Sleep joins her readily upon her return home. It is dreamless and uninterrupted by waking. It's peaceful - something she hasn't had in a while, discounting the night Gideon and Lacey had their sleepover. She's allowed to wake on her own hours, and while the ache hasn't entirely left her, it's something she can bear a little easier. Especially knowing that not a single part of her has to leave the house for the next twenty-four hours.

The next twenty-four hours are spent doing exactly what her father wants: schoolwork. It's a tedious drag, and there's a lot of reviewing to do before she can even proceed with the old new material, but her father's office isn't the worst place to be, and for the most part, he gives her the privacy she needs to focus. Probably in poor taste, because half the time, she doesn't use it to focus. Instead, she takes frequent breaks, and in those breaks, she works out over and over again in the back of a notebook what they know about the more dire situations at hand. When she grows tired of this, her eyes periodically flick to Ro-Anne's notebook.

There's a whole lot in there she doesn't understand; she'll admit it. But she can put together the bits and pieces, and some things come more straightforward. Like the step-by-step instructions on how to conduct a seance, Ro-Anne Foster style. Worst comes to worst, they might find real value in this. Can this method surpass the barrier, she wonders? It'll be an experiment if they do try it, and all experiments come with their risks, this she knows, but she makes a note in the margins of her art history notes to remember it's an option.

The next day she sleeps in deep, late, and for a while, it's like the past two weeks disappear into nothing. Her waking is groggy and she finds Jeremy in the kitchen, no breakfast, not since the last time she skipped out, sipping on whichever cup of coffee that a pot two-thirds empty must put him at. She pads in and scratches her bedhead. "Have I done enough work for two days to go to the play?"

He avoids eye contact. "Let's see. Go log on."

She does, and he squints at the screen, clicking around here and there to check her progress. Eventually, he nods, satisfied. "Yeah. This is good." He glances up at her briefly before stepping out of the room. There's...not a coldness to it, but it's less than warm. "Keep working on it until we go, though. The more you get done now, the better."

She does as he asks, feeling too off from the interaction to deviate too much. He's distancing himself. Must be really mad. This could be good, though. He'll be less in her business. She furrows her brows. Or maybe more in my business, just from far away. It mellows her out, regardless. What's wrong with her? She's supposed to like her alone time.

Maybe she still does. Maybe she just doesn't like being lonely.

But the loneliness sticks to her skin like a fine sheen of sweat until the late afternoon, when the two busy themselves with getting ready, when the two avoid sharing words the whole ride there, when they arrive at the front of the theater to purchase their tickets. She digs a nail into hers as she glances around at the throng of people trickling in. She's been texting Gideon throughout the day; he should be here. He said he'd be here. So where, amongst all the dull gilded gold and electric candelabras, is the bastard?

She ducks her head and rushes out a text. Where can we meet?

He's prompt.

Giddy Boy: Concessions.

She lifts her head, feigning a cheery attitude, and nudges her dad's elbow. He pays her mind, attentive. "I'm gonna go get theater snacks."

"Okay. Grab me a Pepsi?"

She has some trouble locating the stand - her memory fails her here - but eventually, she finds the big sign, and beneath it, elbows pressed to a long glass counter, stands Gideon, peering at the various candies for sale. She joins him, but upon closer inspection, he's not the only familiar face trying to make a selection.

"They only have one kinda sour candy but all this chocolate out here? Nobody even buys that chocolate shit. See how much is still there opposed to these? All to none. Somebody's gettin' fired." Dolly's sharp nose is almost pressed against the glass.

"Yes, ma'am," a gruff tone says, clearly within Dolly's earshot, "I'll take two of those chocolate crisps over there."

She gives him a sidelong glance.

Is this mine and Gideon's friendship in twenty years? She shudders at the thought.

Lacey leans close to Gideon's ear. "What are they doing here?" she hisses.

He's eyeballing one of the chocolates too, and the corner of his lip quirks up. His voice comes out hushed. "They're part of this now. Part of our team. Dolly clearly wants to do what she can. Also Nefyn was gonna see the show anyways, so it kills two birds with one stone for him."

"No I wasn't." Nefyn's voice is closer than Gideon expects, and he jumps, bumping his arm against the counter.

"Yes you were. Anyways, Lacey, I'll text you later about what we're gonna do. I have to figure it out first."

"I thought you had a plan for everything. Two days almost doing nothing, I'd have thought you'd be bursting with our next steps."

Gideon shrugs. "I can't plan for what other people do. And maybe I've been looking at things too rigidly. We need some spontaneity."

She blinks at him. No more words are said; she orders one of the sours and her dad's Pepsi, and then she's at his side again. He misses nothing. "So your friend is here, too."

She can sniff out what he's getting at here; he's not being subtle. "Half of Carrick is here, dad."

They follow the throng through one of the slim corridors dimly lit by sconces. The steps between rows of seats are lit, and the swirled patterns of the carpet cross beneath their feet as they descend and finally slip into one of the middle rows. It's still musty, but at least the warm butter from a dozen tubs of popcorn joins in.

Lights dim; a hush falls over the crowd. For a moment, Lacey can sit there and pretend that nothing's wrong, that she never left home to begin with, and that when those curtains finish inching open, Stella will be there, donned in costume and bows, posed to entertain for the next two hours. And then, when all is said and done, she'll bow and curtsy, catch roses in her mouth, and find her own face in the crowd. She'll smile, and they'll find one another at the end.

But when the lights zero in on the painted backdrops and the people poised in front of them, Stella is nowhere to be seen. Some blonde girl has Stella's hat tied together beneath her chin, and she's the one who steals the opening lines from another woman's mouth. Lacey doesn't mean to be bitter - the show must go on, after all - but she decides in that moment that she doesn't like the stranger filling Stella's shoes.

They're about fifteen minutes in when her leg vibrates. Shielding the light of her phone, she carefully takes a peek at the notification.

Gideon: Some crew leaving early. Meet in lobby. I need to stop one to talk.

The screen falls asleep, and she shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Ahh, we're really doing this. Okay. She nudges her father's arm and leans in with a whisper. "I need to use the ladies' room. I'll be back."

He nods, and she's free to roam, free to be, free to fuck a great many things up. First, she's free to awkwardly shimmy her way out of the tight row of seats. A few discontented groans are thrown her way and she steps on someone's foot, but she manages. Up ahead, she catches sight of Gideon's honey-brown hair, shiny with sconce-lighting. She hurries to catch up to him.

The lobby is desolate now, save a few stragglers. Stragglers and individuals decked in black - crew members, released for the night after hours of set-up toil. "Take your pick," Gideon mutters, "but pick fast because they're all headed the same place: out."

"No shit, Sherlock. I can see."

And see she does. Her eyes are drawn to what she is familiar with, and she's familiar with a strong jaw framed by onyx waves, more fluffed than the last time she'd met Avery. She says their name. Two eyes of a light green hue turn to her from under long lashes. Immediately, they start tugging at the tight turtleneck, as if it's suddenly decided to start choking them out. Lacey takes Gideon's wrist, and the two approach until they're arranged in a perfect circle of varying heights, Avery smack in the middle.

The latter's look is wary, darting up and down, from Lacey to Gideon. "Is there something you two need, or...?" Their carefully manicured brows knit, and they take a step back. "If this is about Stella again, I already told you, I didn't know her all that well."

"It's not about Stella," Lacey says. She steps on Gideon's foot when she hears him start to talk, and he promptly shuts up. "Last time we talked you said Ro-Anne hung around with a crew around here. You probably go to school with plenty of 'em. I need names. Now. And anything else you can give us."

They ponder the words for a moment, but then their back straightens, and those green eyes glint with searching. "A please would do fine. And you've been awful nosy. How do I know there's no ill intent behind all this?"

"Look at her," Gideon says, nodding her way, "does she look like she'd hurt anybody? Don't answer that. Listen, I know this must seem really weird and you want nothing to do with any of it, but we've been looking into Ro to try and see what happened, and that's putting a target on our backs as is. Hear about an accident a couple days back?"

Avery blinks. "That was you?"

"Yes, and my back is all the worse for it. If we weren't serious about this, we wouldn't keep going. So please. Just give us the names you know and we'll be on our way."

"Shit." There's a long pause where Avery chews on their shiny bottom lip, but then they let it pop free, and a sharp sigh slips between the opening. "Well, I don't think I really need to give you any names. There's one of the guys from her crew right outside, see?" They nod in the direction of the glass doors up front. A stout individual stands outside, laughing with someone in passing. His red windbreaker flaps aggressively in the wind, and his legs shiver. They should, since the dipshit chose to wear pants with rips going from his upper thigh to shin.

Avery starts chewing on their lip again. "Say, why are you two so invested in this, anyways? You're like, what, sixteen? And you could be a high schooler or a graduate, I can't tell."

In unison, the two answer, "Someone killed a girl I loved" overlapping "They've taken my lover and I need to get him back." It leaves Avery glancing from the two with deep sympathy once the words finally disentangle from one another and make sense.

"Understandable, then. I hope you find who you're looking for. Both of you." Avery takes a step away, but then they wheel back around, the corner of their lip twisted with a question they're unsure whether or not to ask. "Do you two need a hug? You look like you need a hug. Here."

They move in, and Gideon accepts readily. Lacey's mutter of don't touch me, heathen gets ignored and she gets lumped into it too, a cramped, hot, kind of sweaty mess she's not sad to get out of once it's over. "All right, we've got shit to do, chop chop, Giddy Boy. We have to nab the-" She looks to the door and every muscle in her body gives up at once. "Where'd the dude go?"

Gideon's eyes light with fire and he's out the door in a few long strides, forcing Lacey to jog just to catch up. His head snaps from left to right, again and again, but he seems lost, lost enough to freeze in place. Lacey bumps into him, nose crushed by his back. She stumbles to the side, cradling the ache behind her nostrils with her hand. "Do you see where he went?"

He turns to the right again, where downtown is alive with energy and people, the street lights shine a bright white, and music plays from bars and sit-in dining and late shops. Relief fills his shoulders and he nods, breathless. "He's headed down that way. C'mon, let's-"

"What, the show wasn't good enough for y'all to stick and watch it even after dragging our asses all this way?"

They turn, and Gideon is quick to turn his gaze back to the boy they're meant to follow, but Lacey lets hers linger on Dolly, who stands with her toes to the curb, like a hawk on her perch, staring down her beak - and a red-tipped cigarette - at the two of them. When she exhales, angry curls of smoke fume from her lips.

From behind her hand, Lacey says, "We're kinda busy." She turns to go, too, but Dolly's words come louder than before, drawing her attention back.

"Little bit ago some punk ran by and tried to steal the purse from my hand." Lacey gives her a once-over. The purse strap is secure upon her shoulder. The woman's deep red lips curl into a serrated grin. "Knocked his nose bloody, I did. You know how to scare a man too big for his britches, you just get him laid out on the concrete, dig your heel into his chest, and hold a lighter right in your hand, clear where he can see it. Now I wanted an apology and I surely got it and sent him snivelling away." She points with the burning tip of her tobacco stick. "Went that way. Bastard's lucky I'm sympathetic and sure he had his reasons for being an idiot."

"So..." Lacey trails off, trying to speed the point up.

Dolly turns to the road and sucks smoke into her lungs. "I also may've had too much to drink before this and I can't sit in that room without falling asleep. It's a right bore, it is."

Gideon, with great reluctance, tears his eyes away from the boy down the street and offers his most solemn smile to Dolly, who doesn't care much for it. "Why don't you go find Nefyn and stay close to him? I'm sure he'd like the company, and you could probably use some, too. It's cold and lonely out here, isn't it?"

She puckers her lips in distaste. "I'd rather have the company of the failed thief." And, perhaps by work of the magic that alcohol can have on someone's tongue, she adds, "Too many bad memories I have with that man, I do."

Right, getting too personal now. We've got a man to interrogate and I've gotta get out of here before she starts spilling her life story on our laps. "Find a stranger, then. Gideon, do you still see him?" She's already moving in the opposite direction, dragging him along by the arm behind her until he starts moving of his own accord. It doesn't take long for him to surpass her and take the lead, and seconds later, they're marching with purpose, his blue flannel flapping behind him and her long locks striking her face every time a gust of wind lifts her hair into the air.

The boy or man - hard to tell - crosses the street at a lazy pace, with little regard for the car not expecting him to jaywalk, and then bounds over the curb. He doesn't just stop there and keep to the sidewalk, though. He cuts through the grass until he comes to the open gate to the cemetery dropped smack dab in the middle of downtown, the center of the hustle-and-bustle.

"The hell's he doing?" she asks.

"I don't know...come on, we need to cross here."

They do. Gideon keeps craning to keep an eye on the guy's head bouncing around with every step, but the tall iron fencing is making tough work of it. They pick up the pace and cross under blinding street-lights. Who decided to change them so recently? And why with this much damned wattage?

Eventually, they come to the same opening the boy-man had entered, and they slip through casually. The dirt beneath their feet is thin and pebbled, and with every step, powder lifts from the ground and acts like a mist, the powerful light refracted through this mock fog. It smells like earth out here. Sweetness, too, from flowers left on plots. Other flowers left behind have withered and their brown petals throw up nothing but the scent of decay. The sounds of the city proceed outside, nothing new, but in here, it's almost like there's a distance. Like they've entered this quiet bubble which isn't so quiet at all, but feels like it should be.

"I don't like this."

"Shh! I wanna see where he stops."

So they wait, hiding their bodies behind tall tombstones, stained angels and prisms made of stone or marble or what-have-you. They move ahead every so often to keep pace, struggling to keep their steps quiet with how steep the slope going down is. But the boy-man doesn't stop anywhere, doesn't pay any of the stones any mind. By the time he's neared the bottom, where hardly any graves have been laid, it becomes quite clear he doesn't have any intention of paying his respects. And once he gets through that other gate down there, they'll lose the one spot of privacy this part of Carrick has to offer.

Gideon knows this well. He steps out from behind a stone and lifts his chin, letting the wind carry his voice down. "Hey! Stop!"

The boy-man looks over his shoulder and no sooner does he spot them does he break into a run. Gideon's nostrils flare and he takes chase immediately. His legs are long and running downhill sends him flying with otherwise impossible momentum. When he throws his arms out and springs from the earth, his body collides with the boy-man's in a rough tackle. They both tear grass from the dirt just with the fall.

They tussle, but it's over by the time Lacey catches up. She gasps for breath while Gideon adjusts his hold on the guy, who he's now got pinned to one of the gnarled black trunks with sprawling, sparse branches. Sweat glistens on both their brows, but the light coming in gives a sickly pallor to their faces. If she didn't know any better, she'd think Gideon feverish.

The poor guy with his spine digging into the wet bark, he's got a look on his acne-ridden face that Lacey can only be described as the "I'm about to shit my pants" look. She feels for him, then, in all his greasy haired, nonsensical clothing choice'd glory. "Do ya have to be so rough with him?" she asks.

"He ran! And then wrestled me! What am I supposed to do, kiss his forehead and tell him everything's gonna be alright?"

"You could start by taking your hands off the poor guy."

He regards her, then the stranger. His grip only tightens. This isn't something he'll give up, so she stops pushing. For the other guy, though, that's another story. "What's your name?"

"What's it to you?" Oh, how he tries to sound tough. His voice trembles.

"It's very important to us, actually," Gideon says flatly, lids drooping over his eyes with impatience. "Matter of life or death, I'd say."

That's motivation enough. "Dana Bierman. What do you want?"

Gideon's face softens, but his grip doesn't. "I want to know everything you know about Ro-Anne Foster. I'm told you were part of her crew. I assume this means you know things about her that other people might not. And when I say everything, I mean everything, all the way up to before she went missing."