncan,” Veronica said finally as they approached her dormitory. “I didn’t do anything, and you couldn’t be bothered to stand up for me.”

“Come on, Veronica, you saw how my parents are,” Duncan said. “That’s just how it is with them. Don’t let them get to you.”

Veronica wondered how he could remain so unflinching in the face of his parents. “I didn’t do anything, Duncan,” she repeated.

“Isn’t that the problem, though?” Duncan said, pulling the car to a stop. “You know how Lilly is, Veronica. You know how Lilly is and you just let her be Lilly.”

“Oh, so you would have stopped her?” Veronica said, pushing open the car door. She paused, angry, anticipating Duncan’s response.

“At least I would have tried!”

“And you honestly think it would have done any good?”

Duncan was silent. “No.” He sighed. “Look, I’m sorry. I just wanted to have a nice evening at home, not a Lilly-induced fireworks display.”

Veronica softened. “I know.” She hesitated, but then she decided it was time to prove to Lilly that she wasn’t just some shrinking violet. “Do you want to come up?”

Duncan blinked rapidly. “Oh, uh—” he stammered, then shook his head. “Actually, I was going to go back, make sure Lilly doesn’t need to be bailed out.”

Fair enough. Veronica nodded, leaning in to kiss Duncan lightly. “Later, then?”

He seemed to soften. “How about I come by when I’ve rescued Lilly from the wrath of Celeste?”

Veronica smiled. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be waiting up.”

Duncan grinned. “I’ll hurry back,” he promised. Feeling very Lilly-like, Veronica blew him a kiss as he took off.

---

October 4, 1967

A light fog had settled over Berkeley around midnight, and Veronica pulled her cardigan tighter as she raced down the steps of her dormitory. It was after one o’clock, and Duncan still hadn’t returned from his parents’ house. It wasn’t like him not to call, and she’d already checked with his roommate, Casey Gant, to make sure he really hadn’t blown her off.

As the engine of Veronica’s old Rambler rumbled to life, she was so frantic with worry that she couldn’t muster the embarrassment that usually accompanied starting the old junker. Something was wrong. She could just sense it. She pointed the car towards unincorporated Alameda County, just outside Berkeley, where the Kanes lived.

Could Duncan have been in an accident? Could the Kanes have decided to send Lilly away, to Vassar or Bryn Mawr or some other all-girls school? Lilly had said that was the kind of thing that happened to Aaron Echolls’ son back in high school.

Setting her fear aside, Veronica felt hopelessly out of place as she turned onto the Kanes’ street, the expensive mansions dwarfing her old rust bucket. Lights were flashing in the distance. She swallowed hard. Police cruisers lined the street outside the Kane estate. She brought the Rambler to a jerky halt, running desperately towards the house. The front door was open.

“Duncan!” Veronica shouted, instantly awash with relief when she saw her boyfriend in the foyer. She raced towards him, but something wasn’t right. He had traded his sharp jacket and trousers of earlier for ill-fitting pants and an old shirt, as though he’d had to go rummaging through his boyhood closet for a change of clothing. He was rocking back and forth on a bench, and Veronica knelt before him. “Duncan?” she tried. “Duncan?”

No response. Veronica stood and sprinted towards the back door. A milling police officer tried to stop her, but she barreled past. Most of the commotion seemed to be taking place poolside, where the pale body of a lifeless teenage girl lay prostrate on the ground.

Veronica froze. No, she thought, not Lilly, please not Lilly, please not Lilly.

But she would take that image with her to the grave – blood oozing from her best friend’s head, a soiled shovel lying nearby, and the Alameda County sheriff leading Weevil away in handcuffs.

“It wasn’t me! ” Weevil was shouting. From across the lawn, he caught Veronica’s eye. “Tell them what Celeste threatened! Tell them I loved Lilly!”

An open letter to LJ

2008-12-09T11:49:12Z

Dearest LJ,

It's been awhile, hasn't it? I haven't meant to be such a bad friend. When I promised to write, I didn't know how hectic the next six or so months of my life would be. I know, I know. That's what people always say to you. You never do get enough credit, do you? Poor darling.

When we last talked, I was preparing to embark on some kind of modern day Grand Tour of the world. Now I'm again packing my suitcases and getting ready to head back to the U.S. in just ten days. After spending two months in China eating things that turned my intestines inside out and yelling at journalists without a clue, I landed an internship in London with the Associated Press. That's where I am at the moment, avoiding doing any real work. See? I haven't changed so much. I'm back to my old habits, and we can still be friends.

Matt and I are still together. I know you blame him for coming between our friendship in the first place. I'll be the first to admit that he certainly contributed to your demotion in my life. But you weren't the only one. You have to understand I was young and in love. I'm coming back in my own time, and he'll be in Beijing for yet another semester. That leaves me a lot of time to devote to you. Remember the good times we used to have? I hope we can have that back again.

I say all of this because you're looking a little tired, dear. I do hope it's not my fault. What's with the sidebar banner ads? We must do something about those. They're too distracting when I'm trying to catch up on old friends and enemies.

It's going to be different this time, I promise. I'll devote real time to my fic again. I'll finish All the PI's Men. I won't forget about you, not again.

At least, after I finish my ten page synthesis assignment for my international journalism class. Once that's done, it's all about you and me, baby.

Fondly,
Elle

Life comes at you fast.

2008-05-14T18:14:35Z

Wasn't that the slogan of some ad campaign of my childhood? Or is it the current tagline in like, a gum commercial?

Ahem. Anyway.

I just took my last final, and after I present my (not-yet-completed) honors project to a professor tomorrow, I'm home free. Just have to box up my stuff and leave Columbia for Kansas City. No worries, right? I'll be back in two weeks.

Except, it dawned on me this morning that unless we can wrangle some cross-state visit in the next two weeks, Friday will be the last time I see Matt for over a year.

And if over the next two weeks, I can't put in the time with friends, family, coworkers and others before I head back here to be a camp counselor in June, I won't see them again until December.

And that last night, after my Comm Law final, was the last time I'll see quite a few of my friends from school until the semester starts again in January.

Don't get me wrong, I'm excited. I'm bursting with an unusual amount of peppiness at the prospect of spending three weeks herding ~~cats~~ gifted students. I can't wait to spend two months volunteering with the Olympic press corps in China. And did I mention how stoked I am about our shitty apartments in South Kensington? Because I don't really care where I'm staying this fall, so long as it's in London.

But at the moment, I'm feeling a little overwhelming.

em2mb @ 2008-04-25T16:01:00

2008-04-25T21:02:27Z

Hey Dad,

Remember when YOU were in college and you had to chose between your car payment and your utility bill? Food and medicine? Tuition and rent?

No?

Oh yeah, that's because your parents didn't MAKE you pay for everything.

Love,
Elle

I feel pretty safe saying these are the BEST cookies you will ever try

2008-01-20T21:39:40Z

Monster Cookies!

3 eggs
1 c brown sugar
1 c white sugar
2 tsp vanilla
1 tbsp corn syrup
1/2 c butter
1 1/2 c creamy peanut butter
2 tsp baking soda
4 1/2 c old-fashioned oats
1 c chocolate chips
1 c mini M&Ms

Cream butters and sugars. Add eggs, vanilla and corn syrup. Beat well. Add peanut butter and baking soda. Gradually stir in oats, chips and M&Ms. Use a plastic mixing spoon, not a spatula - they're prone to breaking!

Bake on ungreased cookie sheet at 350 for 8-12 min. Remove to wire rack for cooling. It's better to underbake these cookies. They're also good frozen.

I have no idea how many they make. The dough is incredibly sticky. It will get on your hands. I typically lick it off. I'm okay with consuming lots and lots of raw cookies. Also, it's a HUGE recipe - I typically make 1/3 or 2/3 a batch.

Karma???

2007-12-18T16:20:01Z

Chicago trip? Fantastic.

Keeping my 4.0 (translation: getting an A in reporting)? Excellent.

My car sliding down that embankment and punching a hole through my rear quarter panel after I hit that patch of ice on the highway, on the same night I got a speeding ticket? I'm a little less enthused.

A more positive note in The Times for Missouri

2007-11-26T03:10:44Z

I know you're all tiring of my song and dance about Missouri being the world's best journalism school or some such, but when my little midwestern state does something big, I always feel obligated to pass along the news. Fortunately, we're not making headlines for plagiarism this week. Rather, in some kind of interesting irony, the year that I, least interested fan of football in school history, am a student here at the University of Missouri-Columbia, we become the number one ranked team in the country. The Tigers were never seriously ranked while either of my more football-crazed siblings were here.

I didn't watch the Kansas-Missouri showdown yesterday, but it was apparently so spectacular that my gay brother was actually yelling at the TV. He proclaimed, "Just so you know, this is the straightest you will ever see me."

And if it sounds like I'm talking crazy, I have The Times to back me:

"It would be difficult to make up a better story than the one that has unfolded this season in Columbia, Mo. And that is fitting for Missouri, which is better known for its journalism school than its football teams.

"John A. Walsh, the executive editor of ESPN and a 1968 Missouri journalism graduate, says the Tigers’ season has been nothing more than 'a publicity stunt to help the journalism school to draw attention to its 100th anniversary next fall.'"

True story, my friends.

Fic: Stove Top (Logan/Veronica) PG

2007-11-23T18:17:27Z

Title: Stove Top
Author: em2mb
Pairing/Character: Logan/Veronica.
Word Count: 1,000: five snippets, 200 words each.
Rating: PG
Summary: “Southern California is just more… tofurkey, you know?” Five Thanksgivings.
Spoilers: Generally through 3x20, “The Bitch is Back”
Warnings: If you make like Chandler on Turkey Day, avoid the warm fuzzies.
Author's Notes: A day late and a dollar short, that’s me. But I started this one after Grey’s last night, wouldn’t let myself go over 200 words for each Thanksgiving, and still pulled off the bulk of it in three hours. I just didn’t get around to posting. I’m not dead. I’m just in my reporting semester at MU for another three weeks. I don’t own them. Written in part for 100_situations. Prompt #96: Writer’s Choice – Thanksgiving.

Fresh or Frozen?
Four days before Thanksgiving, 2001

“And just what am I supposed to serve?” Celeste demanded, busying her hands with a towel.

Lilly snorted. “Please, Celeste. It’s not like you’re fixing the meal.”

Celeste slapped the towel against the counter for effect. “I coordinated the menu weeks ago, Lilly!”

“One word, Celeste.” Lilly’s lips pouted. “Tofurkey.”

“Not at my Thanksgiving.”

“Then I won’t be at your Thanksgiving, either,” Lilly said threateningly, pushing away from her seat at the breakfast counter.

Lilly flounced back to the Kane’s rec room and plopped down on the sofa between Logan, Duncan and the Xbox. Veronica glanced up from her homework.

“How’d it go, sweetums?” Logan asked, wrapping an arm around his girlfriend, chuckling as Duncan squirmed away. He kissed Lilly with an exaggerated smack.

“I told her I’m never eating meat again.”

“Yeah?” Logan arched an eyebrow suggestively. “Never again?”

Duncan made a gagging noise as he sprang from the sofa, knocking Veronica’s algebra book off the coffee table. She blushed.

“Ugh, please Logan.” Lilly pushed him away. “Just for that, I’m inviting someone more mature to dinner. Veronica?”

Veronica squeaked uncomfortably. “Me? But I thought you—”

“No buts.” Lilly waved a hand in the air. “You are so coming.”

Preheat Oven to 350º
Thanksgiving 2002

“What are you doing here?” Veronica hissed, barely cracking the door. “What do—”

Logan rustled the plastic sack in his hand. “I brought Thai.”

“At eleven thirty on Thanksgiving night?”

“Can I come in?”

“I guess.” Veronica held the door.

“How do you think the Kanes are faring without us?” Logan pushed his way into the kitchen and was already unloading takeaway on the counter. “I got Panic Room and—”

“I know you and Lilly broke up,” Veronica blurted. She nervously tried to shove her hands in her back pockets but found her pajamas had none.

“Yeah, for some French guy named Jean-Pierre,” Logan spat bitterly.

“She’ll take you back.”

“I know she will. She just didn’t have to do it today, that’s all.”

“No—”

“Especially when she knows what—” He broke off. “Never mind.”

Veronica hit the kitchen lights. “Did you say something about—Logan, what happened to your eye?” Before, in the dark, she hadn’t noticed the bruise.

“Nothing,” Logan said quickly. “Trina, wishbone, long story.”

“I thought your family wasn’t doing the traditional meal.”

“Like I said, long story.”

Veronica hesitated, then nodded. “Do—do you want leftovers instead?”

Logan dropped his chopsticks. “What do you have?”

Never Fry a Turkey Indoors
Two days before Thanksgiving, 2007

Piz tucked his hands defensively under his arms. “I didn’t tell you?”

Veronica’s gaze shifted between her boyfriend and the industrial-size jug of peanut oil, which was on sale. “No.”

“Uh, well, yeah.” Piz shuffled uncomfortably. “We deep fry the turkey.”

“In peanut oil?”

Piz avoided her gaze as he hoisted the container into the cart. “Yeah.”

“Huh,” Veronica said, wrinkling her nose. “So people actually do that?”

“Yes,” Piz said, hovering too close to a Doritos display for Veronica’s comfort. He started towards a bag of nacho cheese flavored chips but faltered under her disapproving gaze. “Did you think it was just a YouTube phenomenon?”

“No, I just didn’t realize you did it,” Veronica said quickly, matching his earlier stance. “Not that there’s anything wrong with it. Southern California is just more… tofurkey, you know?”

“Yeah, well, we fry the turkey in Beaverton.” Piz paused. “Wait, have you actually had tofurkey?”

“Once.”

Piz returned her disapproving gaze and grabbed the Doritos. “Yeah, Veronica, now that’s not Thanksgiving.”

He flashed her doe eyes to show he was just kidding, but she still found herself trudging several paces behind him throughout the rest of the shopping spree.

No, this isn’t.

Follow the Libby’s Label
One week before Thanksgiving, 2010

“Come on,” she begged, “it’s a two hour drive, and I know you’d rather come here than fly back for Trina’s feast.”

“And miss the debacle?” Logan’s voice crackled with amusement. “I don’t know, Veronica. You’re cooking the whole meal in that shit hole apartment?”

“Down to the last sweet potato. Come on, my dad’s flying in with his new girlfriend—”

“You know, she stops being the new girlfriend when she’s been around for three years.”

“—the new girlfriend, who always asks if I’m seeing anyone, and I just—”

“Because your dad would be thrilled if we were dating again.”

“My dad likes you!”

Logan snorted. “Because I’m not sleeping with you anymore!”

Veronica almost dropped the phone. “As far as my dad’s concerned, you’ve never slept with me.”

“See, I seem to remember this one time, and I was there, and oh wait—you were there, too, and—”

“Please come, Logan.” Veronica waited several seconds. “I mean, if you already—”

“No, you were right,” he admitted finally. “I don’t have plans.”

“So you’ll come?”

“I’ll come.” Veronica could practically hear the corners of his mouth turn upwards in a smirk. “Do you even know how to cook a turkey, Mars?”

Just Dressing
Thanksgiving 2012

“Not now!” Veronica whirled around, waving a spatula. “I need to baste!”

Logan couldn’t help but laugh as he brushed flour from her cheek with his thumb. “I’ll stop. Need help?”

Veronica hesitated. “Check the stuffing? I need to—”

“Baste, right.” He opened the oven. “What am I checking for?”

“Moist? Browned?” Veronica paused. “I don’t—I just don’t know, Logan!”

“Are you speaking metaphorically?”

Veronica sank tearfully into a chair. “It’s a big step!”

“Definitely metaphorically.”

Veronica hiccoughed. “You aren’t taking it seriously!”

Logan whistled lowly. “Believe me, I am.”

“Prove it.”

He did. “Hey, Keith, Harmony, everyone!”

Veronica’s eyes widened. “No!”

“Yes.” He dragged her up as their guests filed in. “We have an announcement.”

Wallace waved away smoke. “You burnt—”

“Veronica and I are engaged,” he blurted. Next to him, Veronica held her breath.

But Keith just shook his head. “Seriously? I got up from the game for this?”

Harmony leaned in. “He means, ‘Finally.’”

“Because we all noticed the ring, like, last week,” Wallace added.

“And he means, ‘Congratulations.’ Seriously, though? Even I know that’s burning,” said Mac. She herded everyone out.

Veronica sniffled. “It was supposed to be perfect.”

Logan kissed her nose. “It was.”

Case of the Wednesdays

2007-10-18T00:41:28Z

So let me preface this by saying I'm kind of ridiculous. I have attacked this celiac thing with all kinds of recipes and baking experiments. Wheat allergy? Forget it. I can figure out a substitute (except for Pop Tarts, sadly). But, I saw this article in the Times today, with this recipe linked, and I thought I'd share what I came up with because I am so ridiculously proud of my abilities at this point. It's super easy, so I'm sharing with you all:

Pasta with Chickpeas, Kielbasa and Artichokes

olive oil
1/4-1/2 pound kielbasa or similar cooked sausage
1 tbsp. garlic, pressed
1-2 cans cooked chickpeas, depending on taste
1/2 pound pasta - I used brown rice shells, a shape I would recommend
1 small jar artichokes in sauce
1/2 medium tomato, diced
grated parmesan cheese

Begin boiling a large pot of water with salt and a splash of olive olive. In a large saucepan, brown kielbasa in light olive oil. Set aside. Add another splash of oil and cook garlic until it colors lightly. Saute artichokes and tomato chunks. Set aside. Begin boiling pasta. Meanwhile, heat chickpeas and juice with another splash of olive oil. When pasta is nearly tender, drain. Add chickpeas and sauce to pasta, add another splash of olive oil and stir. Stir in veggies and sausage. Serve sprinkled with cheese.

Seriously. This one is INSANELY good, and really easy. It took lazaefair and I maybe 30-40 minutes tops, and that included her having to clean up after my roommate. We also had strawberry salad and gluten-free brownies for dessert. Yes, I'm aware I went through all of the above trouble for a Wednesday night. I love to cook, okay?

Quick update

2007-10-17T17:58:11Z

Things I am not:

Dead
Done writing fic
Ignoring you
Well-rested

Things I am:

Operating on lack of sleep
Insanely busy
Working at local media affiliates
Dating again
Going to get soaked when I give tours this afternoon
Surprisingly okay with how hectic things are

Columbia Missourian makes Colbert Report

2007-10-04T19:18:00Z

Shit you not. This kid can say forever that his article was featured on Colbert.

An open letter to my roommate

2007-10-02T21:47:56Z

Dear Heather,

I like you. I really like you. You're a much better roommate than I expected to get, but I'm still pretty sure Campus Lodge is full of shit when they claim to "roommate match." And I really don't want you going anywhere, and I really don't want anyone else moving in, but in the mean time, let's get a few things straight:

1. I don't care how you load the dishwasher at home because you don't unload it here. If you put the knives blade-up, I will eventually grab one and bleed all over your dishes.

2. It's one thing when I leave the dishes in the sink to soak for an hour. It's another thing when you "cook" on Sunday and I get back from campus on Tuesday to the same festering pot of water in the sink, blocking the drain. Accordingly, I will continue dumping Cocoa Crispie chocolate milk and half-full cans of soda into the mix until you have dealt with it.

3. I don't care if you use my blender. I just find it interesting that you said, "Hey, we used your blender, I hope you don't mind" when what you meant was "Hey, we used up the last of your drink mixes and pineapple rum, I hope you don't mind."

4. I'm really glad you cleaned over the weekend and all, but it does not change the fact that after doing said cleaning, you grilled something new to the surface of the stove. Please remove that ASAP. I don't clean what I cannot identify.

5. I've taken out the trash the last five times. It's your turn. It's really unfair when Matt ends up taking it out because he knows I will not cede the point and the kitchen is starting to stink.

6. Your room is about 15 feet from the sofa. Please have sex in there, not out here.

7. Yes, "that guy" slept over on Saturday, but correct me if I'm wrong, Patrick does so six nights out of seven. And yes, when you watched the iLife video I produced last year you did see "that guy." I did not just meet him. We've been friends for awhile actually. Try not to look stunned. But hey, maybe this is all the more reason to reference point the first (see above). Who knows what I'm carrying around with me?

8. I don't like musicals, and your top-of-your-lungs renditions of songs from Wicked are not helping.

9. If you need to use my printer, that's totally cool. But when you ask, don't ask to "print off something." Just come out with it and admit you need to print off 20 pages of forms for the pageant you're entering.

10. Patrick does not live here. That means his 6.7 pound jar of muscle enhancing supplement powder should not live on our counter. Just be glad I'm not angry about the fact he's taking steroids in the first place.

I'm sure I'm no peach to live with either, but at least I stay in my room most of the time.

Love,
Elle

Welcome to my feelings journal

2007-09-26T15:31:02Z

I can't decide if the reason I haven't been posted is because I have 4,307,261 other things I ought to be doing, or because every time I think about LJ, I can hear Matt muttering the phrase "feelings journal." Life is pretty insane right now, though I have two stories that should be pushing through the newsroom in the next week, so hopefully I'll be able to provide links then as proof that I still exist and have legitimate excuses not to be writing fic.

It's been an intense few weeks, and not just because of reporting. Whatever was left between A and me after he moved back home kind of, well, effectively disintegrated about two weeks into the semester. I want to say it just sort of happened, but I think we both know it was a long time coming. The weird thing is, I always imagined that relationship exiting on a less-final endnote, an ambiguous conclusion, friendship nonetheless. If we saw each other every day, I imagine we'd still be civil, but when you're 2,000 miles apart - well, it takes a lot more initiative to pick up the phone that it used to, you know? I'm not trying to kid myself anymore. That one ended the day in February he said he was going to school in Seattle because the long distance thing, at least long term, is just too hard. I wish I were a stronger person, one that would be willing to make it work, but I'm just not. And I'm not upset, or really even nostalgic.

Enter reason why I don't get anything done anymore number two. I didn't mean to just cut ties (since I guess it was more that than ending things with A at that point) with him and move on, except then there was this kid in convergence, and this kid in convergence knows what it's like to be stressed all the time from reporting. And he has dimples and takes me out for ice cream when he knows I'm about to explode from newsroom pressure. Really, was I supposed to stand a chance against that?

Since I've completely entered the realm of "feelings journal," I suppose I'll duck out now, and you may or may not hear from me. I have a whole folder of fic I need to be working on, or want to be working on, whatever, but no time to do so, so it'll just have to linger for a few weeks more, I suppose. I'm still alive, I'm still kicking. I'm even dating (weird for me, I know). Something tells me this is not what Lynda, my j-professor, had in mind last year when she made the comment to Matt and I over lunch that sometimes you just have to make time for relationships b/c they come with you least expect them. Heh. Famous last words, I suppose.

I haven't slept in 36 hours...

2007-09-10T04:04:46Z

Me: When I'm an old spinster and you find someone, will you still come play with me?
lazaefair: Of course. I will bring over my wee children for you to dandle on your knee. Or something.
Me: I can tell I'm getting tired because I feel one of my "I'm going to die alone" laments coming on.
lazaefair: Awww. You won't die alone. You're too much of a wonderful person.
Me: No, I think I'll spend my days quietly, knitting. With all my cats. So my days will last for about six hours, until my throat swells shut and I can't breath.
lazaefair: What happened to being a raging butch journalist, crusading for the rights of the downtrodden everywhere? You'll win Pulitzers and die gloriously while covering WWIII.

...which is probably why I find this so funny.

My roommate used to do pageants.

2007-09-06T17:15:26Z

In other news, boys with dimples will be the death of me. He's all, "Oooh, want to help me revive the campus online yearbook turned U-news blog?" and I'm all, "Oh, sure, nevermind my 16 million other committments." So now, instead of just my four classes (one of which is the unpaid, uncredited pseudo-internship for the local media at which I work 60+ hours a week for three measley hours of credit... yeah, I'm actually paying for the experience), I have apparently committed to helping revive the Savitar.

Damn boys.

Greetings from the Ozarks

2007-09-03T02:54:09Z

*sniffles*

So it's Labor Day weekend, which means, of course, I am sick. Every Labor Day for the last nineteen years, my family has gone to the lake, and for the last nineteen years, every Labor Day my allergies have made me so sick I ended up with a respiratory infection. Joy, rapture.

As a result, I've spent most of my time sitting on a couch in the sunroom sniffling, clutching my Kleenex and cough drops and watching Jumanji instead of writing. So, uh, in case you were wondering were the fic is, I think it's buried under a pile of snot, and I'm not sure how to change that, because every time I try to write I just open my computer and fall asleep. Which is bad, because I have five more chapters of All the PI's Men to write or polish, and a fic I'd like to finish before the deadline for the challenge over at vm_library.

Unfortunately, real life is getting in the way. Oh how I wish I could disregard all of the above... though I did get an A on my first package. :)

I pretty much live for shit like this

2007-08-24T21:20:29Z

Oh. My. God. I'm having, like, an orgasm for journalism.

1.) I pitched my first story in my reporting class this morning, and our professor, one of the convergence heads, simply responded with a, "Well. I wouldn't want to follow that." Not only did we get the go ahead for our project, but we got an e-mail back later from our student producer saying that they've ordered a long-form article for The Missourian (possibly front page!) as well as a web exclusive video. My first major story!

2.) There's a pretty good chance I will be in Beijing this summer working with the Olympic press corps. Need I say more? I've already started to talk to the program coordinator, and as a Walter Williams scholar, he pretty much expects I'll be a shoo-in. GUH. It's seriously a dream come true.