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The police officer stood with his back to the wall, hands behind his back, waiting for instructions.

'Give me the details,' the Chief Prosecutor said.

The officer gave the details promptly. He outlined how, after Miles Edgeworth had called in a bomb threat at a nearby mall, the entire contingent of officers had deserted the station, leaving it empty. And, in the process, two prisoners had escaped - namely, the crazed double murderer Luke Atmey, but, more importantly, the famed assassin Shelly De Killer. The person who had aided them in their escape and led them to freedom was none other than Miles Edgeworth.

The Chief sat down. 'I don't believe this.'

He put his head in his hands. The officer waited patiently.

Finally the Chief looked up. 'Where is he now?'

'In Holding, sir.'

'Has he said anything?'

'He keeps insisting we should read some sort of envelope, sir.'


'It was clutched in his hands. We put it in Evidence, sir.'

'Have you opened it?'

'No, sir.'

'Don't open it. We'll have to find out more before we can...we can get to the bottom of this,' the Chief wiped his brow. 'Miles Edgeworth...of all people...'

He stood up. 'Walk with me. We'll have to pay him a visit.'

The officer bowed and led the Chief down the pale grey corridor.

'It is really very disappointing.'

'It is, sir.'

'Very disappointing.'

'Yes, sir.'

Miles Edgeworth, the handcuffs dangling from his wrist, threw himself into the Evidence room and scrambled behind some chairs. Through the small gap he could see two figures walking past through the corridor. A police officer, and the Chief. After they had gone, Miles waited a few seconds, and then gently closed the door.

He turned to the evidence lockers before him, and began searching. It didn't take him long to find the envelope. With shaking hands he tore it open and snatched out the small piece of paper that lay within.

To whomever is reading this:

Please find enclosed a bank account number and the security PIN. I would request whomever is reading this to kindly withdraw -

A yell. From somewhere down the corridor. Then running feet. Miles stuffed the note inside what was left of his pocket, tiptoed to the door and listened.

Someone - or two people - or several groups of officers - were running about, although in what direction they were heading Miles was unsure. He stood crouched against the door until the sounds died away, and then stepped out.

It was a full ten minutes before he was able to make it out of the building. On the way out, striding through the parking lot, he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it on the ground. Then he wheeled around and walked off in the opposite direction. It was only another five minutes later did he stop to throw himself into a nearby alleyway, take the letter out of his pocket and continue to read it.

To whomever is reading this:

Please find enclosed a bank account number and the security PIN. I would request whomever is reading this to kindly withdraw $100,000 from my bank account, and pass it to the person in residence at 452 Calcutter Avenue.

Thank you.

The rain was pouring down in deep rivers of moisture, seeping into the pavements and slipping down int the drains. Miles took a brief minute to ponder how often it rained these days, almost impossibly so, as if the heavens above were lavishing their discontent at the tragic events befalling him. Miles settled back into his seat and slipped out the note. He read it again, carefully, and placed it on the dashboard. He allowed his head to sink into the cushioned seat and watched the raindrops skimmer across the glass.

It was a very probable possibility that the police would be searching for his car, and that Miles needed to abandon it at the latest opportunity, but he found himself curiously aloof about the whole thing. As long as he wasn't found before he accomplished his task, all would be fine.

I'm exactly like Nick, not like him, not exactly. He was framed for breaking the law. I broke the law.

What would Gumshoe say to him, if he were still alive? Miles didn't know. He reached for the note on the dashboard, opened it and read it once again.

To whomever is reading this:

Please find enclosed a bank account number and the security PIN. I would request whomever is reading this to kindly withdraw $100,000 from my bank account, and pass it to the person in residence at 452 Calcutter Avenue.

Thank you.

Miles folded back the note and replaced it. He reached for his phone, and, for the fourth time in three hours, dialed Maya's number. And, as before, he got her voicemail.

'Hi! Sorry but I must be busy somewhere else! Leave a message after the beep! Beep!'

'Maya,' Miles said. 'Call me. I won't pretend what to know what you're feeling, but, please, just call me. I need to know that you're alright. Nick needs to know, too. So just call, but whatever you do, stay with the police. Don't you dare go trying to do anything on your own.'

He received nothing but silence. Miles dialed another number, and put it to his ear.

'I'm sorry. The number you are trying to contact is not avaliable...'

Miles snapped the phone shut and thrust it into his pocket. Nick wasn't answering, either.

He opened the door and alighted from the car.

The handcuffs were still wrapped around his arm, digging uncomfortably into his skin as he walked, like small pinpricks of ice. A few hours earlier, at the police station, the officers had cuffed him to the table, but he had broken the leg into two and slipped his cuffs off them. Since he had no key, however, the handcuffs would have to remain. He had had to hide them in a large overcoat he had stored in his car for such emergencies, so when he had arrived at the bank, no one was any the wiser. He had withdrawn the correct amount of money as imparted to him by the letter, and now, his feet splashing around him with the rain flowing down his shoulders, he was following the next set of instructions. 452 Calcutter Avenue loomed in front of him.

It was a strange request, and Miles didn't have a clue of what importance this menial task held for the mysterious ghost that he had been pursuing. He was sure of one thing, though - he wouldn't be walking down the street right now if the killer hadn't planned it. Whoever had been orchestrating this sick web of insanity and death, it was nothing else but an individual with a plan. All Miles could do now was follow the path set out for him. He had absolutely no other leads. Whoever was waiting for him at the prescribed house was Miles' only chance.

He knocked the door, stepped back, and waited. He heard the sound of locks tumbling around in their chambers before the door swung open and he found himself gazing at a serene-faced beauty.

There was no question that she was in her late forties; age had descended upon her, treating her face with several faint, intangible lines, and her greying hair was already tinged with specks of the slightest white, but her body was as firm as a brick and her eyes as solid as marble. She smiled primly and said, 'Have you been swimming?'


'Have you been swimming?'

'I - no, mam.'

'Oh,' she stared into his face for several seconds. 'You look wet.'

'I got caught in the rain.'

'Oh,' she nodded again. Then her face melted into concern. 'You'll get drenched, standing like that! Come in, come in!'

She practically dragged him inside, and shut the door. Miles quickly scanned the living room. It looked normal enough, with a few tables, chairs, and books. The woman seemed to have completely disappeared, and Miles took the opportunity to pounce over to the nearest bookshelf. Just as he was about to rifle through it, something blue popped out from the corner of his eye. He turned and saw a unicorn swimming float float tossed on top of a piles of books.

Blinking, Miles went over to it. I sensed she was dedicated about swimming, but this is ridiculous...

Then he looked around. This corner of the room was shabby messy, much more carelessly tended then the rest. It was as if this entire corner of the room was meant as some sort of impromptu storeroom. Miles approach the pile of items, and saw a framed picture lying face-down at the corner of the room. Miles bent down and lifted it. Through the smudged plastic he thought he could see to people. A woman, and the man. He recognised the woman as the one currently in this house, and the man...the man was strangely familiar...

He heard her coming back and hurriedly replaced the picture. The next thing he knew, his host bustling into the kitchen, putting the kettle on the stove and turning the heat up. 'I don't know what's gotten into people these days,' she grumbled to the air. 'Standing outside in the rain. Why do you people do that? It's not as if you're going to experience some existential revelation. All you're doing is going to catch a cold.'

As she gestured her hand moved dangerously close to the fire. Miles quickly stepped in and gently brushed her arm away. 'Be careful, Mrs...?'

'Mrs Gant. Call me Emily. And you would be?'

Miles was sure he hadn't managed to conceal all his shock, but she didn't seem to have noticed it. 'It's Edgeworth,' he said quickly. 'Miles Edgeworth. Er, you can call me Miles.'

'Miles,' Mrs Gant said thoughtfully. 'Like meters.'

'Er...yes. Mrs Gant, I need to talk to you about something...'

She waved a hand. 'Let it wait until the coffee boils.'


'Yes, coffee.'

'Er...there's nothing in the kettle.'

She looked back. 'Oh, silly me.' She opened the shelf and took out a packet. 'There. Now - '

'That's not coffee.'

She frowned at him. 'Yes it is.'

'I'm sorry, but it isn't,' Miles said. 'You're holding Tapioca Flour.'

She looked at the packet in her hands. 'No.'

'It says so on the front,'

She stood staring at it for a few moments. 'Well, no wonder. I'd felt like I'd been drinking bread these past few months.'

She smiled benignly at him. 'You really are a helpful young man.'

Miles thought if he went through with this charade any longer, he would go mad. A psychopathic killer was out hunting Nick's loved ones, and here he was talking to a woman who didn't know the difference between a bean and a kernel.

As he watched her pour the powder into the empty kettle, lump by lump, he grabbed her arm. Shr jerked back from the impact and stared at him in surprise. 'Miles...?'

'I'm sorry, but this is really important, Mrs Gant - '

'Call me Emily.'

'Emily,' Miles gritted his teeth. 'Listen. I need to talk to you. Now. If you could just - '

'Whatever it is,' she smiled at him. 'I'm sure it can wait until the coffee - '

'I don't care about the coffee!' Miles spat,

A shock silence descended over the kitchen. The simmering pulses of the fire seemed in tune with Miles's beating heart. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'But this is a matter of life and death.'

Her eyes narrowed slightly. 'Well, then,' she huffed, 'Let's see what this is all about.'

They went into the sitting room together, leaving the kettle to simmer insidiously on the stove. Miles sat down, and started talking.

'I'm a senior Prosecutor, and I'm looking for a wanted criminal,' Miles said. 'He's already killed two people and I need to arrest him before it's too late. Now,' he took out the letter and spread it before her. 'I received this from him a few hours ago. It asked me to deliver a hundred thousand dollars to you. Do you know of anyone who might - '

Her eyes were brimming over with ill-disguised joy. 'Hundred thousand,' she whispered, licking her lips.

'Mrs Gant,' Miles said. 'Emily. I need you to tell me who could have wanted to send this money to you. Perhaps,' and here his heart leaped, 'Perhaps it was your husband, Damon Gant, who wanted to - '

'Oh, that's not possible,' she said, still reading the letter.

'I'm sorry?'

'Damon's dead. He kicked it while in prison,' she pursed her lips as she examined the letter. 'A hundred thousand? that's six zeros. A lot.'

Miles, meanwhile, was deflated. But he hadn't really expected it to be this easy, anyway. 'I'm sorry for your loss,' he said. 'Mr Gant was a good man. Misguided, but his intentions were - '

'Do you have the money?' Mrs Gant said. 'With you, I mean? Right now?'


'May I have it?'

He took out the stakcs of notes and passed them to her, one by one. She smiled and giggled when the paper touched her hands. 'Thank you, Miles,' she grinned, running her finger across the notes. 'Thank you. You're a godsend.'

'You're welcome, Mrs Gant, but do you know anyone, apart from your husband, who might want to send you this much money?'

'I have no idea,' she said. 'I'm very, very curious, though, but, as they say, curiosity killed the cat.'

After counting the bills she placed them by her side and continued to read the letter. Miles bent over and clutched his face, shielding his face from her, hiding his tears of frustration. What was the point of this? What did the killer want him to do?

'What are these numbers?' he heard her say.

'I'm sorry?' he looked where she was pointing. 'Oh. That's the bank account number and pin. I was told to withdraw the money from his specific bank account...'

But as he read the numbers, her eyes widened in recognition. Abruptly she picked up the bundles of money and practically threw them back at him.

'Mrs Gant?!'

'I'm not taking any of it,' she whispered.


She looked at him as if he was a moron. 'It's his.'


'It's Damon's,' she got up and started pacing. 'It's Damon's account. I told them to freeze it months ago!' she grabbed at her hair. 'Those incompetent idiots...'

'I...I don't understand, Mrs Gant,'

'It's dirty money,' she said. 'Don't you see? It's his money. The money of a murderer. What would people think if I took that money?' she shook her hair again. 'They would think I some kind of nutjob, just like him.'

She looked at his open-mouthed face, and let out a ghastly laugh. 'You don't understand? How could you not? Aren't you supposed to be a Prosecutor?'

Miles stood up. 'Mrs Gant, you aren't feeling well. Perhaps you should sit down...'

'You should sit down,' Mrs Gant said, and as she smiled at him, it became something more like a smirk.

Miles sat down, every nerve in his body tingling at high speed.

'Mrs Gant,' he said. 'I don't think you should talk of your husband that way.'

'He's no longer my husband,' she said. 'He was never my husband. The moment he went and stabbed that poor man he was no longer, any husband of mine.'

'You should have loved him,' Miles said, feeling uncharacteristic hate bubble through his veins. He thought of Gumshoe. 'He was your husband, and you should have loved him.'

'But he was a murderer!' shw snapped. She opened her mouth wider, and Miles thought she was going to shout, but then she closed her eyes and settled her expression. A moment later a wry sneer scuttled across her face.

'You wouldn't understand anyway,' she said. 'You uneducated, soulless fool. Breaking two criminals out of prison? Well, I'd say that would be quite moronic behaviour, don't you think? And for a Prosecutor, even?' she tossed her hair behind her head. 'That's why I keep telling everyone,' she said. 'The law system's going to the dogs.'

'Miles sprang to his feet.

'Don't bother. I called the police fifteen minutes ago. They're already here.'

Through the windows, Miles could see blue figures moving in between the sleets of rain.

Mrs Gant walked over to the kitchen, switched of the fire, poured the coffee out into a mug and lifted it to her lips. 'You can try running,' she said. 'I'm very interested to see if you make it past the fence.'

Miles twisted round, and dove through the window. The glass exploded around him and he hurtled back into the rainy morning, but as soon as his legs touched the grass someone slammed something hard into the back of his neck. Miles collapsed, his eyes swimming, until he closed them and drifted into unconsciousness.