Wow, only 5 chapters to go after this. That means get ready to see Lovelace pretty soon.

There's some bigger news. I recently discovered the first half of the first chapter of a fic written a year before this, a fic with a similar premise but MUCH different execution. If you'd like to see the original draft, so to speak, of A Day in the Life (and Bartimaeus's last name!), head over to my LJ. If you go to my Author profile, just click on my homepage. If it's not the first post, click on my memories and you'll find it there.

So.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Seventeen

When Kitty left Nathaniel she went back to her flat. She'd left her tote bag somewhere in the living room; after spending a good amount of time and effort looking for it she found it under the sofa. She entered her room and grabbed the dye, remembering Nathaniel's outrage with a hint of amusement. She walked back out into the sitting room and, almost as an afterthought, pressed the message button on the phone console.

There was a message from George that mostly consisted of him babbling about this and that and he was sick and would she please be in early on Sunday? The message ended, and a different voice came from the machine.

"Kitty, it's Mum." The Jones women always had a knack for uncanny timing. "Just checking in on you. Your father was disappointed he didn't get to see you last time, and he wants to know if you'll be coming back any time soon. He's very serious about it – he's threatening to come visit you if you don't come over here!" Her mother chuckled. "Oh dear. Anyways, just making sure you're all right and everything. I hope you've not got yourself in too much trouble."

Kitty grinned at what her law-abiding, police-fearing parents would say if they knew of her exploits with a wanted "murderer."

"Call me back when you get the time. We'd love to hear from you. Bye."

Apparently karma was working in her favor, and that was the end of the messages. At the rate she was going a priest would've been the next person to call, reminding her that going around with a murder suspect is a sin in the eyes of God (and more importantly, the church).

Fairly certain that she had everything she needed, she left. She couldn't remember when the book store opened – somehow she doubted Bartimaeus would be in there this early – so she decided to stop by Druid's and get a bite to eat. After working there for over a year she couldn't stand the food or coffee any more, but she got everything at a reduced rate, and she wasn't exactly rich.

"You're not working today," Gladys stated in a plain voice as she approached the front.

"Trust me, I know. But I need breakfast and I'm short on cash."

"Aren't we all." Gladys came from a well-off family and tried to hide the fact that her mother sent her money every two weeks. "Take a seat somewhere nearby. I'm bored out of my mind, and George is horrible conversation."

Kitty knew this to be true, so she obliged. Gladys followed her, waving for one of the other waitresses to come over.

"Just a decaf and a thing of doughnut holes," Kitty said before the girl could even take her order. "And a glass of water, too."

And the girl scampered off. Gladys watched her retreating form with an odd look on her face. "Interesting."

"What?"

"This isn't the first time I've noticed this, either, but it's still interesting. The other employees seem to be afraid of you."

"No they're not!" Kitty protested.

"Oh really? And what do you call that terrified expression on her face?"

"Er… respect."

"Uh huh. Right. Well, in that case, I think you might be the most respected person on staff."

Kitty's food arrived a few minutes later, and she had to admit that the girl's actions were timid, to put it lightly. She nearly dropped the tray and then stuttered her apologies before pretty much running away from them when Kitty said it was fine.

"See?" Gladys asked.

Kitty took a sip of her coffee, feeling slightly crankier. "Be quiet."

She spent the next forty-five minutes at the coffeehouse, Gladys occasionally wandering over for conversation when George wasn't looking (and sometimes when he was – the subsequent conversation between employer and employee was possibly the most entertaining thing she'd heard in some time). She finished, told Gladys goodbye and left the coffeehouse. Unfortunately, the book store did not appear to be open yet. So she waited.

It appeared that she was not the only one there. A news van was across the street, probably waiting to get a quote from the employer of the murder suspect. Also, two others were waiting outside, a disinterested girl and a very unhappy man next to her. It seemed that Bartimaeus's employees were already here and waiting for him.

However, she had to have been the only person on the lookout for Bartimaeus himself (or, in the case of the news team, the only one paying attention). She saw him a few blocks down, groggy-eyed and sluggish in his movements as he walked towards them. With a glance at the van, she hurried across and then down the street. He didn't notice her approaching him and thus was thoroughly surprised when she grabbed him by the arm and pulled him down an alleyway next to a sandwich store.

"What the – what are you doing here?"

She looked around them carefully before turning back to him. "I'm here because of Nathaniel."

"Oh, jolly," he said, his face darkening. "Like I haven't had enough trouble because of all of that."

"Hold on – what?"

"The police came knocking on my door last night. Fun guys. We partied all night long. I thought it was especially fun when they went through all my things and left my flat in a mess. That was just awesome."

"I – I'm sorry," she finished lamely.

He didn't seem to think much of this weak apology, but nevertheless he grunted, "Don't be. It's not your fault. And to tell the truth I'm always a bit grouchy in the mornings. I'm not trying to bite your head off or anything."

"I know." She thought she heard something, but it was merely an old lady fussing with her purse nearby them. "So it was really bad, huh?"

"Pretty bad," he said, looking a bit less grumpy. "I mean, it wasn't the end of the world or anything, but yeah, it was annoying. This one chubby bloke – must've been the size of a hippo, I kid you not – went through all my food. Said that it was 'very important evidence.' Of course, I didn't know that they investigated evidence by eating it and chugging it down with my last six-pack of beer, but hey, I'm not a cop. I just watch those shows on TV."

"Ah. I see." The old lady dropped a large amount of change on the ground and subsequently swore very loudly as she bent down to pick it up. "So they came after you because of the thing with Nathaniel?"

"Yeah. I think they thought that I was hiding him away somewhere in my flat." He snorted derisively. "As if. We're not the best of chums, me and Nat."

This was somewhat discouraging, but she did her best to pay it no mind. Nathaniel had told her that it would be a difficult, and probably impossible, task. "Oh. So… did they find anything or bring you in for questioning? Or did they just let you off?"

"Just let me off? After an hour's worth of searching and hassling me, they let me off." He seemed to realize that he was getting aggressive again and sighed. "Again, sorry. Not meaning to jump down your throat. But yeah, they eventually had to admit that I didn't have him somewhere under my bed with a lollipop and a comic book. Then of course they proceeded to tell me of the consequences if I was helping Nat out, but I think that was just for dramatic effect. I was shocked that I didn't see a documentary crew anywhere around, I was sure they were televising it."

"Consequences," she said unsurely.

"Yeah. Prison time. Fines. All that nonsense."

"Right." Kitty did her best to be casual, which turned out to be an extremely difficult thing when she was talking to the employer of a wanted murder suspect who she was currently assisting in evading the police. "So, uh, do you think he did it? Murdered that lady and his guardians?"

Bartimaeus's eyes narrowed, and he regarded her coolly from his position against the brick wall. "Why does it matter to you?"

"It doesn't. I mean, I'm just wondering. I'm finding it a bit hard to fathom myself, is all."

He looked at her for several seconds, and she got the distinct feeling that he was scanning her facial expression, reading her like an open book. Finally he abated, apparently satisfied. "Yeah, it is a bit hard to get your head around. Nat's not the murdering type."

"So do you think he did it?" she pressed.

His answer surprised her.

"No."

"But –" there was a pause as she realized that he hadn't replied with the affirmative "– wait, you don't?"

"No," he repeated. "Why? Do you? Are you going to go tattle to the police on Big Bad Bartimaeus?"

"No!" she exclaimed, angry and defiant. "I'm not going to go tattle on you! I was just surprised, that's all! I didn't think you'd actually say that!"

"Yeah, to be honest I was hoping to shock you a bit. But I mean it. I don't think he did it. I even the mistake of telling the police that once last night."

"What?"

"Yeah. At that point they deemed a strip search necessary. Fun, fun. It's been far too long since anyone has handled my –"

"Trust me, I get it," she said quickly, trying to dispel several very obscene images playing in her head at that moment. "Ugh. But they really strip-searched you?"

"Yes," replied Bartimaeus. To her relief, this time he neglected to go into any further detail.

"That's horrible." He looked rather mollified by this, and indeed even fluffed his coat collar up a bit. "Really, I can't believe you went through all of that."

"Well, I don't know, it's not like it's the worst I've been through, honestly," he muttered.

"I'm sure," agreed Kitty. "But you really don't think he killed them? Why?"

"Because he was in my store the entire day, that's why," he huffed. "I mean, it's not rocket science."

She nodded. "And what'd the police say when you told them that?"

"They reminded me that he probably had a lunch break, which he did, and asked me if he could have ever slipped out without me noticing, which is slightly possible. But I still don't think he went and murdered someone and then came quietly on back to work."

"Well, I can tell you that he didn't do it during lunch," Kitty stated, feeling bold.

He was skeptical. "Oh yeah? Why?"

"He was with me."

This delighted Bartimaeus more than she could ever have imagined. He shifted around excitedly, quite nearly dancing in his spot near the wall. She worried for a second that he might jump up and hit his head against a brick that jutted out in the wall.

"Aha! I knew it! Oh my, this is great! I told him when he got back that he looked like – well, he looked like you'd just dumped him, to be honest, but that's besides the point." He stopped. "Unless you had just dumped him?"

"That would be impossible, seeing as we've never been together."

"Oh. Well, still. It's a minor victory."

She thought about commenting on this but decided against it. Some people just couldn't be reasoned with. "Right. Well, he couldn't have done it during lunch, unless he did it in the space of about fifteen minutes, which I find somewhat unlikely. And if he was working in the back room of your store, he couldn't have gotten out without you noticing, could he? Is there a door in the back room?"

"Funny," Bartimaeus said with a curious look on his face, "I never said he was working in the back room."

Kitty blanched. Before she could make a haphazard excuse, though, he continued.

"But to answer your question, yes, there is a door in the back room leading out, but it makes a sound across the store when it's opened so I know when someone's going out or a shipment's coming in. But like I said, it's possible he could have somehow got out the back without setting that alarm off or without me noticing, but I doubt it. I was planning on checking this morning to see if the alarm on the door worked."

"I see," she said. "I think it will."

"So do I."

They were quiet for a time. Kitty finally got the courage to speak.

"Bartimaeus, I need –"

"Before you tell me anything and ask me to do anything, I don't want to know," he inserted before she could even formulate her question. "And to be frankly honest, I don't want to do anything, either. I don't want to get involved with whatever it is you might be involved in, and I don't want to know anything that could put you or me – mostly me – in danger. Sorry if I've crushed your hopes or anything, but that's just the plain truth. I'm not asking, so please don't tell."

She didn't know how long she just stared at him. He seemed to grow slightly uneasy, but he didn't recant his statement. Eventually she let out a deep sigh and nodded, doing her best to contain her inexplicable disappointment (Nathaniel had warned her, hadn't he?).

"Okay. All right. I was kind of expecting that, really. But you're not going to –"

"Don't worry," he said firmly. "As far as I'm concerned, this conversation never happened."

On the sidewalk a man had stubbed his toe against the base of a light pole and was now hopping around cursing. Kitty watched him absently. "Okay. That sounds fair. Do you know where that thrift store is? The one next to the fast-food place?"

"Er… yeah," replied Bartimaeus, evidently unsure of why she was asking.

"My flat complex is right across from that store," she said briskly, grabbing her bag and hoisting it up higher on her shoulder. "Number twenty-one. Just in case you change your mind."

"All… all right." He gave her an odd look – almost pitying. "Don't count on it, though."

Kitty just flashed him a small smile. "Don't worry. I'm not."

There were no goodbyes; they both just tilted their heads to each other respectfully as they exited the alleyway and went their separate ways.

She was torn somewhere between anger and disappointment as she began the walk back to her flat. While his reaction shouldn't have surprised her, some part of her had genuinely thought that he would help them. Naïve. On the bright side of things, at least he had promised not to tell the police anything, and the fact that he actually believed them was a somewhat encouraging sign. If Bartimaeus could believe them, then surely others could be persuaded. However, that was not their first concern. First they needed find a way to keep the cops from getting to Nathaniel. Now that Bartimaeus had shot them down, Kitty knew she must focus on getting down to business, and she did her best to concentrate her thoughts on that and that alone.

Needless to say, it was harder said than done. Her mind wandered. She thought about food (for some reason she was still hungry); she thought about her mother (a waste of time, really); she thought about how she'd forgotten to get Nathaniel's clothes (but she was almost back to the flat, surely she could just go get them later). So she entered the complex and walked to the door of Mr. Button and knocked on it.

"It's me, Kitty. I'm back."

It took him a while to answer. Finally the door opened, and she shuffled in without even looking at him.

"I didn't get the clothes, really sorry, I'll have to get them later." She paused for breath and set her bag down on the sofa. "I went and talked to Bartimaeus, it was just like you said, he was totally – my God, what happened to you?"

He looked terrible. His hair was thrown up in different directions and his clothes were rumpled, but it was his eyes that really drew her attention. It was not the sunken bags under them (which were perfectly understandable after a night without sleep); it was the dangerous, even murderous glint in them that made him appear quite mad.

"You're back," he croaked in a hoarse voice.

"What happened?" she asked again. "Are the police – do they – Jesus, Nathaniel, what happened?"

He grinned at her in a lopsided, false way that she didn't at all like. It seemed too… dark. "Lovelace has struck again."

"Hold on – what?" she stammered. "He's – he's killed someone else?"

"No," Nathaniel said plainly, eyes flashing in the dimness of the flat. "Not one person. Two."

It took her several seconds to process this information. "Oh my God. Oh my God! He's… who is it? Who's he gone after this time? Harknett's family?"

Nathaniel just stared at her.

"Who – oh." Suddenly it hit her. Of course. That bastard. "Oh my God. He's gone after the Underwoods, hasn't he?"

"Bingo," he replied, but his grin had disappeared. "Very neat. Arson. Why, I even remember Mrs. Underwood mentioning something about the house being susceptible to fire several days ago. Very convenient. And seeing as they have a suspect already, it's not much work for the police."

"You." Her eyes traveled to a spot on the floor next to the door, where the shards of what appeared to have once been a coffee mug were. "Oh God. I'm so sorry. How long has it been?"

"An hour." An unsure look came across his face. "Or so," he added after some deliberation. "I don't really know. I've come to suspect that his clocks are all a few minutes off."

"Oh God, Nathaniel, I'm so sorry," she started, but he waved her off.

"No, it's Lovelace that will be sorry. I'm going to kill him," he said in a matter-of-fact voice that quickly grew into a desperate snarl. "I'm going to kill him just like he killed all of them. I don't know how I'm going to do it, but I know that he's going to die very soon and I'm going to be the one to finish him off."

"Oh – how could you say that! Don't ever say that!" she exclaimed fiercely, and he retreated backwards. "Then you'll be just like him! Don't you see? You can't go around looking for revenge. You'll just turn into Lovelace. Don't let him ruin you, too!"

"I think he's already done that," he said with dry humor, gesturing to his crinkled shirt. He responded back with equal ferocity, "Perhaps you don't understand. He's killed my family. I think it's only fair that I kill him. I'm not going to go around killing his friends or anything. I don't have any problems with his friends for family. I just need to kill him, is all."

"Shut up," she hissed. "Shut up right now. You're not going to do any such thing, because if you try it, I'll be right there to stop you. When you're done with your righteous anger and grand plots of vengeance, we can discuss what we're going to do now to clear your name and keep you from the police. But take your time, please. Spend as long as you want fantasizing about different ways you could get revenge on Lovelace. I'm sure it's very productive."

Nathaniel's eyes never left her. He spoke in a much quieter, more pleading voice. "He killed her. He killed all of them and it's because of me. I have to do this."

"No, you don't," she replied softly. "They wouldn't want you to."

She wasn't sure what compelled her to do it. Generally she was not a very sentimental person. Nevertheless, she soon found herself taking a step forward and wrapping her arms around him in a delicate hug. Her face pressed against his collarbone while his hands floated somewhere awkwardly behind the small of her back. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, er, I know." He finally just let his hands fall to his side, unable to find an appropriate place to rest them. "I – I reckon I probably shouldn't murder him. That might be going a bit too far."

"Just a bit," she agreed, releasing him from her grasp. She still stood only a few inches from him. He was not much taller than her; her eyes came up to only barely below his nose. "I'm sorry."

He didn't seem to hear her. "What do we do now, then? What did Bartimaeus say?"

Kitty could tell by his tone that he was trying to be as business-like as possible and trying to take his mind off of the Underwoods' murders. She decided to go along with it.

"Bartimaeus surprised me. Apparently the police were by his flat last night."

"Really?" His stern expression wavered. "Oh no. Oh no, he's probably told them something that would help them find us. This is not good."

"He didn't tell them anything."

"You're joking."

"No. According to him they went through all of his stuff, even gave him a strip search, but he didn't tell them anything that would help them." She cleared her throat. "He told them that he doesn't think that you did it."

Nathaniel's eyes widened, almost comically. If the situation had been any different she would have laughed. "He said that? Does he mean it?"

"I certainly think he was being genuine," she said honestly.

"Mmhm." He appeared to be thinking, probably trying to figure out what exactly the catch was. He obviously didn't trust Bartimaeus in the least. "And why does he think I didn't do it?"

"I don't know. Because he's a good read of people." Originally she had been intending to leave it at that, but at his serious look her resolve faltered. "And also because he doesn't see how you logically had time during the day to murder Harknett, especially after I told him that you were with me at lunch."

"I bet he had something to say about that," muttered Nathaniel.

"Uh, a little, yeah."

He was stooped in thought again, so she didn't see any reason to add, Oh, and he danced a nice little victory jig, too. He ran his hand through his hair – something she'd noticed seemed to be a nervous habit of his – and asked her, "And what else did he say when you talked to him? Will he help us?"

"No."

He grinned, again without humor. "I told you.'

"I know," Kitty replied, and suddenly she felt like an idiot. "But I tried anyways. He just said that he didn't want to be involved, that he didn't want us to tell anything that could potentially compromise him. I think he's had enough of the police in the past twenty-four hours to last a lifetime. Helping someone wanted for murder escape said police probably isn't too high on his to-do list. But on the bright side, he said he wouldn't turn us in."

"And you believe him."

It wasn't a question, but she answered anyways, "Yes, I do. He wasn't lying, Nathaniel. I know that for a fact."

"Okay." He let out a deep sigh, taking her by surprise: she'd expected to have some sort of argument over this. "Fine. I trust your judgment. If you believe him, so do I."

Kitty did not mention that she found it very hard to believe him, but he appeared to have already guessed this.

"So. Bartimaeus clearly cannot help us, and thus we must turn to other avenues." He clapped his hands together. "What shall we do next?"

It took her a short while to remember the contents of her bag. "Oh, I know! We can dye your hair finally, like we said we would earlier."

"Oh."

"Not what you had in mind?" she asked.

"No, not particularly," he admitted. He was not quite an example of sheer enthusiasm. "The police will surely know me even with different-colored hair. I say we can just forego this hair job altogether. I really don't think it'll make that much of a difference."

"I'm sure that you'd be surprised. Come on. You're doing this whether you like it or not."

It took much cajoling, but he finally assented. He did his best to delay, but for the most part it was done in good humor, and she didn't particularly mind. It was nice to see the change in his attitude, even if it did feel partially contrived. He was not murderous anymore, at least, and that was progress enough.

"Are you sure?" he asked her as he stared at the showerhead spurting water across the tile of the shower. "Couldn't it stain the floor?"

"No clue," Kitty responded, shrugging. "That's why we're not doing it in the sink."

Now that he was actually faced with the task he was much less agreeable, and after maybe ten minutes' debate (and a brief game of hide-and-seek – she found him in Mr. Button's closet) his head was finally under the water with a little help from her hand gripped firmly on his neck. They both quickly found that dying hair was a messy experience; it was a good thing that they'd thought to place a towel around his neck or his shirt would have become both rumpled and yellow-streaked. It took them a large amount of time, mainly thanks to his own reluctance, but they eventually finished, and when they were done he looked very much a different person.

"It says to not dry all the way," she told him as he scrubbed his head with the ruined towel. "Let it stay a little moist."

"I look ridiculous," he whined in response.

Kitty personally felt that this was very true but thought it more prudent to merely say, "You don't look the same as you did fifteen minutes ago. The cops might be thrown off at least."

"Yes, I imagine it's quite hard to catch a runaway murder suspect when you're doubled over in hysterics," agreed Nathaniel. He twirled a strand of his pale blond hair with his fingers. "Oh dear Lord. This is horrible. Remind me to never listen to you again."

"Isn't that self-contradictory?"

"No idea. Never mind, I'll just make a mental note of it." He eyed the strand distastefully. "I look like a stoner surf bum."

"I was going to go with 'failed rock star' or 'teen pop sensation,' but that fits too," Kitty said with mock seriousness. "Really, just learn how to sing and you're good. If they come near you just sing a popular song by a boy band and I'm sure they won't arrest you. They'll probably ask you to autograph something for their daughters."

"This isn't permanent, is it?"

She checked the bottle, just in case. "No."

He let out a breath of relief. "Good."

"It'll come out when your hair grows back in," she finished.

"That's it. I hope you've got black or brown or – God, even green would do – because we're dying this again. I'm not going around as a bleach blond skate punk. I'm just not doing it. I'd rather rot in prison than get mistaken by an eight-year-old girl for her favorite pop singer."

"Hm. Now that's an interesting picture."

"To a sadist, perhaps."

"I'd say that you're being melodramatic, but I actually think you care that much." Kitty looked at him, thinking. "I know what part of the problem is. Your eyebrows don't match."

"Oh goodie," he said, fake enthusiasm dripping from his voice. "I'll be blond and blind! It rolls so nicely off of the tongue, too."

"No, I'm sure that we can do this somehow without getting it all in your eyes –"

She was interrupted by a knock at the door.