I so want to do this. I never back down from a case. I mean, me, Lauren Graves, one of the best detectives this side of the Atlantic, back down from a case? Not gonna happen. And if I fail, then Daphne Blake and Fred Jones will get the case.

Let's just say that they are blind; totally and utterly blind. If you so much as look at them together you can hear "Here Comes the Bride" played off-key. She adores him and he's totally the same, so why on earth don't they just admit it?

And if I give up now, the headlines will read 'Blake and Jones Have done it Again!' simply because it's true. The duo never fails to solve a case, at least not to my recollection. Just for once, I'd like it to be my name on the front page of the newspaper, and not theirs.

I've worked hard to be where I am today, and if I had a dollar for every time I've started on a case and they've taken it away from me, I'd be very rich indeed.

But not this one. This has to be the most serious case I've ever dealt with, and if I solve it, it'll be me who will be talking to news reporters whilst Blake and Jones stand and simply watch.

So it's eleven o'clock and I'm in my office working late; again. My boyfriend calls me a workaholic and he's right. My pen taps against my leg, the blazer of my suit rough where my shirt doesn't quite reach my trousers. My eyes rove over the case notes, a single strand of black hair in the way; I brush it back impatiently, wondering why I don't just cut it short. Every effort has been put into this case, every detective in Ohio on red alert, and still nothing leaps out at me.

Nobody wanted me to take this case. Eleven detectives have been killed trying to find this guy, whoever they are. Eleven good people brutally and cruelly murdered, in ways I don't even want to describe. The photos are nothing short of Picasso - guess the body part. Whenever I look at them I shudder. I could be one of them. It's plausible.

I'm not going to get anything done sulking here. Time to go home, patch things up with my boyfriend after our row. He's scared, scared I'll die on this case. Secretly I am too, but if I don't stand up to the mark who will? Someone has to piece it all together, and I wanted to be that person. Still do.

I grab my car keys. The picture of all of us on graduation shines back at me in the glare from the cheap strip lighting. Eleven of the people in that picture are now dead. A shudder runs down my spine, and I hurriedly tuck the key-ring into my palm, heading for the door, my nails clacking on the brushed metal as I push my way out and press for my car to unlock, hand trembling slightly as I hold it out. Nerves. For what? Making it up with my boyfriend, or something else?

The car won't unlock. I swear under my breath, kicking the bumper, cursing once again as it dents my toes through my shoes. I'm sure someone will give me a lift tomorrow; public transport isn't the wisest option with some of the people I've been in contact with the last couple of days. Being a detective means you really do move in gutter circles. My mobile goes straight to answer phone when I ring my boyfriend. Looks like I'm walking: no way to safely get a cab. At least this way I can run if something happens.

I set off, chin up, heels clacking on the stern concrete. I stuff my keys into my handbag, managing to drop it onto the grime of the street; I hoist it up quickly, brushing it down, closing the zip, eyes darting round. Calm down, Lauren. Who's going to be out at this time of night? And you'll know if someone comes near.

Footsteps behind me. I turn, grabbing the strap of my bag, my eyes wide as they swerve round wildly, reaching out as though I'll find someone within a foot of me.

"Hello?"

Nothing. It only worsens my nerves. I turn again, picking up my pace, the thud of my heels turning into my pulse in my ears, and then an executioner's drum.

I need some positive thinking, but it's not working: all I can think is that I am alone, working a case notorious for people being murdered whilst on it, and someone is behind me.

Movement somewhere; I glimpse a shadow, a swing of a body.

"Who's there?"

Stand up to 'em, Lauren. Show 'em who's boss. God, I could do with Daphne Blake's kung fu now, or Fred Jones' strength. Inwardly I curse myself for not trying self-defence and hurry on, beginning to panic at the silence, breaking into a trot, a run, a wild sprint that has me sprawling on the pavement, my heel caught in a rut.

"Gotcha."

And then there's someone grabbing at me, their hands rough on my body, and I scream before my mouth is covered, hollering with all my effort, kicking and biting and scratching and writhing, tears streaming down my face as they hold me, drawing something from a pocket, its blank sheen gleaming in the moonlight, like a dead face...

And then it's all gone, and so am I. Blake and Jones will definitely get the case now...

The sound of a phone ringing shattered the silence of the apartment, causing Daphne Blake to groan sleepily.

"Fred..." she called, still half asleep, hoping that somehow her roommate was already up. But at seven in the morning, she doubted it. Sighing deeply, she slid out of bed, not bothering to put a dressing gown over her nightie as she rushed into the lounge. Walking over to the coffee table where the phone sat, she picked up the receiver and put it to her ear.

"Hello, Blake and Jones?"

It had become a habit to give both of their names, since they got about a fifty-fifty ratio of calls to the flat each. Daphne perched on the back of the sofa as she spoke, ignoring Fred's sleepy admonishing from the room on the other side of the hall.

"I'm calling for both of you. You have a case re-assigned to you from Lauren Graves."

Daphne's first thought was that Lauren, who has had a lot of pressure to refuse the case Daphne knows she's been given, has passed it on.

"I know which case you're talking about. Did Lauren refuse?" she asked, toying with the phone cord, winding it round a perfectly manicured finger. A tiny smile made its way onto her face as she remembered Lauren's big personality, the want to be a figurehead, to stand out; perfectly acceptable in training college, but in the big bad world perhaps not so much a blessing as a curse.

"Well, once you're down here, we'll tell you."

Daphne's smile suddenly vanished as her heart began to beat coldly.

"You're not... tell me, Jimmy."

She recognised the voice on the phone: James 'Jimmy' Bridgewhite, inter-worker for detectives, most recently their and Lauren's shared colleague.

"You know what happens to people on this case, Daphne. People die."

"Jimmy... you're not serious..."

Daphne slipped onto the leather sofa, and suddenly became aware of Fred's arms around her.

Lazy lummock finally dragged himself out of bed, then? She thought.

But whatever she thought, she was thankful for the warm weight of his body around hers.

His hand gently took the phone as she nestled into him, refusing to believe what Jimmy is saying. Lauren's laugh swam in her head, oddly distorted, as though in another universe, as Fred quietly conversed with Jimmy, his brows drawing closer together each second.

"Yes."

Daphne looked up at him, watching his face as he nodded slowly, murmuring an agreement to something, and slotted the phone back onto the holder, both of his arms now free to support Daphne.

"I'm sorry, Daph," he said quietly, and in that instant she knew.

She knew that it was true.

Lauren Graves was dead. And now they were going to have to find the killer.

Aha! I'm so excited! Are you excited? You should be... :D Huge thanks to my buddy Jazzola with all the help she's given me with this story! EPIC CLAP FOR YOU! More coming soon, I mean it this time. :D And leave a review, it's just below this text. Y'know, that button that says 'Review'? Go on, click it. You know you want to ;)