A STUDY IN EMERALD

A Re-imagining' by Ranger Thorne

I first met Daria Morgendorffer when I was looking for a roommate in Boston. The Globe had an advertisement by a 'serious college student' who was looking for 'quiet college student' to share an apartment. Since painting was usually done without making a great deal of noise, I figured I qualified and made the phone call.

A message on the machine gave a schedule of where to find her on the campus of Raft College. Since it was nearby, and I had no classes the next day, I jotted it down and then checked the bus schedule. Little did I know that I was beginning a life and career that I had never imagined.

By following the schedule in my hand, I managed to get almost totally lost on the campus. I had a few friends who attended Raft, and managed to phone one of them before they left for a class. They gave me directions that led me into a small lab.

The only occupant of the room was a small girl of 18. The girl was sitting with her back to me, so I couldn't see her eyes. As I carefully approached her, I took in what I could see. She had dark brown hair that was pulled back into a pony tail. Her clothes were something I had not expected. Over the chair next to her was a green jacket, leaving her mustard yellow T-shirt covering her thin frame. She had on a black pleated skirt that reached almost to her knees, and black boots almost as big as mine. I was nodding at her choice of footwear when the voice I had heard on the machine the night before broke the stillness.

"Since you're nodding, I presume that you see something you like. I hope it's my boots, because if you're looking at my legs like that, you have me mistaken for someone else."

As the girl turned to look at me, I said, "How did you see me nod?"

Pointing over her shoulder, she said, "Shiny metal object. It works like a mirror. You are?" She had brown eyes, I noticed. Her face wasn't unattractive, but her main feature was a pair of thick round glasses. They seemed to say ?keep your distance' to anyone who would venture near.

"Jane Lane," I held out my hand as I came closer. "And, actually, I was nodding at your boots." I looked down at my own. They were the newer of my boots, having replaced the ones I'd worn through high school. They were even taller than hers, and mine were more gray than black.

"Ah," she nodded as she shook my hand, "the twelve hole model. They have a steel shank as well as toe. An excellent choice."

"Thanks."

"Is there something I can do for you? I presume that a student from BFAC wouldn't be here unless there was a reason."

"How did you know I'm from BFAC?" This was twice in less than three minutes she'd done this to me, and I wasn't sure I liked it.

"Well," she crossed her arms and leaned back onto the counter, "first of all, your shirt is splattered with paint. While this is not in and of itself conclusive proof, the fact that you have the smell of paint remover and callouses on your hands from holding a brush would lead one to believe that you're a painter. And, since Raft does not have an art degree available, you would be from another college. So, since you're not from Raft, the nearest college with an art degree is the Boston Fine Arts College."

"Oh." Now that she'd explained it, I felt that I might as well be wearing a 'I'm from BFAC' on my sleeve."

"Now, as to why you're here?"

"You had the ad for the apartment in the paper."

"Ah," she nodded, "yes, my roommate moved away. I don't think she could stand the odd hours I keep."

"How odd are they?" I asked. "After all, I should know this before I decide wether or not to move in."

"True." She glanced over her shoulder, then turned back, "I'm almost finished here. What say we grab some food and talk?"

"Sounds cool"

She cleaned up her experiment quickly. I saw the remains of some cigarettes in the trash, and made a note to myself to ask if she smoked. Then, we went out to a small car. She opened the door remotely, then motioned me toward the driver's side.

"I can drive, but I'm not the best at it," she admitted. "Besides, I want you to choose where we eat."

"You don't have any preferences?" I asked.

With a wave of her hand, Daria said, "Food is a necessary evil. I can usually find something I can eat at any restaurant. So, indulge yourself. It may be one of the few times we have such a civil meal."

I got behind the wheel as she slid in next to me. And, simple as that, I unknowingly became her driver.

We stopped at a Chinese restaurant I knew of near Raft. I liked it because it had an extensive buffet and was usually quiet until dinner time. We each got a large plate of food and made our way back to the table. Our drinks had been brought while we had been away, and we spent the next couple of minutes getting our small pots of hot tea poured and readied. Finally, as we prepared to eat, she looked up at me and spoke again, "You wish to ask questions now or wait until we finish?"

"Hmm," I thought, "how about easy ones now and I'll try to save any hard ones for later? Unless you'd rather go first, that is."

It gave me a bit of pleasure to see the surprised look on her face. "I think I will take you up on that," she said. She pointed at me with a fork that held a piece of General Tsao's Chicken on it and asked, "How are your grades?"

"My cumulative GPA is 3.7," I told her. "Yours?"

"4.3."

"That's impossible."

"Extra credit," she informed me. "I did some work for one of my professors."

"Must have been a hell of a tough job," I said, amazed.

"I discovered who was using the lab at the university for synthesizing meth." She took a bite and chewed. We were silent until she swallowed, when she added, "I would have a 3.99 if not for that."

"Opinion questions on the tests?"

"Yep." She took a sip of tea, then asked, "Any bad habits?"

"I sometimes paint without proper ventilation," I said. Setting down my fork, I counted the bad habits past roommates had told me of, "I snore, I don't do my laundry until it's almost strong enough to fight back, and I let my brother get away with too much."

"Your brother lives in Boston?"

"No, but he visits when his band gets a job up here. Lately, that's been almost every weekend." Seeing her concerned look, I added, "He doesn't stay with me. But, he use to make me listen to recordings of new songs so he could get my opinion."

"He values your opinion. Wouldn't that qualify as a good thing?"

"You haven't heard Mystik Spiral," I grinned at her. "Do you have any bad habits I should know?"

"My hours are not my own," she told me. "I'm moody, I play the clarinet at odd hours, I read too much, and I'm a stickler for having my things where I place them."

I was confused, "Your hours are not your own?"

"I do consulting work for the Boston Police Department, among other people."

"You're kidding."

"No, I'm not." She pulled a card out of her pocket and handed it to me, "This is Captain Jessica Lincoln's card. She will vouch for me."

I looked at the card for a moment, then put it in my jacket. "So, what do you do for them?" I asked as I took a sip of tea.

She stopped the fork that was about to deliver food to her mouth long enough to say, "I'm a consulting detective." When I almost shot tea out of my nose in surprise, she added, "I take it you know what that is?"

"Isn't that something like a private eye?"

With a sigh, she swallowed, "I do have a licence for that, yes. The primary thing that I do is look at the evidence my client brings me and tell them the results that it presents. While I do go out in the field if necessary, I've mostly sat around and waited for someone to knock on my door."

"Which is at all hours?"

"Yes. Although the police do tend to keep to normal business hours most of the time." She waved the fork, "It's only if there's something fresh they want my opinion on that they come by at odd hours."

Shrugging, I said, "Of course. Nothing like looking at a dead body at 2 am."

"It is a rather unique experience," she agreed.

"Do you smoke?"

"I take it you are referring to what you saw in the lab?" When I nodded, she smirked, "I was doing a study on the chemical properties of cigarette ash. I'm doing it for my chemistry class."

"Oh." Secretly, I was thrilled. Living with Daria, I thought, would no doubt give me all kinds of inspiration for paintings.

"Have you ever been arrested?"

The question surprised me. So much so, that she suddenly had a smirk on her face. "Is that a 'Oh, no, she's found me out,' or a 'what the hell kind of question is that,' face?"

"The latter," I assured her. "I haven't been arrested." With a shrug, I added, "I got close a few times, but they never got me."

"Lack of evidence?"

"Lack of motivation," I smirked back at her. "Means motive and opportunity only work if the suspect has the motivation. Laziness should be an available defense."

"Funny," she said, looking confused, "judging from the condition of your leg muscles, I would have guessed that you jog."

"Run," I corrected automatically. "Damn."

"So you do get off of your lazy butt and do something?"

"I run." I started to shrug, then stopped myself. "I don't do it to be in shape, I do it because I like to run."

"Hmm, maybe you can motivate me to take up an activity." She looked at the food on her plate, "I obviously can't rely on my diet to keep my girlish figure."

I laughed. "You know, I think I'm going to like this."

She looked at me for a long moment. Then, a slow, small smile appeared on her face. "Miss Lane," she said finally, "I believe I will, too."

"Jane," I told her.

"Daria."

"When can I move in?"

"This is Thursday," she squinted at me, "so I would suggest Saturday. That would give you tomorrow to pack."

I waved a hand at her, "Oh, I'm already packed. I've been looking for somewhere to move to for a month."

She leaned back in her seat. It was then that I saw the look I had been dreading. "Jane Lane," she muttered. With at 'whack,' her palm struck her forehead, "Idiot!" she barked. "You were the girl in the news a month ago."

"Uh," I looked down, "yeah. That was me."

"Did they ever realize that you knew who your assailant was?"

I nearly jumped to my feet. "How the hell did you know that?"

"You were entirely too uncooperative. What you did tell them was inconsistent with the conditions of the night. You said that the clouds made it too dark to see, but, when I checked out the location, there were enough streetlights to read by, much less see someone's face." She put down her fork and held my gaze, "An educated guess on my part would be that it was your roommate's boyfriend." As I wondered if I could kill myself using a fork, she continued, "Your expression tells me that I'm correct. I also suppose that you told your roommate and she told you that she would provide him with an alibi. Am I correct on that as well?"

"Damn you."

"Actually," Daria said, suddenly soft, "I think you believe that you are the one who feels damned. I am sorry that I didn't recognize you earlier."

"So I guess that means that I have to find another place to live."

"Quite the contrary," she smiled that faint smile again, "it means that we'll move you right after we finish eating. I would prefer to have you away from that brute and the slut who would let him get away with it."

"Okay," I smiled, "I take back at least half of the terrible things I was thinking about you."

"You can save them for my sister," Daria told me.

"You have a sister? Any cute brothers?"

"Only the sister. She's," Daria shrugged, "a lot like you in a way."

I knew what she meant, "Oh, no. Was she hurt?"

"The idiot didn't know what he was doing or he would have killed her. It was right after her Senior year of school, so she was able to take a year off before joining me here. But, she's been focusing more on her modeling career than her school work." She frowned, "The two of us have the top floor of an apartment building, but we need another person to make the rent tolerable."

"You live with your sister?"

"She finds it hard to sleep alone." Daria looked down at her food, "She was alone when she was attacked."

"We all are," I told her. Looking down, I suddenly realized that I had somehow managed to clean my plate while I had been talking. "Damn, I was hungry."

"Seconds are that way," she pointed toward the buffet.

"Be right back." Standing, I went after more food.

"Third building on the right," Daria told me as we came through an intersection.

"Cool," I said as I pulled into a parking space, "right in front." The building was a nondescript red brick building with three stories. Most of the other structures in the area were only two stories, making this one seem taller than it was. It had a worn but well cared for look to it, and the trim had a coat of fresh paint. As we got out of the car, I looked up and said, "Nice looking place."

"We were fortunate to find it," Daria told me. "I especially like the address."

When I looked at the address I had to laugh. "221 Baker Street. Could you have planned that any better?"

"No." She smirked, "Come on, let's get you unloaded."

It really didn't take that long. The hardest part was the three-story climb up the stairs. There was an elevator, I saw, but it was out of service. The lobby, or 'foyer,' as Daria told me the owners called it, was a cream color with dark trim around the doors. A set of mailboxes were set to the left next to the door, with the tenants listed by position in the building. The top mailboxes were all marked 'Morgendorffer.'

"We'll put your name up there tonight," Daria assured me.

"I'm not worried about it," I said. "It just means that all the junkmail is your problem."

Daria helped me with my easel. Even disassemble, it had barely fit into the car. Two trips later, however, and it was in my new apartment. It took an extra trip to get the rest of my things, but by the time the sun was starting to set, I was moved in at 221 Baker Street, Apartment 3A.

Daria and her sister had taken up residence on the top floor of the building. The stairs came up to a door that opened up into a hallway. To the right was the elevator, to the left, the hallway continued down to a window that looked out onto the street. Almost directly across from the stairs, a doorway led to a large family/living room. One corner of the room had been turned into an office of some kind.

Very little hung on the walls with the exception of a family photograph showing Daria with a young red-headed woman, an man in his late 40's and a woman a few years younger than the man. In the picture, Daria looked bored, the young woman looked perky, and the adults looked like they had bought their smiles at a half-off sale.

Across the room a small door opened into a small gym. A multi-purpose machine that used metal bands instead of weights and a treadmill occupied the room along with a mirrored wall and a tv. A small rack held towels, with a basked underneath the rack for used ones. The window was covered by a thick black curtain. After taking note of the bland off-white color of the walls in the gym, living area and hallway, I asked, "Are all the walls this color?"

"Quinn's room is pink, but otherwise, yeah." She smirked slightly, "You can paint yours differently if you wish. But, the landlord gets a deposit first so he can buy the paint to cover it if you move out."

"Fair enough," I told her

Down the hall on the right was a small dining room. On the far side of it was a bathroom with access to the laundry room and the water heater. I checked out the kitchen and was pleased to find it clean and with appliances that had been new only a few years ago. "Hey," I said, opening the freezer, "you have an ice maker."

"Isn't technology wonderful," she said with a blank expression on her face.

At the end of the hall was my room. It was a large bedroom, with a private bath. The window opened onto the street, and I quickly opened it and let in some fresh air. "Smells like something died in here," I told Daria.

"The previous tenant left some lunch meat in here along with a pile of trash," she explained. "Quinn and I were out of town visiting our family at the time. We didn't get back until it had gotten pretty bad. We've only just now got the smell out of the carpet."

Nodding toward the window, I asked, "Why don't one of you have the window?"

"I find the noise to be a distraction, and Quinn has a thing about windows, anymore. That's why you'll find them all covered in the rest of the house." Frowning, she added, "It has something to do with what happened."

"Ah." With a frown of my own, I decided not to dwell on it. "Well, the sound won't bother me, I use to live with my brother. If I can sleep through Mystik Spiral doing 'Icebox Woman' I can sleep through anything."

"Icebox Woman?"

"A Trent Lane original."

The other doors on this side of the hall led to the other two bedrooms. The doors were opened as we had moved in my things, so I could tell that Daria's room was packed with books, papers, and some lab equipment, including a microscope. As Daria had said, Quinn's room was pink, and had some stuffed animals on a large bed with a canopy.

The entry to the stairs was also the entry to a small storage area that ran along the back wall of the apartment. Here I noticed boxes marked 'Christmas' and 'Halloween,' among the rest. I could tell there was a lot of wasted space, but let it go even as a thought about what to do with the space came into my head.

We had settled into the living room with some sodas when we heard the door to the stairs open and close. The young woman who came into the room was obviously the girl from the picture, but she had grown into a very beautiful woman. She was wearing a black pantsuit with a cream colored top. Her makeup was so light it was barely noticeable. She stopped as she came into the room and stared at me with unmasked hostility.

"Who is she?" The question was directed at Daria, although her eyes never left mine.

"This is Jane Lane," Daria replied as she gestured with an arm. "Jane, this is Quinn, my sister."

"What's she doing here?"

"She has moved in."

Now Quinn did look at her sister, "What? You said I'd have a say in who moved in after the last one turned out to be a crazy woman."

"And you do." Daria stood, "You can either accept that she's here or you can have hysterics whenever you see her."

"That's not fair, Daria."

"Quinn," I stood up, "I'm not here to fight with you. I'm a student at the Boston Fine Arts College. I don't party, and I don't drink, do drugs, or hang out with guys all the time. I'm here to get an education."

"You go to BFAC?"

"Yeah."

"You know Contessa Johnson?"

"She's a year behind me, but yeah. She's a better sculptor than a painter." I shrugged, "I can paint circles around her, but I think she could actually teach my mother something about throwing pots."

"Is that, like, a sport or something?"

I grinned, "No, it's a term for making pots out of clay."

"Oh." She sniffed at me a couple of times, then asked, "Why do you smell like paint thinner?"

"I paint. Sometimes I have to get the stuff off with turpentine, paint thinner or mineral spirits."

"You do houses or something?"

Laughing, I shook my head, "No, no. I paint pictures." Gesturing toward my new room, I said, "I've got a couple with me if you want to see them."

"No, that's okay," she said as she took a step back. A sigh preceded her turning to her sister and saying, "I thought I could trust you."

"You can," came the calm reply. She looked from one of us to another before she added, "Jane was in a situation she needed out of immediately. So, when I realized that she would work as our new roommate, I decided to act with alacrity."

"Situation?" Quinn looked back at me, "You getting divorced?"

"Are you going to tell everyone we meet about that?" I snapped at Daria.

"Only her." The frames of the glasses were reflecting light from the window, making it impossible to see what was burning behind her eyes.

"About what?" The younger woman was turning pale, "What's going on?"

Oh, god, here I go again. "Quinn," I said, gently, "I was attacked about a month ago. It was my roommate's boyfriend, and she lied for him. I needed out before he got me again."

Her eyes were as big as saucers. "Are you okay?" she whispered.

With a shrug, I said, "I'm fine, I guess. I've talked to some people, but all they ever do is ramble up one side of my brain and down the other. How about you?"

"Me?" Now it was her turn to glare at her sister, "You told her?"

"She gave me one hint too many," I said, "I guessed the rest. So, are you okay?"

Quinn laughed a quiet laugh, "I'm a little paranoid and I can't stand having an open window. And I know what you mean about those therapy people. Getting out and living did me more good than anything else."

"That and getting a black belt," Daria added as she picked up a book.

Quinn nodded toward her sister, then rolled her eyes. We shared a small laugh before Quinn slowly reached out a hand, "I'm Quinn Morgendorffer. I think I'm going to like having you around."

"Jane Lane," I reached out and shook her hand, "and I'm glad to be here."

"I'm Daria Morgendorffer," came a voice from behind a book, "and we're going to sing a song for you."

The light in the hall coming on woke me up. This was surprising, since I'd closed my door when I had gone to bed. Hearing muffled voices, I rose and pulled a robe on over the sweatpants and t-shirt I was wearing. Trying to be silent, I made my way down the hall to the living room. Peeking in, I saw three men in suits talking to Daria. One of them noticed me, causing the others to turn in my direction.

"Sorry," I said, waving, "I heard something and wanted to check it out."

"It's all right," Daria said, motioning me into the room. "In fact, if you don't mind, I'd like your opinion on something."

Curious, I came into the room. Daria held a photograph up for me to see. "It's a murder scene," she warned me. Bracing myself, I looked at the photo.

The woman had obviously been strangled, since the cord was still around her. Her body was stretched out in the bathroom floor, with her head next to the toilet. She was wearing matching gray bra and panties. Her hair was short and almost as black as mine. Her expression was dazed, as if she couldn't understand what was happening.

There were several shots of the scene, showing the counter to the victim's left with a sink on one end and the tub with a shower on the right. Both were immaculate, but something wasn't right.

"Where's the shower curtain?" I asked.

"She was in the process of putting up a new one, we think," one of the men said. "We found the old one and one still in the plastic in the living room." Seeing my expression, he added, "People do stranger things in their underwear."

"Hmm," Daria grunted. "Anything else amiss, Jane?"

"Well," I shrugged, "the counter is too neat for a fight to have gone on here." I looked closely at the scene. "Is she holding a sock in her hand?"

"It was under her body," another offered. "It had a bar of soap in it," he added, confused.

"Why would someone put a bar of soap into a sock?" I asked. "What really gets me about this, though, is the way her body looks like it was placed there."

"It does?" The first man said. "How so?"

"Well," I felt silly, but answered, "if she'd collapsed there, her legs would have bent under her. Her legs are almost perfectly straight."

"She's an artist," Daria told them, "she notices composition and details." Turning to me, she smiled, "Forgive my manners, Jane. These gentlemen are detectives from the Boston Police Force." She pointed to the first one, "This is Detective Miles Clancy," he nodded and she went to the second one, "Detective John Grissom," he muttered a greeting, "and Lieutenant Joshua Host. Gentlemen, this is my new associate, Jane Lane."

I smiled and nodded as her words ran through my mind. Associate? What the hell am I into now?

Daria began to pace as she spoke, "As for the sock, I take it none of you were in the military?" Seeing three heads shake, she nodded, "I thought not. If a member of a group in basic training causes an undo amount of trouble, the others will have what is called a 'sock party.'"

"Oh, yeah," I chimed in, "I heard about that at BFAC."

"Yes," she looked at me as if to hint that I needed to shut up, now. "They put bars of soap into socks and use them as cudgels so that there is no bruising. It hurts, but no marks appear. It gets the message across without causing them to get into trouble themselves."

"No bruises. Hmm," Clancy rubbed his chin.

"Was there any sign of sexual assault?" she asked, sounding like she was repeating an old question.

"Her robe was on the hook and all her clothes were stored away," Host spoke up for the first time. "We looked for it, remember?"

"So you said," Daria dismissed him with a wave. "It only provides more strength for my theory."

"Which is?" Host spoke again.

"She was killed by someone she knows well enough to be seen in her underwear around." She continued to pace as she spoke. "It is possible that this person took her by surprise, but I think she let them in, believing she was safe. This person was once in the military, or knew someone who was. Thus, they knew about 'sock parties' and decided to soften up the victim with a beating. An autopsy should provide proof of that. Then, when the victim was too dazed to fight back, they took the cord and strangled them. For their own reasons, they dragged the body into the bathroom. During this, they dropped the sock."

"Sounds reasonable," Grissom said. "But it's nothing we wouldn't have found out."

"If you had bothered to look," Daria stared at him. "I'm certain there was at least one officer on the scene who knew what a 'sock party' is."

"But what about the curtain?" I asked.

"An excellent question, Jane," Daria nodded at me. "I believe that the murdered intended to remove the body from the apartment using it. A bit clumsy, but would have allowed for some covering of the offending corpse." Looking at the officers, she added, "I would check the tag on that package. If possible, you should check the records of your suspects to see if they shopped a the same store where it was purchased in the past few days."

"That would mean they were planning to come back," Host realized.

"They were, gentlemen, until someone found the body." She sat down in the easy chair. I wandered over to stand beside it so I could see what happened next. "According to the report I read, a neighbor noticed an odd smell coming from the room?"

"Yeah." I didn't catch who had spoken.

"But the body had only been dead for a few hours, correct?"

"Yeah," it was Grissom who spoke.

"So what was the smell?" The three men looked at each other, then shrugged. "I thought so. The lady who made the call may very well be our killer. They either did the crime or knows who did. If they did it, they called the police as a message to someone else. Or, they want the killer to know they know what they did."

"What makes you say that?" Host asked.

"What makes you say that grass is green?" she asked in return. "I look at the evidence presented to me and give my humble assessment. You take what I tell you, pay my modest fee, and use the information to your own ends." She glanced up and me, the looked back at them. "Very well, you will need it for your reports, I suppose." Sighing, she arched her fingers in front of her, then began. "The fact that people do strange things in their underwear notwithstanding, it is highly unusual for someone to change out the shower curtain outside of the room in which the shower is located. At least, it is odd for them to take the old curtain to where the new one is still waiting to be unwrapped. So, someone else removed the curtain. The sock speaks for itself, as does the expression on her face. She doesn't look like someone who is being strangled. Indeed, she looks like someone who has been beaten nearly unconscious. She shows no sign of sexual assault, despite her appearance. You will probably find that the neighbor is widely regarded as a close friend. The kind that of friendship could possibly be close enough for one to wander about unclothed. Especially if they were both in the military together."

Host grabbed one of the pictures, "How do you know that?"

"That is mostly supposition on my part," Daria admitted. "However, the close-cut hair and the short nails do point in that direction. Also, she is rather good physical condition. If I saw her walking down the street, I might be able to tell you if she was, what branch, and if she was an officer. However, I am working from the incomplete data you have brought me."

"Our psychics are off tonight," Grissom grumbled.

"How sad for them," I offered, "they're missing all the fun."

When she glanced up at me, I thought for a second I saw a slight smirk on Daria's face. When she turned back to the police officer, however, it was gone. "The victim let the killer into the apartment, then turned away long enough to be taken by surprise by the sock. Perhaps there were two of them involved. One for each hand. Once the victim was too damaged to be aware, the cord was used to finish the crime. Now," she motioned toward the pictures, "I only have an idea of how this room looks, but it does not have windows. So, the original plan must have been to conceal the body until such time as it could be removed. Something happened to change that plan."

"What?" Clancy asked.

"That is your job to discover," Daria answered. "Again, I do not have all the fact at my fingertips. However," she shrugged, "I would wager a guess that someone else suddenly decided to pay a visit to the deceased."

"And the killer couldn't let them find the body." Host raised an eyebrow, "That would mean that whoever was coming was the reason they were fighting."

"An educated guess," Daria smiled, "but highly probable." She stood, "Gentlemen, on that note, I believe I have done all I could to help you tonight. I expect that I may expect the usual fee to arrive in a few days?"

"Of course," Host replied. The three shook hands with both of us, then followed Daria to the stairs. I waited in the living room until she returned.

"How much of that was real and how much of that was made up?" I asked when she came in and returned to her chair.

"Everything I said was as truthful as I could make it," she told me. "I gave supposition only when I did not have enough facts for a thorough analysis."

"So, you think the woman who called it in did it?" I stretched out on the couch.

"Quite probably. If not, she knows who did." Daria rested her hands on the arms of her chair for a few seconds, then asked, "I hope you're not upset at me dragging you in here."

"If I was going to be upset about something," I grinned at her, "it would be at you leaving my door open."

"And you are certain it was me?"

"Quinn would know better than to come into my room in the middle of the night. You, on the other hand, only had to open the door enough for the light and voices to wake me up."

"I thought you were a sound sleeper," she said.

"Not anymore. Especially in a strange place. You wanted me in here, and you got me in here." I shrugged, "It was interesting, anyway."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," she said, emotionlessly.

"When did it happen to you?" I asked.

"When did what happen?"

"When were you raped?" Seeing her shocked look, I went on, "You seem so calm about everything, but something must have happened to make you like this."

"Jane," she shook her head slowly, "I was never physically raped. I am the product of a dysfunctional, albeit harmless home. My parents, without realizing they had done so, favored Quinn over me. She was more outgoing, so she garnered more attention. I became more of a 'brain' since I knew she couldn't match me intellectually." She shrugged, "It was more of a passive mind-screw, I guess."

"Ouch." Holding out a hand, I said, "Sorry I said that."

She smiled a slow, sincere smile, "You were working from incomplete data. I've never been considered attractive enough for anyone to try something."

"What fools these mortals be, eh?"

"Could be." She stood, "Let's get some sleep. We have classes tomorrow, after all."

We went out the door together. I like it here, I told myself. I'm going to get some great paintings out of all this.