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There’s a girl in the interrogation room. All that’s left of her father is a pool of blood.
Young, slim, small. She’s in an oversized red hoodie and matching shorts not nearly long enough to cover scarred chitin that runs the length of her ankles to her thighs. She’s a pretty thing, though she’s from one of those backwater societies that still wear porcelain masks. Hers is full-coverage and worn from years of use, small scratches and nicks that could probably be buffed out but with so many, it’d be easier to just get another.
That mask is probably why there’s been discussion behind detective Iselda on who should go in and when. It hides her face thoroughly so the only thing they’ll be able to glean information from is body language and voice - but if her home was the mask-wearing kind, there’s not much hope for either of those avenues.
“Does she even speak the language?” a red ant, Sol, complains. They’re pushing on a mug, close to tilting it over and spilling the contents.
“The greeter said she did,” another answers, the oldest in the room, a weevil named Culi. He’s never had much luck with younger suspects, too harsh and more likely to scare them into silence or worse, a lawyer. “Doubt her father would’ve brought her here and not taught her any Hafif.”
“She goes to school,” Iselda answered, glancing back at her coworkers. “Here in the city. Tears University.”
“So, she can understand Hafif at least.”
“Who’s going in?” Iselda asks, to no one in particular. “I think she’s sat long enough.”
Which is to say, sitting in silence has not affected the girl. Sitting in an interrogation room has a sort of sweating out the truth effect that’s yet to touch the spider inside.
“You and me,” a new voice says. Iselda looks to see their esteemed captain, Olia, walking in. She’s a tall bug and beautiful at that, but stern. Iselda can’t help but think her captain would be happier with a quiet life, but she’s probably just projecting.
“Yes, ma’am,” is all she says now.
When they walk in, Hornet Majja - her mother’s surname - straightens out in her seat and crosses one leg over the other. She seems to look them up and down, but Iselda only guesses based on the glint of light bouncing off the girl’s eyeball.
“Hornet,” Olia greets, offering a hand. “I’m Olia, an officer here in the city. Iselda here is my subordinate.”
The spider doesn’t take Olia’s hand and ignores her introduction. “Why am I here?” Her Hafif is fluent, were it not for the soft accent on her words, one would guess she’d been born and raised at her father’s side all these years. It’s also impossibly young despite how calm it is, like they’ve got a child in the seat in front of them.
Iselda’s senior brings her hand back, looking unbothered as she sits. She places the file they’ve got on the crime and Hornet on the table, but instead of intimidating, her voice is almost motherly. It’s not a tactic Iselda disagrees with, Hornet is young with a dead mother and missing father. There’s no reason it wouldn’t work. “I was hoping you could help us a little.”
“And this helps finding him how?”
“Well, maybe you might remember something from that day. Did he say anything unusual? Did you notice anything? Things like that would be a big help.”
“I don’t.”
“Nothing at all?” Olia tilts her head.
“No. Can I leave?”
A hand reaches for Hornet’s, conciliatory but Hornet snatches it back quickly. Iselda is surprised, but Olia takes this in stride, merely leaning back in her seat with a soft sound. “Before that, can you tell me what happened that day?”
“You have a sibling, don’t you?” Iselda asks, leaning forward. Olia shoots her a look. The files on the girl are sparse, dead mother, raised by father, has a sibling - that’s it. But Iselda knows how these things go, when there’s been no sign of break in, when the list of enemies might be long but not as violent as the crime. “Have they been to see your father recently?”
Outwardly, hardly anything changes at the question. Hornet’s posture is still unbothered if ready to leave, but it’s when she speaks that they know they might be onto something. It’s barely more than a thread of shaking in her voice. It’s enough. “I wouldn’t know.”
“You don’t?” Iselda asks, surprised. “I heard you were close when you were younger.” Nothing in her file indicated such.
“That was then, this is now.” She shifts and crosses her arms, then sits up and uncrosses them. “I do not make it a habit to involve myself in another’s business.”
“So, you don’t know if… Pure, right? If Pure has been by to see your father?”
“I don’t.” Her answer is curt. Warning. “I doubt they’ve talked in years.”
“But you don’t know.”
Hornet stays silent.
Olia leans back in her chair, now piggybacking off Iselda’s lead. “So, they didn’t get along with your father?”
“He's a difficult person. Lots of people don’t get along with him.”
“But only you and your sibling have any real connection with him,” the officer says. “He’s tough, I hear. I mean, you have to be when you’re the head of a conglomerate, don’t you? You have to be ruthless. Seek perfection.”
“Cut off any weaknesses,” Iselda adds, watching Hornet carefully.
Maybe it’s the culture she carries, maybe it’s lessons drilled into her by her father, but the girl seems to have realized they noticed her weakness. She shoves her hands into her hoodie pocket to hide them and crosses her legs, mask staring back at them. “I want a lawyer.”
“We’re just talking,” Olia says, pleasant. Casual. Like they’re friends discussing something over lunch. “We’re just trying to figure out what’s happened.”
“You have the phone call I made to your office. Anything else doesn’t involve me.”
“Does it involve your sibling?”
“I want a lawyer.”
“Hornet,” Iselda tries, sliding forth the folder of pictures from the scene. It’s not much, hardly anything looks out of place except for a knocked over chair, items off a desk, and of course, the massive pool of blood. Smears indicate a struggle, but a short one. The girl’s call had been quick, brief, written off as panic when all she said was her father was gone and hurt. They hadn’t seen a speck of blood on her. “It doesn’t look good for an innocent person to ask for a lawyer.”
“Perception is not my concern,” she retorts waspishly.
Iselda can’t tell if she’s looked at the picture, or what her expression might be. “If you know or you’re protecting your sibling, this isn’t helping-”
“I said,” Hornet’s voice is steel now, “I want a fucking lawyer.”
They’re on the other side of the glass again, seething.
“She’s hiding something,” Culi mutters.
“No shit,” Sol replies, curt, arms crossed. “Did she do it or is she covering?”
“My bet is on the sibling. Any word on them yet?”
“None.”
“They’ll come,” Iselda says. The others glance at her, but she knows she’s right. “The way she tensed, they’ve got to still care about each other. I think they’ll come to pick her up.”
It’s Olia who moves, sighing and dropping a stack of papers. “Even if they do, we’ve got nothing to hold them for. Her or them.”
They really, really don’t, but Iselda knows one of them is involved. Or both. Probably the elder did the killing and the younger covered it up. Glancing down at the photos, the centipede struggles to make sense of what she’s seeing. If she knew, she could crack the suspects open, pull out whatever secrets they’re keeping.
A voice knocks her out of reverie, the old, worn voice of the moth at front, “You can’t go in.”
“Don’t be daft. If anyone can, it’s me.”
The entire unit stiffens, that dreaded voice the thing of nightmares and mistrials and dropped cases. Through the door into their office, with a glance only at the two-way glass that separates them and Hornet, emerges Grimm. Not just any lawyer, the lawyer, poster child of knowing the game so well others drop out the second you’re spotted. One with a pay so high it’d make your eyes water even if it was worth every last geo.
“I’d like to speak to my client.”
“No way you’re here for her,” Olia snips, standing up to glare at him. “She’s got three geo to her name, if that.”
“Yet here I stand,” he replied demurely. Others had told Iselda he was as charming as a moth ever could be, but their meetings had only ever been cold and hostile, his sneer closer to a predatory bat. His gaze was pointed and smile sharp. “Now, the door.”
There’s an attempt at a stand off but with a swear under her breath, Olia moves to open the door. Iselda stays where she is, watching the interaction, hoping to figure out how these two might know each other. Grimm’s pay was near enough to buy half the coast and though Hornet’s father might’ve been rolling in it, there’s no indication that the wealth ever trickled down. Especially not when they had frequent, public spats.
Olia opens the door and stands aside. Hornet, closed off, glances up then stiffens as if she is surprised. Iselda could easily mark it off as her having expected another officer, but there’s a minute relaxing in the girl’s shoulders. A relief that a stranger could rarely give.
“She doesn’t need legal counsel,” Olia says, grimly aware what could be done if they don’t get ahead of Grimm. “We were just chatting.”
“And now you’re not,” Grimm replies, smiling thinly. “She won’t be speaking with you any longer.” He gives another look to the girl, it’s pleasant but there’s something else. “Let’s go.”
After a second of hesitation, the spider stands quickly, flocking to his side like a child, not looking at anyone else. He puts a hand on the back of her shoulder and guides her closer, obscuring her behind ebony wings.
“We’ll be in touch,” Olia says. Iselda almost thinks to tell her it’s a lost cause, but doubts it would get them anywhere. With a lawyer like that, they’re never going to get Hornet in again.
“Ah, afraid not,” the bug’s smile is wolfish. Hornet successfully hidden behind him, he ushers her forward before following. “I’ll be her point of contact now. Her only point of contact. I’m sure you still have my card somewhere.”
With that, they’re gone. The office stays silent until they’re out to the parking lot.
Hornet says nothing until they’re in the car, mindful of eyes from the police department.
Grimm’s very stupid, impractical car mind you. “Pierce arrow was the height of artistic development for motor vehicles, back when ads were drawn not shot,” she knows his opinions by heart so she skips her usual jab.
“You’re not one of our lawyers on retainer.”
“Certainly not.”
“Then why are you here?” she asks, turning to face him, unwilling to play the word games he so favors. “I cannot pay you and I have nothing of his to offer-”
The car speeds up a bit. She recognizes they’re not returning to her or Pure’s place. Grimm’s face has darkened marginally with irritation. “Don’t be daft, Hornet. You know why I’m doing this.”
“I-” she goes to argue, to insist otherwise, but can’t force herself to deny it. Shutting her mouth, she turns back to face the road and remains silent for the rest of the drive. She’s the worst and hates herself for it, hates him for being there for her anyways.
They arrive at one of Grimm’s penthouses after a ride up the elevator punctuated only by music. When at last the door opens to his floor, Pure is waiting there for her.
“Pure,” she acknowledges, automatic. She’s stepped out of the elevator and approached them before having thought about it, one arm raised so she might touch their mask. They lean into it quickly, dark eyes finding hers before signing as they always have, “You look well.”
She snorts. “Not quite what I was expecting.”
They pause, more purposeful this time when their hands start to move. Abruptly, she realizes what they’re going to say, what she doesn’t care to hear. Hornet steps back, turning away from them. “Don’t.”
There’s a beat where no one breathes. They reach for her and she jerks away from them, turning back to glare, “I said don’t.”
“You’re my sister,” they tell her, this time grabbing her wrist and not letting go. They kneel, tall as they are, it hardly makes a difference until they bend further to nudge her mask with their own. “It’s my job to protect you. I even called him.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” she hisses, soft but cruel. “Keep out of it.”
Before they can say anything else, before she can be convinced of it, she turns away back to Grimm, “Am I staying here?”
“For now.” He pushes off the wall he had been leaning against, watching the two of them. “I’ll show it to you.”
He leads her off down a hallway, briefly brushing past Pure with a murmured whisper she can’t pick up. She doesn’t look at her half sibling as she herself passes by, only focuses on the fringe of the moth before her.
Grimm places her in an empty bedroom but follows her in, eyes raking up and down her form. “The clothes you were wearing at the time?”
“I was wearing something else,” she tells him, but even so she rifles through the closet to find stuff she’d left there from a time past. “I’ve already dumped it.”
“Where?”
“The river.”
“The weapon?”
“With the clothes.”
He makes an aggrieved sort of noise, pulling out of his phone. “Where and when?”
“Royal and this morning. Nobody saw me.”
“They always say that.” He types something rapidly, holding his hand out for her hoodie when she takes it off, just to glance up and notice the wound she’d barely covered. She’s familiar with the scowl on his face, the moth coming over to move her head to see better. It’s little more than a stab wound through her shoulder, nothing she couldn’t handle on her own though it’s since bled through her bandaging attempt. “I’d ask if you gave as good as you got, but I’ve already seen the answer.”
“I’ve never been one to do less.” He pushes her to sit and she does, flinching only when he begins to pull off the wraps. He’s warm, warmer than she remembers him being, but gentle when he examines the injury. “You don’t need to.”
“No,” he agrees, half hearted. “But I’ve never been one to do less.”
She can say nothing to that, so she only closes her eyes and slumps forward as he cleans the wound and mindfully pulls chitin close. It’s when he’s spreading a salve that reality begins to sink in, that she’s back here feeling like she might cry because he’s so stupidly, hopelessly gentle. Her voice is quiet when she admits, “I’m glad you came.”
Hornet’s eyes are focused on her feet so she can’t tell if he’s looking at her, but he does pause for half a second. When he speaks, it’s smooth and sweet, “I was worried when I saw their name come up. Even more when they told me the details.”
“Because you’d have to clean up my mess?” she guesses with a snort.
“Because you do everything by yourself,” he sighs. He’s begun to wrap the wound, pulling the bandage taut. “You need protection at a time like this.”
“You always say that.”
“I really don’t.” She can hear him rolling his eyes now. “There. All done. Get changed and then we’ll eat and you’ll tell me everything.”
Grimm stands and moves to go, stopped only when she reaches out to grab his hand, swallowing hard and looking up at him. “Don’t. Go, I mean, don’t go.”
“Hornet…” He doesn’t go anywhere, but he places his hand over hers and it feels so much like rejection that she finds herself recoiling in horror. He’s quick to drop to a knee and run a soothing hand over her arm. “No, it’s not like that. You just went through-”
“Murder is not a traumatic incident impairing my judgment,” she hisses, feeling like a spoiled child being coaxed. “You were the one who said-”
“I love you,” he interrupts before she can go further. It stills her, the bluntness, the absolute lack of romance, as if he’d merely said her favorite color was red and not that he loved her - loved her even now. His hand cradles her mask, rubbing it softly. “That’s not changed.”
“I know what I’m doing,” she replies, softer now. “I know what I want.”
“Murder was your self actualization?” he asks, chuckling. “It’s not a very romantic story to tell your friends.”
“Grimm,” she complains. “I do.”
He leans back, taking stock of her once more. She doesn’t know what it is he’s looking for, but she does her best to project her confidence, enough that she leans forward when he doesn’t. The moth grins a little too smugly and pushes her mask up so he can kiss her. “That really was your last chance to get away from me.”
“You do have plenty of blackmail on me now.”
“So lucky are you that I have a vested interest in keeping you out of jail.”
“Because you love me.”
“Yes, you impossible thing. Because I love you. Despite the murder.”
“Liar,” she accuses when he rolls his eyes. “You think it’s a perk.”
He laughs and the banter is quickly forgotten in the heat of another kiss.