It's different seeing a place where someone died in the aftermath. When there are no officers, it just looks like a regular alley. Absent of a body, it's lost the lingering stench of tragedy and become just another location swallowed whole by the city of New York. I wonder how many people walk by, walk through, oblivious to what happened here.

I know I won't forget, not anytime soon, but I'm sure most bystanders have. I can't decide if that's a good thing or a bad one.

Joel pulls some gloves on his hands, the latex snapping against his wrist. He begins to pull on the pipes, wiggling them to find which ones are loose. I wander further down into the alley, glancing around for any debris, any signs of where he might've left the murder weapon. I find none.

It was a slim shot, judging by the sort of killer we're dealing with here, but I figured I owed it to Valerie to look anyway, even if it didn't seem like I'd find anything.

"Why didn't the officers comb the area for possible weapons earlier?" I ask.

"The NYPD doesn't make a habit of dismantling public property unless absolutely necessary," answers Stan. "I honestly don't think any of us expected a murderer organized enough to premeditate this would turn around and use a weapon of convenience. It doesn't fit the MO."

"Or maybe it does," I argue. "Think about it; he could've scoped it out beforehand and looked for the right tool ahead of time. Then maybe it's not really a matter of convenience."

Joel seems impressed. "Look at you, Vi, you're already thinking like a detective."

"She's always been capable," Stan replies. "Enough talk. Make sure you look around. Be careful not to disturb too much."

Once more, we fan out, hoping for something to jump out. I know in my gut that there has to be some sort of clue here, even without knowing exactly what killed her. It only makes sense.

"Got anything?" Stan hollers over his shoulder.

Joel shakes his head, just as one of the pipes he's wriggling falls loose. It stops him cold, drawing our attention. He turns it over in his hands, examining it carefully.

"These things are rusty as can be," he observes, bringing it closer to him. "But that looks more like blood to me."

We're by his side in an instant, staring down at the very thing that could have taken the life of an innocent girl. Sure enough, even though most of it's been washed by the rain, the part of the pipe facing the building has what looks like blood splatter on it.

"We gotta get this to forensics," says Stan. "If it's hers, we might have something more to go off."

"He wouldn't forget gloves." I gnaw on the inside of my cheek, trying to imagine how the grisly scene played out. "I mean, if he planned it out, wouldn't he have used something as a barrier so he didn't leave prints?"

"He is an organized killer," Stan acknowledges. "That does make it a bit more challenging."

There's a lot about this meant to throw us off his trail. It's remarkable, really, how much Grant could've done to send us chasing our tails. On the surface, it might seem like a disorganized, sex crime, but it sure as hell is something deeper.

"You've got a fair point, but if this is the murder weapon and his alibi already doesn't check out, we can still arrest him and get him down to the station," Joel says. "Hopefully, he takes a plea deal. I have a feeling Karen won't leave him in for long otherwise, even if she knows just as much as the rest of us that something doesn't seem right."

"It's sad that people can choose to blindly defend one another even when they know it's wrong," I muse.

"It's sad that people can kill their own family." Joel shakes his head. A beat passes before any of us move closer to the car. There's nothing to debate there. It truly is a terrible thing to murder your loved ones in cold blood.

We drive in silence. Each of us is probably thinking the case over, what we know, and what we can use to convict Kevin Grant. It's going to be hard, with what little we've gathered thus far. All we need is a confession to seal it. If we can get that, it becomes so much easier to take him to trial.

I can't help but wonder how Joel picked this sort of job, how Stan goes to work every day on a hunt for answers that may never arise. It pains me to think that after everything we've done, it still might not be enough.

After we drop the pipe off for testing, all I can do is hope that at the very least, this is the weapon. It's just one more thing to consider, one more factor in this gigantic equation we're trying to solve, one question answered in a grand test.

"Don't do that," Joel says as we're riding the elevator back up to H2.

"Do what?" I ask.

"I used to work my brain over a million times as if what I knew about a case would change if I willed it to." He glances over at me. "And I know for a fact that's what you're doing right now."

"Am I?" I say. "You've got me, Joel Reed. You've read my mind."

"You can't tell me you weren't thinking about how we can scrape enough together for a case against a family man no one would suspect of murder."

"Okay, fine—"

"I was right," he declares.

"Whatever," I reply. "Doesn't matter. What else am I supposed to do while we wait on forensics?"

"I'm gonna solve a Rubik's cube," he states. "It helps me take my mind off things."

"That's better than doing nothing, I suppose," I admit. "I guess I can try to do some homework."

We get off the elevator, making the trek to the bustling H2. Something between us has changed. The dynamic has shifted, with everything that's happened with the investigation and everything that will. Stan has left the two of us alone, and I'm already growing antsy and impatient.

"There you go," he says, reaching forward to open the door for me. "You've just gotta find a way to pass the time or you'll go insane. Homicide cases aren't easy, nor is this ever a quick process, but with you being plain brilliant and the rest of us on this case, we can do this."

We can. I'm trying to be confident in that.

"You know, Vi, you should consider becoming a detective," he goes on. "Unless you've got another plan for a career?"

I'm conflicted about the whole thing. All I can do is stick with my days as they are now. I don't have a long term plan, even if I probably should.

"I don't really know what I want to be," I admit. "I've got so many things running around in my head that wondering where I'll be after I graduate seems like a problem for me in the future."

He seems like he accepts my answer and doesn't push for more. I don't have a desk, so I follow him to his, taking an extra chair with me so I can sit. He pulls out a colorful cube as promised, frowning down at it as he begins to turn the pieces.

"You should start thinking about what you want out of life," he tells me earnestly. "Otherwise other people will try to determine where you go from here for you."

"Fair enough," I concede. "I honestly just want to be happy."

That got a little deeper than I meant for it to be. I do want to be happy. I want to find some sort of joy in a dark life that's crushing me with solitude. Happiness is eluding me, no matter how hard I try.

"Aren't you happy now?" he asks me.

"Do you want the honest answer?"

He nods.

"It's complicated. I don't really get to do things for me anymore. I intern here, I do homework, I help whoever I can whenever I can. I'm so busy all the time that I don't really get a second to sit down and wonder if I'm happy." I fidget with my fingers in my lap, apathetically shrugging. "The whole 'happy' thing just seems like a faraway concept."

"We're gonna change that," he says, sure of himself.

"How?"

"I think you should start with a date with a certain NYPD detective." He lifts the corner of his mouth.

He's trying really hard. I want to say yes, but I feel like I can't. If I were selfish, I would, but I can't afford to be. I can't gamble with someone else's life.

"Oh yeah?" I tease. "Stan seems like a pretty nice fellow. It's a shame he's married."

He chuckles under his breath. "You're lucky I think you're cute. Otherwise, this would never work out."

I think you're cute, he'd said.

His attraction to me is something I wanted to stop. I haven't succeeded if he's still flirting with me, and that's definitely worrying. We can't be more than colleagues, I just don't know how to explain that.

Before it can escalate, I ignore the comment and change the subject.

We talk like this a bit longer, just going back and forth. At one point, his Rubik's cube is long forgotten, set down beside him on the desk next to the mouse for his computer. He's so easy to speak to. When I'm chatting with Joel, disregarding all other worries becomes simple.

When Stan returns with a DNA match, our chatter fizzles out.

"It's the murder weapon." Stan drops the papers on the desk. "I say we pick him up in thirty, just after rush hour ends. Let's get this bastard."

"Sounds good," says Joel. "You up for this?"

"No," I say candidly. "But I owe it to Valerie to come. She deserves justice."

"You don't have to go." Stan puts his hand on my shoulder. "I know that sometimes we all feel a connection to the victims. And it's hard to admit that someone isn't going to live the long life they deserve, but if you don't want to go, don't force yourself to endure it for a person who isn't here anymore."

"I'm doing this for me," I say, my voice firm. "I need to see this through. This is what I signed up for."

Joel jumps to my aid. "She's right, Stan. If this is what she wants, let her have it."

"Violet, you've got more nerve in you than anyone else I've ever met," Stan says. "I hope my kids turn out like you."

"Well, don't get soft on me, Stan," I say playfully. "If you do that too often I'll get emotional with you."

I realize it's moments like these that make living my life feel less like a challenge. Don't get me wrong, I know that I'm lucky. I know that there are people worse off than me. But pain, no matter the scale it's on, isn't measurable. It's like apples to oranges. Just because other people's tragedies aren't something I struggle with doesn't make my problems any less relevant.

My powers have ruined most aspects of my life, but not all of it. I have that for myself.