#HeartbreakDetective #FallFromGrace

  Clip of Neil handing the urn to Mrs. Wallace, then dropping the line on Sloane.

  He gave the mother closure. He gave Sloane the door.

  #WhyHeDidn’tDoItSooner #HardboiledGoodbye

  Slow-mo edit: Sloane’s stumble with dramatic piano music.

  When karma wears heels.

  #SavageNeil #EmotionalCrimeScene

  Meme split screen: Neil walking away versus Sloane on the pavement.

  She reached for sympathy. She found gravity. #DetectiveDamage

  Japanese post with translation:

  The heartbreak detective strikes again. Even Tokyo is watching.

  Hashtags: #HeartbreakDetective #WhyHeDidn’tDoItSooner

  OCTAVIA

  You’ve officially broken the internet. Kozo’s wheezing.

  NEIL

  Tell him to put his head between his knees.

  OCTAVIA

  He’s been refreshing TikTok for the past hour.

  NEIL

  One word: masochist.

  OCTAVIA

  They’re calling it the Fall Heard Round the World.

  She’s got her own hashtag. #SLOANEDOWN

  NEIL

  She’ll spin it. Count on it.

  OCTAVIA

  She just did.

  He killed my lover. LEARN THE TRUTH ON MY NEXT PODCAST.

  A thousand clicks in 10 MINUTES.

  NEIL

  She’s fast. I’ll give her that. CLICKBAIT. Not Worried.

  OCTAVIA

  Tell me all about it over tea tomorrow.

  NEIL

  I prefer sake.

  OCTAVIA

  Kanpai, Heartbreak Detective.

  Neil tossed his phone onto the couch and sighed deeply as he rubbed his face. Then the next wave hit, the paperwork. He opened his laptop, pulling up the Wallace insurance report. The cursor blinked. His fingers hovered over the keys, and he began.

  As requested, I have completed an initial investigation into the fatal vehicle incident involving former detective John Edward Wallace.

  The vehicle incident occurred at approximately 10:14 pm on November 12th, 2024. Mr. Wallace was driving a 2023 Cadillac Lyriq, a luxury-class electric SUV equipped with advanced driver-assistance technology, including adaptive cruise control, lane-keeping systems, and automatic emergency braking. According to the manufacturer’s specifications, these systems are designed to support safe vehicle operation under normal conditions.

  However, my review of the vehicle’s Event Data Recorder (EDR), diagnostic logs, and traffic camera footage reveals a pattern inconsistent with accidental driver error or suicide. Specifically:

  Sudden, unexplained acceleration was recorded in the final 3.2 seconds prior to impact.

  Crash-avoidance and lane-assist systems were inactive at a time they would normally engage.

  System logs typically associated with driver input and safety protocols were missing or corrupted.

  The vehicle had been serviced two days prior to the incident. At that time, the technician reported no malfunctions and certified all systems as operational. The observed anomalies, combined with the absence of key data, suggest possible unauthorized interference with the vehicle’s control systems.

  The Destiny Pointe Police Department has reopened the Wallace case and is currently working with a licensed third-party forensic auto technician to examine the EDR data and review all available documentation. Unfortunately, no further physical examination of the vehicle is possible, as the car was dismantled and demolished prior to completion of the full forensic analysis.

  The available evidence does not support a finding of suicide or natural mechanical failure. The data raises legitimate concerns regarding potential external tampering or digital sabotage and warrants continued investigation.

  Respectfully,

  Neil Ames

  Principal Investigator

  He submitted his report and poured a shot of Jameson's. Neil savored it as he looked out over the city lights. Momentarily, the clouds parted, revealing a full moon. Lines from Paul Bowles' book The Sheltering Sky filled his thoughts … How many more times will I see the full moon? How many times did John Wallace see the full moon before he died?

  He had one more task before bed: Text Athena.

  NEIL

  Please set up cleaning & packing service for Mrs. Wallace.

  Clearing out John’s condo.

  All invoices are to come to me.

  Sending contact info. Call Detective Hayes for entry.

  Flying to Tokyo tomorrow.

  The reply was quick, efficient, no-nonsense.

  ATHENA

  Will do first thing in the morning.

  Flying to Singapore after Christmas.

  Meeting McGregor.

  Try not to get killed. Clean out the fridge.

  Neil’s eyes drifted to the boxes of Katherine Sterling’s journals. He realized that instead of dread, a strange sense of anticipation filled him. He’d come back online. His thumb hovered over the screen. He sent Octavia a text, a slight smile playing on his lips.

  NEIL

  I’m going to need a bigger diplomatic pouch.

  Chapter 20

  Neil woke before the alarm. No dreams, no cold sweats. Just the steady rhythm of rain tapping on the window and the low hum of the heater cutting through the chill.

  He moved through the morning ritual. Coffee. Shower. Checked his packing list. Everything was where it should be: backpack zipped, passport tucked behind the boarding pass, Sterling’s journals waiting in the cardboard box near the door.

  Neil eyed the fridge. Try not to get killed. Clean out the fridge.

  He opened the door and stared inside. Half a tub of hummus, two eggs, something that might’ve been a roasted pepper. He’d be flying for twelve hours on airline food and nerves.

  What can I make with this that won’t clean me out at thirty thousand feet?

  Neil started pulling items with the precision of a man diffusing a small bomb.

  He plated the boiled eggs with the roasted pepper, scooped hummus on the side, and ate standing at the counter. For dessert, he found two cookies Athena had made, still a little soft in the center. He chewed slowly, letting the sugar settle. Then he washed his hands and reached for his phone.

  Time to call Winston.

  The rain started in Destiny Pointe and followed them north, tailing the I-5 convergence zone.

  Winston’s voice played in the background like an ASMR loop, filling the silence. Holiday traffic. Rising gas prices. A driver who nearly clipped them outside Federal Way. He grumbled about an Amazon van, then launched into a story about a cousin in Puyallup who mistook wasabi for guacamole and cried through a family dinner.

  Neil didn’t respond. He was used to Winston’s riffs, monologues with a beat, like jazz on AM radio.

  By the time they reached Seattle and took the Seneca exit toward Pike Street, the city glowed under a sheet of low clouds. At the curb outside the Japanese consulate, Winston threw the car into park and flipped on the hazards. He leaped out with a theatrical flair, then pulled open the passenger’s door with a slight bow.

  “Sir,” he said, deepening his voice into a gravelly mock-formal tone, “the embassy awaits.”

  Neil stepped out with the cardboard box filled with Katherine Sterling’s journals and the tightly wrapped ECU from Wallace’s SUV. “I won’t be long,” he said.

  Neil hoisted the box against his chest and approached the glass-fronted lobby. The Japanese consulate sat within the One Convention Place building, its signage discreet, its presence unmistakable. The door opened with a soft whisper.

  Inside, the air changed. Clean. Warm. Subtle smell of cedar and something floral. A small ikebana arrangement sat in the corner, perfectly balanced. Light wood paneling lined the walls. The floors were polished stone, and the security reception desk sat like a lacquered invitation rather than a barrier.

  An impeccably dressed counter clerk looked up with a smile. His voice was calm. “Mr. Ames. You are expected.”

  Neil gave a faint nod.

  A security officer guided him through a side door into a private receiving room. No beeping metal detectors, no pat downs. Just efficiency and discretion.

  Inside, another consular staff member waited beside a low table lined with black felt, a stamped courier case already open. She made a polite gesture toward it. “You may place the materials here.”

  Neil set the box down and watched as she began transferring the contents with practiced hands: Katherine Sterling’s handwritten journals, ribbon bound and weathered; a stack of archival notes and photographs bundled neatly; the carefully packed aluminum-cased Engine Control Unit (ECU), labeled by Neil in Sharpie as Diagnostic Component—Archive Adjunct.

  She placed each item into the padded interior of the waiting courier case, then pressed a button under the table.

  A barcode printer chirped once. A label printed with silent speed:

  JP-SEA-20241220-04 // Diplomatic Archive: Noncommercial / Research & Salvage—Internal

  She affixed it to the courier case, sealed the latches, and applied a red tamper-evident strip. Then she handed Neil a document.

  He stepped out five minutes later. Winston opened the passenger’s door, and Neil climbed back into the car with the case.

  “Let’s get to the airport.”

  Winston started the engine. “What was it like in there?” he asked.

  “Efficient,” growled Neil.

  Winston glanced in the rearview mirror but didn’t speak until SeaTac’s departures sign glowed through the rain-smeared windshield.

  “Happy holidays, Mr. Ames,” he said as Neil exited the car.

  Neil nodded once and handed him a hundred-dollar bill. “Drive safe.”

  Chapter 21

  The kiosk beeped twice, then flashed a polite redirect.

  Please proceed to the Japan Airlines counter for assistance.

  Neil adjusted the strap on his backpack, the diplomatic pouch secure under one arm, and stepped away from the kiosk toward the Japan Airlines desk: clean counters, no lines, staff standing with their hands folded.

  A woman in a tailored blazer greeted him with a smile as Neil handed over his ticket. She typed a few strokes on the keyboard and nodded once.

  “Mr. Ames. We’re honored to observe your diplomatic status and to assist a guest of Yuu International. You have been upgraded to first class. Suite 2A. Your lounge access is confirmed, and your diplomatic materials are noted for secure transit.”

  Going through security was swift and easy.

  A hostess in a gray silk vest bowed. “Welcome, Mr. Ames. May I offer you coffee or tea?”

  “Coffee,” Neil said. “Half-and-half. And …” He nodded toward the snack spread, neatly arranged trays of rice crackers, fruit, assorted breads, and sushi. Neil eyed the lacquered trays filled with cookies: matcha white-chocolate langue de chat stacked like crisp green tiles, a row of miniature black sesame hato sabure doves, and crumbly sake lees cookies dotted with candied yuzu, each one looking too delicate to touch, let alone eat.

  The hostess followed his gaze and smiled. “Yes, Mr. Ames. If you like, we can arrange for a special selection of cookies to be waiting for you in suite 2A.”

  Finally. Someone understands logistics.

  Boarding Japan Airlines Flight JL67 came without announcement. A private escort met him at the lounge entrance and walked him straight to the gate. A nod from the gate agent, a low bow from the flight attendant, and he was on.

  The JAL suite was its own small world: leather, wood grain, and quiet luxury. Suite 2A felt more like a private study than an airline seat. Plush bedding was folded at the side, noise-canceling headphones were sealed in a crisp black case, and the welcome kit had been arranged with surgical precision.

  But what caught Neil’s eye was the box.

  Small. Square. It was folded with the kind of care only the Japanese brought to gift wrapping: red-and-gold paper, creased with precision, tied with a thin silk ribbon that sat perfectly centered, like it had never been touched by human hands. A folded card sat on top: For Mr. Neil Ames. Compliments of Yuu International.

  He didn’t open the box. Octavia’s fingerprints were all over this kind of gesture. He imagined her voice giving instructions: Give him cookies, include a salad with his order, and remind him to stay hydrated.

  Somewhere over the Pacific, Neil finished his third cup of coffee. A glass of water sat untouched, as did half of the salmon salad. He was scrolling through photos of a file that should never have existed. The file labeled Laura Jones.

  A real woman. A real past. A real body.

  Laura Jones had parents listed. A birthplace: Vancouver, BC. The autopsy report was familiar, except for what was scrawled across the top in Wallace’s hand: I was duped.

  Neil sipped and flipped. Red pen bled through scanned images: circles, arrows, notes crammed into margins. Wallace had gone old-school: paper trail, color coding, breadcrumbs.

  Next page. Annotations.

  Katherine said she had proof.

  More notations. K.S. said: “We have to protect Emily and her secret. They’ll come after her again if they know she’s alive.”

  Neil stared at the screen.

  Katherine knew. Knew Emily was alive. Knew it had all been staged. And helped keep it buried. The question isn’t why Wallace protected Emily; it’s why Katherine did.

  Neil put his coffee down and began eating the remainder of the salmon salad. As he chewed, he stared at the diplomatic pouch.

  Maybe her voice and the truth are still alive in those journals.

  Neil finished his salad as he mused.

  Wallace believed he was helping someone I loved. He left the truth scattered across margins. And the note everyone dismissed as a suicide confession? It was a cipher.

  Neil downed his glass of water and swiped to the next image. The internal affairs summary submitted by Sgt. Nolan Wirth: Anonymous tip received alleging case mishandling by Det. John Wallace (re: Granger, E.–2004-DP-4571). Officer Stanley Rucker interviewed 07.16.24. Prior IA monitoring of Rucker noted re: family associations. No action taken.

  Rucker tipped off internal affairs. Grudge? Could be. Revenge? For what?

  Neil swiped to the final photo. More handwriting. Unsteady this time: Meeting tonight. No backup. Feels wrong.

  Neil let the phone dim in his hand.

  He didn’t plan to die that night. But he wrote like a man who knew death had already made the appointment. He wrote it for someone who knew how to listen. He left a key. Hayes has the file. But I have the key. Now it’s my turn to use it.

  Neil put the phone on the charger, opened the box of cookies, and grabbed his sketchbook.

  Chapter 22

  Neil breezed through customs. Beside a black sedan, a petite and precise woman held a placard bearing his name. She bowed once and opened the car door.

  “Sir,” she said. “Ms. Clarke has instructed me to drive you to the Palace Hotel.”

  The city glided past the windows in glassy fragments: vending machines lit like shrines, noodle shops still steaming into the dark. The driver said nothing. Neil’s mind drifted to the rhythmic sound of tires on pavement, recalling his previous journey along this same route to the same hotel three years ago. He and Octavia were fresh from interrogating the Yuu brothers, heirs to Yuu International Holdings, about the murder of Katherine Sterling.

  Neil smiled. Well, I interrogated. Octavia’s charm, her blend of hypnotic whispers and dazzling charisma, had enthralled Fuji Yuu. The guy couldn't shut up. Led us to Katherine's killer without realizing it.

  He remembered Octavia meeting him at the door later that night, clad in a white robe, damp from the Izu stone soaking tub, a glass of champagne in one hand and no patience in the other.

  “Where the hell have you been?” she had demanded.

  She had taken over the suite like it was her birthright and made herself entirely at home. They ate roast beef, drank Meursault, and with an indulgent, unapologetic grin, Octavia had told him she could get used to living like this. She sat with careless grace, legs crossed, robe slightly ajar, revealing a jagged scar that snaked up her thigh like a climbing vine, a pale raised reminder of the attempt on her life years before. She hadn’t hidden it. Not from him. And now there would be more.

  Neil rubbed his forehead, recalling an unsettling memory — The Noir Jazz Bar. The dim lighting made every corner a threat. Octavia was leaning against a chair in the center of the floor, her face pale and twisted in pain, her leg bloody. Neil flinched as he remembered rushing toward her and the shot fired by Smyth’s gun hitting just inches above Octavia’s head. Smyth handing the gun to Cadenza, Octavia’s jealous sister, saying, “If he moves any closer, shoot her.” And Smyth’s equally cool response to Neil, “If she dies, it will be your fault because you didn’t bring what you were told to bring.”

  With a breath, Neil placed a hand on his chest, sensing the acute stab of guilt. He shut his eyes.

  She’s been through hell. Months of hell. And I didn’t stand by her. Hold her hand.

  I’ve got reasons. Wallace’s murder. Katherine’s files. This damn diplomatic pouch filled with her journals. On paper, it all tracks.

  But Octavia never gave a damn about paper. She cares about presence.

  And the truth is, I stayed away because we were getting too close … closer than I knew how to be.

  I told myself she needed space. But I was the one who ran.

  At the Palace Hotel Tokyo, the car entered the circular driveway. The doorman nodded, and a bellman in white gloves smoothly presented a keycard, offering to guide Neil to his suite and help with his luggage. Neil declined. He knew where he was going: the Chiyoda Suite, twenty-third floor, overlooking the Imperial Palace Plaza.

  The elevator hummed upward, his reflection staring back: day-old beard, shadows under the eyes, a man who looked like he was bracing for a verdict. He swiped the card. The door whispered open.

  Low light pooled across polished wood floors. Ahead, floor-to-ceiling glass framed the city in miniature: the Imperial Palace gardens spread out below, jeweled lights dotting the darkness like a necklace forgotten on velvet. The air inside was warm, touched with the faint scent of jasmine.