Imminent Danger

  The Chief Prosecutor's phone rang. He looked over at it - glared at it - willing the device to stop interrupting what had been a productive early-afternoon research session. He rustled his papers and furrowed his brows and ignored the generic chirping as best he could. Where was he? Oh, right, an injunction was served against the defendant, who continued to operate his business inside the exclusion zone described in Appendix A, subsection ii… 

  His phone stopped ringing. Miles hmphed in relief.

  His phone started ringing.

  It was the Steel Samurai theme song.

  He threw his papers on the desk and answered the cell phone.

  "This is Miles Edgeworth speaking."

  No one answered. There was a soft, breathy sound – a gasp? a sob, maybe? - and he yanked the phone away from his ear to check the Caller ID. Trucy Wright.

  "Trucy? What's going on? Are you in danger?"

  "U-uncle Miles," she said, the voice thick and almost slurred, "oh my God, Uncle M-Miles."

  Adrenaline washed over him, so fast his head throbbed. "Trucy, please, take a breath and tell me."

  She choked a breath and coughed. "It's Daddy."

  Miles felt the blood drain from his face, his fingers. His vision tunnelled, greyed out at the edges. All he could see was the container of pens he kept on his desk. He didn't want to ask. If he didn't ask, would nothing happen? Would events fail to move ahead? Could he stay right here, on the cusp of not knowing whatever was making Trucy Wright cry into the phone?

  "What's happened to Wright?"

  "They think Daddy's dead."

  Miles did and didn't remember the crime scene. It was disconnected in his head, snap-shot images out of order. Shuffled like a deck in one of Trucy's magic tricks. Is this your card, Uncle Miles?

  He remembered driving there, nearly spinning out as he parked in a loading zone.

  Too much blood, fuck, how could there be so much?

  No, before that, the haphazard string of yellow and black tape, blocking off the alley behind the office block. Trucy and Wright would play catch there, sometimes, and he helped her rescue a kitten left in a cardboard box behind the dumpster. Someone raised the barrier high enough for him to duck under, and for a moment he forgot where he was; it was a Monday morning, 7AM, and he got a call because they found a body and a perp and does he want to investigate the scene?

  Then: the smell of trash and urine and iron, so strong he nearly retched. No, he did, he doubled over, gagging on the stink of blood. Someone offered him water, and he took it; washed his mouth out and spat, but the smell was still there, coagulating at the back of his throat.

  Trucy on the phone that he kept pressed to his ear. I'll be right there. I'm leaving now.

  Can you stay on the line with me, please? Th-they won't tell me anything but they keep asking questions, and Polly's not answering his phone.

  Of course. I will, I promise.

  (Wait, no, that happened in the car. He hadn't bothered putting her on speaker, just drove with one hand on the wheel.)

  Trucy in his arms. He had to hold her the entire time, keeping her body close to his to stop the chattering of her teeth. Her face was shoved into his ribs even as he interrogated the attending officer, talking over the top of her ridiculous hat.

  A pool; a lake; an ocean of blood. Dark red and wet, and everywhere. Overlapping splatters on the brick wall, a series of punctuation marks around the term arterial spray in his head.

  Coffee. He never drank coffee, why was he holding it? Trucy's hand in his, squeezing so tight, they were both squeezing so tight. Detective Skye walking over, and her eyes were red-rimmed and dry; she opened her mouth and words came out, but the sound was delayed. It took two minutes for him to finally hear it.

  I'm so sorry, Mr. Edgeworth, Trucy. The preliminary test came back positive. It's – it's highly likely it's Mr. Wright's blood. All of it. I'll know more once th….

   Apollo Justice shouting – always loud – as he arrived back from court. He was carrying a box from the bakery around the corner (Oh, Polly won the case, Trucy said, flat and absent) and his voice broke as he begged: Please, no, I know, but I work here and I need to know who, fuck, please. Miles watched him sink, crumble; the boy's shoulders sagged instantly, the strings cut, and the box tumbled to the ground. A dozen donuts and a single cupcake spilling out, landing behind the yellow tape.

  Then, Justice was holding on to Trucy – when did Miles let her go? – and asking questions Miles already asked. And he was blunt, this lawyer Wright adopted, and answered them himself. He's dead it doesn't matter where the body is – no, Daddy can't be dead, he promised – he is, Trucy, he has to be, because there's too much blood, you can tell from the splatter – I don't care, I don't care, he isn't dead – the splatter is probably from his carotid artery, and no one could survive that.

  Flash of red as he got in his car again. He gripped the wheel and he tried to start the engine, but his hands were shaking too hard.

  His memories grew fuzzier from there.

  He drove to his house, running two red lights. No, he stayed, because Detective Skye tapped on his window and opened the door, and took his keys away.

  He stayed, because Trucy needed to answer more questions and her voice shook, grew scratchy as the hours passed. He needed to stay so he could glower at the detectives, tell them not to touch things in the office with their clumsy fingers. 'Enemies'? What do you mean 'enemies'? Who would hate Daddy enough to do this, and Miles taking the man aside and saying, he was an unusual defense lawyer and put away a number of criminals, I will have his cases forwarded to your office.

  Justice trying to call people and he tugged at his hair and paced the office, muttering, Mr. Wright never wrote anything down, goddamn it, sir, do you have the number for Mystic Maya?

  Miles knew he stayed because it was the right thing to do, and because it hurt like a knife, and because what was the point of running away if there was no one to chase after you?

  A jumble of images. Salty, greasy noodles. A man with sad eyes, on the verge of tears. No, it's on the house. Tell Trucy I'm sorry. The cutlery drawer and knowing there'd be an assortment of disposable chopsticks there from years of take out. Photographs of Wright and Trucy and their ever-increasing circle of friends and found family. A photograph of himself with Wright, young and stupid and half (completely) in love and trying not to show it. Cheap white wine and Trucy asking for a glass, half-joking, like she did every time he came for dinner. The way her eyes widened and filled with tears, because it was too normal, too soon.

   Justice speaking in the other room:

  Good evening, this is Apollo Justice of the Wright Anything Agency, I – something awful has happened, it's about Phoenix Wright.

  Good evening, this is Apollo Justice of the Wright Anything Agency, I'm sorry for calling you during dinner but I have some bad news about Mr. Wright.

  Good evening, this is Apollo Justice of the Wright Anything Agency, I'm very sorry about calling so late but it's important – oh… you've heard, then, yes, we're – thank you, I'll pass the message on to her.

  Justice slumped against Trucy slumped against Miles, and the sudden urge to scream, to not be touching anyone because it was sensory overload. Him gently escaping and finding the cramped, terrible bathroom and walking into the shower, clothes and all, because his suit was too red, now, and he knew he had blood dried to the soles of his shoes.

  His head under the spray. Trying not to cry, not to make a noise, not to think, but he did all three.

  The day it happened, Officer, he was in court. He'd left the office before 9, which would give him enough time to drive over to the courthouse, panic, recover and meet his client before heading into the courtroom. Everything was so normal, that’s what Apollo can remember. Mr. Wright said good bye and good luck, and Trucy had threatened to disappear his badge again if he didn't stop worrying about the case.

  He won, though, which was good – his client was innocent, after all – and when he was finished at the courthouse he was riding on such a high that he forgot to turn his phone back on. Upon further questioning, Apollo decided that yes, that was a fairly frequent occurrence. Not that his record was perfect, mind you, but his friends had complained that he was spotty returning calls during the working week. Klavier Gavin said it would be good for him to lose occasionally, just so he'd read some of his messages.

  On his way back to the office Apollo stopped in at a bakery, uh, it was the one with the green awning and a giant cartoon donut painted on the window, just around the corner from the office. He'd never bothered to remember the name, but he knew they had a CCTV because there was one of those tacky signs saying "Smile, you're on candid camera" stuck to the register. He had a receipt, but he dropped the box when he heard the news. It was probably still where he left it in the alley, covered in… uh, could he get a glass of water?

  Thanks. Anyway, that was how he found out – Detective D'Arme was outside the office building, and Apollo saw the police tape, so he had an idea that something was wrong. He thought it might have been another hit-and-run. But once he got closer he realised there wasn't a car or any signs of a crash, and there was that smell, you know? And eventually they told him: "We have reason to believe Phoenix Wright has been murdered", and his first feeling was relief.

  Relief.

  Because at least it wasn't Trucy. Apparently, it's fucking fine that his boss got horribly murdered in a back alley, as long as she was OK.

  Can he go now? He really shouldn't leave her alone at the moment, and he doesn't know where Mr. Edgeworth's gone.

  Trucy Wright wasn't a lawyer, but she was the daughter of one. She built her case thusly:

  Fact: Phoenix Wright left the office at 12.37PM on July 21st, 2027 with his daughter.

  Fact: They parted company at 12.40PM at the bottom of the building: he had to meet a client; she went to get lunch for the office.

  Fact: At 12.42PM the power to the entire block was cut-off for ten minutes due to electrical work.

  Fact: All cameras facing the alley were off during this time.

  Fact: Between 12.37PM to 1.10PM, Trucy Wright was either on her way to the deli, at the deli (see exhibit A: CCTV footage of Trucy Wright with date stamp) or on her way back to the office.

  Fact: At 1.11PM Trucy Wright walked past the alley; she stopped when she saw something on the ground that looked like blood.

  Fact: At 1.13PM, Trucy called 911 (see exhibit B: Call Records for Trucy Wright's Phone).

  Fact: The police arrived at 1.24PM. Trucy Wright was briefly questioned, then put in the care of Detective Ema Skye.

  Fact: Detective Ema Skye noted that the blood spray pattern, along with the amount of blood present at the scene, indicated a fatal injury.

  Fact: Phoenix Wright was declared dead in absentia due to this analysis.

  Fact: The body The remains Phoenix Wright has not yet been located.

  Fact: All evidence supporting Phoenix Wright's death is circumstantial.

  Fact: There is no conclusive evidence that Phoenix Wright is dead.

  Conclusion: Phoenix Wright might still be alive.

  He woke up in stages, swimming against the current that wanted to drag him down further.

  First, he heard voices: one was smooth as glass, the other halting and nervous.

  Then, he felt the vibrations under him, a numbing rumble interrupted by the occasional bump – a vehicle, he thought, something with better suspension than Polly's clunker.

  The next bump was bigger.

  And then he screamed.

  He was awake, now, and thrashing – he was tied up, oh fuck, oh fuck – and he was in so much pain, it consumed him; his neck throbbed viciously, and every cell, every nerve was connected to it. His stomach turned and he wanted to puke but there was a gag in his mouth and it tasted like blood. He felt his consciousness waver, beaten back by the waves of agony, but he sucked in air through his nose and held on.

  The vehicle stopped, suddenly enough to lurch and jolt him again, jolt whatever the fuck was wrong with his neck. He lost consciousness then, he was sure, because the next thing he felt was hands pulling off his blindfold. They were cold and gentle, and there was a hint of nail scraping his cheek as the material was removed.

  Phoenix Wright blinked up at the person standing in front of him.

  Oh. Oh, OK. I'm dead.

  The next clear memory Miles Edgeworth had was of sitting at his work desk. He was wearing a different suit and had combed his hair. There were documents in his hands, but they were blurry – he'd forgotten his contacts and his glasses were in his pocket, but he was still trying to read. Someone knocked on his door. He frowned and looked up.

  Franziska was there. She had an unreadable expression on her face.

  "Little brother."

  He frowned further.

  She stepped into his office and closed the door behind her. "Little brother, what are you doing?"

  "I'm reviewing my notes for my lecture on commercial law in the Commonwealth."

  Franziska tilted the folder up with the handle of her whip. "And that is why you are reading the case file for BN-07. Without your glasses."

  "It is relevant to the lecture."

  "Given that BN-07 was kidnapping and ransom, I find that difficult to believe."

  He lowered the folder. "What do you want, Franziska?"

  Her fingers tightened on the whip. "I want you to go home. Immediately."

  Miles pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned back in his chair. "It is a work day, Franziska. I am at work. The world doesn't stop, just because –"

  Oh.

  The words wouldn't come out. His tongue had grown thick, had stuck to the roof of his mouth. His throat spasmed and he couldn't work his vocal chords, not even to croak. There was a cold cup of tea on his desk – yesterday's, he thought – and he took a large sip, barely wincing at the bitter-stagnant taste of it.

  "Just because?" Franziska pressed.

  Miles shook his head. "I… I can't."

  "Just because Phoenix Wright is dead." Her voice was so gentle, like rain. "You should not be here, Miles Edgeworth. It is unseemly."

  "But – we weren't – he was only…"

  "He was only a close, personal friend, I know. That is a regret for a different time, little brother. For now, I will call you a car." She took out her cell phone. "Do you wish to go home, or to the Wright residence? The loud lawyer said that Trucy was asking for you."

  Miles was still holding the BN-07 folder. It was the only thing grounding him: if he let it go, he would completely disintegrate. He wondered if Franziska would let him take it with him.

  "I will go see her."

  Later, during the slow drip of days and weeks that followed, Trucy would realise that the first night without her Daddy, after the police had been and gone and left muddy footprints on the office carpet, was the last night where she was in complete control. Uncle Miles and Polly and herself had one night inside their private bubble of grief, and that was all: it popped the next morning, and everything changed, everything shifted out from under her feet.

  Aunty Maya and Pearl arrived on the first train.

  Apollo picked them up. He'd woken her carefully, looking grey and grim and about twenty years older than he was; he'd asked if she wanted breakfast (no) and if she wanted to come with him to the train station (another no). His mouth twitched and he sighed but let her roll over again and pretend to sleep. She heard him mutter something about a mess in the bathroom, and where the hell did Mr. Edgeworth go? but she was in character and refused to think about it.

  Before he left he draped a blanket over her. It smelled like Daddy.

  The three of them were quiet when they came in the door, and the difference cut her to the bone. Aunty Maya was loud – not like Polly, who startled people with his sudden increase of volume, but in a way that filled the room right up to the brim with noise and laughter. She hated quiet – I get enough "peacefulness" up in the mountains, thankyouverymuch – and loved to draw other people into conversation, even if she had to do all the heavy lifting. She could make Uncle Miles talk animatedly about Steel Samurai lore, and Trucy had personally seen her make long-lasting friendships out of people she bumped into on the street.

  It reminded her of the patter she used on stage. Rather than to distract an audience, Aunty Maya used it to put people at ease.

  "I can't believe it," Pearl said. Trucy had her back to them and was squished right into the cushions so she pictured her friend's face, how it would be drawn and pinched; the way she'd worry at her thumbnail, then quickly drop it from her mouth when caught. "Mr. Nick…"

  "Pearly, shh, it'll be OK," Aunty Maya said. Apollo's bracelet must be cutting off his wrist in the presence of such a blatant lie. "Should we wake Trucy up?"

  "No, not yet. She's – it's hard, and I don't think she's coping very well."

  Trucy kept her breathing even. Twitched a finger on the cushion and snuffled a little. They weren't her sleeping habits, they were Polly's; they'd do in a pinch. If he was about to betray her trust she wasn't going to let him do it out of earshot.

  Muttered words – Pearl, her voice too soft to hear – and then: "She says Mr. Wright might still be alive. I've explained the evidence, and you know Trucy: she's smart, she should know all this already. But no matter how many times people tell her, she keeps saying he's not dead." He sighed. "It might cause problems getting a death certificate."

  "I'll talk to her. Thank you, Apollo, for everything." A pause. "Do you need to get some rest? I can hold down the fort for you."

  "Uh," he laughed, tight and short, "yeah, I'd really appreciate that. Thank you. I'll – I'll go home and have a nap and some clean clothes."

  "Don't rush, Mr. Apollo," Pearl told him. "We're not going anywhere."

  The three of them bustled in the kitchen – tea, toast; the scrape of a butter knife against overly-cooked bread – and then Apollo was saying good bye and closing the door, the sound of it soft enough that Trucy could imagine the concentration on his face as he did it, so it wouldn't wake her.

  Aunty Maya prodded her shoulder. "Do you want us to keep pretending you're asleep?"

  "I am asleep."

  "You look so peaceful." Rustle of clothes as Aunty Maya shifted on her feet. "When you're ready to talk, we'll be here. Pearly has started cleaning the bathroom, so… take all the time you need."

  Trucy rolled over. "He's not dead."

  She felt pleased and awful at the pain on Maya's face. "Trucy…"

  "There's no body. Why isn't there a body?"

  Aunty Maya was terrible at lying: she always tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and looked to the side when she was uncomfortable. "Come on, Trucy. You've helped on enough cases by now." There was a note of pleading in her voice, please don't make me talk about this; Trucy kept staring at her, gaze level and hard until she gave up, her whole body slouching in defeat. "What happened to Nick, there was probably a lot of evidence… I think the killer needed to take the body away so they didn't get caught."

  Trucy sat up. "It still doesn't feel right."

  "I know – God, I know." She sat down next to her and put an arm around her shoulders. She smelled like incense. "When Mia died… I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe something so awful could happen to my sister. She was the most important person in my life, and I thought there was nothing she couldn't do. It seemed impossible that someone could take her away from me."

  "No," Trucy got to her feet. She felt like she was trying to swim to shore, was desperately fighting the current and the cold water; she knew she could get there, if only everyone in her life wasn't clawing after her, grasping at her ankles, trying to bring her down under the waves. "I mean the case doesn't feel right, Aunty Maya."

  "What do you mean? Th-there isn't a case. Not yet, anyway." There was a knock on the door and Maya went to answer it. "They haven't even found a suspect yet…"

  "Exactly!"

  When the door opened it revealed a very disoriented Uncle Miles.

  "Oh, Maya, I… didn't expect you to be here so soon."

   Whatever else he was going to say was cut off by the enormous hug Aunty Maya threw around him. He accepted it, returned it: he rubbed soothing patterns on to her back, and it reminded Trucy so much of her Daddy that she had to bite her lip hard to stop from crying. Maya was crying herself and it sounded wet and sniffly and like Uncle Miles was going to need to get his suit dry cleaned.

  "I'm so sorry, Edgeworth," she said, in between gasping breaths, "I know – I know how much you meant to each other. He never said it, but I know Nick th-thought the world of you…" she trailed off into another wail.

  "He was a loyal friend, to both of us."

  Trucy wanted to scream. It was her Daddy they were talking about, and he wasn't dead.

  "Don't." She managed to grind out between her clenched teeth. "Don't start talking like that, Uncle Miles."

  He looked confused at her reaction, a muted expression, as if everything he was feeling was being filtered through several panes of glass. "Trucy." Miles let Maya go and walked over to her. "I'm so sorry for leaving last night. I beg your forgiveness – I… I wasn't feeling myself."

  She tossed him one of her finest smiles, all charm and cheek and sparkle. "I'll forgive you as long as you stop talking like Daddy's dead." She tapped him on the chest. "Because he's not."

  Aunty Maya and Uncle Miles exchanged very worried looks.

  "Ugh, look: we don't have a body," Trucy counted on her hands, "we don't have a suspect. The power went out at the time of the incident so there's probably more than one person involved, and they really didn't want evidence showing up. Plus, it took planning! It wasn't a spur of the moment thing. There's gotta be some leads."

  Miles almost believed her, she was sure of it. His spine straightened as she spoke. "There's still the issue of the blood. Forensics estimate at least half of Wright's blood supply is in that alley, and the blood splatter on the wall was congruent with arterial spray. He would have died in minutes."

  "Edgeworth! I know you're grieving, but you can't honestly be agreeing with her…"

  "Daddy was gone from the scene in minutes. What if whoever did this could stop the bleeding? Maybe we need to think about medical professionals. We should ask Mr. Eldoon downstairs! Come on!" 

  "Trucy!" Aunty Maya had her hands curled into fists at her side. Her nose was rubbed red, and her cheeks splotchy. She felt a pang of guilt over not comforting her; the feeling in her gut, that she was on the right track, however, overwhelmed it. "The police are looking for Nick, whatever they can find, but right now we don't know why this happened to him. The last thing any of us want is – is something happening to you, too."

  Maya took a deep breath. When she let it out, she looked calmer, more mature. "I know your dad, and I know what he was like when he sunk his teeth into something. I know you won't stop until you get conclusive evidence." She put her hands together in front of her and offered a small smile. "Let's channel Nick."

  Apollo drove home. He didn't remember putting on a podcast, but when he arrived at his apartment he was halfway through the most recently updated episode on his list and had no idea what they were talking about, and not in the usual this-went-off-the-rails sort of way.

  He didn't get out of the car immediately. It was nice in his car, and he didn't have the energy to move. No one wanted him to do stuff in his car. There weren't any calls to make or forms to fill in. He finished the episode, then decided to start it again, since he hadn't heard the first part.

  Eventually his butt went numb and his legs were falling asleep. His fingers were stiff from holding on to the steering wheel. Apollo turned off the car and climbed out of the too-low driver seat. It was only after he picked up his satchel from the back seat and was locking the doors that he realised Klavier Gavin was parked two spots down, completely absorbed in whatever he was doing on his cell phone.

  "Prosecutor Gavin? What are you doing here?" He frowned. "That's Mrs. Vaughn's car space."

  "Oh, Herr Forehead! You decided to leave your car."

  "Yeah, I kinda zoned out." He gave a tired grin and rubbed the back of his neck. "But seriously, what are you doing here? Mrs. Vaugh won't let me hear the end of it if she finds out I let someone park there."

   Gavin rolled his eyes. "I will move the bike, ja? Will that put your mind at rest?"

  Apollo watched as he maneuvered the motorcycle around the carpark with practiced ease. The bike was as almost as tall as he was, but Gavin made it look so easy, as if there wasn't the threat of it tumbling over and pinning him to the ground at a second's notice.

  Gavin tucked the bike in beside Apollo's hatchback, the space more than big enough for the two vehicles, and then turned around, hands in the back pockets of his skin-tight jeans.

  "Ready?"

  "Sure. Why not?"

  He let Gavin into his apartment, wincing as he looked at it with fresh eyes and remembered how shitty it really was. Peeling paint and threadbare carpet and a kitchen tap that leaked no matter how many YouTube tutorials he watched. It was clean, though, neat and tidy; he had enough second-hand IKEA furniture that all his books and comics were organised, and his media cabinet could hide the nerdy Blu-Rays when the doors were closed.

  "Do you want something to drink? I've got tap water and ice or Red Bull."

  "Red Bull. It is all making sense now. No, I am fine. And you should go have a shower, Herr Forehead."

  "Are you always this rude? Turning up at my apartment and then telling me to go shower?"

  "I am exactly this rude whenever a friend is going through a difficult time."

  Friend. Apollo was aware he had self-esteem issues: what kid who gets orphaned as a baby and then gets rejected by their foster parent wouldn't? He was working on it. Slowly. As it turned out, undoing a lifetime of damage was an expensive process, and he wasn't exactly rolling in dough.

  Even knowing that, he struggled not to discount the claim immediately. He was Klavier Gavin, for crying out loud! It wasn't enough that he was a prosecuting wunderkind, he had to be an internationally famous rock star as well. And attractive, and trustworthy, and funny, when he wasn't being an asshole…

  It would take a lot more therapy before he could get over that hurdle, the mental block he had that told him you aren't good enough for people to stay.

  He sighed. Any other day he might've found something self-deprecating and deflected the claim, but his head was foggy and he really did want to have a shower: he smelled like shit, all old-sweat and greasy food. "I'm too tired to argue."

  "Ah, is that the key to my winning in court? I will have to remember that. Now, go." Gavin shooed him, like a troublesome cat – and oh no, Mikeko!

  "Can you feed my cat?"

  "Ja, ja, but please, Herr Forehead, before you fall down where you stand."

  It was the best shower he ever had. He didn't even mind that half-way through the spray went freezing cold, just long enough for him to yelp in shock, or that the deteriorating seal in the door meant water leaked out onto the floor and he had to mop it up with the bath mat afterwards. He stayed in there until the entire bathroom was steamy, scrubbing away the grime and exhaustion.

  After he combed his hair, and watched as his bangs refused to stay flat, like they always did, he shuffled across the hall to his bedroom and changed into his soft-worn t-shirt and sweatpants.

  He wandered out of his bedroom. At the end of the hall, he paused to observe the scene taking place in his kitchen.

  Klavier was at the stove, wearing the Eat the Science! apron Clay got him for Christmas last year. Mikeko was winding her way around his ankles, clearly enamoured with the man who gave her wet food; she ignored his muttered German, nein, Kätzchen, nein, and gave him chatty miaows in return. A pot of water was bubbling vigorously, and the microwaved beeped: Klavier used oven gloves to remove a tub of steaming food and put it on the counter, before he carefully drained the pasta. Somehow, he managed to do all this without stepping on Mikeko or spilling boiling water everywhere.

  Truly, the man is a miracle in tight pants.

  "Herr Forehead, where are your plates?"

  He helped Klavier find two bowls and cutlery so that the other man could serve out pasta and a ladle of Bolognese, the one that took at least four hours to make. Part of him was grumpy - that was Tuesday and Wednesday's lunches! – but it felt mean spirited to grumble about it. Apollo found the block of nice parmesan cheese he'd splurged on and grated a snowy pile of it over their meals.

  Once they were sitting at the breakfast bar, ready to eat, he said: "Thank you. For this. For… being here. I'm sorry if I was a bit standoffish." 

  "You are welcome. And you are prickly at the best of times, Herr Forehead; I fully expected you to bristle your quills at me for turning up unannounced."

  Apollo's mouth twitched. "What's the German word for 'hedgehog', anyway?"

  "For you? I would say," Gavin used a long finger to flick one of Apollo's hair spikes, "Stacheltier."

  He shivered. It seemed as if the only physical touch he'd experienced in the last day had been involuntary: full-bodied, crushing hugs; pats on his back; and holding hands so tight it hurt. To have someone touch him gently, playfully, was novel. He wished he had the courage to ask Gavin to do it again.

  Instead, he gestured to their bowls of food and picked up his own fork to eat.

  "Oh, mein Gott!" He said, after the first mouthful. "You made this?"

  Apollo shrugged. Effusive praise always made him uncomfortable, and Gavin was particularly adept at getting under his skin with compliments. "Yeah, I just followed the recipe. It's not that hard."

  The other man raised an eyebrow but didn't push it. They ate in silence, until their forks were scraping the bottom of the bowls. It didn't taste much like anything to him, but Gavin was honest about enjoying it – he ate every last bite and even finished the remains of Apollo's food.

  When it was all gone they cleaned the dishes. His kitchen was small, so they worked side-by-side, hips bumping into each other and with a steady stream of oh, sorry and can you take this? mumbled to each other. Gavin washed and Apollo dried. He had to bite his cheek to stop from laughing when he realised Klavier Gavin, rock god, was standing at the sink wearing yellow rubber gloves, up to his elbows in dishwashing suds.

  The plates and pots away, they found themselves sitting on his couch. Gavin had simply wiped his hands on a tea towel, left the kitchen and then sprawled himself elegantly over the Craigslist KIVIK. It was presumptuous, but everything about him was presumptuous: it never seemed to cross his mind that he might not be welcome. Apollo himself wasn't sure. It was nice not to be alone. It was a lot of work to be around others.

  He shrugged. He could keep his options open for now.

  Gavin played with the ends of his blond hair. He'd cut it just over a month ago, after Kristoph died. It was rough and shaggy, but in a way that made it obvious it was intentional. Apollo's bracelet gave a single clench, and he prepared himself for the question Gavin was about to ask.

  "Do you want to talk about it?"

  "No," he said, immediately. He rubbed his tired eyes. Then said, "Yes. God, I can't believe he's gone."

  Apollo's lower lip trembled. He put a hand over his mouth and pressed against it, tried to keep it still. No, no, I can't cry now. I only cry when it's safe, and Klavier isn't safe. I don't know if he's safe.

  He is safe, another part of his mind told him, he's your friend and he's here and he wants to know how you feel.

  The conflicting thoughts didn't help. The emotions he'd blocked off were swelling, smashing against the wall he'd built to keep himself steady and reliable in a crisis. His control was slipping. The words tumbled out.

  "He's gone, Klavier. Someone killed him. Right outside where he lived, where his daughter lives. How could they do that? Don't they know how much he meant to us? He had so much more he needed to do – he was going to help me with international law, and he was going to buy T-Trucy a car for her birthday. Mr. Wright was – he was complicated, but he was a good man, and now he's dead."

  He's dead. Mr. Wright is dead. And that did it, that broke through his barricades. He started to cry and he grabbed a cushion off the couch to shove his face into. It cut off the outside world and muffled the sounds, just like it did when he was ten and newly adopted and didn't want his new moms to think he was broken.

  Oh no, don't think about that, don't think about how every person who gets close to you leaves you. Or how Trucy's all alone now, just like you were, and she's lost two fathers in two years – at least you had almost a decade between each one of yours.

  He wasn't sure how long he stayed like that. He heard Klavier leave the couch and retrieve a glass of water, which he placed on the HEMNES. He sat back down, closer this time: his thigh was next to Apollo's, and he put a hand on his shoulder, gentle and light and supportive. It made him cry even harder. I'm crying in front of Klavier Gavin, and I can't stop; he's going to think I'm gross and weird, even more than he already does.

  "I'm sorry," he mumbled into the cushion. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't – "

  "What? Apollo, no! You are grieving, mein Stacheltier." His thumb rubbed a circle on his shoulder. It felt so good. He hated that it felt so good.

  Apollo sighed, more a voiceless sob than anything else. The cushion trapped his breath, humid and warm, against his skin. He rubbed his face on it, trying to clean away tears and snot, then brought his head back up. Mikeko jumped into his lap and demanded attention; he scratched her head blindly as he looked up at Klavier. He was a wobbly image, a puddle of gold and purple, distorted by his unshed tears.

  "Why are you here, Klavier?" The question thankfully came out without accusation, just curiosity. He blinked several times and finally cleared his vision. Emotion still threatened to overwhelm him, and the next thing he said was a tumbled, childish mess. "You are being so nice to me."

  Klavier tried a teasing smile; didn't quite stick the landing. "First, I am rude, and now I am nice?" The thumb on his shoulder stopped moving, but he didn't take it away, either. Apollo found himself leaning into it, seeking out more contact. Klavier looked down at where they touched. He spread his fingers, cupping the shoulder entirely. "It is inappropriate to discuss it now, Herr Forehead."

  His bracelet twinged, just enough to know he was nervous. "Klavier."

  The other man pursed his mouth; his eyes narrowed as he studied Apollo's face with intensity. It felt like being on the witness stand, the moment Klavier's laid-back act gave way to the sharp teeth of a prosecutor. He was being sized up, evaluated; it made him feel very small.

  Finally: "You know how close Herr Wright and Herr Edgeworth were, ja?"

  Apollo paused, then nodded. Everyone knew how close they were, though the actual details were vague. He knew they were childhood friends, then bitter rivals. Mr. Wright casually mentioned he'd changed career paths to meet him again, but he'd said it with a smirk and a shrug, hiding his motivations behind irony like he always did. Trucy refused to tell him anything. She just hummed and said: Oh, Uncle Miles has been around forever!

  Yesterday, at the murder scene, Mr. Edgeworth had been half a man: diminished and grey and barely there.

  Apollo breathed out shakily as the reminder punched him in the gut.

  "They never… Apollo, they never said anything! They never spoke of it!" Klavier's grip on his shoulder tightened momentarily. "I refuse to let that happen to me. To us." He brought his other hand to Apollo's cheek. "This is the wrong time to say this, but better wrong than never: I care about you. Very much."

  Oh. He hadn't… he hadn't even thought about it, which made him feel guilty as hell. Who in their right mind would think seriously about Klavier Gavin confessing his romantic feelings to them? He wasn't a pre-teen girl. He was short, and dour, and had stupid hair. He'd been so caught up wondering if they were friends to consider being more than.

  But the idea of it made him feel hot and clammy in a good way. The sudden blaze he felt in his chest meant he must have had dry tinder there, waiting for a spark: he probably buried it under his neuroses.

  He leaned forward.

  In the back of his head, regular Apollo was shouting at him to realise how terrible an idea it was, but the voice was so far away and right here, now, there was a warm palm holding his face. There were Klavier's blue eyes, and his bracelet hanging loosely off his wrist. He closed the gap between them and pressed chapped lips to smooth, his eyes shut tight.

  Klavier was completely still, and then he gently pushed him back.

  "Nein, Apollo," and oh, his tone was warm, so full of affection, even as he rejected him. How did I not notice the way he sounds when he talks to me? "Not like this. Not right now."

  "Please, Klavier." He couldn't look at him, so he kept his eyes closed. "Can you kiss me, at least?"

  He heard the other man's breath catch.

  Then, the lips returned, softer now and moving; Apollo kissed back cautiously, using as much restraint as he could. There was some space between them, an awkward triangle as they both leaned in. Apollo put a hand on Klavier's thigh, mostly to hold himself steady. He wasn't trying to push things, at least he didn't think so, but the other man inhaled suddenly at the contact, his mouth going softer under his until it opened, and then they were really kissing. Klavier flicked his tongue against Apollo's, someone moaned – he couldn't tell who – and he forgot where they were, why they were there: he took hold of the lapels of his gaudy jacket, the one he had no right to look so good in, and pulled him close, trying to sink into him. Klavier scrambled to stay upright, but his balance was thrown off completely. They fell backwards.

  He lay horizontal on his couch. Klavier held himself upright, arms outstretched on either side of Apollo's shoulders.

  There might have been a moment, then, when they could have stopped it. Their eyes met, and cool air hit his flushed cheeks, enough to clear his head. Instead, Apollo hooked his leg around Klavier's calf and arched into him, lifting his hips until his cock, tenting his sweatpants, could brush against the hardness he felt through Klavier's jeans. He threaded his fingers into the blond hair at his neck, so short now, after the drastic cut, and brought their mouths together again, into wet and messy kisses.

  Later, he wouldn't remember the details with perfect clarity, just the feeling of safety he had when Klavier's arms caged him and his body was heavy on top of his. The sudden need, the throbbing of his cock, and the rhythm they fell into, hot and good with layers of clothing still in the way. The spot on Klavier's neck that made him whine and stutter his hips when Apollo licked it, and how it felt when his lip was bitten unexpectedly in return. Desperation and sadness and grief and joy and relief, all smashed together and he couldn’t separate the parts, couldn't separate Apollo from Klavier.

  How the rhythm changed when Klavier put his foot on the floor for leverage, and Apollo could only grind helplessly up and against him, soclosesocloseplease, and that when he came it was only a flicker of pleasure against his dulled emotions.

  And Klavier was right behind him, head in the crook of Apollo's neck and shoulder, so that he heard Meine Geliebte as it spilled out, honest and unguarded. His bracelet slipped further down his arm, and he felt like a coward for hoping it would react.

  Miles didn't want to do this.

  He stood in the far corner of the room, rigid and uncomfortable, with his arms crossed. His jaw hurt from how tense he was, and he wasn't sure if he'd ever get the knots out of his shoulders. Maya and Pearls were talking to each other in that brisk, confident fashion that all professionals adopted sooner or later: they discussed candle placement and contingency plans, with none of the complicated emotions that channelling their deceased friend should have conjured.

  Trucy was perched on the arm of the sofa. She watched the other two with interest, her eyes following them as they prepared the space for a channelling.

  From time to time, Miles had visited Wright at the Borscht Bowl Club and been privy to his games of poker; the way his daughter now sat, with her limbs arranged with flawless casualness and her face in studied softness, was the exact image of the man, only without the cards.

  He didn't know who she was bluffing, though: herself, or everyone else.

  Maya finished lighting the last candle – a cheap and waxy number 1, obviously used for several birthday cakes – and sank to her knees. "It's time."

  No, no, this is wrong. It's parlour tricks and fakery. Even if it's real I don't want to see him. I can't see him. The dead should stay dead, not taunt us from beyond the grave.

  "I will repeat what I said earlier: I cannot condone this." 

  "You're welcome to leave, Mr. Edgeworth," Pearls told him, without rancour or judgement. It stung him all the more from their absence. "But I think Mr. Nick would like to see you again."

  Miles rubbed his face, his glasses shifting upwards as his palm ran over his closed eyes. Is that what I'm afraid of? Seeing him again and finding out exactly what we were to each other, just in time to lose him?

  "Well, I'm staying," Trucy announced, and he could almost hear the chips sliding across the table in her voice.

  Maya smiled at her, sad and tired. "I'm glad. I think this will be good for you – both of you." She brought her hands together and clasped them tight, fingers entwined.

  Nothing happened. Not at first. There were quiet breaths and the awkward humming of the Wrights' ancient fridge. Then, a whisper – a puff of wind that made the candles flicker, and oh no oh God no please no Maya's form lengthening, growing taller and leaner. At the corner of her mouth, now large and expressive, a subtle scar appeared, silvery with time. The planes of her face shifted towards the angular: her cheeks lost their fullness, her chin broadened from its point, and a jawline emerged, so familiar the sight of it ached in his chest. Even her hair seemed less smooth, and when she pushed her bangs out of her face a single, stubborn lock fell forward again.

  Phoenix.

  The eyes were wrong. The eyes were perfect. The wrong colour, but the right person shining out behind them. He brought a hand to his throat and touched it, gingerly; he examined his fingers and swallowed, then he nodded, as if it made sense to look down and see the chipped pink nail polish of Maya Fey's fingernails.

  "Oh. Oh OK. I'm dead."

  "NO!"

  Trucy leapt off the couch and stumbled towards him. Her face was white as death and hideous: her lips were a red slash against her skin, and the performer's gloss had worn off, leaving pure agony behind.

  "Truce," Phoenix said, and even Miles' heart lurched at the sound, so familiar and loving and spoken by a dead man, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

  "You promised, Daddy." She flung herself into his arms and sobbed. "You promised, you promised, you promised, you promised."

  "I know, shh, I know, I'm sorry." Phoenix held her as tight as she held him, and there were tears falling on to his cheeks, sliding down and into her hair. "God, I wanted to have more time."

  And here Phoenix lifted his gaze, finding him unerringly across the room, like he always did – always had – no matter where they were. Miles couldn't move or speak so he stared, hoping Phoenix knew what he wanted to say.

  "Miles." His name. His voice was broken, smashed apart. "Miles – fuck. I… you know, right? You know I always… it was always you."

  He managed to nod, stiff and jerking. "And you know that I… I also…"

  "I hoped?" Phoenix shrugged and gave a half-laugh. "Look, it's too late, I know, but I'll say it. I'll say it for both of us. Miles, I – "

  And then he was gone.

  "No," Trucy whispered, still holding on to the collapsed body of Maya Fey, "no, no no no no no no!"

  Miles was completely silent, completely withdrawn; no one noticed when his knees gave out. He slid down the wall and landed on the floor hard enough to clack his teeth together. From a great distance, he saw Trucy clinging to the unconscious form of Maya, and Pearls insisting that she let go: it only made her sob harder.

  His vision wavered. Another image settled in his mind, superimposed on the scene in front of him: night time, the office lit by the lights coming through the open blinds. Sprawled out on the floor, backs to the couch. Phoenix had a bottle of beer in his hand, and Miles was there, and he was drunk, too, on the rough vodka the other man had poured into a coffee mug of grape juice.

  I thought you died, you know, he'd said, off-handedly, a verbal shrug. He raised the bottle to his lips. A sip. Then: I thought you died and that I was the one who made you do it.

  He thought about how his chest had burned at the words. Miles had muttered something, not I'm sorry, but how ridiculous or Wright in a warning tone – he couldn't remember exactly. And Phoenix had leaned into him, turned into him, until the tip of his nose was on his jaw. His cravat grew warm on his neck from hot and beer-scented breath. They'd kissed, he thought he remembered that – the fragile joining of their mouths, how he'd trembled and ached from desire.

  And then he'd said, we are very drunk and this is a bad idea, and broken both their hearts.

  "… love you." 

  "I think he's surfacing, should I put him under again?"

  "A sedative. Just enough to keep him compliant."

  "...fine."

  Unrecognisable noises, no, maybe he'd heard them once or twice before. His eyes were gummed shut and too heavy to open. He tried to roll over, tried to sit up, and his body flared to life: pain, bright and cruel, so intense he could barely swallow or breathe. He fell back and remained as still as possible, begging for the pain to recede, but it didn't go away entirely, it lingered, throbbing in the background.

  Time passed. A blackness that flickered and sputtered, shades of grey that was almost light.

  Did I fall asleep? No, I'm dead, I can't be asleep.

  His thoughts were slippery and it was a lot of work to chase after them. Better to let them go and fall back into the darkness. If I'm dead why does it hurt? No, go away. I'm sleeping. Can't be dead and be asleep. Every time he had a new thought he was closer to waking properly, and he didn't want to. It hurt too much. Can't be dead and be in pain. Do ghosts feel pain? Did I ever ask Mia that?

  "Shut up." 

  "Have you returned to the land of the living, Phoenix Wright?"

  No. You're dead. We both must be dead.

  "You're dead."

  "On the contrary, my friend. I am very much alive." He sounded immensely pleased. "And so are you, despite your efforts to shrug off this mortal coil."

  A wet slap, then a damp cloth was on his face, tenderly washing away whatever was stuck to his skin and eyelashes. A fresh towel pat him dry. He was terrified to open his eyes – it would make things real, actually real – but he was far more terrified of being vulnerable in front of him, so he forced himself to wake up to his nightmare.

  Slowly, the world returned to him. It was white wherever he was, blindingly white; the walls, the ceiling, the cupboards above his head. He could look down – the epicentre of his pain was still at his throat – so he gradually turned to his left.

  And there he was: Kristoph Gavin in all his fucked-up glory.

  Everything about him was slightly off. Not in the full-blown villain breakdown he'd had on the stand, but in little ways. He was thinner, less healthy looking – he had a pair of dark smudges underlining his eyes and a sallow tint to his pale skin. He no longer had his long hair, but instead had cut it close to his skull, where it lay uneven and dull. His suit had been replaced by a rumpled shirt, and slacks, and over that he wore a knitted vest. There was a hole in the fabric that looked suspiciously like a cigarette burn.

  He watched Phoenix as well, with a clear, avid interest – part fascination, part amusement. A slow smile spread across his face. He looks sated, Phoenix thought, then shied away from it, terrified of what that might mean.

  Instead, he croaked: "You look terrible." His mouth was crusty and dry. "Gimme some water."

  Kristoph clicked his tongue but poured water into a paper cup anyway. He brought it up to Phoenix's lips and helped him drink, a considerate hand going to the back of his head to tilt him back. All he got was a small trickle at first, enough to unstick his tongue and soothe the scratchy dehydration at his throat; then, he was allowed a few larger mouthfuls. It tasted like old blood and sour saliva.

  It was like manna from heaven.

  "You're in no position to talk, Phoenix," Kristoph replied as he assisted him. "If you haven't noticed yet, you've managed to spill blood all over that fine suit of yours. Did Edgeworth pay for that? I can't imagine you had the capital to purchase a bespoke suit of this quality."

  His head was still fuzzy, so it took a few moments for the words to sink in. When they did, Phoenix started with alarm and looked down at his clothes. Or, tried to. The instant he did, he agitated his injured neck and had to close his eyes as the room spun. He could feel gauze and tape, and he wasn't sure if that was a good or bad sign.

  "Always so impulsive. You'll have to trust me for the time being." Phoenix glanced back at Kristoph; he'd heard the knives in his voice. "Isn't that an interesting concept: trust. I think we'll be learning a great deal about it soon. Do you trust me, Phoenix?"

  "No."

  "Oh? I'm wounded." He paused, then chuckled. "No, you're wounded. See, we're having fun already."

  Apollo Justice, 

  Sitting down to write this letter is… really weird. I don't know if I'm dead or not, but you do. If I'm dead, and it wasn't an accident, it was probably Kristoph Gavin. I am being completely serious here. If I've been murdered then it was at the hands of Kristoph Gavin.

  Firstly, you deserved a better boss than me. At least, the version of me that you met.

  You have all the makings of a great lawyer: stubbornness, honesty, and that gut feeling that screams at you when something is wrong. Trust that feeling. My worst mistakes, in and out of the courtroom, were when I ignored it. The greatest things I ever achieved in life were because I took a leap based on instinct. Trucy was one of them. You were another.

  If I'd had more time, I would have loved to have mentored you. Maybe I didn't think I was worthy enough to be a mentor to you at the time, not in the way mine was to me.

  It's a good thing I'm dead because yikes, this is getting pretty emotional, huh?

  But anyway, given the time, I would have tried to make up for how I acted when we first met. You defended me in court and all I gave you in return was sarcasm and forged evidence. I hope you can forgive me for being such an asshole. You don't have to. But remember: I am dead and it'd be a little rude of you not to.

  All that said, I'd like it if you could continue operating the law side of The Wright Anything Agency. I've given you half of my shares in the office. The world needs dedicated defense attorneys like you out there.

  Secondly, you'll probably want to punch me in the jaw after Trucy reads her letter. Again, I remind you: I am dead.

  Finally, I probably don't need to tell you this – not after you hear what's in the other letter – but it would mean a lot to me if you could keep an eye on Trucy. She's still young, even if she doesn't act like it.

  Nothing means more to me than her. From the moment she walked into my life she was my guiding light, the reason I woke up in the morning. I hope I'm still alive and just making myself sad for no reason other than paranoia. If I am dead, then, please, be the family she needs.

  Thank you for all your hard work. It was appreciated, truly.

  Phoenix Wright

  (P.S I have a lead on a potential new lawyer you might be interested in hiring. Her name is Athena Cykes and I think you'll really like her. She won't really give you a choice.)

  There was a warm arm around his waist; sleepy fingers twitching on his bare stomach. A nose buried in his hair, and a string of muttered German when he tried to roll away. His clock told him it was nearly 7AM so he relaxed back into the embrace, making the conscious decision not to tense up and be awkward.

  "I can hear you thinking, Stacheltier."

  "I was thinking about how I shouldn't be thinking!"

  A considering noise. "Hmm. I will allow it."

  He could let himself have fifteen minutes of this. Fifteen minutes of being spooned by Klavier Gavin, who was still here, even after awkward sex, crying, Apollo's puffy face and a couch covered in cat fur. Klavier Gavin liked him - so much that they'd made a mess of both their clothes last night and had to do an emergency load of washing. He'd done the dishes and the laundry with Klavier Gavin. The concept made his head spin.

  He groaned into the back of his neck. "Apollo."

  "I can't help it! You gave me too many things to think about last night."

  "Oh." His voice practically curled with interest. "Perhaps I could give you one more?"

  Apollo immediately became aware of the fact Klavier's hand was still resting on his stomach, drawing little circles with the pads of his fingers. He let out a shaky breath, and the other man hummed quietly, pleased. Now, he moved upwards, slipping his hand under the t-shirt. His thumb brushed across a nipple – lightly, barely there – and then again, firmer. Once it was hard, he pinched it, and Apollo jerked in shocked pleasure. Klavier repeated this for the other nipple, until they were both breathless.

  Reaching his arm back as far as he could, Apollo found Klavier's hip and held onto it, wanting more contact with him. The other man rocked forward, pressing his morning wood against him with a stifled moan. Klavier started kissing his neck, oh shit th-that's not fair, and he slid his hand back down, quickly over his stomach, under the waistband of his pyjamas and boxers, pausing there for a moment until Apollo nodded, said "Yeah", his voice still thick from sleep.

  "Oh, nur eine Sekunde." He withdrew his hand, swiped his tongue across it, then put it back in place, immediately wrapping his slick palm and fingers around Apollo's cock. "That's better."

  He wanted to do more, he really did, but Klavier had all the advantage; the position had him caught between the hand down his pants and the erection grinding on his ass. There were callouses on his fingers from guitar playing, slightly rough on such delicate skin, and it felt so different – the speed, the angle, the pressure – to how he did it himself, that he was getting close fast. Every motion sent heat and sparks along his spine, and he knew blood was rushing to his cheeks, growing hot against the pillow. Klavier was breathing heavily in his ear, taking the opportunity to suck his earlobe or nip at his throat.

  Apollo's hips moved as he got closer, pushing himself back on to Klavier and then thrusting forward into his hand. He gripped tight to the other man's hip and to the bedsheet, nearly there, and then one, two more pumps and he was pushed over, shuddering through an orgasm he wasn't entirely sure he deserved.

  They were still for a few moments, catching their breath, and then Apollo rolled over and kissed him.

  He had a thousand questions, like, why? and why me? and you're still here, which was less a question and more a statement of disbelief. Instead of speaking them aloud he kissed Klavier again and again, pushing his insecurity into his mouth, reassuring himself with the taste of him, the way his tongue felt, hot and tricky, sliding across his own. Every kiss made him less anxious, and they eventually grew softer, less demanding, until finally they broke apart.

  Apollo stroked Klavier's cheek and hoped his expression wasn't as incredulous as he felt.

  "Yet more thinking?" Klavier sighed. He pressed a kiss to his forehead. "How do you not have a headache all the time?"

  "Honestly, I think I kind of do." Apollo admitted, a little embarrassed. "Thank you. That was amazing." His hand drifted lower, caressing Klavier's shoulder, then his arm. "Did you – I could… I'd really like to touch you, if that's OK?"

  He expected Klavier to lean back with a come-hither look, stretched out like the decadent god of sex and music all his fans thought he was. Instead, he hesitated, eyes searching Apollo's. "Maybe we – "

  The alarm clock cut him off. Apollo rolled over and stopped the beeping. He could probably get away with staying in bed a bit longer… no, no, he really couldn't. He'd sent Mystic Maya a text last night that he'd be in at 8AM. If his boss was there, he would have come in whenever he wanted – admittedly, still probably before 9 – but it wasn't a normal working week. Trucy would need his help navigating all the legal stuff, and he needed to change the voicemail message; he had a list of people he hadn't been able to contact yet, and that weirdo Brushel had been nosing around the alley when he left the office yesterday. The incident hadn't made the news yet, but it was only a matter of time before –

  He didn't wait for Klavier to say it. "I know, I know. Too much thinking." At least this made him smile instead of hitting him with a pillow out of frustration. "I have to get ready."

  They untangled themselves with some reluctance and more than a few unnecessary touches, and then Apollo was rushing through his morning routine: shower, cereal, feed Mikeko, brush teeth and get out the door. Only this time he lingered, car keys in hand and satchel slung across his body.

  Klavier was wearing his crumpled shirt from the night before and nothing else. The hem of it reached mid-thigh and revealed his long, lean legs and - huh - a tattoo on his outer thigh, exceptionally done, of a flower with tightly curled petals. His short hair fluffed up around his head, mussed from sex and sleep. He had his face right above the mug of shitty coffee Apollo had made him, breathing in the steam

  He looked beautiful. He looked like he belonged.

  Apollo wanted him to belong there.

  "Um," he quickly walked back over to the kitchen. "So, I'm not good at – at morning-afters. Or romantic declarations. Or romance. I'm not good at a lot of things. But," Apollo closed his eyes; it was the only way he would be brave enough, "I really like you. I really liked last night, and this morning. I want to keep doing this. And have it mean something."

  "Hmm. You are right: you are terrible at this."

  Apollo's eyes flew open. "Hey!"

  "I forgive you, mein Stacheltier. Not all of us have the souls of poets." He must have been pouting because Klavier laughed and kissed him, then put his coffee mug down so he could hold Apollo's face in his hands. "I promise you: this means something."

  Dear Trucy,

  I'm sorry. Whatever has happened to me, I'm sorry it happened, and you're allowed to be angry – I promise. I probably deserve you being angry at me, anyway, because I put back empty milk cartons way too often, and you definitely didn't catch me every single time. You have a backlog of complaints you should be annoyed at me about. So. I'm sorry, and it's OK if you're angry at me.

  What I'm going to write next is something I've wanted to tell you for a while. I kept it from you not because I wanted to, but because we agreed that it was better for you to reach majority before you found out. And yeah, it's shitty that we did this without your permission. I told you: there's a backlog of complaints.

  Trucy, your mother is still alive. Your mother is Lamiroir.

  During the stage accident, she lost her sight and her memory. Somehow – I'm still trying to figure it out - she wound up in Borginia, and she started a new life there, without any knowledge of you or her past.

  If you want to get in touch with her, I've provided the latest contact information with this letter. She said she'd understand if you never wanted to speak to her again, but she thinks the world of you and she's proud of you.

  I don't know how you'll react to reading this. You're a smart kid. Maybe you already worked it out. If you're angry, like I said: it's OK. My only defense, as weak as it is, is that I only discovered the truth for certain when Thalassa recovered her memories after the Vera Misham trial.

  There's another confession I have to make, and this one is mostly on me and not Thalassa. When I told her, she was completely shocked, but she asked that we not inform either of you. Maybe to protect you both. Maybe she thought you'd had too much upheaval in your life.

  Whatever the reason, you're my kid, too, and I think I get a say in what you know. If I'm gone, then this is my last chance to set things straight. 

  Maybe you'll hate me forever for keeping it from you. You'd be well within your rights to, of course.

  You have a brother as well, Trucy. Apollo Justice.

  As far as big brothers go, I think you hit the jackpot. He's a responsible, trustworthy man, and I see so much of you in him that it's hard for me not to ruffle his hair when he comes into the office. I hope you two can learn to be in each other's lives. You both deserve love and support. I think you'll be able to lean on him if you need to.

  Most of all, I hope you aren't reading this letter. I hope I get to tear it up and burn it because you've turned 18 and we're celebrating family, one that's a bit bigger now. I hope I'm there celebrating what a wonderful woman you've become and you're teasing me for being sentimental.

  Right now, when I'm writing this, you're 15 and amazing. You are the light of my life and you shine so brilliantly. I am constantly proud of you and I thank my lucky stars that I met you, got to be your Daddy, because you've made me a better person by being in my life. 

  If you are reading this, if I am gone, then please know that I loved you from the moment I met you. I chose to love you, each day, and it was my honour and privilege to see you grow and learn. You're going to be fine, sweetheart, because you're Trucy Wright, and you're always Wright.

  (I'm sorry. I had to.)

  With all the love I have,

  Phoenix Wright

  (Daddy)

 

  The channelling made her surrender. Just a little bit. Everyone around her seemed so sure that he was gone. Daddy was so sure he was gone. The evidence was clear and conclusive. It should have been enough to ease her mind.

  Why did it still feel like giving up? Why did it feel wrong?

  Because it felt like she was betraying him.

  Phoenix Wright never gave up. That's what everyone told her. And her Daddy had been stubborn, over teeth brushing and homework and bedtimes. He'd pushed her to learn how to swim and ride a bike and take the gymnastics class even though the other kids thought she dressed weird. He'd been her biggest supporter, her number one fan. They'd chosen to be in each other's lives and had worked at it, every day, until their two-person act was polished, the patter as natural as breathing.

  Now he'd suddenly walked off stage and she was stumbling over her lines, alone in the spotlight.

  A part of her wondered why someone would take her Daddy and not her, too. Why was she left behind?

  (She kept that thought locked deep down, far from prying eyes. It was the sort of thing that made adults get concerned and whisper over her head.)

  The next day, the one after the channelling, Apollo returned to the office. He looked refreshed. He looked happy. Trucy hated that she resented him for it.

  She hadn't slept well, couldn't even remember getting to bed. She only knew that every time she closed her eyes she saw her Daddy and he looked so sad she wanted to cry. The house was full of creaks and noises from being full of people – Uncle Miles and Aunty Maya and Pearl – and it was unsettling to be in such a familiar place and have so many differences. It didn't feel like home. It felt off.

  Pearl made breakfast around 8AM and poked and prodded her until she got dressed; she harried her, herded her, into the kitchen where she was made to sit down in front of a bowl of oatmeal. Did we even have oatmeal? Uncle Miles was there, too, wearing some spare clothes of Daddy's and she nearly started crying because he was never going to wear that shirt again.

  They picked at their breakfasts in solidarity. Uncle Miles hated being fussed over just as much as she did.

  When Aunty Maya walked into the kitchen, he put down his spoon. "We need to find his will," he told her. "Do you know if he had a personal lawyer?"

  "I don't think Nick knew that he was allowed to use other lawyers."

  Trucy looked at Apollo, who had stopped pouring himself a coffee. She wanted to say, yes, he did! He hired Polly! You don't know because you weren't here, not when we needed you. You only came when it was convenient for you. She didn't say it. She didn't say anything. She took a bite of oatmeal and ignored how it coated her tongue.

  "I don't think he had a personal lawyer, no," Apollo began, his eyes briefly meeting hers, and she loved him in that moment, for remembering she existed. "Mr. Wright liked to rely on people that he could trust. He usually found that the person he trusted most was himself." He dropped his gaze to his coffee mug, and stirred in some sugar. "But, when I first started working here he told me that there was a safe in his office. It's behind the framed movie poster. I think he told me about it in case something happened. I think he was worried that Mr. Gavin might be able to get back at him, even in jail."

  "When you consider what happened to Drew and Vera Misham, perhaps Wright was correct to worry." Uncle Miles' voice was scratchy and he kept lifting his hands to his glasses as if to adjust them. Trucy hadn't seen that tell on him before. She figured it must mean he'd been crying, which was true: she'd heard him through the walls last night.

  "Mr. Gavin is dead." Apollo said this firmly. After all that man put him through – put them all through – Trucy couldn't begrudge him the slight note of satisfaction she heard. "He's been in the ground for a month. Even he couldn't come back from the dead to hurt Mr. Wright."

  "Of course, Mr. Justice." Uncle Miles sounded far from convinced. "After breakfast would you assist me with the safe? You as well, Trucy."

  She shrugged. She was vaguely aware that Daddy kept a safe there, but had no idea what the combination would be. What help she'd be able to offer was limited.

  They finished breakfast, or tried to. Trucy left a third of her oatmeal in the bowl and sent an apologetic look at Pearl. Her friend just smiled and said it was fine, she gave her too much anyway, which was a lie. Uncle Miles hadn't even pretended to eat, which made Pearl frown.

  No one had gone into Daddy's office since it happened. Their home was small – smaller now, with the addition of Polly – and there were unspoken rules about respecting privacy. It was taboo to enter his room without him being there, another way in which his death had upturned the rules and rhythms of her life. He'd only been gone two days. That wasn’t long enough to start rifling through his stuff.

  She tensed as Uncle Miles turned the handle. The wrongness of it all made her half-expect a ghost to pop out, or a booby-trap, maybe, going off in their faces. It wouldn't be unheard of, not for her Daddy.

  When she was younger, and still a bit worried that her old Daddy might come back and steal her from her new Daddy, they'd rigged the house up to let them know if someone came in uninvited. She'd suggested a net above the front door, and Daddy had added the shop bell; they'd covered the exterior window frame in coconut oil so it was impossible to open.

  Her favourite was the nightingale floor. Daddy had learned about it from a trip he took with Uncle Miles. He lifted up a plank from near the entrance to their home and spent an evening filing it, wearing away the wood from one side. When it was replaced, the board would creak without fail. She and Daddy never walked on it, always taking an extra-long step as they came in the door. It was one of the only booby-traps that they didn't fix, even after she started to believe she'd get to stay.

  The door opened without event. A little part of her sighed in disappointment.

  Inside, the room was as cluttered and familiar as she remembered. There was his double bed, the one she'd crawled into too many times to count, to be held safe and loved against his chest. And there was the second-hand desk Polly found him on the internet, so he'd be able to study in peace. His law books – guess I'm going to actually have to read these, eh Truce? – and highlighters and lined paper with his handwriting scrawled across it. A display of dusty souvenirs from Uncle Miles, and embarrassing craft projects she made before she was even in middle-school. Tucked under the desk was his wastepaper basket, half-full of scrunched-up paper. The sight of it made her uncomfortable: for as long as she'd lived with him, Daddy had shredded and burned his discarded papers at the end of the day.

  He wasn't finished, she thought, and wasn't sure whether she wanted to keep them as they were, or hurry out to the fire escape to complete the task for him.

  Apollo led them to the framed poster that hung on the wall above Daddy's desk. He wore his characteristic expression of deep concentration – eyebrows drawn together, a finger on his forehead – and then, in a flash, it cleared away. He ran one hand down the far side of the frame. Click. The poster swung forward, revealing the hidden wall safe.

  "This is oddly forward thinking for Wright," Uncle Miles murmured. "I suspect this was a Mia Fey addition."

  It's rude to say things like that when Daddy's not here to defend himself!

  "No, it wasn't! Daddy did it himself. See," she pointed out the ragged edge of the hole, a memory coming back to her: the sound of drywall being chiselled away and Daddy cursing under his breath as he hit his hand again, "look how uneven it is. He had to use tools he borrowed from Uncle Larry." He never gave them back, now that I think about it.

  Uncle Miles didn't like not knowing things - she'd picked that up about twenty minutes into their first meeting. He scowled, not at her but in general, and waved for Apollo to continue opening the safe.

  "Um, this is about all I know, sir. We could try some dates? What about his mother's birthday?"

  Trucy and Uncle Miles looked at each other. "No."

  "Oh, OK. Maybe his first trial?"

  They went through all his cases, from Larry Butz to Zak Gramarye; to Phoenix Wright to Kristoph Gavin. Uncle Miles clutched his arm when his trial – trials? – came up, but she wasn't sure if he was hoping for or against it being the combination. None of them were right, as it turned out, so they moved on to birthdays. Mia, Maya, Pearl Fey. Trucy Wright. Miles Edgeworth, and another tell. Apollo Justice; Will Powers; Mr. Eldoon from the noodle cart.

  Polly's fingers were getting sore from moving the stiff dial of the safe so she took over. While he stretched his cramping hand, and Uncle Miles searched the desk for something, a planner, a diary, anything, come on Wright you weren't this disorganised, were you? Trucy quickly dialled in the day she and Daddy became a family: May 3^rd.

  Grrk. The safe refused to open. It was a long shot, she guessed, but couldn't help the way her heart sank.

  Wait.

  "Hey, what's six months from May 3^rd?"

  "Off the top of my head, I would say November 3^rd, though it would depend entirely on what method you were using to –"

  Click.

  Happy six-month-un-You-Adopted-a-Daughter-Day, Daddy.

  "Got it!"

  It was such a stupid date, so meaningless – except not, of course, it meant the world to her. Daddy in the kitchen, still in rolled-up sleeves and his pressed blue trousers, saying, well, I missed your first birthday this year, so I thought I owed you an unbirthday. And it wasn't much, just a cupcake and a teeny tiny toy rabbit, because she'd told him the week before about the idea she had for a trick using a doll's hat.

  Besides, he'd said, smiling so hard his eyes crinkled at her, you've got a sucky birthday anyway, being so close to Christmas. Maybe we should celebrate your six-month unbirthday every year. They'd taken turns coming up with six-month-un-everythings: six-month-unEaster, six-month-unHalloween. Shyly, but with the hunch that he'd very much like to hear it, she'd offered, six-month-un-You-Adopted-a-Daughter-Day? And Daddy had held out a hand for her to shake, it's a date.

  Tears pricked at her eyes; she blinked rapidly and looked up at the ceiling to stop them shedding, and managed it, after taking a deep breath and putting on her performer smile.

  Apollo rubbed his bracelet and watched her, sharp and curious.

  She tipped her hat at him. "Don't worry about it, Polly. You had to be there."

  He'd felt horribly, horribly guilty the moment he crossed the threshold.

  The moment he did, a larger stride to avoid that one creaky floorboard near the entrance, the dividing line between the outside world – sunny day and not-too-bad traffic and Klavier Gavin promising it meant something – and the cloying sadness inside the office became immediately apparent. It was stuffy and still; quiet, the voices coming from the kitchen hushed. The windows were closed and curtains drawn tight, and the noises from the street reached them diffused and muffled, like hearing them underwater.

  Maybe that's why he'd spoken up about Mr. Wright having him as a lawyer. He'd seen the pain flash across Trucy's face, unnecessary pain when she was already going through much. It had given him the confidence he needed to speak against The Chief Prosecutor.

  Now, he and Trucy and Mr. Edgeworth were looking at the contents of Mr. Wright's safe. Trucy was the one to remove the items, moving them from the safe to the desk just below it. Two passports. Mr. Wright's birth certificate. Trucy's birth certificate and name change documentation. A small stack of photographs: a woman with dark hair, a woman with honey-brown hair; a class photo; Mr. Edgeworth scowling at the camera, young and arrogant. An odd tie clip, a blue knight from a chess set, that made Mr. Edgeworth suck in a breath when he saw it. A battered mailing bag, the top torn roughly; grubby, as if it had been handled countless times.

   And finally, a large letter file with Phoenix Wright's Last Will and Testament written across it in the tidiest script Apollo had ever seen the man produce.

  Trucy handed it to him. "You were the last lawyer who represented him. I think that means you get the job." 

  Apollo's eyes widened. He glanced at Mr. Edgeworth; whatever the other man was feeling, he was hiding it well. He didn't want to be seen to be asking him for permission – it was Trucy's father who'd died – but some acknowledgement of his place here, in the life of Mr. Wright, seemed appropriate.

  He looked down at the folder. It was clearly repurposed from somewhere else, a conference maybe, and he nearly laughed at Mr. Wright being so cheap, even in setting his affairs. When he opened it, one side contained a typed document: the will. The other side held three envelopes, secured with a clip; when removed, he saw the names on them: For Trucy; For Miles; For Apollo.

  "What?" He frowned at seeing his own name. "Why is there a letter for me in here?"

  Trucy took the two other letters in her white-gloved hand. "Maybe Daddy wrote it when he was on his 'secret mission'?" She handed Mr. Edgeworth his envelope, and then – wait, she's already put it up her sleeve? I was watching the whole time! "He probably had a lot of loose ends, especially before Mr. Gavin's second trial."

  Apollo returned to the will and began skimming over the legalese. "It looks fairly standard so far. Sound mind is debatable. Ow, hey, Truce don't kick me!" Revoke any other wills and codicils, pay my enforceable unsecured debts and funeral expenses – won't have to worry about that last one, oh shit, that's a terrible thing to think! – and ah. "I give all my tangible personal property etc., etc., to Trucy Wright (née Enigmar), excluding the potted plant known as 'Charley', who should be given to Maya Fey under the strict provisions that she water him as necessary. Additionally, half my shares in the Wright Anything Agency should go to – what. No. What?" Apollo handed the will to Mr. Edgeworth. "Could you read Article II for me sir?"

  The Chief Prosecutor pulled out his reading glasses and accepted the will. "Where were you… oh, I see. 'Additionally, half my shares in the Wright Anything Agency should go to Apollo Justice, with the hope that he will continue practicing law.'" He removed the glasses and returned the will.

  Apollo sat down on Mr. Wright's bed. "But why? Why would he do that?"

  Trucy sat down next to him. "Daddy always said you were a brilliant lawyer, Polly."

  His jaw cramped – I'm clenching it again, Dr. Chen is going to be pissed at me at my next check-up – and he could feel his nose getting hot and prickly, but there was no way he was crying over this, not in front of Trucy and Mr. Edgeworth. "He never told me that. Why wouldn't he tell me that?" He sighed in irritation. "Ok, it's fine. I'm fine." The other two winced, and he knew he'd said that too loud.

  Apollo ran his finger down the page until he found his place. "OK, yep, everything else to Trucy, please pay outstanding taxes. Oh," he read ahead since there wasn't much left, "Mr. Edgeworth, sir, you're the executor, but he… he also wants you to be Trucy's guardian."

  "Oh." The Chief Prosecutor glanced down at the letter in his hands. Apollo could see a faint tremor in his fingers, making the envelope shake. "If that is what Wright wanted, then… then I will gladly accept the responsibility."

  Trucy stood suddenly. "I'm going to go find Pearl." She walked past Mr. Edgeworth without looking at him.

  Apollo couldn't blame her: his bracelet had tightened painfully at the other man's words.

  Hey Miles,

  I'm really sick of writing letters to you that will never get a reply. Don't hold it against me if I keep this short and sweet.

  If you're reading this letter, then you've found the will, and you know that I want you to be Trucy's guardian.

  I know that it's a big ask. I know you have a lot of baggage around foster parents – completely valid, by the way. But you're a good person - the best person I know. Trucy loves her Uncle Miles. I know you love her, too. You're really bad at hiding it. Who would have imagined the Demon Prosecutor had a weakness for little girls finding coins behind his ear?

  She's kept me afloat for all these years. I think she'll be able to help you, too, in my absence.

  Just… don’t lie to her. She'll know. Instead, be honest. Be consistent. Be yourself: grumpy and generous and compassionate and clever and a complete dork. Like I said, she already loves you. Give her enough love for both of us.

  Fuck, we never had the right timing, did we? Maybe I should have told you when we were 9 and I first realised. Maybe I should have kissed you sober. I should never have let you go. I should have let you take me and Trucy to Germany. I should have called more. I should have

  Be good to yourself!

  Love,

  Phoenix Wright.

  Miles tried to wait until after dinner to read the letter. He wanted to wait until everyone else was asleep and he could portion out a piece of privacy for himself. Whatever was in that envelope was likely to dredge up emotions he'd only just churned through yesterday. He wanted to be alone.

  He kept the envelope in his pocket all day. It crinkled through the material of Phoenix's sweatpants. A reminder, or a threat?

  Mr. Justice was the first to find out that Phoenix's death had hit the news. He got a text message from his friend and swore, under his breath for once; he put a hand to his mouth and stared at his phone. "Mr. Edgeworth, sir, I think I need you to see this."

  He turned the screen to face him. A news website with the heading: EMBATTLED DEFENSE ATTORNEY PHOENIX WRIGHT: MURDERED?

  At least he passed the bar before all this happened, he thought, and then felt sick.

  His own phone started chiming. He turned it off without looking. "Mr. Justice, my sister-in-law is in public relations. I will ask her to release a statement."

  "A statement? What statement is there to make? 'He's dead, leave us alone'?"

  "I believe that is almost exactly what Adrian will write, only in more frustrating language."

  Mr. Justice changed the voicemail message: You've reached The Wright Anything Agency. For personal reasons, the agency will not be accepting any new clients at this time, nor are we available for comment. Thank you. Then he unplugged the phone from the wall.

  Sometime after lunch, Maya and Pearls convinced Trucy that they needed to start planning a memorial. It's not about your dad, honey, it's about all the people who loved him, Maya said. Pearls nodded. They deserve a chance to say goodbye.

  And so, he listened, out of place but stuck in place, as they spoke on speaker phone with a funeral director. Trucy shrugged through most of it, agreeing about the flowers (Sunflowers. Uncle Miles is right, it should be sunflowers.) and flicking through the only photo album they had to find a decent quality portrait to put in place of his body.

  She paused at one. Phoenix Wright in a dress-shirt he'd rolled up at the sleeves; it was covered in paint, and there were streaks of it on his forearm and hands, and a spot right on his nose where he'd obviously scratched an itch. There was a smile on his face, a softer version of his bluff: slightly nervous, but hopeful, as if whatever he was about to argue meant something to him. Behind him, there was the start of a mural: trees and bushes, sun filtering through the canopy; half a dozen different birds with brilliantly coloured feathers, perched on branches and hidden in the leaves. White rabbits ambled on the ground, and one of them was definitely wearing a vest and pocket-watch.

  "Was that when Mr. Nick had you stay with us during spring break?" Pearls asked, leaning over to see what photo Trucy was staring at so intently.

  "Yeah. He said he had a lot of work on, but he didn't. He spent it painting this for me." Trucy's finger traced over Phoenix's face. "I told him about how Troupe Gramarye had all these different backdrops for our act. He was half-listening, at least I thought so. But when I came back he'd painted this mural for me. I told him the Alice in Wonderland backdrop had been my favourite."

  Maya smiled, a bit watery. After that first outburst when he turned up on the doorstep she'd been remarkably cold, emotions all tightly lidded. "He was so worried you weren't going to like it. He was so sure you weren't going to want him to be your Daddy." 

  Trucy squeezed her eyes shut. It didn't work; tears were leaking out. "But I loved him so much."

  "I know. And he loved you." Maya crossed over to the couch and hugged her. "He loved you with all his heart, Trucy." She was crying now, too, and so was Pearls. They wrapped their arms around Trucy.

  Miles left them, then. The office was too small. Even in Phoenix's study/bedroom he could hear muffled comments, thick with tears. Aunty Maya I thought you weren't sad that Daddy's dead! then Oh God, no, Trucy, no, no, no. I was holding back! I didn't want to put all of my feelings on you and make you the adult. I've been crying on the fire escape, right Pearly? and It's true. She even went to get groceries so she could cry the whole time without you knowing.

  He called Adrian. He liked her. She never said anything she didn't have to. Simply: "Franziska told me. I've emailed you the draft statement. Let me know if it is appropriate. I'm truly sorry, Miles."

  But then he had nothing else to do. Mr. Justice was too efficient. He could see why Phoenix had employed him.

  Miles pulled the envelope out of the pocket. It was a cheap thing, meant for bills so there was a plastic window that revealed a white rectangle of the paper inside. His name, written on the front, blue ballpoint with a tiny smear at the end, likely from using such an inexpensive pen. It had a few creases in it after being in his pocket. He smoothed them out as best he could. In doing that, his thumb nicked the back flap, and that was the point of no return: he tore it open and pulled out the letter.

  It was short.

  He read it.

  He read it again.

  He sat at Phoenix's desk. With the lamp on, he could hold the paper up and almost see what was written underneath the scrawled, crossed-out lines. He took out a pen and paper and carefully, letter-by-letter transcribed it as best he could. There were some words he couldn't read, and some letters that looked more like chicken scratch, but given Phoenix's handwriting, it was a miracle he could get anything down.

  Miles looked at the message on the paper, then laughed. He laughed so hard he started wheezing, then crying.

  Phoenix drifted. 

  There were periods of lucidity. Kristoph making small talk, his legs crossed and his smile compact. Eating apple sauce from the spoon he offered and drinking orange juice with a straw. The stranger in scrubs and an upside-down watch clipped to her front who asked him to rate his pain on a scale from 1 – no pain – to 10 – the worst pain imaginable and oh, that's good, it looks like you've gone down a little from where you were overnight, Mr. Wright. Maybe we can consider lowering your pain relief. Changing the dressings on his neck and trying not to notice the whiskery tickle of the stitches, or the way Kristoph stared so intently at it, admiring it.

  Then there were periods where he slept, or sort-of slept. He dreamed he talked to Trucy and pushed her on a swing, like he did when she was actually little, instead of perpetually his little girl. She was sad, in his dream, and kept looking at him like he was stupid every time he asked why. He dreamed he talked to Miles and it hurt so much he wanted to be sick: he threw up, and every gag brought forth more and more letters until he was drowning in words that never got read. He dreamed he talked to Apollo, except it was Trucy – no, it was Apollo, and he was disappointed, like he always was, which wasn't fair because no one could balance on that rickety pedestal.

  He dreamed of Kristoph and a bright silver blade; red scarves poured out, bled out of his neck, the first trick Trucy ever taught him.

  At some point Phoenix was more awake than not. He was able to hold a juice box and drink it with a straw, and was dying to eat something more substantial than rice pudding and apple sauce. His brain was foggy, still, from the painkillers, but he'd been able to stitch together an image of his location as the scenery around him sharpened, came into focus.

  He was in a large vehicle, large enough that Kristoph and the other person, the woman, could walk around. Everything was white. He was lying in some sort of half-chair, half-medical bed and attached to tubes for blood and fluid, and there was one machine that yelled at him whenever he breathed wrong. His body was strapped to the chair with a five-point-harness and a padlock; he suspected the stronger he got, the less limbs he'd be allowed to move.

  Kristoph had a stool that he pulled up to the bedside. He sat there now, reading a well-used paperback, and the scrit, scrit, scrit of the turning pages was oddly soothing; Phoenix thought he might be able to fall asleep to the rhythm of it, if it was anyone other than Kristoph Gavin. He purposely fought the drowsiness and started speaking instead.

  "What's your plan, Kristoph?" Phoenix sounded croaky, so he took a sip from his cup of water. "You assaulted me and then saved my life. Am I just… your captive now? I hang around in this – what is this? An RV? Forever? People will be looking for me. I was only meant to be out of the office for half an hour."

  He bookmarked his place with an elegant finger. "Would you believe that I don't have a plan?"

  Phoenix laughed – a bark, rough in his throat. He drank another sip of water. Conversation was turning out to be a lot more work than he'd thought it'd be. "Not one bit."

  "Smart. I will say that there is an element of playing things by ear. I've decided that being too rigid in these things can often be a detriment." He opened up his book again. "As far as your discovery goes, well, I don't foresee that being a problem."

  "Really? You attacked me in broad daylight. Which, by the way, is very out of character for you."

  Another smile. "I'm flattered that you think you know me, Phoenix Wright."

  The door opened and his nurse arrived, carrying a reusable bag of groceries and a newspaper under her arm. She gave him a little wave and he lifted his hand in return. It was an absurd situation, but some things were too ingrained to stop doing, even when lying in the back of a van, hooked up to an IV.

  "Ah, the good doctor returns." Kristoph put his book to the side. "Did you find everything?"

  "Yes." She was perfectly neutral when dealing with Kristoph, which meant she probably knew exactly who he was and exactly what he was capable of doing. Who is she to him? Is she scared? Could I press her for info or convince her to let me go? "Oh, sorry Mr. Wright, you weren't awake so I didn't ask if you had any special requests."

  "That’s…fine."

   "You can call me Dr. Sarah. I'll check your vitals in a bit."

  Ah shit, she's a doctor? I thought she was a nurse. That's really sexist of me. Wait, she's helping Kristoph Gavin kidnap me, I think I have more important stuff to worry about. "Thanks?"

  Dr. Sarah placed the shopping down near the door and walked over to where Kristoph was sitting at his bedside. "Could only find one today. They didn't have a great selection. " She dropped the newspaper down on the desk between them.

  PHOENIX WRIGHT'S MEMORIAL:

  TEARS SHED, REWARD OFFERED FOR ATTORNEY, PRESUMED DEAD

  "What?" Phoenix ignored his renewed pain and scrambled into a sitting position. He got tangled up in his IV and had to unwind his arm from it before he could reach over and grab the newspaper. "No, this is fake, come on. I'm not going to trust one stupid newspaper headline."

  He unfolded the paper, revealing a colour photograph, and his heart plummeted.

  There she was, Trucy, dressed in black. Barely recognisable, except for the fact he'd know his daughter anywhere. Miles stood next to her, a hand on her shoulder – OK, good, he didn't run away – and there was Apollo, sombre and steady on her other side. Maya and Larry and Klavier Gavin? Franziska and Adrian Andrews – oh right, they had that ceremony at the courthouse – and Will Powers and Lamiroir. A whole row of familiar faces, expressions mournful and dull and this isn't fake this is real how can this be real?

  "What's going on? Why do they think I'm dead? I'm still alive, right?"

  "You were the last time I looked," Dr. Sarah told him. She walked closer and started checking his pulse. "It was touch and go for a while. Losing nearly five pints of blood will do that. Lie back, you look pale."

  "How?"

  "I slit your throat, Phoenix Wright."

  A wave of dizziness crashed over him. As his vision wavered and the room spun, Kristoph remained a fixed point; horrible and serene, and smiling a knife-sharp smile.

  She didn't own any black clothes.

  Uncle Miles took her to the mall in his ridiculous mid-life-crisis car that Daddy always reminded her he bought when he was 20. Polly had told her that there'd been a dead body in it at one point, but there'd been a dead body in her Daddy's bedroom, too, so it didn't bother her.

  She didn't really know where to buy women's clothes. She made most of hers, all her costumes, and anything else she bought second-hand through thrifting and yard sales. Uncle Miles didn't know either, obviously: he went to the tailor for everything. They wandered around the mall in the too-bright fluorescent lights and the loud voices and clashing music until she noticed a shop window with a mannequin wearing a black dress. They bought the dress, and some tights, and black leather shoes with a heel because she was still a performer and was thinking about how she'd look standing next to Uncle Miles, who had nearly a foot of height on her.

  The day of the memorial Pearl helped her get dressed. She brushed her hair in long, tingly strokes, then braided it so it lay thick and heavy on her back. She zipped up the back of the dress and adjusted the collar, and removed the stray hair Trucy had already left on the material just from existing. Uncle Miles polished her shoes for her, since he had polished his, too, and she said, thank you, quietly, politely, like she was supposed to. The brand-new insole was slippery against the tights on her feet and the shoes were unfamiliar; she'd probably have a blister by the end of the day.

  She sat in front of her mirror and applied make-up, the thick, suffocating performance make-up that smoothed her skin to plastic and could last all day under stage lights. She drew on her eyebrows and painted on her lips. The weight of it was comforting: a second skin wrapped around her, keeping her insides from spilling out.

  The clock ticked forward getting closer to the memorial. Trucy felt out of time, stuck in place as the day rushed ahead without her, gathering steam, gathering momentum until the minutes flew by, the second-hand of the clock twitching every time she blinked. She wanted to take her time. She didn't want to go.

  Apollo took her arm, holding her elbow and her hand, the cars are here, and then they were walking down the steps and climbing into black and gleaming hire cars. Noises sounded tinny, distorted, but she could hear the stupid radio show the driver was listening to, and they were talking about Daddy.

  Can't believe the Turnabout Terror is really gone, can you, Mel? I thought he had more fight in him than this.

 And then Polly climbed over the seats to turn off the car stereo. Leaning in close to the driver's ear to hiss: "He was fucking murdered. Have some goddamn respect."

  It was July, and outside the church was bright and hot. Trucy shaded her face with a hand to her forehead and frowned at the click-click-click-click-click of photographers. Apollo hurried her inside, helped her into her seat in the row reserved for close friends and family. She was his only family, the only one with his last name. Everyone else was dead or gone. Maybe that's why he'd adopted everyone, every last orphan or stray he came across.

  There was a loose thread at her hem. Trucy wondered if Pearl had a sewing kit on her to fix it.

  The organ played and it was all so stupid. They never went to church. She didn't know most of these people: they'd never visited him when he was down and out and living paycheck to paycheck. Polly took her hand and squeezed it. She sighed, forcing all her anger out on that breath, then breathed in and did it again, and again, until she thought she could bear to sit in the middle of a sea of hypocrites.

  "I don't know who any of these people are," Uncle Miles muttered, and she grabbed his hand, too.

  She and Uncle Miles and Aunty Maya had spoken to the minister, and he'd written a eulogy with these primary sources:

  A baby was born. He turned into a little boy, who was accused of stealing; friendship blossomed between his staunch defender and the true thief. Art school, theatre and set design; changing majors and switching to law. Accused of murder; found his mentor, lost his mentor and reigned in the courtroom. Untimely disbarment (gloss over that), a great loss to society, to justice; renewed purpose as a father – everyone looking at her, put on a smile, not that bright, fuck, just enough -  a dedicated parent, taking any job he could to pay the bills. Redemption! His name cleared; tireless efforts to overhaul the legal system; he leaves behind his adopted daughter – breathe, Trucy, breathe – and many close friends. He will be dearly missed.

  "We will now hear a few words from Miles Edgeworth."

  Trucy let his hand go. She picked up the program in her lap instead, rolled it up and unfolded it. Uncle Miles looked washed out in his black suit. His clothes were neat and pressed and clean, but the man himself was crumpled, scrunched up inside the sharply tailored jacket.

  He placed his notes on the podium and adjusted the microphone.

  "Phoenix Wright was a very good man. The minister said it, the newspapers will say it, but they are relying on witness testimony. Words are not enough. Unless you were defended by Phoenix, you have no idea the depth and breadth of his dedication. Not simply to the law, or to the truth. He dedicated himself entirely to that person.

  "I myself once sat in a detention room, accused of a murder I did not commit. Phoenix Wright sat before me, separated by a pane of shatterproof glass. He swore he believed in me. Even as the evidence mounted against me. Even as I confessed to crimes I honestly believed I was responsible for doing. Even as my own foster father accused me of murder. Phoenix believed in me in the face of all logical proof.

  "He believed in me when I couldn't believe in myself.

  "Phoenix Wright spent seven years away from the courts. It is entirely fair, in my estimation, to say that they were seven, long, dark years for our justice system. Who knows what a single, shining light might have done to illuminate the truth, had he not been disbarred?

  "Despite this setback, Phoenix had recently passed the bar for the second time. This time, he had to balance his duties as a father, and full-time work, with his studies. Anyone who knew him was proud of this achievement. Unsurprised, but proud. It never occurred to any of us that he would not return to the courtroom.

  "The legal world will not know what the second half of Phoenix Wright's career might have brought us. What dishonesty he would have uncovered. Which innocent lives he might have saved. He saved me, once; he dragged me from corruption, from false beliefs. I will always be in his debt. I will always be grateful for what he did.

  "Phoenix Wright forged a legacy for himself as the defender of hopeless cases and a champion of truth. I admired this about him, and tried to model both my personal and professional ethics after him. Perhaps the hardest legacy of his that I must now follow is that of guardian. I know I will never replace him, could never replace him. All I can do is my best. All I can do is offer her the love and support Phoenix gave so effortlessly, to so many people."

  Uncle Miles folded his notes over. He closed his eyes.

  "I wish… there should have been more, Phoenix. I will carry these regrets to my grave."

  Uncle Miles left the podium. His hands were shaking and cold when she took them in hers.

  Aunty Maya went up and told some stories about Daddy, like how he accidentally binge-watched all of the Steel Samurai the night before a trial, and that he once cross-examined a parrot; she left out the part where Prosecutor von Karma had re-trained the parrot overnight, but people chuckled and the mood shifted. Trucy appreciated how hard it was to get people to laugh at a memorial service.

  Uncle Larry said a few words through his tears. A story about Daddy working out that Gordy wasn't real, and another about when he was in college and he didn't take off a sweater for an entire semester because a pretty girl knitted it for him. A lot of it was him yelling angrily at the photo they'd had printed, not one where Daddy was painting but a press photo from the Misham trial. Nicky! How could you go and leave us! Don't you know we were supposed to stick together through thick and thin! Detective Gumshoe helped him off the stage.

  Then Polly stood up beside her and made his way to the microphone.

  "Hello, I'm Apollo Justice. I work – worked for Mr. Wright. Up until last Wednesday, that is.

  "When I first met Mr. Wright, he was being charged with murder – again. I was a rookie lawyer, had never had a case before this. It got dumped on me pretty much the morning we went into court. Of course, it turns out the man framing him was my boss, and the lawyer Mr. Wright had initially hired, but at the time I was blown away.

  "I couldn't believe it. Me, defending the great Phoenix Wright. I was in awe. For about twelve seconds. And then he opened his mouth.

  "Those seven years he spent not practicing law changed him, as they would change anyone. He believed desperate action was needed to see justice done; to see the truth finally revealed after all those years. In doing so, he crossed lines that I believed, at the time, were unforgivable. Unfathomable.

  "And I now find myself facing a situation that I believe requires desperate action: the missing body of Phoenix Wright. His killer, or killers, who have yet to be caught.

  "I have been authorised to offer a $2 million reward for any information leading to the arrest of his killers, or the return of his body."

  A swell of murmurs, whispers, a tide of voices that rose right up to the ceiling. Click-click-click-click and Detective Gumshoe shouting at the paparazzi; the sound of a scuffle; doors opening, doors closing.

  Trucy looked around, trying to gauge the reactions of the crowd. Aunty Maya was shocked, and so was Pearl. Uncle Larry was still crying. Franziska and her wife were talking to themselves, and they looked concerned. Uncle Miles was blank – she couldn't get a read off him. From the corner of her eye she saw a golden head – Klavier Gavin is here? Why is he here? Is that Lamiroir with him? – and then Apollo tapped the microphone, making people wince from the feedback.

  "Please, if anyone has information, send it in to the police. Phoenix Wright deserves a proper burial. His family deserves to say good bye. Thank you."

  He scurried off stage and sank down into the chair next to her.

  "What the hell, Polly."

  "Shh, Trucy, I'll tell you later."

  They held the wake at the Wright Anything Agency, though it was much too small for this purpose. Maya insisted, and Trucy hadn't argued, so Miles handed over his credit card and told them to make sure the food was edible at least. Maya told him you can't have actually good food at a wake!

  He'd quickly taken the card back and hired his usual caterer.

  Now, after that interminable memorial, after the throat-dry eulogy he'd given, a crowd of nearly forty people were packed into a two-bedroom office. Black clothes and handkerchiefs; cocktail napkins and canapes; Trucy's magic props and Wright's legal books. Quiet classical music played on a cheap Bluetooth speaker. The mourners circulated, made small talk and introductions, then inevitably turned to where he stood beside Phoenix's daughter.

  They shook his hand. They shook her hand, or kissed her cheek, or hugged her; they touched her, as if they needed to make sure she was still there.

  Detective Gumshoe was one of the first. He was haggard and looked comical in the rented suit that strained at his shoulders. He gathered Trucy up in his large arms and hugged her tight, kissed her head. She pressed her face into him for a moment, and then she was back on her feet again.

  "We won't let 'em get away with this. I promise."

  "Thank you, Uncle Gumshoe."

  Then he shook Miles' hand, and hugged him, too, because the man had no concept of propriety. He smelled like cheap cologne and smoked salmon from the buffet. "I'm so, so sorry Mr. Edgeworth. I know you and Mr. Wright – "

  "Detective, we were good friends and colleagues." He'd said it so many times now, his mouth ached with the lie. At his side, Trucy shifted, arms crossing.

  Gumshoe winced. "Right, right. Sorry again, sir."

  A beautiful woman, dressed in a flowing, black cloak. She was graceful and sad beyond description, and she simply held Trucy's hand in both of hers.

  His sister and Adrian. Franziska had left her whip at home. She kept one hand in the crook of Adrian's elbow and held on to her handbag with the other, squeezing the strap; she looked terribly vulnerable, and he hated it. He wondered what she saw when she looked at him.

  "Little brother. And now, I see, I have a niece." She sniffed behind her veil. Miles might have taken it for disinterest except her eyes were puffy and she'd dabbed away most of her mascara. "I'm sorry for your loss."

  "Thank you."

  "He was a foolish man, Phoenix Wright. Soft-hearted and too kind. He will be sorely missed." She refused to wait for a reply. She stalked off, the sound of her heels muted on the grey carpet.

  "She's very upset." Adrian frowned. "I'm sorry for your loss."

  More people. A steady stream, a chorus of:  I'm sorry for your loss I'm sorry for your loss I'm sorry for your loss I'm sorry for your loss I'm sorry for your loss. And the response to that call: thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you.

  The day went on. Trucy started swaying on her feet. My God, when did she last eat? It's been less than a week and I'm already failing her. Then Pearls was there with that anxious-polite smile. She wrapped an arm around Trucy and supported her, led her away from the crowd and towards the girl's bedroom.

  Am I truly this useless? Miles took a paper plate and gathered a selection of food from the buffet: mini quiches and pastries; some finger sandwiches; a cupcake; a brownie; three cookies; hummus and crackers and neatly cut vegetables; and a cup of orange juice.

  He awkwardly rapped on the door with his knuckles, almost spilling juice on his sleeve.

  Pearls opened the door. "Oh!" She quickly took the offerings. "Thank you, Mr. Edgeworth."

  "Is Trucy all right? Does she need anything?"

  "Rest and some water, I think. It's been a long day."

  I know. I should have known. "Are you sure?" He tapped his fingers on the door frame. A nervous tic. He should stop it. "She might be sick. Should I call a doctor?"

  It wasn't quite pity on Pearls' face, just close enough to sting. "Let's give her some time and see if she improves before we call a doctor." She shut the door slowly, gently, so he had time to move out of the way.

  People started to leave in ones and twos. Another handshake, another apology. The volume decreased, the room felt less crowded, cooler, more exposed. Miles told Maya he was going to the bathroom, and then he did, locking the door and then leaning back against it.

  He felt grimy and gritty after being touched by so many people. He washed his hands with hot water and soap. Phoenix's shampoo and conditioner were still in the shower. Phoenix's toothbrush was still in its holder. Phoenix's allergy medicine was still on the shelf. Phoenix's razor was – he closed the cabinet swiftly, bringing his mirrored face back into view.

  He looked pale and old and tired.

  Miles didn't think he'd been in the bathroom that long, but when he returned to the reception area/living room he found only stragglers remained. Larry and Maya and Will Powers. The graceful woman he couldn't name. Justice and Ema Skye. Detective Gumshoe. The caterers had packed away the food before anyone could steal the leftovers.

  "Edgeworth," Maya said and approached him. "Are you all right? You were in the bathroom for a long time. Wait, if it's gross, don't tell me. Larry found some of Nick's vodka, and then Klavier Gavin – did you know that’s the Klavier Gavin? – he said he'd go out and get some more booze. So here," she passed him a paper cup, "to Nick."

  "To Phoenix," he toasted, and drank the liquid. It was just as rough as he remembered, but less sickly sweet; she'd mixed it with soda water instead of grape juice. "How many behind am I?"

  "Two."

  "A double then, please."

  She poured it for him, no hesitation; she just patted his arm and pointed towards the table where the caterers had left half-empty bottles of juice and soda. He had to assume someone asked them to leave the drinks: his caterers were usually much more thorough than that. Miles squared his shoulders. I am going to get drunk, he decided. No, first I'm going to talk to Justice, and then I will get drunk. He filled the rest of his cup up with soda water again and found the younger lawyer, deep in conversation with Ema Skye.

  "… and Phoenix is shitting himself, or at least it looked like he was – sorry sir, didn't see you there!" Ema covered her mouth with a hand as she realised she'd cursed in front of the Chief Prosecutor. He shrugged and gestured for her to continue. She took a fortifying gulp of her drink. "Right, so, he still waits, and he waits, until right after that fuckin' orange asshole incriminates himself. And then he submits the evidence." She shook her head and munched on a potato chip. "I still have no idea if he actually understood evidence law, or if he was bluffing so hard we all went along with it."

  "A bit of both, I suspect." Miles offered. "In the end, it didn't matter. Whatever he did, it freed a number of people from their chains. Myself included." And what did I do once I was cut free? I wrote a suicide note and tried to jump off a building and failed. Ah, another instance of me being too cowardly to commit. "To Phoenix Wright."

  "To Phoenix Wright," they echoed.

  Ema excused herself to find more chips. Miles turned towards the younger lawyer who brushed down his spiky bangs and darted his eyes towards the door. Interesting.

  "Mr. Justice. I'd like to speak to you."

  He was waiting for it, so he caught the guilty expression. "Of course, sir." He leaned in. Conspiratorial. "Is this about the reward money?"

  A moment. Let him squirm. Miles paused to take a large sip of his drink. He only had half left. He should refill it. "Yes." Another sip. "Imagine my surprise, Mr. Justice, when I discovered that the amount I initially offered had suddenly doubled overnight."

  "That would be my fault, Herr Edgeworth."

  Prosecutor Gavin had returned from his shopping expedition, interrupting smoothly, almost to the point of not seeming impolite. Justice swayed with relief. How was the boy so good in court if this was how he bluffed in the real world?  Gavin placed an eco-friendly bag full of spirits on the table and began unpacking them. Of course. He spearheaded the Police Go Green Initiative and that's why my office lights turn off if I stay still for fifteen minutes.

  "Herr Forehead mentioned you were offering a reward to entice people to come forward and I thought, 'Klavier. This was a crime against a good man and a good lawyer. To let it go unsolved would be an affront to justice. What is a million dollars to you? It is money. It is worthless, unless it is used to help people.'"

  An affront to justice. Miles glanced at the shorter man. He was red-faced and staring at the floor. I suspect it was an affront to Justice that really made Klavier open his wallet. "Excuse me for prying, if I am indeed prying, but when would you have heard of my offer from Mr. Justice? I told him only last night. Late. It was nearly midnight, as I recall."

  "It was before the memorial!" Justice blurted out.

  It was the loudest and sorriest excuse for a lie Miles had ever heard. It was laughable. And perhaps, a week ago, he would have laughed at it – a dry chuckle, or snort of amusement – as Phoenix gleefully told him all the details. He could hear his voice: Polly's got a boyfriend and it's adorable, Edgeworth! He keeps checking his phone every five minutes in case he has a new text. Every time I ask him 'who's it from? Is it a client?' he blushes right to his neck and stutters out some terrible lie. You'll have to come by for lunch sometime this week and see it yourself.

  He ached with sudden longing. He wanted that life back, minutia and all.

  Miles ignored the hollow feeling in his chest and smirked instead. He tapped his temple. "That is very interesting. Perhaps my memory is faulty. I seem to remember you stuck to Trucy's side from the moment we entered the hired car until you revealed the reward money. And Prosecutor Gavin, you were late entering the church, too, weren't you? I presume it had something to do with the wall of press."

  "Chief Prosecutor," Klavier began. His voice sounded warm. Honey-sweet and just as sticky. "A very smart man once told me 'all that matters is uncovering the truth'. That is what we are doing, ja? Uncovering the truth of Herr Wright's murder?"

  Miles nodded stiffly.

  "Then we are in agreement. More importantly," a smile, a flash of canines, "I believe you might enjoy this bottle of scotch."

  Ah, a bribe. I told you I would wind up corrupt one day, Wright.

  "You are absolutely correct, Prosecutor Gavin. Thank you." He took the bottle. His gaze lingered on the pair of them. "And thank you, sincerely, for your generous reward."

  He was given a proper meal that night. There was roast chicken, mashed potatoes and green beans; gravy and a dinner roll with a pat of butter. Phoenix ate it all, enjoying the stringy-dry texture of the meat and the lumps in the potatoes. The bread was chewy and sweet and tasted wonderful with the hard slab of butter he tried to spread on it with a plastic knife. After days of living on pastes and purees, he was more than happy to eat something that required his teeth.

  He was ravenous. He didn't care about manners – not in front of the people currently holding him against his will – so he shovelled it into his mouth as fast as he could, ignoring the sharp reminders from his still-healing neck. From what Dr. Sarah told him, he'd been extremely lucky, both in terms of blood loss and the severity of the wound. Any deeper and Kristoph might have damaged his oesophagus or windpipe. And aren't I glad he only sliced my carotid artery?

  Kristoph ate his meal slower, with real cutlery; he placed dainty portions in his mouth and savoured them. Once he had swallowed his last bite, he placed his knife and fork neatly on the plate. Dr. Sarah removed all the dishes from the table.

  "I hope you enjoyed dinner, Phoenix."

  "The food was good. The company…" he waggled his hand to indicate its mediocrity.

  His answer pleased Kristoph: he smiled, chuckled low in his throat. Dr. Sarah ignored the interplay between them. She took Phoenix' vitals and then adjusted his restraints so that he was once again locked in place. Aw, is leisure time over? So soon? His wrists were flush with the arms of his chair, held in place by leather cuffs. Not that he was much of a threat: he was weak from blood loss and even small movements caused him to wince in pain.

  The other man had slowly enjoyed a glass of wine over dinner, and still had a few sips left; he had one, now, before speaking. "You know, I've always been fascinated with your first trial."

  "My first trial?" His eyebrows shot up. "Cindy Stone's murder?"

  The smile widened. Kristoph raised his wineglass to his lips and drained it. When it was empty, he placed it back on the table. "No. The trial in which you were accused of murdering Doug Swallow. The true culprit, of course, being your shared lover. Dahlia Hawthorne."

  Just the name made Phoenix's stomach roll. "Kristoph."

  "I wish I could have met her, your Dahlia. She made such a lasting impact on you." His long fingers were running around the rim of the glass. "Do you ever wonder if other people can see it on you? The damage she caused? I can, Phoenix. It's beautiful." Kristoph's eyes dropped to his mouth, and he couldn't stop himself from licking his lower lip; he had a scar there, silvery now, and he could feel it on his tongue. "She was quite a remarkable woman, and your first love, too. No wonder you wanted to protect her from those hideous lies."

  Phoenix realised Dr. Sarah had left. He was alone with Kristoph. He consciously relaxed his muscles, falling into the loose body language of his poker playing days. "What can I say? I was young and stupid. And she was really pretty."

  "I'm afraid that's giving you too much credit." He tapped a long nail on the glass and let it ring in the otherwise silent room. "You were nearly murdered. Nearly declared guilty of murder, all because you refused to give back her 'gift'. Refused to give back the evidence of her crimes. Were you that oblivious to what she wanted? Or were you just so desperate for love that you ignored all her hints?"

  If you wanted to hurt me, maybe you should have found a wound a little newer to poke at. Not this old scar.

  Phoenix laughed. "I mean, I was pretty oblivious! I didn't even know I was dating two of them!"

  "Mmm, that was an interesting twist, practically out of Hitchcock: betrayed by two women who both professed to love you. And you loved them – her – so madly; Dahlia had you so completely under her thumb that you'd do anything for her. Did anything for her."

  "You know I didn't kill the guy, right, Kristoph?"

  "Oh, of course not. You don't have the guts to kill a man. No," Kristoph shook his head, "you simply tampered with evidence. Weren't you studying law at the time, too? You must have known the full implications of your actions and yet you did it anyway."

  Phoenix shrugged. He didn't have an answer for what he'd done as a 21-year-old.

  Kristoph's eyes glittered. "Ah, no retort, Phoenix Wright? Then I will claim the point, and, I believe, my prize."

  He picked up the empty wine glass. For a moment he held it by the stem, held it aloft so that it caught the light. Then, he brought his arm down, full-force, and smashed it against the table top. It shattered, exploded, shards flying everywhere; they landed on the floor and on the table and on the toe of Phoenix's shoe. Kristoph's hand was pouring blood from a cut to his palm, but he didn't flinch, didn't even seem to notice the blood dripping down his wrist and soaking into his sleeve.

  "Jesus Christ, Kristoph! What the fuck?!"

  Kristoph ignored him. He picked up a fragment of glass the size of his thumb. "Eat it."

  Phoenix jerked as far as his restraints would let him. He felt strain on the stitches at his neck and prayed they didn't pop open. "Kristoph, I'm not eating fucking glass!"

  "Why on earth not? You saw no issue with it when it came time to protect Dahlia Hawthorne."

  His throat was burning already: his tense muscles pulled at his injury, and he felt phantom pain from the memory of being a stupid kid and swallowing down blood and glass.

  "I-I was 21-years-old, Kristoph! Yeah, I ate some glass, because I was a fucking moron and thinking with my dick and convinced I was in love. It was one of the dumbest things I've ever done. So, no, I'm not eating fucking glass for you, Kristoph! Christ!"

  Kristoph was very still.

  Then, he laughed.

  It was a real, proper laugh: no condescension, just honest amusement. As he laughed, he put the glass fragment down and grabbed a bundle of napkins to press to his wounded hand. "Oh, Phoenix. The look on your face."

  Phoenix groaned. He fell back against his chair. He felt dizzy from useless, wasted adrenaline and his neck was throbbing. Behind him, a monitor kept track of his pulse, every too-fast beat. "Fuck! Are you fucking kidding me?"

  "Of course. I'd never make you eat glass." That set him off again, and he laughed until there were tears in his eyes. "Ah. No, no, you don't need to eat glass." Hand now clean of blood, he picked up the shard again. "I'll simply cut you instead."

  And he did.

  Trucy’s feet hurt. She'd been in the new shoes too long.

  She sat down and took off the heels and her tights. Her legs felt cold and slippery without the material and she tucked them under herself, sitting cross legged on her bed. Pearl had made it this morning, so it was smooth and flat and even had a blanket folded up at the bottom of the bed. In the middle of summer. At least I'll be prepared for any unseasonable snow storms.

  Pearl talked to Uncle Miles at the door, then she came back, looking puzzled and holding way too much food. "I think Mr. Edgeworth thinks you're dying."

  Trucy half-laughed. "I am hungry though."

  They shared the plate of food. Uncle Miles had put so many things on it that the paper wanted to fold under itself; she used a book to support the weight. There were cheese and spinach pastries, and a chocolate croissant. Smoked salmon and cream cheese and egg and watercress finger sandwiches. Bacon and leek quiche. A small container of hummus that tasted like it had been made by hand instead of coming out of a crappy plastic tub. Then a pile of baked goods that they divided: Pearl got the cupcake and Trucy the brownie, and one and a half cookies each.

  Pearl made her drink both the orange juice and the bottle of water she had in her handbag, and all together it made her head feel sharper, and her tongue stop sticking to the top of her mouth.

  Eating from the same plate as Pearl made a memory bubble to the surface. Trucy held it for a moment, carefully examining it for painful edges; the hurt seemed worth it, to talk about her Daddy, to revive him for a short amount of time with someone who loved him, too.

  "Hey, do you remember that time we went to Gatewater Land?"

  Pearl wiped her mouth with the corner of a napkin. Her eyes lit up. "When Mr. Nick bought us the churros?"

  "Yeah! God, we must have spent half an hour wearing him down. He kept saying they weren't going to be any good –"

  "They were terrible!"

  "They were terrible. And expensive. No wonder Daddy didn't want to buy them." She dipped her finger in the remaining hummus and licked it off. Pearl didn't like it, so she could commit as many food hygiene crimes as she wanted. "The next weekend, like, the very next weekend, somehow we ran into the food truck that did the good churros. So, obviously, we had some and they were amazing. He did it on purpose, I know he did. He was so smug about it."

  "Mr. Nick wasn't smug!"

  "Daddy could totally be smug, You just never saw it," Trucy grinned, then continued in a sing-song voice, "because you had a crush on him."

  "Trucy!" Pearl blushed pink, even the tips of her ears. She covered her face in her hands and spoke in a mortified whisper. "I was twelve and it was only for two weeks."

  "It was still gross." Trucy fell back on to her bed, head hitting the pillow. She kicked her legs like a small child. "Yuck!"

  Pearl moved the remains of their meal to the bedside table and joined her, lying on her side next to Trucy and sharing the pillow. Her breath smelled like vanilla and sugar and there was a crumb at the corner of her mouth. "It was your fault for playing Truth or Dare! You're the one with truth telling powers."

  Trucy rolled her eyes. They had this argument, or one just like it, a lot. She changed the subject. She didn't want to think about her friend's awful taste in men. "Hey, grab Mr. Hugglebug for me?"

  Pearl passed over the stuffed firefly and Trucy turned on the light in his butt. She grabbed the blanket from the foot of her bed and drew it up around them and over their heads until they were hiding underneath it, lit by the green-glow of her comfort toy. Pearl giggled.

  "Remember the blanket fort you made with Mr. Nick?"

  "Fort Sheetamento! God, that stayed up for months. We staged a siege, eventually. It was getting colder and Daddy kept complaining about what a hassle it was to only have one set of sheets he was allowed to use."

  They drifted into silence and were quiet for a while. It was humid under the blanket, but safe, and peaceful: everything was softer there, everything was muted. Pearl closed her eyes, a faint smile on her face. She's been so worried, Trucy realised. There were wispy bits of hair falling out of the twists on her head and they fuzzed about her, a halo sticking to the fibres of the woollen blanket.

  She was so completely, tangibly there. But Daddy had been, too. The day he died, he'd messed up her hair and rubbed his stubbly chin all over her face when she complained about it. He'd had morning breath and coffee breath and then minty breath and left toothpaste flecks on the mirror; he swore up and down it was Apollo's fault. And now her hair was brushed smooth, and Pearl had cleaned the mirror, and no one knew where her Daddy's body was, with his clean-shaven face.

  Desperation clawed up from her stomach. What if this is the last time I see her? I didn't know it was the last time I'd see Daddy, and I didn't tell him I loved him before we walked down the stairs. Pearl was right there and she wanted to crush her into a hug, or hold her hand; she wanted to hear her talk and press her ear to her chest to feel it. Please hold me please do something please talk to me.

  "Pearl?" Her panic trembled in her voice. She wanted to swallow it down and keep it there forever. "Are you awake?"

  Her friend's eyes opened, then widened. "Trucy! Are you all right?"

  "I don't know."

  Pearl yanked the blanket off them and helped Trucy sit upright again. Her palm rubbed her back, and it helped, a little, that physical contact and motion that said we're alive and we're still here. But she still felt like she was a mess. Still felt like a thousand separate pieces, all jagged and sharp; she'd been smashed apart. She didn't want to be broken and she didn't know how to ask for help without hurting others. She didn't think she could fix it by herself.

  "Do you want me to get someone? I could get Mr. Edgeworth?"

  "No!" Trucy turned around, just in time to see Pearl's shocked expression. "I mean, I don't want to talk to him right now. He's… he's having a hard time. And," Trucy hung her head, "he keeps lying and I don't know why."

  "Mr. Edgeworth?" Pearls had a crush on him at one point, too, even after Trucy told her he was very gay. "But he never lies! What is he lying about?"

  Trucy rubbed at her eyes. "I'm not sure." Pearl gave her a look. "OK, OK. Um," her throat felt tight. She wished she hadn't finished all the water. "Every time he talks about me, about being my guardian, he rubs his chest a little bit, over his heart. I don't think he likes me. At least, not enough to want to st-stay." Oh no, I've said it now and it's going to come true. She closed her eyes. She pressed the heels of her hands onto her eyelids and breathed out, all hot and shaky with unshed tears. "What will I do if he leaves me, too?"

  "No, no, no, shh, Trucy, Mr. Edgeworth would never leave you."

  "He left my Daddy. And you know how much they cared about each other. Th-they loved each other, they said so when Aunty Maya ch-channeled Daddy."

  "Oh!" Pearl tugged insistently at her until she uncovered her face. "Would that help? If you could talk to Mr. Nick and have him tell you not to worry?"

  She didn't want to get her hopes up. She didn't want more proof that he was dead.

  "Trucy, would you like me to channel Mr. Nick for you?"

  Will Powers and Ema Skye left one after the other. They each shook Mr. Edgeworth's hand again, and told him how sorry they were for his… for the loss of a great man.

  Apollo couldn't help but look at Klavier and wonder just how long they might have waited if not for this terrible catalyst. Would he have been so stubborn, so wrapped up in his own head, that he didn't notice the bond between them until it was too late? Would people have talked around his pain? Would they have outlined his own feelings by the words they placed so carefully?

  Larry and Maya had taken one couch; Mr. Edgeworth and Detective Gumshoe had the other. Klavier was spread out on the floor, one leg bent with his arm resting on it, the very picture of tousled elegance. He is so stupid-pretty.

  "Polly!" Larry Butz had heard Trucy call him that once, and immediately started using it. He also seemed to think that the nickname meant they were equally good friends. "Grab a chair, bro! We're talking about dumb shit Nicky did."

  "I don't know if anything is going to beat the time he showed the murderer his conclusive evidence. Wait." Maya frowned. "Times." 

  Apollo half-listened to the conversation as he walked towards the back of the office. Mr. Edgeworth was saying something about meeting up with the man who ruined his career every Friday night for seven years, and a sudden chill went down his spine. Kristoph Gavin is dead. Kristoph Gavin was executed. He shivered, regardless, and couldn't help the apprehension sinking into his skin.

  As he approached Trucy's door he could hear some murmurs, but it didn't sound like crying. I'm glad Trucy has Pearl to help her through this. I feel like I keep saying the wrong things.

  He switched on the light when he entered Mr. Wright's office. There was a surprised cry from the bed – oh shit someone's in here – and he realised at least one more guest had hung around. "Sorry! I can go, I was just getting a chair."

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and then another for him to recognise her. She was wearing black, of course, instead of a blue and starry cloak; her face was free of its veil, and she had taken off her hood so it no longer covered her. Lamiroir.

  "No need to apologise, Apollo," she told him. Her beautiful voice was stuffy from crying. "I was the one sitting here in the dark. I suppose I find it a comfort, even now."

  He entered the room and closed the door behind him. "I didn't know you and Mr. Wright were so close." Immediately, he panicked. "Ack, that's rude, sorry."

  Lamiroir was graceful as ever. She smiled and idly stroked her golden-brown hair. "We had many shared interests, Phoenix and I."

  His bracelet had been acting up for hours, and it suddenly twinged again. He tried to ignore it. He didn't want to pry into Lamiroir's grief. Today, of all days, a person was entitled to their privacy; whatever lies or half-truths she wanted to give about her relationship with Mr. Wright was solely her own business.

  "I had no idea." Apollo ran a hand over his hair. "I didn't know a lot about him, really. Every time I thought I'd got a handle on him, he'd surprise me."

  She nodded. "He was a man with many facets. Was he," she touched her hair again, "was he a good employer?"

  Apollo laughed, just a little bit. That's sort of a weird question.

  "Um, sure. In the end. He was preoccupied to begin with. I think he was worried about Kristoph Gavin, even after he was behind bars. But, I warmed up to him. He became less abrasive. And," he sighed, "he was still Phoenix Wright. He was still brilliant, and cunning, and I had a lot of things left to ask him. A lot of things I wanted to learn." Apollo shrugged. "I guess he must've thought I had what it takes to be a defense attorney, because he left me half of the Wright Anything Agency."

  "Oh yes," she said, and there was complete conviction in her tone. "He was very proud of you. Of both of you."

  "He talked to you about us?" Apollo scrunched up his face. His bracelet was loose for the first time since he stepped into the bedroom. "Did he tell everyone how he felt about me except me? I don't understand. Why not let people know that you respect them or you care about them? What's the point in keeping it secret?"

  A sad smile. "When you are older, you may understand. Every decision has consequences. Even the simplest choice may change a life forever."

  That's a little patronising. "Maybe."

  He looked at her, really looked at her. She was tense and trying to hide it. The hair stroking wasn't the gesture she wanted to make: there was a slight pause when her fingers reached her chest; they hovered there a moment, an imperceptible moment to anyone else, and then diverted to the heavy braid of hair she had spilling over her shoulder. That's what Mr. Wright and Trucy do! They suppress their tells, or cover them up. When did Lamiroir learn how to do this?

  Abruptly: "I should be going. I believe I've overstayed my welcome."

  Shit, I've been really rude. "No, no. I'm sorry. Did I make you uncomfortable? It's sort of a bad habit of mine."

  "No, it isn't you." A twinge from his bracelet. Way to go, Apollo. She was upset and you had to be yourself at her so hard she wants to escape. This might be the fastest anyone's left you after you showed them what you're like. A new personal best. "It is late, and I believe I've missed my opportunity to talk to Trucy."

  "I can pass on your regards, if you like."

  She smiled again, less sad. "Thank you, Apollo. I would appreciate that."

  He offered her a hand to stand up. After a slight hesitation, she accepted. Her hand was cool and smooth in his and he was hugely self-conscious of how sweaty his palm was; he pulled her up quickly so she wouldn't get grossed out, then used his other hand to steady her, placing it on her wrist. Before she seemed completely stable on her feet she pulled away, wrapping her arms around herself to cradle her body as close as she could.

  "Good night, Mr. Attorney."

  Apollo waited for her to leave. Then he waited another few minutes just to be sure she'd left the office. I really don’t want to have another awkward conversation with her if I catch her saying goodbye to everyone else.  After he was certain she’d exited the building, he took Mr. Wright's chair from the desk and rolled it out the door. As he passed the bathroom, it opened a crack, and then Klavier said, "psst, Herr Forehead", like the world's worst spy.

  He let go of the chair and allowed himself to get pulled into the bathroom.

  "Erstens, I have this for you," he held a drink in one hand and two pills in the cupped palm of the other.

  "Is that -?"

  "Tylenol and water, ja. For your headache."

  "What headache? I don't have a heada – no, actually. I do. I do have a headache." He sheepishly accepted the painkillers and swallowed them quickly. It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for him; he couldn't help the butterflies from fluttering in his stomach. "Thank you."

  "Kein Problem." Klavier looked very pleased with himself. "Zweitens, how are you holding up?"

  Apollo shrugged. "I'm fine. It's been a long day." He sighed. "I really want to go home." I really want to go home with you. "I told Mr. Edgeworth that I'd help clean up after the wake. If you want to go, I completely understand. This, uh, doesn't really seem like your scene."

  He looked at him until Apollo met his gaze again. "Herr Forehead. I will stay for as long as I can. I have commitments tomorrow, but, " Klavier brushed away the hair that fell in front of his ear, tucking it back again. Apollo leaned into the contact. "That still leaves this evening, ja?"

  They'd decided several days ago that they should keep their distance, at least until after the memorial. It hadn't stopped Klavier from turning up at his apartment last night, and it hadn't stopped Apollo from inviting him in; it hadn’t stopped Klavier from kissing him with growing confidence, or stopped Apollo from dragging him to bed. Afterwards, sticky and sweaty and still in their clothes – why do we keep forgetting to take off our pants? – they'd talked until Mr. Edgeworth's phone call interrupted them, and then talked even more. He'd kept finding things to say to Klavier, stupid things like, what's your favourite piece of legislation, just to hear him talk. Just to keep the conversation going, even as his eyelids grew heavy and he knew he'd pay for it the next day.

  I have it really bad, don't I?

  Apollo groaned. "We should go back out."

  Klavier made no attempt to move. "Ja, probably."

  "I can't believe Mr. Edgeworth figured us out already."

  "You looked at me and then went as red as your suit! I'm only surprised it took him this long." He lost some of his humour. "Will you keep an eye on him, mein Stacheltier? He is drinking heavily tonight. He… has a history of rash decisions."

  Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death.

  Apollo felt the blood drain from his face. He nodded, earnest now. "Of course."

  "Danke. I appreciate it."

  They lingered there for another minute or so, and then Apollo stood on his toes and kissed Klavier – then kissed him again – and quickly ducked out the door before Mr. Edgeworth accused them of being inappropriate in a bathroom during a wake.

  "Oh!" Maya took a drink from her cup. She balanced it on her knees so she could put her hands together. "I have one! Weirdest injuries! I'll go first! One time he got hit on the head with a fire extinguisher and forgot how to be a lawyer."

  "How?!" 

  "No way!"

  "Did that happen before his first trial? If so, that would explain a few things."

  "Edgey!" Larry shouted in abrupt anger. "That's really mean, bro! He got you off two murder charges!" Then, as if nothing had happened, he put on a goofy smile and leaned back in his chair, so far that it was resting on the back legs. "Hey, you know what, though? I was there when Nicky ran over the burning bridge. Well, tried to. He didn't quite make it."

  Miles' mouth twitched. "The man fell 40 feet into a raging river. It's a miracle he survived."

  He took a large gulp of his drink, which was straight scotch at this point. He still remembered the mad panic of the phone call Larry made, the rush to the airport; a flight over the Atlantic with his legs cramping from tension and the connecting flight he managed from sheer determination. Then, Phoenix, safe and in one piece, and the crashing, crushing realisation that he was fine and that he loved him. And he would have said it, had opened his mouth to say it, artless and blunt as he always was with emotions, but then Phoenix said, I need you to defend Iris for me, and the moment was gone.

  He drank again. That memory could still knock the air out of him, almost a decade on.

  Miles placed another injury on their growing pile. "I believe he was also assaulted by Redd White."

  "Yeah, and he got stun-gunned. And whipped." Maya added. "The von Karmas really had it out for him."

  "He got run over by a car," Justice offered. The young lawyer couldn't meet his eyes, not after their conversation earlier. "And I punched him."

  Larry held his hand up for a high-five, which he reluctantly gave. "I punched him all the time!"

  "Me too!" This was from Maya.

  "I also may have punched him. After his disbarment."

  Miles flexed his hand, remembering the way Phoenix's jaw had felt under his knuckles, bony and hard and stubborn, just like him. The man had been drunk and angry – furious – about his circumstances; had ranted for hours about how corrupt the system was. Miles had agreed, of course: the courts were rotten and needed to be torn down and rebuilt fresh. But that wasn't enough for Phoenix, not that night. He'd wanted a fight. He'd wanted Miles to argue, and eventually he railed on his closest friend and staunchest ally, picking at the threads that stitched together his self-worth.

  What about you, Edgeworth? Can I even trust you? You were Gant and Skye's tool. The Demon Prosecutor. You were part of the problem; how many innocent lives did you ruin? What would your father –

  He refilled his cup. When did I drink it all? He refilled his cup. Wait. Already? He refilled his cup, and then Detective Gumshoe took the bottle away, and he complained, he wasn't finished, he hadn't finished it, but his actions were too slow and by the time he'd realised, the scotch was too far away. The man said something in that gruff baritone but listening was much too much work, so Miles closed his eyes.

  Some time passed. Justice and Gavin were talking quietly above his head. Accented, a rise and fall of a sentence, then a reply spoken with breathless sincerity. The rhythm of the conversation, though, made them sound like two halves of a whole. Volley and return. Point, then counterpoint.

  Like half a sword and a broken shield.

  Gant took away the sword, remember? It's just the shield now.

  No, Gant's in jail, it couldn't be him. They don't know who took away the sword, yet, they just know he bled to death in the alley downstairs.

  "Come on, Herr Edgeworth. It's time you went to bed."

  Two sets of arms lifting him from the sofa. Wobbly legs and one eye closed to stop the room from spinning so violently. Oh no, no, not Wright's room, not his bed that still smells like him. Justice said something, it made Gavin laugh. They placed him on the bed and turned him on his side – always on the side, Stacheltier, to prevent choking, hand me that pillow – and then there was a cushion behind him, and a smaller one against his chest. I'll get some water, hang on. Maybe a bucket? He wasn't that far gone, surely? A glass and cold water; he drank it down until his belly sloshed with it.

  He thought: this mattress is terrible.

  He thought: I got too drunk.

  He thought: von Karma will be furious with me in the morning.

  And then he stopped thinking for a period of time.

  When he opened his eyes again he was still drunk, just not as much. He threw up in the bucket beside the bed and then washed his mouth out with the glass of water left there. Damn Justice. The man himself had fallen asleep propped up against the door; he'd hunched in on himself and was snoring softly, giving the distinct impression of a pigeon in a suit jacket. 

  There was grey light coming in from the window, the one that looked out on to the Gatewater. His watch said it was 5AM. He rolled on to his back and looked at the ceiling. There was water damage. He remembered Trucy holding a yard sale, and the haggling they did, they always did, when Phoenix was out of earshot. How much for this? Well, Uncle Miles, our goal for fixing the roof is about $3000. Would I be correct in assuming this toy has a great deal of sentimental value? Oh yes, in fact, I'm wondering if I can even part with it at all. I see. You drive a hard bargain, young lady. Will this suffice. Trucy had slipped the check up her sleeve, a gloved finger on her lips to keep him quiet.

  He shouldn't have made her do that. Miles shied away from the thought. He didn't want to think about Phoenix. He didn't want to think about Phoenix being a bad father.

  "You're awake, sir? Do you need anything?"

  Something terrible for me, and greasy. Kartoffelpuffer. Get me Kartoffelpuffer.

  Instead: "Klavier Gavin calls you 'hedgehog'."

  Justice rubbed his face. "Yep, I am aware of that."

  "You sound happy. When you talk to him. When you talk about him." Miles slowly climbed up into a sitting position and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His head pounded, but it was distant; he might be able to stave off the worst of the hangover if he started drinking water and filling his stomach with carbohydrates.                                              

  "I am happy, sir. It sort of snuck up on me. I… I'm trying not to overthink things for once." He gave a wry smile. "It's a work in progress."

  "I'd be interested in hearing how that turns out for you, Justice."

  A pause. He was playing with his bracelet, turning it around and around on his wrist. "Can I ask you a question, sir?"

  "Will you get me hash browns?"

  His eyes went wide and his mouth popped open. "H-hash browns?"

  "Will you get me hash browns? I will insist on invoking attorney-client privilege regarding the matter." He frowned. "Of the hash browns."

  "Th-that isn't how it works, sir, but I can explain on the way."

  He'd given his word, and so he kept his word. The Chief Prosecutor was not leaving his sight.

  Mr. Edgeworth glowered at him, as if that was supposed to be intimidating when he had creases from the pillow on his cheek and his hair was all mussed up at the back. As if he hadn't walked the man to bed the night before and heard him puking in the cleaning bucket when he woke up. It's a good thing you don't prosecute cases much anymore, sir, because I don't know if I'd be able to keep a straight face if I ever went up against you in court.

  Eventually the other man sighed and got to his feet, though he swayed a bit once upright. Apollo wrote two notes – one for Maya and one for Trucy – and then they were walking out of the bedroom, quietly past the people sleeping in the living room, and down to the car park at the bottom of the building. He made no comment about the car; he simply staggered into the passenger seat and put on his seatbelt. Apollo offered him the driving sunglasses he kept in the glove compartment. There was another silent battle of wills, and then Mr. Edgeworth took the glasses from him and slipped them on, immediately relaxing as the sun no longer hurt his eyes.

  About five minutes out from the office, he finally spoke.

  "You are the world's most cautious driver."

  "Thank you, sir." Apollo had been in the middle of craning his neck to check his blind spots. "Predictability and awareness. I can control what I do on the road, but not the actions of others."

  "That is… too philosophical for…" Mr. Edgeworth gestured, somehow encompassing his hungover state, the early hour and the last week, all in one wave of his hand.

  "Noted."

  Mr. Edgeworth paid for the hash browns: a dozen of them, freshly made, the grease staining the bag even as it was handed to him. There was a cup of mediocre coffee, as well, and a large orange juice. An egg and sausage sandwich that Apollo knew was going to give him heartburn, but he couldn't help himself. He parked and they divided the food.

  He'd finished his sandwich and Mr. Edgeworth was working his way through his second hash brown, when he spoke again.

  "I was going to ask you, back at the office. About you and Mr. Wright."

  The chewing slowed, then stopped. "What could you possibly need to know, Mr. Justice?"

  It was a warning. Apollo took the lid off his coffee and stirred in a packet of sugar. "I guess… I just, I can't understand it, sir. I see you now. I see how much you loved him." Mr. Edgeworth hissed out a breath, but didn't argue the point. "And Mr. Wright clearly loved you too."

  The other man's hand was clutching at his arm, fingers digging in. "That's not a question."

  Apollo rolled his eyes. "I was trying to be delicate. It is not my forte, obviously. My question is," he sighed, "why did it never work out between you?"

  And how do I make sure that doesn't happen to me?

  He knew the situations were different. He knew he and Klavier didn't fit neatly into the boxes of 'Mr. Edgeworth' and 'Mr. Wright'. But there was more than a little of the older prosecutor in his own psychological make-up. He respected the man greatly, admired the tough choices he'd made. It terrified him to see him now, destroyed by regret and missed opportunities.

  "I… am not a man given to expressing his feelings, Mr. Justice. In fact, for a significant portion of my life I was taught they were a weakness. I suppressed them." Mr. Edgeworth picked at the paper surrounding his hash brown, then wiped his fingers on a napkin. "There were times when I might have said something. Advances he made that I rejected, for whatever reason. Every time the road forked, I convinced myself the time wasn’t right. He was drunk. He was in hospital. He'd had his badge taken away from him." His voice was small now, barely above a whisper. "The status quo always appeared safer. More predictable. I should have taken the risk."

  Apollo considered the words. He drank his coffee and Mr. Edgeworth sipped on his orange juice. The sun was getting stronger as 'not really morning' turned into 'actual morning', and his car began to heat up. He turned on the engine and let the aircon run; the other man had the hangover sweats, and looked uncomfortable in his three-piece-suit.

  "Thank you for answering my question, Mr. Edgeworth." Apollo flicked the indicator on and started to move out of the car park. "You said before that I'm a really cautious driver, and I am. But the thing is… I never even used to be able to drive. I was so hung up on all the risks involved that I clammed up. Though, to be fair, no one should be allowed to drive. If we're ever going to lower our carbon emissions, we need to focus on public transport and building walkable cities."

  He sighed, then continued. "But this is LA and I needed to drive, so I started seeing a therapist to help me. And it turned out this," Apollo tapped the steering wheel with his fingers, "was just a symptom of a much larger problem. I've always felt the need to take on too much responsibility, and when there's too much out of my control for me to do that, I spin out and stop functioning.

  "The way I see it, Mr. Edgeworth, is that if you're struggling to do normal things, or you're… you're so worried about things that you can't let yourself be happy, then there's a real problem. And maybe," he tensed and felt his shoulders pull up to his ears, because this was going to suck, "maybe you should get some help?"

  The other man was so still and silent, Apollo wondered if he'd got away with it. Maybe he died. Oh, my God, him being dead isn't preferable to him being angry at you, Jesus you are such a coward.

  Then, in cold, clipped tones: "And what kind of help are you suggesting?"

  Trucy tried to wait until 6AM to wake Pearl. She'd been up most of the night, stewing over her choice.

  To channel Daddy, or not to channel Daddy; that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to blah blah blah I can't believe that was his second favourite play. There's barely any magic in it.

  Channelling, the actual process of it, reminded her of the horror films Apollo kept trying to get her to watch. The process of Aunty Maya turning into Maya-as-Daddy was unsettling. The wrongness of it all set her teeth on edge. Faces shouldn't shift like that; people shouldn't grow nearly ten inches in a matter of seconds. It was creepy, and surreal, and very obviously occult. It convinced her, finally, that Daddy was dead.

 And channelling wasn't enough. What made Daddy special was him being there, every day, no matter how tired or cranky or sad he was. Sharing his life with her. Quiet moments on the couch. Singing too loud to songs on the radio. Knowing when he was working late and keeping food aside for him. Knowing when she was putting off an assignment, and him calling her on it. She missed him, but she also missed the comfortable, worn-in life they'd had together.

  It could never be as good as the real thing. It could only ever be a half-way point.

  But, even channelled into the body of Aunty Maya, he'd hugged like Daddy: the same arms around her and the same too-hard kiss on the top of her head, the one she used to complain about and wipe off, all while laughing and saying yuck! He still sounded like Daddy and said her name – Truce – like he was trying to fit everything about her in one syllable, and was succeeding.

  So, further proof Daddy's dead, or getting another hug from him. This decision sucks.

  During the night, after another toss-turn-toss-turn-roll-over, she'd pulled out the letter Daddy wrote her. She hadn't read it yet. She was waiting.

  With the envelope sealed, the letter could contain anything. The possibilities were endless. Trucy could imagine whatever she wanted, whatever perfect combination of words would boost her spirits. She could imagine whatever she needed Daddy to have said to her. I'm proud of you. I love you. You were worth staying around for. There's nothing wrong with you, Trucy; you're perfect the way you are and you're my daughter.

  She'd fallen asleep with the letter on her chest.

  Then, Trucy was woken up by the unmistakable sound of someone being sick in the other room. About ten minutes after that a note was shoved under her door. She'd heard the front door open and close. Very carefully, Trucy slipped out of bed without disturbing Pearl, and picked up the creased piece of paper.

  Trucy,

  Just going out for a bit with Mr. Edgeworth. Probably be back around 6-6.30, if not, I'll text you. I'm thinking about making pancakes later so don't use up the milk.

  ~ Apollo

  "Heck yes, pancakes," Trucy whispered to herself. She pulled out her phone and asked him to get her coffee on the way back to the office. By the time she went to the bathroom and got herself a glass of water, he'd replied.

Anything else, your majesty?

Nope! Thank you, Polly =)

Oh, where did you go with Uncle Miles btw?

We went to his house to get some clean clothes and feed his dog.

It's really fancy.  

  Trucy had been to Uncle Miles' house a number of times over the years. He didn't always live there – he rented it out when he knew he would be in Europe for a long stretch of time – but when he did, and when he was in the country, he'd invite her and Daddy over for dinner. Dessert was always something chocolate, because he knew she liked it, and he'd grumble something about her, perhaps, acquiring a more refined palate one of these days. She'd balance a spoon on her finger and shake her head, nothing will ever be better than chocolate, Uncle Miles!

  Uncle Miles cared about her. He used to care about her. Now he lied every time he talked about her and could barely look her in the eye. It doesn't make sense. There was a contradiction there, between the words he was saying and his tells. In the history between them that reached back almost half her life.

  She didn't know this version of Uncle Miles, though. He looked more like the scared man in the photo in Daddy's safe. Pale and unsubstantial. Half a ghost. He'd retreated so far into himself that Trucy was worried if she pushed him, pressed him, she'd fall right in after him.

  But she did know one person who was well acquainted with this Miles Edgeworth. One person who knew the right things to say or could bluff around it; one person who had grabbed him by the shirtfront and pulled him back from the edge. Phoenix Wright.

  Trucy bit her lip. I could talk to him. Get his advice.

  Then: I could see my Daddy again today. That was it. That made her decision. I can see Daddy today and tell him I love him.

  Trucy winced at the time but shook Pearl awake anyway. It felt a little like Christmas morning, sneaking into Daddy's bed and under the covers. Putting her freezing cold feet on his and making him shriek. Did you put the coffee maker on at least? Her slipping out of bed and into the kitchen to fill the pot with coffee and water, then squirming her way back so she was warm and safe again. Bad morning breath and his whiskery scruff. Merry Christmas Truce. Merry Christmas, Daddy!

  "Huh wha?" Pearl murmured, and then woke up fully. "Trucy?"

  "Will you channel Daddy for me?"

  "Of course. Hold on, I think I have some sleep in my eye."

  The only candles she had were scented tea-lights that Daddy complained about, oh come on Truce they make the office smell like that weird store at the mall, You know the one. It always makes me sneeze. She lit them anyway and locked her door, then she sat down on the floor with Pearl.

  The other girl clasped her hands together, closed her eyes, and let her face go blank.

  Trucy waited, semi-patiently. There'd been a pause with Aunty Maya, too. But this one kept going. Her knees were starting to hurt from kneeling on the floorboards. Pearl frowned and opened her eyes.

  "Hmm. I'll try again."

  She closed her eyes. Her face went blank. The candles fluttered – ah, is it him? No, that's just a draft. The crinkle between Pearl's brows grew deeper; there was anxiety now, in her expression, and when she opened her eyes they skittered away from Trucy's gaze. "That can't be right. I don't think that's allowed to be right."

  She pushed her thumb between her lips and started chewing on the nail.

  "What's wrong, Pearl?"

  "Ionwannaay."

  Trucy grabbed her friend's hands and made sure they were kept far away from her mouth. There was a buzzing feeling in her chest. Amorphous excitement she was too afraid to shape with thoughts, not until she had more proof.

  "Hey," she said this softly, putting all the skill she possessed into making her voice calm and soothing, "what's going on?"

  "I don't want to say." Pearl still mumbled this, still tried to swallow the words. She hunched over and suddenly looked very young. "I… I don't want to say anything bad about Mystic Maya. But…"

  "But…?" But?

  "But… I don't think Mr. Nick is dead."

  Phoenix struggled. He pulled his head back as far as it could go, and twisted and thrashed in his restraints. But Kristoph was stronger, had the use of all his limbs and hands; he straddled him and gripped his chin and turned his head from side to side. Phoenix's breath came in short pants, short whimpered words: no, come on, no, Kris, what are you doing?

  "You'd look better if you were symmetrical, Phoenix Wright," he said, and then pressed the shard of glass to his lip.

  It didn't even hurt at first – just pressure, and the knowledge of what he was doing. He tried to shake Kristoph off, but his fingers were cruel and kept him still, kept him in place as he sliced his flesh. A moment later, the bright-hot pain hit and Phoenix screamed; he jerked and shook and nothing budged fuck I'm trapped I'm trapped I can't move he's on me he's everywhere. He could feel the distressing sensation of his lip splitting apart, sudden freedom of movement where there shouldn't be any. Blood filled his mouth and drooled out and down his chin.

  Kristoph leaned back. His eyes were glittering with satisfaction. He took a disposable alcohol wipe and gently cleaned the wound. "Almost." And then the glass was back, digging into his already torn lip, pulling down another fraction of an inch. Somehow it was worse, the second time, and Phoenix made guttural noises as he struggled to breathe through the pain and stop blood from choking him.

  "Perfect." Kristoph sighed. "You'll be perfect."

  Dr. Sarah stitched his lip back together. She cleaned the injury and inspected it, her fingers gentle, professional. "It's too deep to let heal by itself. It'll need stitches."

  He hated the feel of the needle going through his skin, and the disturbing tug-pressure of the thread. She applied a numbing cream to the area but it didn't stop the pulling sensation reaching the rest of his face, or take away the horror that stagnated in his stomach. He'd swallowed blood, and it was in his mouth, coating his tongue. She let him wash it out and brought up a plastic pan for him to spit out the water and blood.

  "Next time, wear gloves, would you?" She said this to Kristoph.

  "Next time?" At least, that's what he tried to say. His mouth was sloppy and unresponsive and it came out as unintelligible noise.

  Kristoph had washed his hands and was drying them. "I'll do my best. No promises."

  Next time?

  There was a next time. There was the scalpel in Kristoph's hand and the burning trail it left on his leg, his arm, his torso; the cold stinging pain of the antiseptic wipe and the throbbing that followed. The crinkle of the latex glove as it held his skin taut. Dr. Sarah watching in the background, her eyes following the path of the blade. She would warn him when he got too close and Kristoph would look up at Phoenix, gaze indulgent and loving, oh we might save that for later.

  He ground his teeth and arched off the bed and rubbed his wrists raw and bloody. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't escape. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop his body from trying to fight it. His vision turned grey, and then a pause; Kristoph saying, I need to stretch my legs and Dr. Sarah bringing a Capri Sun up to his mouth and he drank it, greedily, every last drop because it was cold and sweet.

  Then Kristoph, again, running his hands over the wounds, the angry red lines that criss-crossed his body. Caressing them. Stroking them. Saying, you wear these wonderfully, Phoenix. A few more, and then I'll let you rest. He hated that the words helped, that they kept him sane. The new cuts, the ones from his left shoulder to the tip of his middle finger, hurt just as much as the ones before, but he could breathe through it, breathe through the way the agony blossomed as the scalpel drifted down and down. And then it was over and Kristoph was praising him, oh you did so well, so much better than I expected, greasy and sickening but the compliments kept repeating in his head well after Kristoph cleaned off the blade and after Dr. Sarah examined all his cuts.

  They itched.

  The only relief was Dr. Sarah washing him in the evenings, the soft-scratchy sensation of the wet flannel on the scabs perfect. She dried him off afterwards and then carefully applied stripes of antiseptic cream, cold and soothing and he swore his eyes rolled back from the pleasure of it.

  Kristoph smirked behind his book.

  Another day. Kristoph on a cushion on the floor. Phoenix's legs spread wide, strapped down. Fingers tracing his inner thigh, measuring, considering. He uncapped a pen and started drawing, slippery lines and curves. Dots. Phoenix's fingers curled as far as they could. It was ticklish and he hated it, and he hated the vulnerability of his position and he hated Kristoph fuck what did I do to make someone hate me this much?

  "It always amused me," Kristoph began as he drew a long line, "that the defense attorney badge is modelled on the sunflower. Such a common flower in comparison to the prosecutor's chrysanthemum. In the language of flowers, our sunflower means respect, and, ahem, passionate love." He looked up at Phoenix, irony twisting his mouth. "Radiance, too, though that's less thematically fitting so I do hope you excuse me if I brush," he wiped away a mistake, "over it."

  He had a tray next to him, elevated off the floor with a stack of books. Phoenix could only look at it from the corner of his eye. A strip of something in sterile packets. A small container. The spray bottle and wipes. He shifted, or tried to: he was tied down so securely, he could barely move. Kristoph noticed and pinched his thigh. "It's in your best interests to stay as still as possible, I assure you."

  He returned to his drawing and looked at it from several different angles. "I must confess that when I worked as a defense attorney, 'respect' and 'passion' for the law – for justice or truth or any other romantic concept – was far removed from my mind." Another stroke, then more consideration.

  Phoenix couldn't help himself. "Why be a defense attorney then?"

  A gleam of teeth. "Ah, that is the question, isn't it? Do you know? Have you worked it out?" Kristoph leaned in close to examine the illustration and his breath was hot and unpleasant on his skin. "You're the only man who has ever come close to understanding me. I wonder if you know."

  "Power. You loved the power."

  Kristoph pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his wrist. He took a package from the tray and tore it open. Something sharp - he placed it on the tray. He shook the little container and lifted off the lid. Phoenix couldn't see what happened after that, not with his neck so sore and stiff. The next thing he felt was a brilliant pinprick of pain on his inner thigh, then another, then another, stings that lasted for just a moment and then disappeared, leaving a burning sensation behind. Phoenix shuddered out his breath; he didn't want to scream, he knew Kristoph loved it, but his skin was crawling and he wanted to tear himself free no matter how impossible. He's tattooing me, oh fuck oh fuck, he's going to leave me permanently marked fuck.

  "Mmm, an incomplete answer. Could you clarify?" Kristoph dipped the needle back in the ink, that's what that was, he could tell, now he was looking for the motion in his arm and wrist.

  "P-power of life and death. You took on guilty clients, I know you did. Not all of them, just enough. You could have sent them to the chair if you wanted to." How big is this tattoo? How long will this take? I don't want it I don't want it I don't want to be here I want to go home.

  Kristoph looked up from between his legs; his eyes were soft and pleased. "Oh, Phoenix."

  Night time. A blindfold on. Arms cuffed behind his back. Naked, except for his boxers and the paper gauze over his inner thigh and on his neck. The air outside the van was humid and heavy and he struggled to breathe it in, to breathe in the smell of trees and water and dirt. He couldn't see Kristoph but he could hear him, how his voice vibrated with excitement. A superb job, doctor, there's more than enough space for my needs.

  Pushed inside a building. Something empty and large; concrete on his bare feet and the echoing footsteps from the other two. Hotter inside, like an oven; he thought of the Californian sun beating down is it still summer? How long have I been missing? His wrists were locked to a pole, metal scraping metal.

  Kristoph in his ear, so close his lips touched it. A hand in his hair, grasping it, turning his head. "We don't have much time, Phoenix." His words had a shivery quality to them. "I'm being terribly reckless as it is."

  Blinded, the first lash was a complete surprise. It hit his shoulder, and he cried out in shock, in pain. Then another, and another, and the rhythm started, and everything mixed together. He drifted. For once Kristoph was too busy to pause what he was doing to slap him or bring his attention back with a pointed comment that made his stomach turn. So, Phoenix let his mind go, let it float above the seething mass of sensation that was his body. Distantly, he heard the noises: the smack of leather hitting skin, his own grunts and cries, the harsh uneven breathing of Kristoph and the soft muttering of Dr. Sarah as she witnessed it all.

  Time passed. He was dripping, couldn't tell what was sweat and what was blood. He sagged where he stood and Kristoph was there, hands careful, guiding him away from the pole, look at you, you've pleased me, Phoenix, you're doing so well. A cold bottle of water at his lips and he drank it down, all of it, not caring as it ran down his face and fell to the floor. Kristoph wiped the moisture away with a paper towel, and then he punched him.

  The fist made contact; he reeled backwards and fell, rolled on to his side. I wanted to do that the first time we met. Blows, kicks, everywhere, lighting up the bruises and welts he'd just been given, disturbing the red lines of pain that hadn't had time to heal. His stomach. His hands. His ribs, and that made him wheeze.

  The sound of a boot crunching on dirty concrete next to his face. Have you had enough, Phoenix Wright? And him nodding, begging, yes, please, I'm - please! Toe of a shoe, nudging at his mouth, parting his lips. Kristoph didn't say a word, didn't need to: Phoenix's tongue fell out and he swiped it across the smooth, cold leather. Again, and again in eager licks over the top of the boot. The sole pressed on his lower lip, gritty and filthy. A few more desperate motions of his tongue. Kristoph delighted, so delighted, you are breath-taking, and then the boot was gone and Phoenix could spit out blood and saliva. 

  The boot returned a moment later, resting on his neck.

  No, not with my hands behind my back I can't move, and the pressure increased, slow and steady. Bursts of bright lights behind his eyes.

  Then, nothing.

  Kristoph set his knife and fork down delicately on the plate. He dabbed at his mouth with a cloth napkin and put that aside, as well. Phoenix had already eaten, though his mouth hurt too much for solid food: he'd slowly made his way through a bowl of soup, and some bread that he was allowed to soak in the liquid. There'd been wine, too, served to him in a plastic mug and with a straw. It stung the cut in his lip, and the bite on his tongue, and in the gap where his molar used to be.

  Dr. Sarah took away the plates and picked up the bottle of wine, offering it to Kristoph. She frowned when he gestured towards Phoenix – she'd already complained about mixing alcohol with the sedative – but added a conservative pour to the mug anyway.

  "Thanks, Doc," he slurred through mushy lips. He was held in place with the harness tonight, and he didn't blame them for being lax: every single breath hurt, every muscle ached; every single moment throbbed with pain. His left hand was splinted where Kristoph had smashed his fingers during the beating. He was as weak as a kitten and could do little more than bring the mug closer to his face and chase the straw with his swollen tongue.

   Kristoph seemed restless, though. He stood from the table and washed his hands thoroughly, as he always did before touching Phoenix: soap went right up to mid-forearm, and he interlocked his fingers to get between them, too. He took a pair of latex gloves from the box hanging on the wall.

  "Doctor, you may leave for the night, if you wish." 

  Dr. Sarah narrowed her eyes. She'd noticed his mood. "Is that a good idea?"

  A humourless smile. "Leave."

  She didn't argue a second time. She packed up her purse and walked out the door, sending Phoenix one last glance on her way out. Once she'd gone, Kristoph prepared his tattooing tray. He hummed a song under his breath, distracted; unenthused.

  "You are such a mess, Phoenix."

  He was kneeling between his parted thighs again, running his plastic fingers over the puffy, healing skin. There was no strap around his legs tonight, just gravity and Kristoph keeping him spread. Phoenix trembled. It was the most fight his body had left to give. His energy was gone, sapped away from the beating and the healing, and the drowsy-fuzzy feeling of wine on a too-empty stomach.

  Kristoph pushed down with his fingers. "Does it hurt?"

  He hissed. "Yes."

  The pressure went away. "Mmm. Good. That's what I wanted." He stroked the area again, lighter. It still hurt, still echoed the burning feeling of the needle going in-out-in-out-in-out as he tattooed the flower there, but it was so much better than before that the contact almost felt good. "What is it you always said? In court, I mean."

  "'Objection?'" Phoenix's eyes had fallen closed.

  "Oh dear, you can't hold your alcohol, can you?" He laughed. "No, the other thing. About turning the case around?"

  Mia. Oh, he missed her. "'Turn your thinkin' around'."

  "Ah, yes, that was it. 'Turn your thinking around'. I never understood it, personally. I much preferred entering the courtroom and knowing the outcome already. But, I do wonder if there was something to that mindset all along." His gloves were crinkling on his skin. Both hands ran up and down the outside of his leg in long, sweeping caresses that left goose bumps in their wake. "I've been rude, Phoenix Wright. All this time together and I haven't offered you a choice."

  Something in his tone made his eyes open. The soft blanket of warmth from the wine was abruptly removed, leaving him cold and tired and with a creeping sense of dread. "What d'you mean?"

  "As I said: I'm asking you to choose. Would you like pain?" Kristoph dug his fingers in again, and this time his long nails bit into his thigh; he squeezed the tortured flesh under his hands until Phoenix gasped and choked, and then he was free, gulping air like he'd been strangled.

  "Or pleasure?"

  They drove every day. Phoenix tried to keep track of it all, the textures of the road – smooth and clear traffic, rough and stop-start, the gravel trails that led to where they parked at night – but the days jumped and skipped in his mind.

  He slept a lot, whenever he could; drowsiness dragged him down and under, made his eyelids heavy and impossible to keep open. The dreams were fever-bright at the time, but he forgot them instantly, left with the emotions that lingered instead: fear, sadness, horror, regret. Kristoph would wake him if he wanted to hurt him, touch him. Dr. Sarah would wake him to check his injuries and change the bags of fluid she fought for him to be given. At one point, his appetite completely gone, he'd stopped eating. Kristoph had mentioned a nasal-gastric tube, and Phoenix had sucked down as much of his fortified chocolate milk as he could.

  One day stood out from the others, the details of the event clear and sharp despite the increasing fuzziness of his thoughts. They'd pulled over for the night; Kristoph was nearly finished his book and Phoenix' anxiety grew with every turn of the page. He'd completed the tattoo the night before, had gone over it to make sure every line stood out. It was beautiful, the sunflower, photo-realistic and competently done. Phoenix had even said as much, which made Kristoph almost blush; he'd kissed his knee and said, thank you, very seriously.

  Dr. Sarah returned with groceries and a grim expression. She was saying something. Concentrating on anything other than Kristoph was difficult, now. His brain felt soupy, like liquid; it flowed away from difficult thoughts and trickled into nothingness. It's not safe anymore I swear my face was on the news oh is the good doctor getting paranoid Kristoph I'm serious, and he knew it meant something, should mean something to him.

  Eventually, she gave up and handed Kristoph a magazine and started making dinner. He finished the page he was reading - Phoenix inhaled; anticipation brought the interior back into focus - bookmarked it, then placed the book down. The magazine was glossy, colourful, and Phoenix strained to see what was printed on the cover. Something about a romance, but he couldn't work out the subject.

  "Ah," said Kristoph. It sounded like broken glass.

  His fingers traced the cover, scrape as his nail drew across paper. He flipped through to the page in question and Phoenix finally saw the headline, saw what had made Dr. Sarah busy herself with the hot plate. A blurry photo of Klavier Gavin exiting an apartment, sunglasses on and hat lowered over his face; almost disguised, if not for the second image where his hair was free and his jawline visible, and he was kissing someone Apollo oh my God it's Apollo. Phoenix wanted to throw up and he hated that Apollo's happiness was making him sick, but that was betrayal, he belongs to Kristoph, they both do, they betrayed Kristoph and he knew that the only person who could be punished was him.

  "The quality of this journalism is suspect. The photographic evidence, however, is quite conclusive. Would you like to hear it, Phoenix? What they're saying about my brother? Or, mein Bruder, perhaps, as he would say."

  Phoenix shook his head, except he didn't: he was too frightened. Instead he croaked, "Yes," because that's what Kristoph wanted and he'd learned there was a slow inevitability to Kristoph's desires, a gravity to which all things bowed.

  "Very well." He cleared his throat. "'Shock pictures show former Gavinner's front-man Klavier Gavin engaged in a torrid romance with defense attorney Apollo Justice.' Torrid. How juvenile. 'The pair were seen in a lovers' clinch – ' has anyone ever used that word outside of soft-core erotica? 'in the doorway of Mr. Justice's modest apartment. Though Klavier refused to comment when asked about the relationship, Spot That! Magazine uncovered that the two shared a connection: Mr. Justice previously worked for Klavier's brother, well-known serial killer Kristoph Gavin –' serial killer? If I wasn't dead I would sue them. 'Additionally, both were seen at last month's memorial for Phoenix Wright, leading our editors to wonder when, exactly, this romance began.'"

  He tossed the magazine aside. It landed on the edge of the table, then fell to the floor in a great flapping of pages. Kristoph's face was perfectly blank, but his eyes were furious and he had curled his hands into fists. Dr. Sarah turned off the cooking appliance and removed a pot from the stove. She muttered something, I forgot to get bread, and then she left, you coward you fucking coward, and Phoenix was too paralysed by terror to even breathe.

  Kristoph laughed, suddenly, a hand to his forehead. When he removed it, there was a streak of blood at his temple; his palm was bleeding, his nails having pierced skin.

  "Phoenix Wright, I have been a fool."

 He bustled about the van, collecting equipment: antiseptic spray, a scalpel, gauze and bandages. In autopilot, he washed his hands and put on gloves, then sank down to his knees in front of him. "Look at this tattoo, Phoenix." He stroked it, the stiff not-quite-scab of healing skin. "It is a beautiful tattoo for a defense attorney to wear. But," Kristoph looked up at him, breathless and excited, "you lost your badge, didn't you? I saw to that. A defense attorney no longer." He picked up the scalpel. "I do apologise for my mistake. I will do my best to rectify it."

  No! No, you're wrong, stop! Please!

  Kristoph stopped. "Excuse me? What did you say?"

  I said that out loud? Fuck fuck fuck. Phoenix swallowed, tasting fear at the back of his throat. "I said… I said you were wrong. I passed the bar again. I have my badge back." There were tears now, he couldn't help it. He closed his eyes and cried. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

  "Oh, Phoenix," his voice was so full of love, it made him cry harder. "Shh, shh, it's all right. You didn't know. You didn't know I was alive." He wiped away the tears with his thumb, smearing them across his cheek. "I forgive you."

  Phoenix opened his eyes. "Th-thank you. Oh, God, thank you Kristoph. I promise I didn't know."

  "That's right, you didn't know." He stroked his hair. "But now you do. And it's all right. I'll fix it. Do you want me to fix it?"

  He didn't. He didn't want anything. He wanted to go home. But Kristoph was there, and he wasn't angry, he was expectant, waiting for an answer. Phoenix nodded miserably. "Yes, please. Please fix it, Kristoph."

  Kristoph picked up the scalpel again. "We'll make a slight correction. It will hurt, though, so please stay still for me, Phoenix. You're doing so well."

  Justice gave him the house keys when they reached the landing. He was encumbered with a tray of coffee and the bag of cold hash browns; Miles only had to contend with his luggage, which he'd slung over his shoulder, leaving his hands free to turn the handle. It was still very early, not yet 7, and he was surprised that there was a murmur of voices coming from the other side of the door. He opened it, stepped over the creaky floorboard, and discovered at least three people in the office were awake and talking very animatedly about something.

  "Can I at least have some coffee first?" Maya complained. "And God, I'd love some hash browns right about now."

  "You're in luck," he told her as they entered the living room. "Mr. Justice demanded we purchase some."

  "Wow, just threw me under that bus, didn't you?" Louder, he said: "And Mr. Edgeworth was nice enough to buy coffee. From the place that doesn't burn their beans, too."

  "Ooh, fancy." Maya made grabbing motions and took a cup of coffee from the cardboard tray. "Pearly, Trucy, let me have breakfast and then we can discuss it, OK? Quietly."

  Justice handed out the other drinks, though Pearls said Maya could have hers, and Detective Gumshoe looked a bit flustered when he realised there was milk already in it. Trucy kissed the young man's cheek and thanked him with a tip of her hat. She looked… lighter. Effervescent.

  She looked excited.

  That terrified him.

  After… after Detective Gumshoe found him, shaking like a leaf at the top of the Prosecutor's Building, there had been doctors – well paid ones, discreet ones – and frank discussion about his mental health. How did you feel in the hours leading up to your attempt? He debated each word in the sentence, pushing back out of spite, but eventually he said: euphoric; clear headed. Ah, then scribbling on notepaper. Once you made the decision, did you feel calmer? Yes, of course. He'd finally worked out the logical answer to the question rattling around his head, worked out that the best course of action was his immediate death. I see, and more scribbles. Do you still feel that way? A pause. Weighing his emotions, weighing the worth of telling the truth. No. No, I think… I think I'd rather start again. Elsewhere. That's a big decision to make, Mr. Edgeworth, especially after coming off a suicide attempt. Have you considered inpatient therapy? I've considered and rejected it, and now I believe I will be going.

  I can't lose her. I can't lose her as well.

  Phoenix trusted him. He'd trusted him with his daughter.

  All his fears came crashing down at once you'll ruin her, you've ruined her; she's not coping, she's going to do what you tried to do when you were 12 and 15 and 20 and 24; you failure, you failed even at that; you are unfit to be a father, how could Phoenix not have seen that in you? How did he not see the poison that infected you when you were 9?

  Justice grabbed his arm. "Hey. Hey, Mr. Edgeworth."

  Miles clung on to the voice and used it as a lifeline, dragging himself away from his spiralling thoughts. They were still there, shouting at him from the back of his brain, but grew more distant as he focused on Justice, on the sharp feeling of keys in his hand; on the unpleasant stickiness of his skin, and the way his hair was floppier, hanging down on to his forehead from sweat. He breathed in. He returned to his body, and saw the room around him again. The others had gone into the kitchen, but he and Justice remained.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Justice. Were you saying something?"

  The other man looked him over. He had the most peculiar, pinched expression on his face: sour, but determined. He took out his wallet and removed a ragged business card.

  "Sir, in the car I mentioned looking into getting some help? Well, this is the doctor I see. He might not be right for you, but it's a start." His eyes flicked to the doorway leading to the kitchen. "There's another doctor there, too. A family counsellor. She works out of the same office." Justice pressed the card into his hand. "I know taking the first step can be hard so I could make an appointment for you if you need me to and OK," he let out a breath, "that's it, that's all the courage I have in me. I'm going to go reheat some shitty hash browns."

  He practically ran out of the room.

  Miles put his luggage down and sat on the sofa. The card was cheap and thin, and the corner was bent back from spending time in Justice's wallet. Dr. Richard Bloom. A quick google search confirmed that he did, as he expected, work out of a strip mall. Miles snorted, but put the card in his pocket. He tapped his thumbs on the sides of the phone. Then, before he could second guess himself, he sent a terse email to his secretary asking her to find him a therapist more appropriate to his needs and budget.

  I'm going to see a therapist. I am going to seek professional help.

  The concept of it was enormous, he could barely hold it in his mind; his thoughts fumbled over it, could only touch one side at a time. Miles Edgeworth was admitting he had flaws. Miles Edgeworth was acknowledging his own weaknesses. Miles Edgeworth realised he could not fix these problems on his own.

  He shook his head in bafflement. It was daunting, yes, but there was a small, tiny, core of excitement burning inside him as well.

  He'd felt that way before. The first time he ate a cheeseburger in his car, grease and meat filling his mouth and sauce dripping over his fingers; filling his stomach for the first time in weeks and making the seats smell like fried food. His hands slamming down on the prosecutor's bench and hearing 'Objection!' flung out of his own mouth; the terror of realising he didn't have a question to follow it up, just that it needed to be said. Phoenix Wright in a dark wine cellar, grabbing his jacket and pulling him into an embrace; the shaking of the other man's shoulders, and the feel of his lips on his jaw, and it was over, so fast he might have dreamed it, if not for the dampness on his collar.

  It felt like rebellion.

  Manfred von Karma is dead, and I am going to see a therapist and there is nothing he can do about it.

  The first two rounds of pancakes were made and consumed by the time he arrived in the kitchen: his secretary had returned his email promptly with dates and times that would fit into his work calendar, should she book him in now if you agree, sir?

  Maya leaned back in her chair, cradling her stomach like a pregnant woman. "Polly, have you ever considered the quiet life of contemplating spiritual truths? I think I can sense some psychic potential in you."

  "Mystic Maya, I'm not moving to Kurain to be your personal chef."

  "Rats, nearly had him."

  Trucy jiggled in her seat. Her knee was bouncing and her fingers tapped the kitchen table. She's got too much energy. I… I could barely sit still, that day, once I'd decided. I paced and fidgeted, until Gumshoe said goodbye for the day – that's what I was waiting for, an opportunity to say goodbye to him. But he knew, he must have known just by looking at me.

  She had a paper napkin in her hands and was tearing it into shreds. "Are you ready now? You've had like seven pancakes and two cups of coffee."

  "And four hash browns," Pearls added.

  Maya bowed her head. "I am but a humble servant, a vessel for my hangover. But," she grinned, "your offerings have pleased the demon. OK," she drained her mug of coffee, "let's do it."

  No! Whatever she's waiting for, I can't let her do it, not if it's the one thing holding her back.

  "Trucy!" Everyone turned to look at him. Five pairs of eyes, in various states of tiredness. Trucy's mouth was open in an 'O' of surprise, and Miles realised he may have been louder than he intended. "Excuse me. Trucy," Miles used a softer tone, "may I speak with you first? In private."

  Uncle Miles suggested her bedroom, and that hadn't felt right: it was her space, and from the moment she first moved in, she'd been in charge of who was allowed past the door. Daddy's bedroom didn't feel right, either. The fire escape looked out onto the alley and you could still see the flapping yellow tape and dark stains on the concrete, even after last night's rain. Trucy grabbed her half-empty coffee cup and suggested they go for a walk around People Park.

  They made quite the pair: the magician and the widower. He was still in his funeral gear, still in his black suit; it was dishevelled now, to match his own appearance, wrinkled and creased from him sleeping in it overnight. He'd spilled something orange down the front of his white dress shirt. Uncle Miles was obviously hung over, too, and winced when they left the shade of the building to cross the street.

  He was coming apart at the seams, her Uncle Miles, and it annoyed her. She didn't want to be worried about him, yet here she was. And he wasn't even trying! At least be overdramatic and sigh all the time instead of this… quiet sadness.

  Trucy led them to the far side of the park, the part she was less familiar with. They found a bench under a tree and sat down. She took a sip of coffee even though it was mostly cold, now, and let Uncle Miles talk first: he was the one who'd dragged her away from channelling Daddy, he could do all the legwork for this conversation, as far as she was concerned.

  He leaned forward, elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together. His silver bangs fell in front of his face.

  "H-how are you?"

  She frowned. "Uncle Miles?"

  He let out a frustrated noise. "It is impossible for me to have this conversation while sitting." He leapt to his feet and looked at her very seriously, almost like he was about to ground her.

  "I have been a terrible guardian to you, Trucy. I have been entirely focused on my own grief and my concerns regarding being a foster parent. It is your father who died. He left me in your care, and what have I been doing?" Disgust entered his voice, thick and heavy. "I've drunk to excess. I've wallowed in my own emotions. I've… I never even asked you how you were."

  Oh no, no, no, no I don't want this. It was so much easier when you were ignoring me.

  Suddenly, he dropped to his knees. Miles Edgeworth, the Chief Prosecutor, was on his knees in front of her, apparently not caring at all that there was now mud and grass on his expensive suit. He bowed his head.

  "Trucy, I apologise, deeply and unreservedly. You do not owe me your forgiveness, but… but if you do forgive me, I'd like to start again. I want to be the man your father saw in me when he appointed me as your guardian."

  She wasn't crying, not yet, but it was taking all of her strength not to. She didn't want to feel anything, because she was sure – she was certain – Daddy wasn't dead after all, and if she accepted his apology, accepted his guardianship, then that was like replacing Daddy. It would be a greater betrayal than the death certificate or the memorial service or the tears she'd cried.

  "I…I didn't think we'd…" her throat was blocked; Trucy swallowed to clear it, and it ached. "I didn't think we'd be talking about this. Maybe we should have stayed inside."

  Uncle Miles laughed, the pathetic, half-laugh of tension being released. His eyes were red from more than his hangover. "Another thing to apologise for. I'm sorry."

  She'd never seen him so vulnerable before. Never so open. Could I ask him? Would it destroy me, if I found out the truth? Trucy probed at the hurt in her chest, working out how deep the damage went; how severe the wound was, with the old scars ripped open by another round of rejection and abandonment. Hesitantly, with her gaze firmly kept on the cup in her hands, she asked: "Why didn't you want me?"

  "Didn't want you?" The horror in his tone made her look at him

  "Y-you kept saying you were glad to be my guardian, b-but you were lying. Every time." Oh no, I can't cry. I'm not allowed to cry. A performer keeps a smile on her face, no matter what.

  Uncle Miles' expression was pained. "No, no, Trucy, no. I… you know I… I've adored you from the moment we met." He sighed. "I've been terrified of being your guardian. Of the responsibility. Of the commitment. Of repeating the same mistakes that I've spent half my life undoing. None of this was about you, and that was the problem: you should have been the focus, not an afterthought." He paused. "My pants are getting soaked with mud. I'd like to stand up now."

  Trucy squeaked in alarm. "N-no way. If you stand up you'll stop! You'll… you'll be you again. Instead of," she waved a hand at him, "the you that's talking to me. The emotionally honest Uncle Miles."

  "I…I don't think that's how it works." Uncle Miles looked aside, thoughtful. "I'm almost positive that isn't how it works."

  "Let's not risk it."

  He pressed his lips together, but remained where he was. "I want to be able to talk to you, Trucy. And I want you to be able to talk to me. That won't change when I stand up."

  She relented, tilting her head up towards the bench. Uncle Miles groaned in relief as he rose from the ground; his trousers were painted brown with mud, and there were two matching imprints in the earth at her feet. Once he was sitting next to her again, he turned his palm up, offering it to her.

  Trucy looked at it for a moment, considering. He had nice hands, so different to Daddy: the skin was smooth and soft, and his nails were neatly trimmed and buffed; Daddy always chewed his nails before he got around to clipping them. She'd held his hands dozens of times before – crossing the street as a child, as part of a card trick, clutching at him during a movie she'd tricked him into watching. This is Uncle Miles. This isn't Daddy. And that's OK. She slipped her hand into his, and he immediately curled over the fingers.

  "Trucy… there's… there's another thing. Something else I need to ask you about."

  Curious. She cocked her head.

  "I know this has been an incredibly difficult time. There is nothing more traumatic than the sudden death of a parent. But, I need to know, I need you to tell me…" He raised a hand to his face and rubbed at his eyes. "When I saw you this morning, oh God, Trucy," Uncle Miles sniffed and she could see tears that he was desperately trying to blink away, "I thought… I thought you were going to kill yourself."

  "Wh-what?" She nearly got to her feet, understanding with sudden clarity the impulse he'd had earlier. "Uncle Miles, no. I swear, that… that hadn't even crossed my mind."

  The sheer relief, on his face and in his body language, almost made her laugh, but she held it in because it wasn't fair to find the way Uncle Miles sagged against the bench funny. "Oh, thank God. I was so worried. I… I thought you were putting things in order. I thought that was what you were waiting for, with Maya and Pearls."

  "Pfft, no," she nudged him, and that felt good, felt like it did before. "No, I was waiting for Aunty Maya to stop being so hungover so she could channel Daddy again."

  "Channel Phoenix? Why? Why on earth would you want to go through that again?"

  "Because he's still alive, silly." She tugged at the hand she was still holding. "Come on, let's go back to the apartment and you can have a shower."

  Apollo had never been part of a channelling before. The whole concept of it filled him with unease.

  In his home country, in Khura'in, spirit channelling was exclusive to the royal family. Not that mere commoners couldn't do it, oh no; the kingdom was too small not to have family off-shoots and royal bastards running around. It was simply that the moment someone implied that they could invoke the mitamah of the deceased, they might suddenly find themselves on trial for a trumped-up charge, with no lawyer to defend them and the death penalty dangling over their head.

  So. Yeah. He wasn't feeling exactly relaxed about the whole thing.

  On the other hand, channelling was fascinating - no doubt about it - and it was tangled all around Phoenix Wright's career. He had at least two trials where it was featured prominently, and of course, there had always been rumours that his success in court was due to the spirit of his departed mentor, Mia Fey, taking over the body of her younger sister to offer him advice.

  Apollo was 14 when Iris Fey was accused of murder, and Phoenix Wright was his hero. He'd followed the case as it happened, collecting newspaper clippings and recording the news every evening to watch interviews with the people involved, and to try to catch clues he thought the lawyer had overlooked. His moms were horrified at his behaviour, thinking he was obsessed with a vicious killer. Their concern had been so sharp that Apollo had finally come out to them, just to put their fears to rest.

  Oh, Ma said, so you have a crush on the lawyer, then. And Mom said, he's cute, Apollo, I can see why you like him. Ma rolled her eyes. I guess, if you like that sort of thing.

  Apollo had stomped off to his room, as only an embarrassed 14-year-old could.

  These disparate strands of information were unexpectedly useful. Khura'in tradition said that for a channelling to take place, the spirit medium needed to know the appearance and true name of the deceased. That's easy, though I hope Mystic Maya remembers to call him 'Phoenix Wright' and not 'Nick'. From the Turner Grey murder, Apollo knew that a channelling, ideally, would take place in a Channelling Chamber, one that could be securely locked to the outside world. This would protect anyone else from a dangerous spirit inhabiting the medium. Additionally, candles and a reflective surface, like a mirror or a pool of water, were useful for helping the spirit medium attain the correct mental state: apparently, reaching across the divide to bring back a deceased soul needed mood lighting.

  What they had assembled at the Wright Anything Agency office was: half a dozen tealights, that smelled of French vanilla and piña colada, as well as some melty birthday candles, and a compact Trucy pulled out of her Magic Panties and offered to Mystic Maya. Everyone was in the living room because nowhere else in the apartment was big enough to fit all the witnesses. Detective Gumshoe had scratched his chin and asked, uhh, don't you need a room with a solid oak door? Or was it a cave with an iron door? I dunno, but it sure seemed important the last time you did this. Maya had waved away his concerns. Nah, that's a hassle! I don't think Trucy and me could fit in the coat closet, anyway.

  The Detective was sitting with Mr. Edgeworth on the sofa, both men looking apprehensive. Apollo couldn't blame them. They'd both been present for the channelling of Dahlia Hawthorne. Her picture alone was enough to give me nightmares for a week. Trucy and Maya were kneeling on the floor and Pearl was fussing over her cousin, adjusting candles and shhing people as they spoke. She kept biting her thumbnail, and Apollo wondered what was making her nervous.

  Apollo himself was standing to the side, near the door. He had his arms crossed. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't ease his muscles: they remained taut and ready. What am I expecting? He wondered. Why am I so riled up?

  Even if nothing 'bad' happened, even if the soul of Mr. Wright did find its way into Maya's body, he'd still be irritated at him. He left so much unfinished business, and was disorganised. He never said what he meant, and now channelling him from beyond the grave was the only way to get some answers out of him. He'd written Apollo such a cryptic goddamn letter, that even after reading it and re-reading it, and having Klavier read it, and re-read it, he couldn't work out what it was saying. Had he known, Mr. Wright, that his daughter wouldn't open her own letter? Had he any idea that the letter he wrote Apollo would taunt him with half the meaning trapped inside an envelope Trucy Wright refused to open?

  "Polly, you're so tense! You're going to scare away Mr. Nick!"

  "You know I can tell when you lie, right?" Apollo raised his eyebrows.

  Pearl's mouth fell open in shock. "Just like Trucy?"

  He frowned. "Uh, yeah. Just like Trucy."

  She looked at him, very seriously, something on the tip of her tongue. She shook her head, a tiny motion, then returned to her tasks.

  "All right," Mystic Maya said, clapping her hands together. "Are we ready to rumble?"

  She closed her eyes and concentrated.

  Phoenix arches off the bed, eyes wide, head thrown back. 

  Kristoph get the defibrillator! What the fuck did you do?

  I did nothing, doctor. Mind your tone.

  One-two-three-go!

  It reminded him of watching Trucy perform a magic trick. The focus on her face, the slow drip of anticipation; knowing something was about to happen, but what? Where will the card be? In his sock? In the piano? Hidden under his seat? Was Maya going to summon a spirit? Would it be Mr. Wright, serene and wise in death as he never was alive? Or would Dahlia Hawthorne sweep in at the first possibility? Maybe it would be a wretched, wandering spirit, caught in the crossfire.

  Apollo wasn't sure if there was a set amount of time a medium waited before declaring a channelling a bust, but about five minutes after she started, Maya's eyebrows arched. She wriggled her nose. She wriggled her butt, like a dog trying to get comfortable in its bed. Her hands squeezed together, then released.

  "Hmm."

  "He's not there, is he?" Trucy was breathless, her face lit with excitement. "You can't summon him because he's not dead."

  "Here we go again," muttered Mr. Edgeworth. Detective Gumshoe looked at him in surprise.

  "I didn't say that!" Mystic Maya peeped an eye open and glared at her niece. "He might be busy. Or another spirit medium might be channelling him. There are lots of ways this can stop working."

  "It doesn't feel like that, though." Pearl had a thin voice at the best of times. Reluctance had stretched it further, and Apollo had to strain to hear her. "When I tried to summon… when I've tried to summon a spirit that was already being channelled, their presence was there, just… out of reach. And Mia…"

  "Mia's like a cat who does not want to wake up." Maya finished for her. "Like, you probably could, if you tried hard enough, but she seems too content. You don't have the heart to." Her lips thinned. "You're right. It doesn't feel like that. It doesn't feel like an engaged spirit, either."

  "I knew it. I knew it. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!" Trucy was on her feet. "You believe it, don't you Aunty Maya? What about you, Polly?"

  Oh shit, don't put me on the spot like that! I've spent years trying to forget everything about Khura'in and then you ask me if I believe a séance?

  He rubbed his head, ruffling up his hair. "I am… extremely conflicted about channelling."

  "Boo!" Trucy threw a playing card at him. Where did she even hide that? "I don't care. Daddy's alive. I know it.

  "I asked Mr. Eldoon and he said that if someone could stop the bleeding, if someone could start a transfusion immediately, then Daddy might have survived losing all that blood. Why else would they take the body? Anyone who hated Daddy enough to do that would want people to know what they did. Unless they wanted everyone to think he was dead. Unless they wanted to… to…" she went pale, "oh god, if he's alive, then where is he?"

  "This isn't conclusive evidence, Trucy." Mr. Edgeworth sounded calm, but Apollo could practically hear the undercurrent of his rapid pulse. "The forensic investigators were thorough. Their report stated that Phoenix Wright died at the scene, or was in a state of imminent danger to the extent that his death can be assumed."

  Trucy took a breath. She went down on her knees again, this time in front of Mr. Edgeworth. She took his hands in her gloved ones. "Come on, Uncle Miles. I know you want to believe it. You believed Daddy was dead when Aunty Maya could channel him."

  Mr. Edgeworth scowled. "That is exactly it. If Phoenix is 'alive', as you say, why could Maya channel him previously, and not now?" He swung his gaze over to the two spirit mediums. Wait, is that the plural for spirit mediums? Or is it spirit media?

  "Um. I have a theory." Pearl was working her way across her fingers; she'd left her thumb raw and bleeding hours ago, and was biting her ring finger now. "I… I think Mr. Nick might have been dead. Or very close to dead. If he survived the attack, then… then it would be a very large injury, right? He lost a lot of blood. He may have been on the edge between worlds."

  "Oh, how convenient." It came out limply, without heat. Probably because it was Pearl. He's never anything but lovely to her. "So, we managed to summon Phoenix's soul at the precise moment when he was grievously injured but not-quite-dead?"

  "Is that any weirder than most of Daddy's cases?" Trucy shot him a grin. She's back. Trucy's back.  "Uncle Miles. Please. Do you trust me?"

  Mr. Edgeworth went very still. He looked at her, really looked at her, and even from his position across the room Apollo could feel the intensity of it. It was dispassionate, a look that appraised her, all the parts that made up who she was, and weighed them for their worth. There was nowhere to hide, and Trucy didn't: she sat up straighter, evened her shoulders and met his eyes steadily.

  "Yes." He sighed, heavily. "Yes, I trust you, Trucy Wright." He took the glasses off his face, rubbed at the bridge of his nose, then returned them. "The question is, then: what do you think we should do first?"

  Mystic Maya and Pearl were exhausted. An attempt each at channelling someone who probably wasn't even dead what the fuck? had left them swaying on their feet and pale. Mr. Edgeworth told them to hire a room at the Gatewater next door, his treat, and it only took a few seconds for the idea of room service to filter through to Maya before she was grinning and collecting their hastily-packed bags.

  That left Detective Gumshoe, Mr. Edgeworth, Trucy and himself. Apollo brewed a pot of coffee, hoping to shake off some of his sluggishness. He wished he had a spare set of clothes: he and the detective were still in their suits from the memorial yesterday. Was it only yesterday? So much has happened. I should text Klavier. Should I text Klavier? How do I tell someone, hey, that guy we all thought was dead? Well, we tried to channel him using spooky spiritual magic and couldn't get a hold of him, so we're going to assume he's still alive. 

  "Hey, Polly, are you ready?" Trucy called from the living room. "We need to brainstorm."

  "Yeah, hold on." He poured out three mugs of coffee and gingerly brought them out to the rest of the group in one go. Mr. Edgeworth had refused, but was drinking water like it was his job. I can't believe I got to see the Chief Prosecutor drunk, and then got to see him hungover. Definitely one to write up in my journal.

  Trucy swapped him a cup for the whiteboard marker. Apollo had preferences when it came to using a whiteboard. He got anxious when other people sucked at writing clearly and logically. Mr. Wright and Trucy had finally given in and let him be in charge of note taking sometime after their third fight about how is drawing a semicircle with some squiggles in it the same as writing Eldoon's Noodle Cart?

  The last one to use the board was Mr. Wright, and he'd left a creepily detailed drawing of a monkey reading a newspaper. Apollo checked with Trucy, who nodded, and then he wiped it away with a few sweeps of the eraser. He bit the lid off the whiteboard marker pen, spat it out, and wrote "Timeline of Events" on the top left of the board.

  "Right." Trucy had a piece of paper in front of her and was reading off it. "Daddy was attacked on the 21^st of July. He'd had a phone call the night before about a new client, who he was supposed to meet at 1PM the day he went missing. He wrote that info down on a Post-It note, though, and we haven't been able to find it."

  "We tried to check his phone records, but Mr. Wright's cell phone is so old we can't do much without having our hands on it." Detective Gumshoe slurped his coffee. Apollo was terrified of what the inside of his mouth must be like, to withstand the high temperature without a grimace. "In my experience, a case like this? There's gotta be a burner phone involved. Probably dumped in the trash as soon as it wasn't needed."

  "Should we check nearby Dumpsters, then?" Trucy asked. Gumshoe shrugged; either way, the gesture said. She considered it, then returned to her notes without pressing the issue. "At about 12.40PM I left Daddy at the bottom of the building so I could go get lunch for us all. I've got the date stamp from a text Jinxie sent me right around then."

  Apollo added 12.40PM: parted ways with Trucy to the board. The pen went squeak squeak squeak as the tip drew on the glossy surface.

  "A power outage occurred from 12.42PM to 12.52PM." Said Mr. Edgeworth. "This was scheduled maintenance and public knowledge. I believe the power company used social media to announce this ahead of time."

  12.42 - 12.52PM: Power outage; company tweeted info in advance.

  "I came back at about ten-past one." Trucy didn't even bother to hide her anxiety; she clutched on to the front of her cape and twisted the material in her hands. "He was… gone, by then."

  1.10PM: Trucy returned; Wright missing

  "Make a new heading, Justice. We'll write what we know under it."

  Apollo nodded at Mr. Edgeworth and wrote WHAT WE KNOW in big letters in the centre of the board. He underlined it twice.

  "Someone contacted Daddy ahead of time to make sure he was at the bottom of the building." Attacker made contact. "There were at least 6 pints of blood found at the scene of the crime." 6 pints blood. "Given Daddy's weight, that's enough blood that he'd die within minutes, if left untreated."

  "A medical professional is involved." Mr. Edgeworth said this with absolute certainty.

  Trucy nodded. "That's what Mr. Eldoon said." Apollo added that to the board as well. Immediate medical attention – Dr involved? "Uncle Gumshoe, can you please tell us how the investigation is going?"

  The Detective stood to attention – literally, he jumped from his seat and gave Trucy a snappy salute. "Yes, Miss Trucy, sir." He wilted. "It's… uh, it's not really going. We canvassed the surrounding area - 

  "Hold on," Apollo stopped him, "it'd help if we had a map of the crime scene. Detective Gumshoe, sir, do you have the crime scene analysis on you?"

  Gumshoe started. "What? Why would I carry that around with me, pal? I thought I was going to a memorial service. 'Cause I thought he was dead!"

  "No need to get worked up, Detective." Mr. Edgeworth told him. He unzipped his luggage, the bag he'd picked up when Apollo drove him over to his house, and pulled out a folder, miraculously unrumpled and smooth. He kept notes about Phoenix Wright's "murder" on him? I don't know if that's macabre or romantic or both. "Here."

  "Thank you, sir." Apollo took out the poorly photocopied map of the block. He used one of the cringeworthy magnets the Wrights had collected over the years – a glaring, grumpy sausage telling him Jokes about German sausage are the WURST! – and pinned it to the board. "OK, Detective Gumshoe, where have you canvassed?"

  He was still scowling from the interruption, but walked up to the whiteboard. "Well, the day it happened we put out a blanket call for witnesses in the area - and I bet your surprise reward will've shaken a few more outta the woodwork, for better or worse. But yeah, we knocked on doors here," he pointed to the plumber's and the apartment building east of the alley, "and we checked the Gatewater," his finger landed on the large building to the south, "for anyone staying in north-facing rooms the day of the crime."

  "What about the two buildings to the east of the Gatewater?" Mr. Edgeworth asked.

  "That's another office block, like this one," Apollo told him. "And, uh, what's this one called, Trucy?"

  "Oh! That's the LA Anarchist Creative Space. LAACS. They're really nice! They let me borrow their 3D printer whenever I want."

  "How often do you need to use a 3D printer?"

  She cradled her chin, considering. "More often than you'd think."

  "Well, anarchists or not, it's unlikely witnesses in either of those buildings saw the crime itself. They do, however, have a clear line of sight into the carpark." Mr. Edgeworth looked at Gumshoe, expectant. "Detective?"

  Gumshoe blushed. "We aren't exactly swimming in resources, sir. We're stretched thinner than my paycheck at the end of the month!" He looked defeated. "We haven't got around to talkin' to 'em yet."

  "Then we will go door-to-door ourselves." He frowned. "Though it might be best if Trucy and I talk to the anarchists." Trucy held out her hand for a high-five, which he gave her after a moment's hesitation.

  Apollo moved over to the right-most side of the board. He wrote SH, erased it, and then wrote STUFF TO DO instead. Under this, he wrote: Check nearby Dumpsters for burner phone; Obtain security footage of car park, alley; and Canvas office block and LAAC. He looked at Mr. Edgeworth, and made a new bulletin point: Interview possible witnesses again, which made the other man nod in approval.

  He reviewed what he'd written. There was something there that itched at his memory. 6 pints of blood. "Huh." Apollo opened up the folder again and rummaged through it. There were grisly photos in there, taken the day of the attack; he took out two that looked promising and pored over them. Does that add up? Am I just seeing things I want to see? Better to speak up and sound stupid, then keep it to myself and not know.

  His finger pressed into the middle of his forehead as he connected the dots.

  "OK, so there's something about the blood patterns in these two photos that seems off to me. I'm not an expert, though, so take it with a grain of salt."

  Apollo chose the photo of the far wall, the one that showed blood painted across it in a hideous, faltering arc. "This is a photo of the apartment building opposite ours. And this one," he took out a photo of concrete, a close up with an evidence placard in the shot saying '2', "which was taken about 3 feet away from the back exit of our building. It's hard to tell on such an uneven surface, but… this looks like a passive bloodstain, right? Like from blood dripping off something."

  "The photographs, Justice," Mr. Edgeworth demanded, hand open. "And the one with the pool of blood."

  Apollo searched through the documents until he found it, the one that could still make his stomach twist: a mid-distance shot, fitting the entire alley in frame; it showed the distance between the two buildings, and an enormous puddle of blood, spreading out over the ground next to two overflowing Dumpsters. When he'd seen it - in person and with second-hand horror when reviewing the crime scene analysis - it had seemed so depressing: an ignoble, filthy place for anyone to lose a life, let alone a man as vibrant and complex as Phoenix Wright.

  Now a different kind of horror was creepy along his spine, dread and guilt and cold fear for what it meant.

  "Oh no," Apollo said. No, he moaned it; the words slipped out, spilled out of his mouth. He put his head in his hands. "Oh no, oh no, no, no, no."

  "Polly, what's wrong?" Trucy put a hand on his arm. The soft material of her gloves felt like sandpaper, no, please don't be nice to me, I don't deserve it, oh fuck, no, no, no.

  He pulled away and looked at the whiteboard. Phoenix and Trucy had collected many, many magnets in their time together. Some from Germany, a few from a trip to Paris; a lot were local, like the Sunshine Coliseum one currently being used to hold up Trucy's last report card, even though it had at least one C+ on it and seemed hardly worth the place of pride. Apollo had pushed them all to the side to make room for their notes, and now he looked through the crowd of colours and shapes until – ah – he found it.

  The magnet was about an inch in size, round like a button. A white background, a big red blood drop in the centre. Underneath, in a cheerful font, the magnet announced: I've donated 5 times!

  A celebration of Phoenix Wright's generosity.

  A way to fake his death.

  Apollo picked the magnet off the whiteboard and held it in his hand, fingers gripped tight around the smooth surface to hide it for just a few moments more.

  "It was me. It was my fault. I let this happen."

  His ears were ringing. Somehow, he managed to stagger over to the couch; he sank into the cushions. Apollo rubbed at his face, trying to bring sensation back to his suddenly numb cheeks and forehead.

  Distantly, he heard Trucy. "Apollo, talk to me, please." There was fear in her voice, a quiver on the last syllable. It was my fault, and now I've scared her.

  "Justice."

  His last name. Short and sharp and said by the Chief Prosecutor.

  Apollo's head shot up, and he was caught by Mr. Edgeworth's glare. It felt like a cliché to compare him to some large jungle cat, coiled with tension, staring down its prey; his brain didn't care, and he could almost hear the growl at the back of the other man's throat.

  "Explain yourself."

  He swallowed down his nerves.

  "First, there's a contradiction. If I'm right, and those passive blood stains are from the knife itself, then…"

  Mr. Edgeworth caught the trail and followed it. "Then it's too far. If the attack occurred just outside the building, the injury is wrong. A deep cut to the carotid artery bleeds substantially, but with less pressure." He shook his head. "Phoenix can't both have bled out from a slit throat and sprayed the far wall, not if this is, indeed, where the attacker stood."

  "And we have no other proof telling us where the attacker stood, which is another thing. The crime scene is hard to read – there's a lot of trash in that alley, and the surfaces are all uneven – but I haven't seen any transfer blood stains. No footprints, no handprints. No voids, either, from someone standing in the way. To lose that much blood, so neatly, Mr. Wright would practically have needed to bleed out directly above the puddle. I don't think it's possible. Or it's highly unlikely, at any rate."

  "What are you saying, pal? That blood was all Mr. Wright's though!" Gumshoe pointed out. "Every last drop. Detective Skye was real sure about that."

  Apollo didn't want to continue. Guilt was tearing his stomach to shreds, and he could barely look at Trucy or Mr. Edgeworth. They'll blame me and hate me and I'm being a coward right now, putting off my theory so I can have another minute without their anger. "It was his blood. All of it. The tests said as much. So, the only way it all makes sense is if," he took a breath, "is if someone dumped a bunch of his blood, right there, all at once. To make it look like he couldn't survive, no matter where the body was."

  The other three took a moment to process what he'd said. 

  "Did… did someone steal Daddy's blood?"

  He nodded.

  "You said it was your fault, Mr. Justice." Mr. Edgeworth looked positively green; Apollo couldn't think of a worse time to be analysing blood splatters than when you were nursing a hangover. "How are you responsible for the theft of Phoenix Wright's blood from a blood bank?

  "I think they were the blood bank. Or the blood drive."

  He opened up his fingers to expose the magnet sitting on the palm of his hand. Mr. Edgeworth snatched it from him and his brows drew together

  Apollo continued. "As soon as I started working here I got a call from someone saying they were blah blah blah from whatsername Blood Bank, would we be interested in signing up to donate blood? I said yes, partly because I try to donate blood whenever I'm allowed to," he blushed, "and partly because I thought it would annoy Mr. Wright."

  "It did annoy, Daddy." Trucy cut in. "He hates needles, but he didn't want to lose face in front of you."

  It had been early into their working relationship, just after the Kitakis and the noodle stand. The woman from the blood bank was so friendly, and accommodating, oh, just let us know when's good for you, Mr. Justice, we can turn up at a moment's notice. We're a mobile blood bank, after all! And he was still trying to tear Mr. Wright's stupid mask off, still trying to get a response from him that wasn't a bland remark, or dripping in sarcasm. When Apollo mentioned he was organising the bloodmobile to come to their office, his façade had flickered for a second, long enough, for Apollo at least, to see his face blanch, see the distaste purse his lips.

  Then he was back, the disgraced lawyer, and he was shrugging. Sure, he said, I'll give blood. Gotta do my civic duty, right?

  Mr. Edgeworth made an annoyed noise, pah! "Are you telling me someone was able to obtain 6 or more pints of blood from Wright because he donated his blood out of spite?" He sighed. "That sounds imminently plausible. And there was no indication that something was amiss?"

  "It was a totally normal blood drive van. It wasn't like they came up to us with a bucket and a rusty blade, sir! They let us know a couple days before they showed up, put a few flyers out. There's another office block on the site, and on the other side of the road. He wasn't the only one getting his blood drawn, lots of the office workers did, too. I got my blood taken."

  Silence. Everyone's eyes grew wide.

  "Detective, organise a security detail for Mr. Justice."

  "Oh, no, no, no, it's OK," Apollo shook his head and waved his hand, no, no, I don't want that, fuck, not after I just told you I'm responsible for this! "It's fine. I could only give blood a few times, they, uh, they have a rule. It's a lot better than it used to be, but," he pushed back his hair, and his face went bright red, "there's still a three month wait."

  As if that Grindr 'date' didn't make me feel guilty enough the morning after. Knowing I couldn't give blood for three months because I happened to have gay sex had been awful. Now I find out it might have accidentally saved me from being kidnapped.

  I want to go home and lie in bed for a week.

  "Ah." Mr. Edgeworth understood. Trucy still seemed lost, but he wasn't exactly going to spell it out to her, in front of everyone. "Still, Mr. Justice, I'd advise you to take certain precautions. Until we have a clearer idea of who is responsible for this I do not want you leaving your apartment or this building without another person present. We can organise a police escort where required."

  Apollo was about to argue. His mouth opened to say something like, that's a waste of police resources, or, we should be worried about Trucy, not me, or, I don't deserve it, who even cares if I get attacked, and then he felt a pang in his chest, like he'd betrayed Klavier just by thinking such a self-deprecating thing.

  He shut his mouth and puffed out his cheeks and nodded.

  Mr. Edgeworth looked equally uncomfortable as he said: "Good."

  He took the pen from Apollo and quickly jotted down notes about blood splatter/spray and the need for further analysis. Find make and model of blood van was written in larger letters.

  "We have an enormous amount of work ahead of us. We have a suspect – whoever ran this blood van, possibly the same medical professional who was able to stabilise Wright after the attack. Justice, you're an organised man: find me each date and time for the blood drive, and we'll get corresponding security camera footage.

  "I'd also like to get any footage of the day of the crime, Detective, before and after the power outage. The Gatewater Hotel and any cameras the businesses here and here," he pointed to the map, "might have. You and Justice can also canvas the office block. Trucy and I will re-interview the witnesses the investigation team found, and see if the anarchists are willing to talk to someone out of uniform." He met Trucy's eyes and nearly smiled. "I think I'll let you take the lead on that one."

  She clapped her hands together, the noise clear, even with her gloves. "Sounds like a plan, Uncle Miles."

01/08/2027

D'Arme, Jean

Security Footage for Case GN-8

To: Chief Prosecutor's Office

  Mr. Edgeworth,

  Good news: The Gatewater Hotel and the office block both have cameras, and they've agreed to share the footage with us.

  Bad news: There were five cameras in total. Mr. Justice gave us six occasions when the blood drive van was on the premises, and he said that each instance lasted at least three hours. That's not including the day of the attack. If you're serious about sorting through this footage, it's going to be tough finding the manpower, sir.

  I'll have the data forwarded to your office tomorrow morning.

  Detective D'Arme

01/08/2027

Penny Scriven

You have missed calls from San Quentin State Prison

To: Miles Edgeworth

  Mr. Edgeworth,

  An inmate is attempting to contact you, sir. They keep calling the office and hang up when they hear my voice. I'd recommend you speak to the warden so they are aware of the situation. For the time being, I've blocked the number.

  Do you have a timeline for your return to work? I could easily arrange your calendar to free up the next month, if you would like.

  - Penny

02/08/2027

Skye, Ema

Preliminary Fingerprint Results

To: Chief Prosecutor's Office

  Mr. Edgeworth,

  Thank you for bringing me a big box of evidence to fingerprint! I hope I don't sound sarcastic, I really do love fingerprinting stuff! I don't know how to make this sound genuine, but I am very excited about being able to help the case in any way I can.

  I was able to lift some prints from the flyers and I'll run them through the system in batches. Unfortunately, I've already found some tell-tale wrinkles of a latex glove. This means the fingerprints I do have are probably just bystanders.

  It's not all doom-and-gloom, though! Sometimes you can get prints even through latex, and I managed to get a partial from the wrinkly-latex ones. I'll keep dusting and hopefully we'll get lucky and find another print. If not, we can cross-reference the partial when we get more evidence or even a suspect in for questioning.

 And the phone you found in the trash looks like it was used by someone holding it with gloves. I wasn't able to get even a partial from that, but the size of the hand is different. You definitely have two people involved!

  On a personal note, sir, I would like to offer you my deepest and most sincere apologies. I am so, so, so horrified at what has happened and my role in it. I can't help but think how much further the investigation would be if I hadn't made this mistake. I still believe you should accept my letter of resignation, sir. I don't deserve to be a detective, let alone a forensic investigator. I'll bow to your judgement in this, though, and work as hard as I can to bring Mr. Wright home.

Ema Skye

03/08/2027

Warren, Anita

RE: Assistance Required with Blood Spatter Analysis URGENT

To: Edgeworth, Miles CC: Skye, Ema

  Edgeworth,

  That boy of yours has a good eye. Has he considered forensics? The texture of the concrete makes those splatters less pretty than they could be, but the one I've highlighted is clear enough. I'd say there's a 90% certainty that they came off something being held at waist height. Definitely not arterial blood, and definitely not from a neck wound. I can't say for certain if the blood spray pattern in the other photo came from a deep wound or not, but your lack of transfer bloodstains, and the huge amount of blood loss in a ten-minute window makes me think this was a faked scene.

  Did Skye not work this case? Or is she still polishing her detective's badge? Get her in the lab, Edgeworth, that's where she belongs.

  Anita

06/08/2027

Penny Scriven

Your Appointment Today at 2.30

To: Miles Edgeworth

  Mr. Edgeworth,

  Please remember you have an appointment today at 2.30 to meet with your new psychologist. I've cleared your schedule afterwards and expect you to go home straight after the session. I don't ask for much, sir, but I'm asking you to do this for me. I've been your secretary for nearly ten years. You owe me.

  We are still getting calls from the prison, as well, sir. Whoever is calling isn't going through official channels. The warden told me his hands were tied. I told him that, perhaps, he should try being better at his job.

  - Penny

  The room was soft. Later, that would be the main thing he remembered from the session, a soft fuzziness around everything, even the cushion he picked up and removed from the chair. There was a soft, squishy couch; soft, plush carpet; a clock, ticking softly, behind his head (so as not to interrupt the therapy with such banalities as time and you are being charged by the hour). The doctor herself was soft, in a way: a cardigan in August; lightly curled hair, and an even and soothing voice.

  Do they practice that, I wonder? Talk to themselves in the mirror until they sound so calm they could send themselves to sleep?

  They exchanged pleasantries - how is work? I'm investigating the kidnapping of my best friend. Good. Did you see the rain we had last week? Yes, it washed blood off concrete and destroyed evidence. I bet the almond farmers were happy. Is the temperature at a good level? We're both wearing ridiculous clothing for this time of year, let's keep the air conditioner on. Yes, it's fine.

  "So, Miles," she said, when they'd established some rapport, "what brings you here today?"

  His hands tightened into fists, two tense circles resting on his knees. He relaxed them and instead smoothed his palms over the material of his pants, paying attention to the texture, paying attention to his body that was right here, in this room, right now.

  "I have had significant trauma in my life. I believe it has impacted my ability to make meaningful connections with other people, and find happiness."

  "Oh, I see. You've stated this very clearly, Miles. I take it you've given this much thought?" He nodded. She scribbled on her notepad. "With this in mind, what would you like the outcome of our sessions to be?"

  Fix me. Go back in time and never let me suffer all the abuse. Teach me how to be human. Miles frowned. There were so many thoughts he didn't want to say, he had to hold them back; in trying to do that, something else (the truth) slipped through his teeth: "I… I don't want to be scared all the time."

  "That's interesting. From my perspective, you appear quite confident. You keep much of yourself hidden, then, do you?"

  Miles laughed. A good, solid belly laugh. "Oh, yes, I suppose you could say that."

  Dr. Andersen smiled. It was the first thing in the room that wasn't soft. It made him wonder what people saw when he approached a crime scene, or began to question a witness on the stand.

  She asked him to give a brief life history. Half-way through she got a new pen, and a glass of water for his dry throat.

  My mother was abusive; she left when I was six. My father worked as a defense attorney. He was a good man, a good father. He was murdered when I was nine; we were in an elevator and he was shot; I believed I was the culprit for 15 years. I was raised by his murderer.

  He… abused me. He taught me everything he knew about being a prosecutor. He taught me perfection was absolute; perfection was expected. I tried to be perfect in every way I could. I failed, of course.

  I suppressed any emotion I could. I forgot any memory that bothered me.

  When I was 24, a childhood friend came into my life again.

  He… saved me. He defended me in court. He discovered my father's true murderer. He saved me a second time, helping me uncover corruption within the police department. I betrayed him, terribly; I tried to commit suicide and left a note on my desk. I was stopped, just in time, and… I fled, without telling him.

  He recently… recently he was attacked, and presumed dead, and I have come to realise the depth of my emotions regarding this man. I love him. I love him. I love him and he is missing and I have no idea where he is.

  I have been entrusted with his daughter. I am a foster parent, with no idea of what a foster parent should be. I would rather die than allow the cycle of abuse to continue.

  He was shaking. Dr. Anderson touched his shoulder, softly, gently; he gasped, almost a sob.

  "All things considered, therapy seems like a less messy option than death."

  Miles looked down at the Kleenex in his hand. It was damp, and he had no recollection of crying. "That remains to be seen."

  She booked in a dozen appointments, including another for the following Monday. "Be good to yourself today, Miles. You've dredged up a lot of bad memories. What do you plan to do when you leave here?"

  He busied himself putting away the appointment card in his wallet. "I will return to the apartment to spend time with Trucy. Mr. Justice will also be there. My secretary made me take the rest of the day off."

  "She's a good woman. I hope you appreciate her." Dr. Anderson considered him, looking him over. She patted his knee. "Do something nice for yourself. Something imperfect. Something von Karma would have hated if he saw you do it."

  Miles nodded. He thanked her, very seriously, and left her office.

  Trucy rubbed her face and leaned back in her chair. It was just after 7PM and she'd spent the last ten hours glued to the computer screen. They'd been given the security camera footage the day after the channelling, and she, Polly, and Maya spent every moment they could spare watching it, in between door-knocking, fielding questions from the press, and following up other leads. It was grinding, relentless work, trying to figure out what the blurry, greyscale figures were doing. Her eyes stung and her muscles ached, stiff and sore from sitting in the same position for too long. It made all of them snappy and irritable and her anxiety rose with every day that passed.

  Deep breath in. Kidnapping has an incredibly high rate of survival. Deep breath out. As long as it's a kidnapping. Deep breath in. As long as it isn't a serial killer. Deep breath out. Don't think about Daddy being taken by a serial killer.

  Aunty Maya threw down a stack of papers onto a teetering pile of them. They were haphazard and messy and constantly increasing - offering $2 million dollars for information on a crime in LA had its drawbacks.  "Do you think people have always been this kooky, or is it a modern thing?"

  "Yep. We had werewolves. Succubi. Faeries. Any yōkai." Apollo rattled off. "People have been coming up with weird crap for as long as there's been another person around to tell it to." He glanced over at Maya. "What's the latest?"

  "Hmm, let's see," she opened up the top-most folder on her desk, "If we believe what the good and honest folk calling into the police hotline have to say, we have Nick being abducted by aliens, being shot by a Yakuza -

  Apollo snorted. "As if the Kitakis would let that happen. This is their turf."

  " - he was a ghost all along? It was Kristoph Gavin getting revenge from beyond the grave. And, oh right, another alien abduction except they insisted that it was different aliens."

  "Was there anything useful?" Trucy asked.

  Maya sighed. "Maybe. Someone said they might have some video footage from the day of the crime - they were filming something for YouTube and were in the area. I'll get Detective Gumshoe to follow that one up."

  Polly looked uncomfortable. Trucy swung her chair around to face him. "What's up?"

  "I'm trying to decide if I'm being excessively paranoid, or just the right amount of paranoid."

  Trucy flicked him on the forehead. "You're in your head too much, buddy. Just tell us."

  "Hey, quit that." He scowled and scrubbed his fingers over where she'd touched him. "I keep getting a weird feeling every time Mr. Gavin's name comes up."

  "Weird how? You had a complex history, and he only got executed two months ago. It'd make sense that you'd get the creeps when you hear his name." Trucy waited, getting her timing right. Apollo took a sip of his drink, and then she added: "Plus, you are dating his brother."

  Bingo. He spat soda out, all over his red trousers. Aunty Maya howled with laughter.

  "Fuck! Come on, Trucy! Did you have to?" He grabbed a tissue and started dabbing at the damp material on his thighs. "How'd you find out, anyway?"

  "What, you're not even going to try to deny it? You're no fun, Polly." She sighed theatrically. "It wasn't exactly hard to figure out. You've got hickeys on your neck and you started getting a lot more texts from Klavier recently."

  Apollo slapped a hand to his throat. Trucy's smile widened; she'd been bluffing about the hickeys.

  "Anyway," he ground out, "what I was going to say, was that this is the second time I've heard Mr. Gavin's name come up. Mr. Wright mentioned him in the letter he wrote me. He was, uh, very blunt about implicating Kristoph in any foul play. I think the quote was, 'if I've been murdered, he did it'."

  "Yikes." This was from Maya.

  "Agreed." Trucy felt sick. Worse, she had an unsettled feeling in her stomach, the sort of feeling she got when a trick was about to go wrong; like juggling knives and knowing she wouldn't catch the handle, but unsure if her hands would get out of the way in time. She licked her lips and tried to find comfort in stating the obvious contradiction. "Kristoph Gavin is dead."

  "I know. I know. Klavier told me he had to go out to San Quentin when it happened. He was there.” A shadow passed over his face. Distress, Trucy decided, for what Klavier endured. “But, being dead hasn’t exactly stopped people before." Apollo exchanged a look with Aunty Maya. "Dahlia Hawthorne was dead. And Mr. Gavin managed to kill someone - almost two people - from behind bars. He might have had plans in motion even before he was arrested."

  The front door opened. She jumped a little, startled.

  "It's me," Uncle Miles said.

  "Hey, Miles! We're in Nick's bedroom!"

  Trucy tapped her fingers on the desk. "I don't know, Polly. I mean, there's a big difference between leaving poison around and... and what happened to Daddy."

  "You could always read the letter Mr. Wright wrote you. See if he mentioned anything."

  Trucy grimaced. Apollo kept asking her to open the letter Daddy left for her, and she didn't know why she kept saying no. Last time, she said it would be rude, because he was alive, and it would be an invasion of privacy. Even she didn't believe the words as she said them.

  "Well, even if it wasn't Kristoph Gavin, it's not a bad idea to look into people Nick pissed off. He was so good at doing that." Maya wore a fond expression, as if Daddy annoying people into murderous rage was an endearing personality trait. "I still can't believe he survived his first year as a lawyer. He was threatened so many times! Redd White, von Karma, and Dee Vasquez and her goons..."

  "I very nearly strangled him during that first trial. And the second."

  Uncle Miles was at the doorway. He looked weird.

  She couldn't put her finger on it at first. He didn't look happy; his mouth was still set in that flat line he'd worn since the day she called him from a crime scene. He didn't look sad, either, despite the evidence he'd been crying - he had red, puffy eyes and the tip of his nose was swollen, too. His arms hung loose at his side and oh shit, he's relaxed! Uncle Miles isn't vibrating with tension for the first time in his entire life!

  Apollo gaped at him, and Aunty Maya had a hand over her mouth, eyes wide in surprise.

  Trucy recovered first. "OK, everyone, 15-minute break!" She commanded, pointing out the door. "Let's stretch our legs, get some food and regroup."

  "Actually," Uncle Miles said as they got out of their chairs, a blush rising to his cheeks, "I've ordered dinner."

  "Oooh," Maya predictably grew excited at the mention of food, "what delicacies have you chosen for us this evening? Are we having lobster? Lobster stuffed with truffles? Lobster stuffed with truffles and dusted in gold leaf? Oh," her shoulders sagged, "but I don't like mushrooms."

  The group shuffled out to the living room. Trucy's legs had forgotten how to move like legs: she walked in halting, hobbled steps and sat down on the sofa with a grateful groan. She put her feet on the coffee table and started stretching out the too-tight muscles in her calves, pointing her toes up and down, then drawing a circle in the air with each foot in turn. Pearl came out of the kitchen, a tea towel in her hands; no one had complained when she'd started cleaning the apartment obsessively, mostly because they knew there was no way to stop her.

  "No, we aren't having lobster. I've ordered pizza, in fact." Uncle Miles walked over to the TV and crouched down to fiddle with the DVD player. "And, I'd hoped we might watch something, while we eat."

  Trucy frowned. What the hell is going on? Uncle Miles did not like to watch TV while he ate. Uncle Miles didn't even approve of eating food on the couch. One time, he'd had them over for a BBQ and served food on ceramic plates with cutlery and he'd served them hot dogs, or whatever fancy variant he'd tried to call "hot dogs". She and Daddy had spent five minutes trying to eat their real-pork-sausage-and-baguette-rolls with a knife and fork before giving up and using their hands.

  "Wait, is that a recording of the Steel Samurai stage show?" Maya wiggled her fingers at the DVD case, demanding Miles hand it over.

  He gave her the case and a haughty look to go with it. "Please. This is a bootleg of the limited-run Steel Samurai Musical."

  She squealed and started turning the case over in her hands. "Oh my God, there's only an 18 second clip of that on YouTube and someone's head's in the way. How did you get this, Edgeworth?"

  "I have my methods."

  Uncle Miles was smiling, actually smiling; his head was turned to the side so the curve of his mouth wasn't as visible, but his eyes had a sparkle to them, and she felt a stab of hot anger. How dare he be in a good mood. How dare he take her away from work when her Daddy was missing. Had he forgotten? She didn't want pizza and a movie; she wanted to find something in the endless pile of footage that would tell her this is who did it and where they took him.

  Trucy didn't trust herself to speak. She got off the couch and walked back to Daddy's bedroom.

  Her computer hadn't had time to go into sleep mode, so she was able to resume exactly where she'd left off. March 15, 2027, 2.43PM. It was a warm day, based on the clothes people were wearing in the recording. She watched as an uneven trickle of donors approached the van, went inside, then left. That particular day Daddy had donated blood around 3PM; she saw him, sweating in the hoodie and beanie he hadn't swapped out of yet, and she had a pang of affection-sadness. He had his hands stuffed into his pockets but otherwise there was no outward sign of the anxiety she knew he must have felt: Daddy and needles did not mix.

  Distantly, she heard the Steel Samurai theme song play. Good. Have fun. Enjoy yourselves. I'll stay here and actually do what needs to be done.

  What they'd realised early on in the reviewing process was that the person running the blood drive, the woman they suspected was the medical professional involved, had worn a mask during every interaction. Polly thought he might be able to recognise her if he saw her again, since he'd seen her in close quarters when he donated blood; he'd rubbed at his furrowed brow as he said it, though, so Trucy didn't believe him.

  Twenty minutes passed - about 40 minutes of video time, sped up as much as she could afford before her eyes started skipping details. There was a knock at the front door. Uncle Miles accepted the delivery, an awkward negotiation done in stop-start statements. Trucy rolled her eyes. How could he be this supposedly amazing prosecutor and investigator, and he didn't even know how to order pizza like a normal human being? There were times in her life when she and Daddy had ordered take out practically every day. It wasn't like it was hard. She heard Apollo in the kitchen, his loud voice calling out: we've got two plain cheese pizzas, something weird with BBQ sauce, and a meatlovers.

  It ached. Didn't they realise how important this was? How important it was to her? How could they do normal, everyday things when they weren't living a normal, everyday life? When her Daddy was missing and she worried about him with every breath she took.

  Trucy bit her lip. There was so much cluttering up her insides; everything she felt was in a hopeless, knotted mess. She couldn't just feel sad about Daddy: whenever she thought about the situation, it dragged up anger and fear and frustration as well as sadness. The idea of taking a break and eating pizza with Uncle Miles was some combination of disgust/fury/longing and it didn't make sense to have such clashing emotions.

  She had to turn and turn the feelings over in her head, wearing them down until the edges disappeared and they were appropriate. Until she found the right, socially acceptable fit: simple and plain enough for other people to understand.

  Uncle Miles knocked on the door frame to get her attention. "Trucy." She looked up. He had a plate with two slices of pizza on it, and was carrying a can of soda. "We're about to have dinner."

  "OK. You can leave the pizza on the desk. I've got work to do." She went back to her screen.

  In the recording, Daddy stepped out of the van. One sleeve was rolled up and his arm had a bandage around it. He was sipping from his juice box and trying to open the packet of cookies at the same time, his fingers fumbling over the wrapping. He took one out and shoved it all in his mouth and then walked away from the carpark and out of the camera's view. Not long afterwards, the Masked Woman came out of the van, too; Trucy leaned forward to get a better look.

  "This is a marathon, not a sprint." Uncle Miles told her. "One night off to recuperate is not a sign of weakness."

  Trucy pressed pause on the video. "I didn't think it was." She glared at him. "I just thought this," her hands waved over the collection of laptops and paperwork, "was more important than watching a DVD. 

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. He still had the drink in his hand, so he looked stupid, holding a can in front of his face. "Of course, it is more important. There is nothing more important, or more pressing, than finding your father." He came closer and put the plate of food down next to her. "But you need to eat. You need to rest your eyes."

  The pizza smelled delicious. It made her stomach turn. "I need to do this. I... I can't let him down."

  Uncle Miles seemed to be debating something in his head; he clicked his fingernails on the top of the can and sighed. Then:

  "I'm in two minds," he began, "about what Phoenix would do if he was here. From experience, I know he would have worked this case until he collapsed with exhaustion. However," he put a hand on her shoulder, "he also had a habit of overriding other people's wishes, and I suspect, for you, Trucy, someone he cared about so intensely, he would simply ignore your protests and turn your computer off."

  Daddy absolutely would. Her mouth twitched upwards in the start of a smile. "I don't know, Uncle Miles. I don't think he knew how to."

  "Ah, that is where he and I differ. I, at the very least, know where the power button is." He squeezed her shoulder briefly. It was nice. Not the same as a bear hug from Daddy, but the right kind of restrained affection she expected from Uncle Miles. "Trucy, how much do you know about my childhood?"

  Her eyes widened. She was surprised at the subject change. "Oh, um, I... it was complicated?"

  A dry laugh. "An understatement, but yes. It was complicated." Uncle Miles wasn't looking at her; he wasn't looking at anything, really. He had turned his gaze, soft and unfocused, towards her computer screen. "My mentor, the man who raised me to adulthood, was harsh. Unyielding. He had no tolerance for weakness, for anything he considered indulgent or useless. He only desired one thing, and demanded it in all aspects of his life: perfection.

  "That is the man who I aspired to be, for many, many years. When your father and I finally crossed paths again, he taught me a great number of lessons. The one that made the most impressive impact on me, perhaps, is this: there is only one perfect thing in the world, and it is the truth.

  "The truth is unwavering, patient and immovable. It does not care about reputations, or feelings, or what's convenient. The truth will exist no matter how hard we try to erase it. No matter how hard anyone tries to erase it.

  "I believe we will find your father, Trucy. But we will not find him tonight."

  She had a fist full of her cape, and as he spoke, she squeezed it; the material bunched and pulled, hurting her neck with how it strained there. "What if we're one day late?"

  Uncle Miles shrugged. "What if you miss a vital piece of evidence because you're too tired to focus? We can go back and forth over this for hours. However," he shifted a bit, tried to ease some discomfort over what he was going to say next, "I will offer you full disclosure, though I'd rather you kept the details to yourself."

  At her confused nod, he continued. "I had my first therapy session today. It was a long time coming, and well-deserved. My psychologist gave me homework as I was leaving: 'Do something you enjoy'. As it happens, I enjoy spending time with you. And Maya, and Pearls, and - bizarrely - even Mr. Justice.

  "I'm 34 years old, and I've never failed an assignment in my life. I'd prefer not to start now."

  She took a deep breath in.

  Her first reaction was intensely bitter: the strength of it made her stomach cramp and her mouth fill with saliva; her body wanted to get those feelings out before they could poison her any more than it already had. He had a single session. One session of therapy and now he was an expert on life/work balance? Now he felt he could chide her for pushing herself past her limit when Daddy's life was on the line?

  Why couldn't he have figured this out sooner? Maybe he would have taken a break when Daddy needed him. When he lost his badge. When he was framed for murder. Distantly, in the back of her head, she knew that wasn't fair. She knew her Daddy had curled into himself. He'd pushed away his friends and loved ones - the people from his former life - for his own reasons. Whether it was to protect them from the harsher Phoenix Wright he'd become, or to protect himself from the hurt of their disappointment, she didn't know. What she did know, was that Daddy had always been there for him, and it felt like it was only ever when it was convenient for Uncle Miles.

  And now it was just so fucking convenient that when she wanted to burn herself up to find Daddy even a second faster, he was suddenly concerned about stress and eating food and resting.

  Trucy released the breath. No. He's telling the truth. He's not hiding anything. He believes what he's saying, so why is he saying it? Why is he doing this?

  Think about this like Daddy.

  Exhibit A: He'd ordered greasy, terrible pizza. Not authentic, baked-in-a-woodfire-oven-on-a-stone stuff with only three ingredients and an Italian name. This had squishy dough and at least half an inch of cheese melted on top, and even had the pepperoni that kinda reminded her of the inside of gym mats. He either actually secretly likes the pizza, or is willing to compromise for the sake of other people.

  Exhibit B: The muted noise of the Steel Samurai Musical in the background. It was, objectively, super dorky. He is sharing this part of himself with us. It's something he finds comforting.

  Exhibit C: Miles Edgeworth told her about his past, and discussed his therapy. He'd been better, since their conversation in the park. The fact he was solidly on board for looking for Daddy was proof of that. He took time out of his day to speak with her, ask her questions and listen to her answers. But interpersonal relationships didn't come easy for him. As a child she'd learned which topics to avoid, and which ones to gloss over with a joke. Now, he was finding pieces of himself to give to her, to understand him and his point of view. He wants me to listen to him and see his perspective, but not if he has to force it.

  Exhibit D: Miles Edgeworth wanted her to take a break. Uncle Miles! Taking a break! He'd once went to work with walking pneumonia. He scared police officers and prosecutors just by being in the same room as them; they'd mumble something about oh my lunch is over better get back to work, and then scurry off to look busy. His mentor's crimes were revealed simply because he'd taken time off after being shot. Franziska's clearly the superior von Karma: she went to court the next day. It was important to him, then, that she not let herself get burned out. It goes against everything he learned to tell me this.

  Conclusion: Uncle Miles was making every effort to not be von Karma. Specifically, he did not want to be von Karma to her.

  Oh, Uncle Miles.

  Maybe she could make an effort for him, too.

  "OK." She picked up a slice of pizza and took a big bite. Around her mouthful of food, just to see him wince, she asked: "Can you catch me up on what's happened so far? I don't wanna miss any plot twists."

  He smiled, and if it looked a little rusty, well, she wouldn't say anything. "We'll start it again from the beginning. Mr. Justice was talking over it on our first attempt."

  "Was he complaining about them breaking into song? He knows that's what happens in musicals. He's just being annoying."

  Uncle Miles opened his mouth - definitely to agree with her, Trucy was sure of it - and then closed it again. His eyes had snapped back into focus and were now pinned to the screen. "Trucy, do you remember the young woman who was caught up in Kristoph Gavin's forgeries? Miss Misham, I believe her name was?"

  "What, Vera?" She craned her neck around to see the screen past Uncle Miles' head. "Is Vera involved?"

  "No, but perhaps she should be." He pointed to a figure on the screen. It was the suspicious woman, standing outside the blood drive van. She had a cell phone to her ear and was talking into it. She was at an angle, so there wasn't a clear view of her face, but she had pulled down the mask, most likely to be able to speak clearer over a crappy cell phone speaker. "Miss Misham had extraordinary talents. I wonder if she would be able to reconstruct a face, even from references as obscured as this."

  Trucy's pulse leapt, hope and excitement making her heart rate jump. She put down her slice of pizza. "I'll go get her contact info."

  "So, what do you plan to do first?" Trucy asked. "You know, when we get Daddy back?"

  They were driving out of the city and had already bickered, somewhat good naturedly, about what each actually considered LA; they agreed to disagree, for the sake of their continued association. Now, she was shuffling her deck of cards, the one she always seemed to have on her. The cards were smooth-worn, the initial gloss eroded, making them slippery.

  He frowned. The asshole in the yellow car was trying to cut in, acting as if he hadn't fucking known since the exit that he'd have to merge. "I... I don't believe I'd given it much thought."

  "Uncle Miles! You need to start thinking about it. You and Daddy spent too long not thinking about things, and look where you wound up. Unhappy. Lonely. Deciding you both needed waistcoats." She'd fanned out the cards, then snapped them back into a deck again. "When you thought he was dead you said you were filled with regrets. He said he loved you -"

  "Conjecture. He was cut off before he could finish that sentence. Inadmissible."

  "Fine, he said 'it's always been you'. That's super romantic. He loves you, Uncle Miles. And you love him." The cards were split in half and then thumbed back together, fwip fwip fwip fwip. "Are you really going to let another, what - 25 years? go by before you tell him how you feel?"

  "...No." Miles gripped the steering wheel. Phoenix's daughter could be almost as frustrating as the man himself. "I'll... I'll ask him out to dinner."

  "That's a good start! But what if he needs to be in hospital for a while? Cafeteria food sucks. That can't be your first date."

  "I wouldn't mind." A small smile teased at his lips. "It wouldn't matter where we went, or what we ate, if we were together."

  Trucy laughed, utterly delighted. "Oh, my God, you love him!"

  He scowled. "Didn't we just establish this?"

  "Yeah, but you really love him. Gross!"

  The driver of the blue car ahead of them was on their cell phone. He pushed the horn. They gave a satisfying jump and moved forward another couple of feet.

  "And what about you? What do you plan to do when you see Phoenix again?"

  Miles allowed himself a quick glance at her face while the traffic was once more bumper-to-bumper. She was frowning and sorting through the deck to flip certain cards to face the wrong way. "I'll tell him I love him, obviously. And give him a hug. God, I've... I've really missed his hugs, Uncle Miles." Trucy rubbed at her eyes. A sniff. "But... I think I'd like to ask him some questions. About what he was like when I was growing up. Why he did some of the things he did."

  Oh, God, she's opening up! Don't panic. You asked for this! "Oh? Anything in particular?"

  She shrugged, perfect in her teenaged sullenness. "Sometimes I feel like I had to grow up too fast. I know he didn't mean for it to happen, but I took on a lot of responsibility I shouldn't have had for my age. I was worried. A lot. About money, and bills, and if Daddy would come home at night. He did his best - I know he did - but, I don't think it was good enough, not all the time." The cards were still, held tight in her hands. "I want to know why he pushed everyone away." Trucy's voice cracked and she took a moment to breathe in and out. "There were so many people in his life who loved him, who could have helped him, and he never let them in. Seeing everyone come together for his memorial, and to help us look for him... it's making me wonder what life would have been like if we'd had all that support."

  Miles ached to hold her hand. He considered pulling over - even if it would mean that goddamn yellow car would get ahead of him - but he didn't want to make a huge production out of her being 'emotionally honest', as she would call it. Instead he carefully considered his words.

  "I'm sorry," he said, finally. "For not being there as much as I wanted to be." He shook his head. "Phoenix was... is... so stubborn. So proud about the oddest things. Sometimes, I believe he does things the hard way because anything easier would feel like cheating. He's always struggled to forgive himself for mistakes, and presenting the forged evidence was the biggest mistake he ever made." The traffic had finally eased, and his car was able to move into a higher gear, sounding much more like her beautiful, purring self again. "No matter the reason for his behaviour, a child deserves to be a child and not a...a short adult. It is unfair that you were ever put in that position, Trucy."

  She swallowed. Nodded her head. "Thanks, Uncle Miles. I appreciate it." A small cough, enough to clear her throat. "It's the next turn off, by the way."

  Vera Misham lived in a bright, white-stucco house in the suburbs: lush green lawn with a sign saying, yes, rainwater is being used, thank you for wondering; palm trees and weather-worn benches; a garden full of flowers, and another with labels describing the vegetables being grown on-site. A gilded sign told them they'd reached "Shady Oaks Residential Group Home", which seemed like an odd name for a facility which appeared to have zero oak trees on its premises. Miles wondered if they had a list of names for these sorts of places and just went through them, one by one, as they were built.

  As a frequent visitor, Trucy directed him through the process. They signed their names in the guestbook, waved at the man working the reception desk, who nodded in acknowledgement, then went down a series of corridors until they arrived at Vera's room.

  The door was open. Vera stood at an easel in a paint-streaked smock, her expression drawn in concentration. She had the windows and shutters open, too, allowing sunlight in. The gardens were visible from her room, and it appeared to be the subject of her current painting.

  "Knock, knock!" Trucy said.

  Vera spun around in surprise. She broke out in a large smile when she recognised the other girl. "Trucy!" Her face fell. "I'm sorry... I remembered why you are visiting."

  "No, no, it's a good thing! Well, hopefully a good thing." Trucy turned to Miles. "Vera, this is my Uncle Miles. He's a close friend of Daddy's."

  He extended a hand towards her. She studied it for a moment, brow crinkling in thought. A few seconds later she nodded to herself, as if to say, ah yes this again, and shook his hand.

  "Hello Miss Misham. It's a pleasure to meet you."

  "Hello, Mr. Miles... it is nice to meet you, too." Vera whipped her hand back to her side once it was released. "Um... I need a moment to clean up.... Would you like something to drink?"

  While Vera washed her paintbrushes and put lids on her paint pots, Trucy poured water for the three of them. Miles observed the room in a way that he adamantly refused to call "snooping".

  There was a bed and a small closet. A table that doubled as a drafting board, and two chairs.

  It was small and clean, and clearly chosen for the light and the view: he doubted there was a better room in the facility for an artist of Vera's calibre. The drapes were purple with little white rabbits running across the material, and he could see Trucy in the choice of fabric, and the hand stitching at the hem. A framed photograph of Vera, Apollo, Trucy and Phoenix sat on her bedside table, and next to it was another one, this time with a moustachioed man with wild hair and a younger version of herself. She had a shelf above her bed with an eclectic mix of reading material: glossy art and design books, The Science of Historical Dating, a text on paper manufacturing and even a few psychology textbooks, all nestled together with no regard to organisational theory.

  Finished artwork covered the walls, many of them still lifes: he saw vases full of flowers, bowls of fruit, and one featuring a familiar worn desk, a powder blue top hat, a golden bangle and a sloppy, hand-knitted beanie.

  Every inch of the place was filled with Vera's life and passion.

  "Solved the crime yet?" Trucy asked him as she handed him a glass of water.

  He spluttered a response. "N-no! I was simply admiring the surroundings."

  "... I'm ready." Vera saved him from further embarrassment. "Do you have the images?"

  Miles handed her a folder. It contained high-quality prints from the footage they'd gathered; any shot that had a view of their suspect's face without a mask was in there, sharpened and improved with editing to bring out identifying features. Vera accepted them shyly, then spread out the images over the table surface. It seemed unimpressive, when he considered the number of manhours that had gone into finding them, yet it was the closest they'd had to a lead in days. As the young artist considered the woman in the photos, Trucy bounced on her feet, full of nervous energy again; he shot her an annoyed glare, which made her grin, not-quite-apologetic. However, she remained still from that point onwards.

  "...I'll need pencils...and my instruments..." Vera eventually said. She spoke in such hushed tones that Miles was uncertain whether or not he was supposed to hear it. Her eyes met Trucy's and another smile appeared, smaller, but genuine. "...I can see her face. I know what she looks like."

  Trucy had her hands clenched into tight fists, hope and excitement written in every line of her body. "And you'll be able to draw it?" 

  "Of course." Vera blushed. "... I mean, yes, I think so..."

  "It's ok, Vera, modesty is for people who aren't talented." Trucy glanced at Miles, slyly, as if daring him to rebuke her.

  He crossed his arms and gave her an arrogant sneer, somewhat rusty with disuse. "I agree completely."

  That earned him a shocked laugh, Trucy’s hand coming up to cover her mouth.

  Vera seemed to miss the interplay, focused now on her work. She searched in her closet and came out with a large pad of paper and two tins: one for pencils, he decided, and another for the technical tools she'd mentioned. Trucy helped clear the table, moving what she could onto the bed or the floor, and then Vera adjusted the draft board from a horizontal plane to an angled surface. She had efficient movements, well-practiced; she clipped a series of photographs onto the board, sat down at her chair and sorted which pencils she required.

  "...I think I can have it done by.... yes, this evening." Suddenly nervous, she peered at him around the corner of her drafting table. "...is that all right, Mr. Miles?"

  It would be better if we had it earlier. It would be better if we'd had it last week, except we were under the impression he was dead. "That would be very helpful. We are in your debt, Miss Misham."

  The staff promised that the moment Vera finished her work they would fax a copy to Miles' office, an interaction that left Trucy astounded: she was amazed that those bulky appliances she'd seen gathering dust actually had a purpose. They walked back to his car and he listened with half an ear as she told him all the various theories she'd had about what turned out to be fax machines - maybe a way of keeping the phone in one place, so people wouldn't accidentally run off with it? Or for making extra-long-distance phone calls? She mentioned something about incorporating a fax into her next act but was struggling to figure out how to hook up a phone line on stage.

  Trucy changed subjects once they were seated in the car, doing up their seatbelts. "Do we have a plan for the rest of the day, then?"

  "Until we hear from Miss Misham, we can follow the lead Mr. Justice suggested. Namely, that the exterior of the blood drive van might have been remodelled between the last time it was used to steal Phoenix's blood, and the day of the attack. He's been looking over the footage for any vehicle of a similar make."

  "Cool. I was beginning to miss staring at a computer screen." She sounds like her father. If she decides to run off a burning bridge I'm going to have a heart attack.

  Before he could reply, his phone started vibrating in his jacket pocket. He took it out. Restricted Number. Miles grunted, but answered it anyway. "Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth speaking."

  "Oh, hey! It's Other Lawyer Dude. Finally! I've been trying to talk to you for, like, ever!"

  The line was bad. It hissed and crackled. The voice, though, was clear enough, and suddenly he was drenched in adrenaline again, working on no sleep. A little girl sobbing weakly at 10PM in a police station. It would have been better for everyone if you never came back from the dead. Franziska, shot. Phoenix kissing him, lips cold and tasting of beer. His heart shattering, smashed apart by his own words.

  And throughout the whole thing: Matt Engarde. Matt Engarde acting. Matt Engarde sneering. Matt Engarde breaking down on the stand and pleading guilty to avoid a worse punishment.

  Miles realised two things at once.

  The first:  Matt Engarde was incarcerated in San Quentin. Therefore, he must be the inmate harassing his assistant.

  And the second: There was no good reason for Engarde to call him. That left only bad reasons.

  Miles glanced at Trucy in the passenger seat. She motioned to his cell phone and shook her head in mock disappointment; he could almost hear her disapproval of him using a phone while driving. She hadn't picked up on his unease yet.

  "I apologise for missing your earlier calls. However, I'm currently taking time off work for personal reasons."

  "Oh, sure. That's why I called. I wanted to find out how you were coping." Engarde's voice simpered, dripping with false concern. "You and Lawyer Dude went way back, right? Childhood friends, then court rivals. But, like, everyone knew you weren't just friends. You guys basically eye-fucked through my whole trial."

  Miles refused to rise to the bait. "I have no idea what you are referring to."

  "Please, dude. The newspaper printed the eulogy you gave at his funeral." Oh Jesus, what did I even say? It's all a blur. "My favourite part was how you said you'd 'carry these regrets to your grave'. I hope you do, Mr. Prosecutor Dude." Like a switch, his tone turned rough and unhinged. "I hope it fucking hurts every second of the goddamn day. Because you fucking deserve it. And I hope that spiky haired sonofabitch suffered before he died. I hope it dragged out for -"

  Miles ended the call.

  He wanted to gloat, that's all. A sociopath getting his rocks off.

  "Uh, Uncle Miles? Who was that on the phone? Uncle Miles? I think we missed our exit. Are you all right? You've gone really pale."

  They got lunch, but Uncle Miles was weird during the whole thing.

  No matter how hard Trucy pressed him, or how obnoxiously, he refused to tell her what the phone call he received in the car had been about. All he said was: it's none of your business, Trucy, and then flat-out ignored her when she brought it up again.

  Overall, it made for a one-sided conversation and a very awkward lunch.

  Afterwards, he dropped her off at home and left to meet up with Uncle Gumshoe. Trucy only realised she should have pickpocketed his cell phone once she was at the top of the stairs.

  Any other time, the mysterious phone call might have kept her attention for hours. Today, she was too excited and worried to do more than look over the existing footage and throw rolled up bits of paper at Polly. Her record for 'most paper bits in Apollo Justice's hair at once without him noticing' was 8.

  The fax came in at 4:13. Trucy was sitting on the floor with photos spread on the coffee table, trying to figure out if anyone of them looked like the blood donation van. Apollo handed her the piece of paper, still warm, and Trucy experienced a second wave of appreciation for the weird, bulky machines, including the one still hooked up in Daddy's bedroom.

  "That's...that's her. " Polly said. "I can't believe it. Those are her eyes. That's her hair." He leaned on the back of the couch, looking shell-shocked. "That could be a photograph."

  He was right. Vera had worked a miracle in black-and-white.

  It was a perfect reconstruction made from the scraps and slivers they'd provided. Alone, they'd been abstract. Half a face above a mask. The curve of her cheek and ear, the rest obscured by a telephone pole. A reflection, found in a convex safety mirror and distorted beyond all recognition. They'd been stitched together seamlessly, now made whole and pinned down to paper. Delicate shading under the eyes to imply pouched flesh. Fine lines around the mouth, the start of wrinkles that would deepen in time. Hair pulled back from the face, except for a few wispy strands that had escaped, fluffy and annoying above her ears. 

  She looked so normal. Trucy scoured over the portrait, desperate to find something, anything, to explain why this woman would hurt her Daddy. Something that would help Trucy identify evil when she saw it next time; something that would help her protect her loved ones from coming to any more harm.

  "Hey, Truce, you OK?"

  Polly touched her shoulder and she stirred. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Thanks." Her eyes felt hot and tired; she rubbed at them with her gloved hand. "Um, we should talk to Uncle Miles."

  One phone call later, she and Apollo were in his terminally uncool car and on their way to the Police Department. There was already an APB, Uncle Miles had told her, based on the description of the woman in the portrait. Uncle Gumshoe had made sure that every police station in the state had a copy of it. Adrian Andrews had called in favours, he said with some distaste, and was leaning on her connections in the media: soon the reconstruction would be shown on every news channel, and I can't even bring myself to care about the ethical questions it raises, Trucy; look how far I've fallen for that man. You love him, that's why. Yes, now please stop bringing it up; no one in the Department has seen me blush and I would like to keep it that way.

  Then: a blur of activity. Arriving and getting a ticket stub and Apollo complaining about the price of parking, fuck, my car's tiny I should get a discount, look at that enormous dick-waving SUV over there paying the same amount as me. Uncle Gumshoe met them in the lobby; brought them over to Uncle Miles and Adrian, who always smiled at exactly the correct degree and no further. Someone handed Apollo a drink: he was hunched over and panting for breath.

  "Ah, fuck, stitch!" He gasped, clutching at his side.

  "Once you've recovered, Mr. Justice, I have some notes for you regarding the press conference. Miles and I decided you would be the best candidate, based on your association with the reward money." Adrian looked at her watch, which had slipped around her delicate wrist. "Excuse me. I have some last-minute preparations." She handed Uncle Miles a set of papers and walked off to gently harangue a policewoman struggling with the podium.

  "That woman is terrifying." Apollo muttered. "How can someone so softly spoken be so terrifying?"

  "Practice. And being married to my sister."

  They waited.

  Time, she'd found, was much more elastic than she'd ever realised. It seemed to stretch out infinitely at night, when she lay awake and counted the stick-on, glow-in-the-dark stars and wondered where her Daddy was. Now, it contracted down to a tiny blip: one moment she was watching Apollo flip through pages and grumble to himself, and the next he was at the podium, ramrod straight and every bit as passionate as he was in the courtroom.

  "...as part of the ongoing investigation, we now have an artist's sketch of the attacker, though we are still working with the assumption that least one other person is involved. We believe the suspect is a woman, aged between 40 and 50 years of age. If you have information relating to the attack or current location of Phoenix Wright, please get in touch with the police. His family want him home.

  "I will now take questions. You, sir, in the front?"

  "How do you know Phoenix Wright is still alive? Does this have anything to do with the Kurain Spirit Channelling Method?"

  "Further analysis of the crime scene has cast doubt on the original assumption that he'd died from his injuries. Next question."

  "Do you have any leads on the woman in the sketch?"

  "Only speculation at this time, which is why we are releasing her image to the public. We know she has some medical training, enough to fabricate a blood drive. We suspect she also gave first aid to Mr. Wright after the attack, if our theory is correct. Next question?"

  "Is it true you and Klavier Gavin are dating?"

  The atmosphere changed so dramatically that Trucy's ears wanted to pop.

  She heard her own gasp, and felt the question like a blow to her body; like a slap so severe it made her face numb. Beside her, Uncle Miles inhaled sharply and Adrian's fingernails went tap tap tap on her clipboard. The crowd buzzed, swapping their bored respect for bubbling excitement. Apollo went white, his eyes went wide; he swayed on the spot.

  "I-I'm sorry, what was that?"

  "How does Klavier feel about your part in his brother's arrest and execution?"

  "No, can we go back to the original question? I don't think I -"

  "That's you in the photo, right? It was taken outside of your apartment."

  "Hang on, I haven't..." He fumbled for his phone and she reached for hers as well.

  Trucy typed Klavier's name into the search bar. Oh. Shit. Before she got past the fifth letter, a news article jumped out: New Romance for ex-Gavinner's Frontman Klavier Gavin. And there was Apollo's shitty apartment that she'd visited a couple times to feed his cat or when Daddy was away on business and she was lonely. There was the half-dead ivy plant next to the door that he insisted was thriving, actually, no, stop touching it. There was Klavier bending down to kiss him, their lips meeting, eyes closed, as if the moment was too intense, too private, and now it was shared with the whole world.

  Her stomach plummeted. No, this isn't fair. We need to focus on Daddy. We need to find him.

  Apollo stared at the screen, a hand over his mouth. The cameras clicked, flashed. He swallowed and slipped his phone back in his pocket.

  "Uh, I... I have no comment. About kissing Klavier - about the photo. This press conference is about Mr. Phoenix Wright's disappearance and the suspects involved. Are there any more questions?"

  "I have a question about the $2 million reward." Apollo nodded at the reporter to go ahead. "Is that money from Klavier Gavin? Does he feel guilty about his role in the unfair disbarment of Phoenix Wright?"

  "Thank you for your questions. Any further inquiries can be directed to Detective Dick Gumshoe who is the policeman in charge of the investigation."

  Apollo walked away from the press conference. No, he staggered, and Trucy grabbed him by the shoulders before he stumbled out into traffic. Uncle Miles and Adrian spoke in concerned whispers, and Uncle Gumshoe brushed past them all in that rolling gait he had that ate up pavement.

  He gripped the podium so hard it creaked, then leaned across it, giving the impression of a dog restrained on a leash.

  "Hey, pal!" He shouted at some reporter with a shitty moustache. "I'm happily married but I'll answer any questions you have about her. Her name's Maggey Gumshoe, she's 5'3", her favourite colour is, aw jeeze, I want to say blue..."

  "We should leave," Uncle Miles told her, "before the press takes notice."

  They snuck away, down to the carpark. Apollo was looking at his phone again; he had a hand tangled in his hair and Trucy had to steer him the whole way, ignoring his mumbled comments. She was furious and trying not to be furious at him. It wasn't his fault. Probably. He was just a dork who fell in love with someone famous and now everything was spilling out, washing away the important information about her Daddy's kidnapper.

  "...oh my God, he dated an art professor and like three models? And maybe Lamiroir? What?"

  "Can we salvage this, Adrian? We need the public looking for this woman."

  "If I push my media contacts hard enough, yes. I'll speak to Mr. Gavin's PR manager. He needs to keep a low profile and so does Mr. Justice."

  Trucy screwed her mouth shut and swallowed down the bitterness.

  Apollo Justice's life as he knew it lasted until the afternoon of the 7th of August, 2027. He had a good run.

  He could picture the moment it happened with precision: the shutter-flash-click of cameras that turned his vision into a field of stars; the waxy wood of the podium under his forearms. He wasn't nervous, just dazed from all the attention, the noise and movement. There was a glass of water next to him, and he took a long sip of it to wet his throat. The condensation soaked into the stack of notes he had, turning the corner of the paper grey and soggy.

  "Is it true you and Klavier Gavin are dating?"

  He'd had that feeling before, the terror of a sudden drop; the stable surface you were standing on disappearing under your feet. Last time, it had been because Clay stole the treehouse ladder Apollo was climbing, mad about something stupid like not being allowed to eat the last grape popsicle and having to make do with cherry.

  Now, it was the pop! of the small, intimate bubble he shared with Klavier bursting. The sharp eye of a camera lens had ruptured it, split it open for everyone to see. Apollo was exposed, all the tender squishy parts of him put on display, exhibited on a website which had problematic weight-loss ads stuck between every paragraph. He felt like he was in free-fall again, unsupported; like his legs were desperately kicking out for anything to keep him upright.

  There were more questions. Him tripping over his answers. Moving away from the podium and Detective Gumshoe taking over; Trucy's face - betrayed? - and being asked if he was OK to drive back to the office.

  "The office? Um. Yeah? I think so." He pat his thighs, looking for his car keys. Trucy sighed and offered him his satchel. Oh, right. "But, uh, I think... I think I need to go see Klavier." His voice wavered, not quite a question.

  "I would not recommend it, Mr. Justice." Ms. Andrews told him: soft, reasonable, and infuriating. "We need you to stay away from Mr. Gavin until this news cycle has passed."

  "But - "

  "Polly!"

  "...fine. Fine." God, he was tired. "Are you riding shotgun or what?"

  The mood back at the Wright Anything Agency was decidedly icy. Trucy spoke to him in brittle-sharp sentences, not looking up from the printed pages of vehicle registrations she pored over. Ms. Andrews was polite, if preoccupied; she paced the living room and made phone calls. Mr. Edgeworth looked at him very carefully before returning to the desk he'd set up on the dining table with his laptop and papers strewn everywhere.

  Everyone seemed to know what they had to do except him.

  He couldn't keep his mind focused. Mr. Wright is still missing. We have a picture of the woman's face. Come on, Apollo, review the evidence.

  He sat at the computer and wriggled the cursor around, thinking about the photo. Photos, really. There'd been a selection of them on the webpage he saw, more than just the kiss. Klavier in his everyday disguise of large sunglasses and unfashionable hat, walking away from Apollo's apartment. A stock photo of Klavier in full rock star mode, shirt opened to his navel and hand wrapped around a microphone, a smirk on his face. Another one, moments after the kiss, with Apollo smiling, oh, oh I looked so happy, and his hands still gripping Klavier's shoulders.

  Argh, stop being a self-pitying piece of shit. Apollo shook his head. OK. They had a reconstruction of the suspect. He could go over some of the footage they discarded on the first pass. He had a shortlist of clips, including one from the day of the attack.

  It was even worse than watching it the first time. At least then, looking for a woman in a mask, it was obvious. Frustrating, but obvious. This was like... like looking for a needle in a haystack when you weren't certain there was a needle in the first place; you only knew that a needle was in the proximity of the haystack on a particular date.

  At this point, Apollo had watched the same goddamn clips too many times to count. It was visual Atvian. He yawned and heard his jaw crack.

  Apollo checked his phone. There were so many messages - Clay, and his moms, and a few of his internet friends who knew his real name - but most of them were missed calls of urgent texts from Klavier. His thumb hovered over the screen. Fuck fuck fuck I'm going to have to talk to him, aren't I?

  Apollo didn't want to talk things out with Klavier. He wanted to stew and sulk like a teenager; he had a good playlist for that. He wanted to cultivate hurt until he felt, unequivocally, like the injured party. The last thing he wanted to do was share the pain and humiliation with Klavier. He wouldn't be able to get it, not the enormity of what had happened. He wouldn't understand.

  How could he? He was a famous rock star. He'd been in the public eye since he was 16. Klavier charmed the public effortlessly, spun attention into good publicity. For him this was a normal day, not the complete upturning of his life in the way it was for Apollo.

  And God, the difference between them had never been clearer. Short and tall; gawky and elegant; plain, to be generous, and golden beauty. Every single fear and inadequacy bubbled up. How the fuck was this supposed to work? Was Klavier just playing some weird, rich-person game, Common-People-performed-by-William-Shatner level bullshit? How could Apollo have been so goddamn dumb to believe Klavier Gavin wanted to have a relationship with him? How could he believe this connection between them could work out when everything about them was different?

  "Apollo. We're ordering noodles." Trucy told him. "Your usual?"

  Shit. Fuck. Where did the afternoon go?

   "Yeah, that's fine."

  He turned his phone over so the screen lay flat on the desk and looked at her, properly. Trucy's face was hard, her lips pressed into two flat lines, pinched and pale. Normally, her body language was fluid and relaxed: it reminded him of Mikeko about to jump up onto the counter; casual readiness to perform the impossible. Today, she was stone-still, stiff and unyielding.

  "Hey," he began, leaning back in his chair, "Truce, you're not mad at me, are you?"

  "Mad at you?" Eyes wide, affected obliviousness. At least she looks more like herself when she's putting on an act. "Why would I be mad at you?"

  "OK. You're mad at me."

  "I just said I'm not mad at you."

  Oh, my God. "Is it because I'm dating Klavier? I know you had a crush on him..."

  Trucy scoffed. "I so didn't. You had a crush on him. And now you're dating him."

  Slight emphasis on now. "Wait, wait wait." Apollo sat up straighter. "Is it because of when we got together?" She turned her head aside, arms crossed over her chest. Bingo. "Trucy, we didn't do it on purpose. I know the timing is shitty, but it just...happened." He winced. He didn't want to tell her too many details, and he figured that information would go over badly, anyway. "At the time, I thought Mr. Wright was dead. I was grieving. Klavier was worried about me, so he made sure I got home safely, and... and then we were dating. We tried to be careful. I thought we were being discreet."

  "Oh, right. Careful. Because kissing a rock star outside of your apartment is definitely 'discreet'." She pulled out the air quotes on him. Ouch.

  Apollo groaned. He wanted to bang his head on the desk. "I know this isn't really about me and Klavier. You're worried about Mr. Wright. This is transference."

  "No shit." Trucy chewed her lip. Then, "But come on, Polly, we finally got a break in the case and all we needed was the public's attention, and now, God, now it's all about you and Klavier and no one is going to care -"

  "How is that my fault? That's..." he waved an irritated hand gesture, "that's a problem to take up with the fourth estate!"

  "I don't know what that means! All I know is that you and Klavier were," she dropped her voice, "screwing, and I needed your help and you haven't helped, you've made things worse."

  "One: we're not 'screwing', ugh, and even if we were, it wouldn't be your business. It wouldn't be anyone's business, and I'm kinda freaking out about everyone knowing about it. And the fact I'm apparently not allowed to see my boyfriend when everything is going to shit."

  Apollo was standing - when did I stand up? - and his voice was growing louder. "And two: you want to talk about 'help'? How about this, Trucy? I asked you to help me decode your dad's stupid, cryptic letter he wrote me and you refused. I have no idea what he was talking about. 'Apollo, you'll want to punch me when you hear what I said to Trucy,' 'Apollo, keep an eye on her'. Right now," he was breathing heavily and he knew it was a bad idea, but his mouth moved on regardless, "right now I don't even know why I'm still here. I respected your dad. I like you, and Mr. Edgeworth, but... fuck..."

  Trucy was pale. He didn't see where the letter came from, but she slapped it on the desk in front of him. "Here," she hissed. "Fucking read it, then, if it's so important. You care so much about your privacy, but I don't get to keep things to myself? Daddy doesn't deserve privacy?"

  Apollo didn't touch the envelope. He looked at it like it was a bomb. Slowly, he sank back into his chair. "Trucy," softly now, delicate, "he doesn't get privacy. Not when he's missing and in danger. We need to look at everything for clues -"

  " - you're just saying that because you want to know what he said to me, what he was trying to say to you."

  "Yeah, because his letter was weird, Trucy! I mean, he started it by saying 'oh hey, Apollo, if I'm dead it's because Kristoph Gavin murdered' - OH FUCK!"

  He reached across the desk and grabbed the keyboard and mouse. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck where was it fuck fuck fuck. Trucy was saying something, had come around to his desk to shake his shoulder and get his attention. Fuck fuck fuck. Mr. Edgeworth was there, too, brought in by his shout.

  Apollo dragged the video slider back to the first third of the clip.

  The footage was silent, the image jagged for a moment and then smoother as the camera focused. In frame was the bakery, the one near the office, and then some douchebag looking kid in khakis and a button-down walked in front of it. He had a stack of stickers: obnoxious neon orange and printed with a YouTube handle. He peeled one off the backing and slapped it on the windscreen of a parked car.

  "Holy shit, what an asshole," Trucy murmured.

  "Language, Trucy." Mr. Edgeworth said. "But, I concur."

  A hatchback. A sedan. Approaching a van and then hesitating because there was a woman - "Polly! That's her! That's the woman from Vera's sketch!" - and she was opening her mouth and waving her arms. Then the douchebag and the camera operator were sprinting, the screen full of convulsing concrete that nearly made him motion sick.

  Apollo took in a shuddering breath and rewound the footage, back to the van.

  "That was her! Oh, my God, we've got her near the crime scene!" Trucy wrapped her arms around his neck in a hug. "Thank you! We're getting close, Polly!"

  "Well done, Mr. Justice. This could be extremely useful."

  "That... that's not the only thing. Here." Apollo pressed play and pointed his finger at the screen, indicating at a figure in the background. "I need you two to look at this and tell me that I'm seeing things. Please, please tell me I'm seeing things."

  The man looked entirely unremarkable: baggy t-shirt and worn jeans and scuffed-up sneakers. Then he pushed his clunky glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index and middle finger, and Apollo's stomach rolled with a nausea he remembered so strongly, it was almost nostalgic.

  Suddenly, it wasn't a stranger walking past their suspect.

  It was Kristoph Gavin.

  Kristoph Gavin was alive.

  "Turning now to news of former defense attorney Phoenix Wright, who was attacked and presumed dead on the 21st of last month. Investigators now claim he may still be alive. One of Wright's associates, Apollo Justice, held a press conference earlier today:

  "'...as part of the ongoing investigation, we now have an artist's sketch of the attacker, though we are still working with the assumption that at least one other person is involved. We believe the suspect is a woman, aged between 40 and 50 years of age. Most likely someone with a background in the medical field. If you have information relating to the attack or current location of Phoenix Wright, please get in touch with the police.'

  "...And we're putting that sketch on screen again, along with the number for the police hotline. For viewers just tuning in, police are asking for any information regarding this woman, who is a suspect in the disappearance of Phoenix Wright, a former defense attorney known for his colourful trials and unorthodox methods."

  "To say the very least! Next, we have an interview with Senator -"

  Miles looked away from the television. He had his arms crossed. His legs crossed. He tapped his foot in the air - a sign of weakness. He didn't care.

  It took nearly 24-hours for him to get to this point. Engarde, as a rule, was not allowed visitors. The warden refused to take Miles' phone calls - something about a certain rude assistant - so he had to string together a chain of favours to push pressure onto the man. A fight with Trucy done in cold silences and hurt looks until Justice stepped in and convinced her she was needed in LA. Then, a flight and a hire car. Entry to prison grounds and the humiliation of admission: stripped of his jacket, hands running over his body; Miles Gregory Edgeworth printed on a sticker for everyone to see.

  The prison staff had the decency to put him in the Officer Lounge, at least, and he was allowed to grind his molars and drink stale tea in relative privacy. It should not take this long to get an inmate ready. I phoned ahead. Miles checked his watch. Nineteen minutes past when they'd agreed to meet. What a pathetic power-play.

  The door opened and the apologetic woman who'd greeted him at the entrance said: "Engarde will see you now."

  Miles smiled politely. "I will be there momentarily. However, first I must make a phone call."

  She frowned. "He... he doesn't like to be kept waiting, sir."

  "Neither do I."

  Miles took out his phone and dialled Mr. Justice's number. The woman tsked, but closed the door behind her on the way out. All he wanted to do was grab Engarde by the shirtfront and shake answers out of him, but he couldn't start at a disadvantage - more of a disadvantage. He'd suffer through the theatre of it all to save Phoenix. After all this time, I should be honest with myself. I'd do just about anything to get him back alive.

  The call connected. "Justice. Any news?"

  "Um, yeah, hold on," the sound of movement, "sorry, it's a madhouse here. Anyway, I spoke to Klavier about his brother's execution - which, by the way, is a conversation I did not expect to have with my boyfriend - and he said there was no doubt in his mind that the injection went into Mr. Gavin's arm. What was in the needle, though, is the question. Klavier didn't stick around the see the body, though, and he'd discussed that ahead of time with the warden and, drumroll please -"

  "Justice!"

  "Sorry, sir! Just excited! We found her! Klavier had a meeting with Mr. Gavin, the warden, and the doctor who was in charge of administering the lethal injection. Dr. Sarah Brum. Her ID photo is a match for Vera's sketch! Mr. Gavin made Klavier sit through planning all the gruesome details of the execution, what would happen with his estate, the whole deal. He had the balls to ask for an open casket! Um. Sorry for the language. Klavier got pissed off - Mrll. Gavin was pushing his buttons the entire time, apparently - and snapped, and said that he wasn't going to look at his brother's corpse. In fact, he wasn't even going to have a funeral."

  Miles' head spun. "Gavin knew no one would look closely at his body after the execution."

  "Exactly. Klavier's demanded that they exhume the remains." A long, crackly sigh down the line. "He's, um. He's a mess, sir."

  Another of Gavin's victims. "I'll let you get back to it, Justice. And thank you."

  Mr. Justice said his goodbyes and ended the call. Miles' tea was cold, now, and still terrible, so he tipped it down the sink and rinsed the cup under the tap. He exited the staff room.

  The woman was still there and she waved him over. Together, they walked down a hall. Up a set of stairs. Another set of stairs. Down another hall, and around a corner. Through two sets of doors, one of which had a guard who demanded he remove his cravat and show him his identification again. Then, he was standing outside the door to a private visitation room.

  A two-way mirror showed Engarde inside, handcuffed to a desk. He looked relaxed. He was reclined as far as the restraints allowed, and seemed unbothered by the extended wait. Miles took a breath.

  Cold. Detached. Logical.

  Prosecuting a case, Edgeworth, is nothing more than a game of logic. There is always the potential for a perfect outcome. The pieces are there from the very beginning. It is simply a matter of choosing the correct order in which to use them. Every move is crucial.

  Squeamishness. Cowardice. Romanticism. Idealism. These have no place in a court of law. Once you have your goal in mind, you must follow through with steel resolve. That is the only way to achieve perfection.

  Miles opened the door.

  "M'cold."

  Dr. Sarah looked up from her crossword. Kristoph wasn't there. That's important. Need to remember that. She put her pencil down, and her book, and came over to him. A cool - cold! - hand on his forehead. Something in his ear, 2, 3, beep. She swore. Thing in his ear again, 2, 3, beep. Her fingers examined him, which seemed unfair when he was already so sore and cold. They searched through his greasy hair, prodded the injury on his scalp; he moaned and shifted away. His cheeks, next, skimming the bruised skin. She pried open his mouth, turned his head. Removed his neck gauze and muttered oh thank God, OK.

  Right arm - fuck that hurts don't move my shoulder. Left arm, down, checked the wrist and then he screamed: "No! No, don't, please don't, please, please!" Phoenix flailed against her. Dr. Sarah held him in place. Round and round and round, she unpeeled the bandage holding his crushed fingers together. He was shaking, trembling; pathetic and unable to do anything to stop her.

  Dr. Sarah hissed out a breath. She left his side. She came back. Pressure again, another scream. A burst of coolness on overheated flesh, then a horrible, scraping sensation that made him heave. Here, use the pan. He threw up. Not much; didn't have anything in his stomach, didn't want to eat anything. Dr. Sarah continued. The room spun.

  He woke up. His fingers were wrapped again. He was still cold. His hand throbbed. It felt huge and hot. Filled with blood. "C'n I get a blanket?"

  Dr. Sarah put a crinkly sheet of material over his torso and legs.

  "Kris?"

  "Getting supplies." She answered.

  "Mm." No, don't sleep. Have to press that statement. "H'ld it. Not you?"

  Phoenix didn't know how long she paused; it was long enough that he thought he'd fallen asleep. Then: "No, not me."

  Think think think come on. "Not safe, r'ght? News."

  "...yes. They released an image of my face. An artist's reconstruction." She snorted. "It's not flattering, but I guess I can't blame them, given the circumstances."

  Them? "Wh'se 'them'?"

  A sigh. "Who do you think? The police. That lawyer in the red suit."

  Miles or Apollo? Too tired. Gotta ask the other question.  "Why did you do th's? Do I know you?"

  Silence. He wanted to sleep. It was so hard to stay awake. His eyelids were too heavy to keep open. Sleep was shivery-hot and confused him. Being awake was painful. He hated making the choice.

  "No, Mr. Wright. We never met. I called you, and called you, and left messages on your answering machine. You never returned them. Kristoph took the case. Pro bono, he said." He had to strain his ears to catch the last bit. "Should've known better."

  "Me too." Phoenix told her, and then sleep claimed him.

  "Hey, dude! Thanks for coming all this way. Have a seat."

  Miles sat down in the chair opposite Engarde. He let his hands rest loosely on the tops of his thighs, his posture comfortable - not too tense, not too casual. Bored, I said, not sullen. There is a difference, Edgeworth. He turned his head to the side as if to take in the contents of the room. It was completely barren, other than the desk, the plexiglass divider, and the two chairs they were sitting on.

  "So." He returned his gaze to the other man's face. "I have proof Kristoph Gavin is alive."

  Engarde's eyes widened. "Woah, really? I heard that guy died."

  "You were in the cell next to him before his supposed execution."

  A snarl, and a flash of scars from under Engarde's bangs. Prison had not improved his temperament. "Yeah, and he was a real pretentious fucking prick, you know that?"

  Miles smirked. "I held the same impression of the man, yes."

  "No." Engarde's voice was quiet, almost a whisper. "No. You don't do that. You don't play those prosecution tricks on me. We don't have a fucking rapport, man." Spittle went flying, splattered the glass between them. "You sent me here to rot."

  Miles crossed his arms. Tapped his finger on his biceps. "What are we doing, then, Mr. Engarde? I pulled a great number of strings to get us this meeting, on the proviso that you'd give me information."

  Engarde pulled himself together. It wasn't pretty, and it took effort: he sucked in deep breaths and rolled his shoulders. Cricked his neck and nodded to himself a few times. Then: "Information. Yeah. I'll give you as much information as you need. But I'm gonna need some quid pro quo, yeah? This shit ain't free."

  "Naturally." His stomach clenched. Look at you. Pathetic. Everyone can sense how weak you are, boy. If you want to be a perfect prosecutor, you had better push everything that makes you soft down deep inside you where no one can see it. "What did you have in mind?"

  "... point of having you here, if you can't even keep him alive?"

  "I have kept him alive, Kristoph. You slit his goddamn throat! I've done my best, but now you need to make a decision. The infection in his finger has spread. All I can do right now is..."

  Phoenix couldn't hold on to the thread of conversation. It unspooled from his fingers - his oozing, decaying fingers - and spun out onto the floor. He looked down at the mess, the tangle, and sighed. I'll never wind that back together.

  Kristoph was talking, still, with his cutting consonants. Dr. Sarah replied and her words were muffled and soft, half-swallowed before they could come out of her mouth.

  What are they fighting about?

  He shrugged. A current tugged at him again, inviting him to leave. It stroked along the width of his shoulders, comforting and painless; wrapped around his throbbing hand and lessened the pain there, too. Phoenix resisted, though his thoughts were so scattered it was hard to remember why. Maybe later? I need to... there's... Trucy!

  Oh. All he needed to do was think about her! Why was he so concerned? Trucy was in the living room, and so was he, lying on the couch like he did so often after a long night at the Bowl. She was practicing a magic trick, and when she noticed he was there she spun around and beamed, face bright and shining and full of love for him. There you are, Daddy! I thought I lost you. I'm always losing my Daddies.

  I'm sorry, Trucy. I didn't mean to.

  I know. She sighed. You never do. A moment where his heart crumpled under all the mistakes he made, then his daughter bounced on her feet, happy again. It's OK. This time I made a back-up Daddy.

  Her blue hat lay on a stool in front of her, leaving her head bare. Phoenix watched as she waved a gloved hand over the hat, then placed it inside. She made an exaggerated frown. Hmm. Where did I put him? She rummaged around, and her arm went deeper into the depths of the felt and silk. Trucy had her ear pressing against the brim before she found what she was looking for. She gave a yank, then another, then another, this one with her foot braced on the stool.

  At once, the tension snapped. Trucy fell over backwards in a practiced tumble, landing sprawled out on the ground. Miles Edgeworth climbed out of her hat.

  Wright. Miles crouched down. Phoenix was on the floor, now. Trucy had disappeared. You're hallucinating. How strange.

  No, I'm not. If anything strange is going on, it's on you. You're the one who was in a hat. Miles just looked at him. OK. Maybe I am.

  He smiled. His eyes crinkled in that way that made Phoenix's heart flip-flop in his chest. I'm flattered that you're thinking of me in your dying moments.

  Panic. I'm not dying. I'm sleeping.

  Wright. His name was said with as much love as condescension. That's a little on the nose, even for you. How does it go again? Ah, yes. Miles cleared his throat. His mouth opened. Laurence Olivier's voice came forth:

To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause...

  He stopped. Frowned. My apologies, and it was Miles' talking again, you were always the actor, Phoenix. He gestured with the script - oh, he had a script, now, clutched in his hand. We have limited time, as per usual, so I'll skip ahead. Under his breath he mumbled lines. He turned the page. Right. Here we are:

The undiscover'd country from whose bourn

No traveller returns.

  Phoenix shivered. No. No! NO!

  "Oh, Phoenix Wright." Kristoph held his chin in his fingers, forcing him to look up at his glittering eyes. "I think our time together is coming to an end."

  Miles watched as Engarde ate his steak with mushroom confit, crowing over how tender the meat was that he could eat it with these fucking plastic knives, man, it's bullshit. An officer had removed the screen between them at Miles' insistence, to create a more relaxed atmosphere. Engarde lifted his paper cup. Miles poured more red wine into it, suppressing his urge to scream. He felt twelve years old again, and given the dubious honour of serving von Karma and his guests their scotch and cigars. Walking the knife-edge of servility; polite, not submissive.

  He's very well trained. The dull ones tend to respond well to commands.

  "You're pretty good at that, dude," Engarde commented, mouth full of chewed-up steak. "Super profesh. I can totally see what von Karma was talking about."

  He placed the plastic jug of wine back on the table, pleased that his hand didn't shake. "You arrived after von Karma died."

  "Yeah, but," Engarde leaned in, rolling his eyes a little, "word gets around. Prisoners are, like, the worst for gossip. Especially when it's so juicy."

  I don't see why anyone should know what happened. I have no intention of telling anyone, and I highly suggest you do the same.

  "Was Kristoph Gavin one for gossip?"

  Engarde sneered. "We were having a nice meal and you have to bring him up?" A heavy sigh. "What time is it?"

  Miles pushed back his sleeve and consulted his wristwatch. "Just past 6PM."

  "Fine." He popped a few pommes frites into his mouth. "Let's get this over with. I can tell you where Lawyer Dude is. Or where he's gonna be."

  His heart skipped a beat, a painful missed step as his pulse raced. He pushed back his chair - it toppled backwards and fell over - and he slammed his hands on the table. "Tell me."

  They parked right down by the edge of the water. Phoenix blinked. He was on a stretcher, now, and his vision was filled with Kristoph's face. It was upside-down. Behind him, the sky was dark as a bruise. Dr. Sarah grunted and swore near his feet. He was so cold.

  Kristoph slipped his hand over Phoenix's mouth. A sudden fall, and something flat and hard underneath him. He flailed and screamed a muted scream: the pain was so great, it bypassed his brain and went directly to his vocal cords. Everything went black.

  Steady motions. Rocking. Kristoph's breath and Dr. Sarah's breath. Water dripping off oars. Phoenix realised he was on a boat. Shouldn't we be wearing lifejackets? Every breath hurt. He rationed them, took quick pulls only as needed. Harder to stay awake, so he drifted. Time passed. He opened his eyes. Pin pricks of light above him. Dark.

  "About here." That was Kristoph. Wet oars landed in the boat next to him.

  "Kristoph," Dr. Sarah said. No, she cajoled, like he was trying to get Trucy to wear a sweater because it's cold out there, honey, and I don't want the other parents to say mean things about me, OK? You can take it off once you're through the school gate. Oh, Trucy. "We have time. He's not that far gone. We could call someone."

  "Ah. I am entirely unsurprised, and yet somehow this remains irritating." He sighed. "Thank you for your assistance, doctor."

  BANG!

  Miles flinched backwards and grunted, like he'd been hit. "Your 'request' is outrageous. Absolutely not."

  "Wow. Guess you're cool with Lawyer Dude dying after all." Engarde indicated he wanted more wine. Miles glowered, but poured the last of it into the cup. "Whatever." He shrugged. "I'm happy either way." He held one hand up. "Reduced sentence." He dropped the first hand and raised his second. "Lawyer Dude croaks. It's totally win-win, no matter what."

  Are you so naive you only look at what things appear to be? What will I do with you, Edgeworth, if you can't open your eyes and see?

  "You hated Gavin. He trusted no-one but himself. And for some reason he shared with you where he was taking Wright?" Miles narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

  Engarde pushed back his bangs, grinning once more. The two sets of scars crossed his face, tissue pulling at his forehead and right eyelid. It was a macabre sight, made worse by the first-hand knowledge Miles had of how they were created. He swirled the wine in his cup and took a sip.

  "Yes, I despised Kristoph Gavin. A clash of personalities, shall we say? However, his thoroughness was impressive. I admire a man cold-blooded enough to consider a 12-year-old girl merely a loose end." He shifted deeper into his chair, getting comfortable. "For Gavin, the nature of my trial intrigued him. 'Phoenix Wright's crucible' - that's what he called it. He believed it made him, in a way no other trial did. You were there; you saw him in action, Prosecutor Edgeworth. It was a stunning moral victory, was it not? He was willing to let that poor girl die rather than let me walk free."

  Miles swallowed. He remembered. Phoenix, sweat-soaked and pale. Trembling hands. Begging, pleading, wriggling under the thumb of Engarde and de Killer. His own light-headedness as he kept the trial aloft through objections and new evidence, hoping to scratch out enough time to find Maya before Phoenix had to make his decision.

  And the terrible, eyes-wide horror as Phoenix looked across the courtroom and nodded, putting his trust in him, believing their shared purpose. The truth. Always.

  "It was an impressive performance, yes." Miles pushed his tongue to the roof of his mouth as hard as he could. If you must fidget, do so where I can't see it for goodness sake. "So, there was mutual respect between you and Gavin. And that is why you helped him?"

  He wagged a finger. "Uh-uh. Do we have an agreement, Chief Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth?"

  Use the evidence and the witnesses at your disposal. If you are willing to do what others will not, they will underestimate you every time.

  Miles nodded, a quick movement done before he lost his courage. Engarde tipped his head back and laughed.

  Kristoph dragged him across the boat. Phoenix stirred, tried to wriggle away from the crushing bars wrapped around his ribs; he wasn't sure his arms moved or if he only imagined it. The boat rocked dangerously. The side dipped down, almost touching the water, and then Kristoph said something - farewell - kissed the top of his head, and pushed him overboard.

  Cold. It was so cold. His head was underwater and everything is so cold. The weight of the water was too heavy. He could barely lift his arms without his vision blurring from pain. I need to... no, come on, not like this. Phoenix kicked out with sluggish legs and feet. His lungs burned. Movement, a little, OK, I can do it. He struggled and thrashed and finally, finally, broke through to the surface.

  Phoenix gasped and choked. He dragged in a lungful of air, then another.

  "Oh, you delight me at every turn, Phoenix Wright."

  It was hard to see. Water and hair covered his eyes. Kristoph was a darker shape against the sky, peering at him from the bow of the boat.

  "F-fuck you." He spluttered. "Help me."

  "After I went to so much trouble to throw you overboard? I think not."

  His limbs were numb. It blocked some of the pain, but made them leaden. He was so tired. This is enough, isn't it? I've done enough, now. I've fought enough for my life. Will they hate me for not trying harder? For not escaping? Water slid into his mouth. He spat it out, tried to find a rhythm as he tread water.

  "I saw a mouse drown like this once." Kristoph told him. "It took three days."

  Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you.

  Miles put his cell phone back in his pocket. "It's done."

  Engarde looked giddy. "Wow, no wonder Lawyer Dude was so into you. You're fucking hot when you're all in charge, throwing your power around." He squirmed in his seat. "God, hey, d'you want me to suck your cock right now? I'm totally down for it."

  "I want you to tell me what you know."

  "Ugh, fine." He adjusted himself in his pants. Miles felt sick. "So, like, Gavin wanted to fucking destroy Lawyer Dude, right? He wanted to tear down and shit on whatever remained of his legacy. Really put his grimy, weird fingers all over it. And what was the shining example of the dude's moral, I don't know, turgidity? My fuckin' 20-year sentence, that's what!" Engarde gasped as if surprised. "But wouldja look at that? I've only got another three years to go, thanks to Mr. Fancy Prosecutor."

  Miles was sinking. He was pinned by the weight of what he'd done. I'm so sorry, Phoenix.

  "Gavin told you just enough so that you'd be able to bargain with me." The words were rough, like rocks; they tumbled out of his mouth. "I'd have to wager Phoenix's legacy in order to save him."

  "Yeah, if you're fast enough."

  He was on his feet again. "Where is he?" Without the plexiglass, Miles could tower over Engarde. He kept the edge of the table pressed into his hips to remind him not to leap across and choke the life out of him. "Where is he?!"

  Engarde didn't so much as blink. He sucked at his teeth, trying to remove some remnant of his steak dinner from a back molar. "Gavin thought it'd be pretty funny if he left Lawyer Dude's body somewhere important to both of you. And it'd be even funnier if you got dragged all the way to fuckin' San Francisco to hear it from me." His eyes gleamed. "Hey, did you fly or drive here?"

  Miles' mouth went dry with horror. "I flew."

  "Well, you better get going, dude! He's all the way back at Gourd Lake."

  "Kris..." Phoenix panted. "Please."

  "You can't possibly think I'll save you."

  His head was tipped back as far as it could go, ears and chin under the surface. He had to stop, to rest for a second, and he sunk. Water slipped over his face, like a veil. It went down his nose and the back of his throat. For a moment he was motionless, too exhausted to even move. Then he forced his legs to kick again and brought his head above the waterline. His nose stung and burned. Phoenix coughed up what he could, but water still rattled in his lungs. Even treading as hard as he could, he was sinking lower and lower into the water

  He hurt. He was so tired. He just wanted to see his daughter again.

  "I....don't." His voice was weak. "Locket?"

  "Locket?" Genuine puzzlement. Then: "Ah. The tacky jewellery you were wearing. Yes, what about it?"

  "Wanna...wanna see her." His eyelids were drooping, now, and he knew it wouldn't be too much longer. Just hold on, then everything will be OK.

  Kristoph pulled the gold locket out from his pocket and clicked it open. He laughed, softly. "Very well. I've been known to be terribly sentimental at times, myself." He came closer to the side of the boat and held the locket out to Phoenix.

  It was almost too dark to see. Kristoph brought up his penlight and there she was: Trucy. Dark hair spilling out from under her top hat. The smile that made his heart ache and had welcomed him home every day for eight years. Her blue cape wrapped around her, a declaration of her chosen family as much as the Wright at the end of her name.

  I love you. I love you so much. I love you, I love you. God, I'm so, so sorry, Trucy.

  Phoenix kept his eyes fixed to the locket. He took a deep breath. He exhaled until there was nothing left in his lungs.

  He felt calm.

  Phoenix Wright stopped fighting.

  BANG!

  Arms dragged him out of the water. Breathing, holy shit, I can't believe it, he's breathing. Coughing up water. Lights flashing. We have your boat surrounded put your hands in the air and step away from the body. Coughing and heaving. Vomit and brackish water. It's not a body, he's alive, I swear, I did everything I could. Radio crackling to life. We need medical assistance here. Yeah. Yeah, it's him. We're going to bring him back to shore. Be ready with the stretcher.

  Pressure on his shoulder, his hip, his legs. One, two, three, go! Pain flared. Easy, fuck, be easy with him, look at him. Movement, then he was lowered onto something flat and unsteady. More pain. Another crinkly blanket covered him. Phoenix opened his eyes.

  He was in a boat. A different boat. Plasticky fibreglass. Police officers - three men and a woman - surrounded him. Dr. Sarah handcuffed to a rail. His stomach lurched. He was safe. Oh God, it was over.

  "Help," he croaked. "Help, I need help."

  A police officer crouched down next to him. "Phoenix, you're OK. We're with the Gourd Lake County Police. We're just taking you -"

  "- the locket." Phoenix gathered the last of his strength. "Need the locket. In the boat."

  The officer frowned. He glanced at someone out of view. "Hey, Hopkins, didja see any jewellery in the boat?"

  "Hold on."

  Phoenix's vision fuzzed at the edges.

  "Is this it?"

  Something gold dangled in front of his nose. The clasp was loose - shit, it's broken - and it popped open. He saw Trucy's face. "Yeah. S'mine. Keep it safe?"

  He nodded. The engine roared. Above him the stars streaked and blurred.

  It's over.

  Apollo held Trucy's hand the entire drive out to Gourd Lake, a sweaty, tight grip that only released her when Uncle Gumshoe opened the car door. The lakefront was teeming: police and journalists and onlookers; police tape strung between trees; a helicopter overhead, sending down a white beam of light onto the water.

  She stepped out of the squad car. Gumshoe put his hand on her shoulder, strangely familiar in its too-heavy weight, and started shouting at people to let her through, that's right, pal, get outta the way! The crowd split apart for them, jagged and uneven; they followed the path down to the edge of the lake. An ambulance, parked in the mud and a boat tied to the dock. Where is he? Oh God, please let him be OK. We drove here as fast as we could, please, fuck, please let my Daddy be alive.

  "This the daughter?" A police officer was speaking to Gumshoe.

  "Oh, yeah, that's her. Look." A different officer butted in. He cupped something in his hands. The angle changed and light bounced off it - it was Daddy's locket, oh my god, he still has the locket? It opened up and revealed her picture. "That's what he was asking for in the boat, Moore." He glanced at Trucy, then her picture again. "Here. You can give it back to him."

  He dropped it into her waiting hand. The locket and chain pooled on her palm. She curled her fingers around it. "Thank you."

  The two officers let her through. She didn't know where Uncle Gumshoe was, couldn't pay attention to him, not now. Trucy walked closer and could almost see through the open doors of the ambulance. Daddy.

  "You getting in, Miss?" A paramedic asked, making her jump. He softened his expression. "We're done here. On our way to the hospital. Better get in if you're going."

  "Yes, yeah, thank you."

  Trucy climbed inside. The doors shut behind her. It was cramped, crammed full of medical equipment and disposable stuff in boxes on the walls. A second paramedic pointed to a seat, and she squished herself into it. Distantly, she could hear the ambulance starting, scratchy radio exchanges from the front of the vehicle; siren above her, and various beeps and clicks from the machinery meant to keep people alive.

  All she could focus on was her Daddy.

  He needed a shave. That was the first thing she noticed, and it made her hiccup-laugh. Under the oxygen mask he wore, she could see the patchy, uneven growth that characterised all his beard attempts. No matter how hard he tried, he never managed to grow a full one.

  The second thing she noticed was that Daddy was pale. He lay, unmoving, on the bed, his skin almost the same colour as the sheets. White as paper. Crumpled. His face was covered in bruises, too, some dark and fresh, others faded and semi-healed. His nose was crooked. The corner of his mouth was red and livid, a vibrant twin to the pale scar he'd always had on the other side.

  Why would someone do this? Why?

  The paramedic glanced up at her. "He's lost a lot of blood."

  Trucy swallowed. "They slit his throat."

  The man had a good poker face. She was better at reading tells than he was at hiding them, though: he turned away and picked up a clipboard, flicking through the pages without really looking at them. There's more. It's not just the neck injury. More than what happened to his face? Oh God, Daddy, what did they do to you?

  Slow, like weights were attached to his eyelids, Daddy opened his eyes. His gaze was bleary, struggling to focus. Trucy gasped. She went to grab his hand but recoiled, her stomach churning. Jesus. Oh fuck. A bandage on his fingers had slipped loose. It took her a second to understand what she was looking at, everything was so wrong. Swollen skin, balloon-tight. Purple and red and yellow. A jumble of angles.

  Trucy knew Daddy's hands. They'd combed her hair. Played terrible piano and flawless poker. Put Band-Aids on her knees, counted her toes to make her giggle. His hands had pointed at a man and accused him of murder. Picked a card from the deck she spread in front of him. He was an expressive man, Daddy, and always in motion: he waved his hands through the air, or slammed them on the table to punctuate a statement.

  Looking down at the mess of fingers and grey gauze, soaked in weeping fluid, Trucy knew Daddy's hand was irreversibly damaged.

  "...Truce?"

  Ah, she was crying. Big, fat tears that rolled down her cheek and splashed onto the bed. She took a deep breath. Accepted the tissue from the paramedic and pressed it to her eyes to stop the flow. Smiled, despite how her chest trembled with emotion. "Yeah, hey Daddy. It's me."

  He frowned. "Crying? I -" Daddy coughed, weakly. When he drew in air he wheezed. A machine hooked up to a device on his other hand complained. "Made you sad? M'sorry."

  "Happy crying, Daddy." Trucy lied. "I promise."

  She wanted to stroke his hair. Rub his shoulder. Touch him, and reassure the both of them that he was there and alive, that this wasn't a dream. But every part of Daddy was battered and tubes criss-crossed his body. Trucy settled on running her thumb over the locket she still held.

  "Tried." Daddy said, and it was clear he couldn't stay awake. Maybe he wasn't really awake now. His eyes slipped shut again. "Wanted... come home. M'sorry. Love you."

  "Shh, you did come home, Daddy. You're safe. I'm here. I love you so much."

  The return trip to LA was agony.

  Knowing that Kristoph Gavin had planned it personally for him - some sort of bespoke torture - was no comfort whatsoever to Miles as he sat on a plane, the minutes ticking by on his watch, too fast and then too slow.

  He hated flying. I should get my pilot's license. Then I'll never have to endure this again. Miles imagined his therapist pausing, pen on paper. You plan excessively so you're never unprepared. What is it about being unprepared that bothers you. And then his reply, his finger tapping his biceps. I hate putting control in the hands of other people.

  How frustrating. He couldn't even have a satisfying anxiety spiral to pass the time.

  Half-way through his flight, messages poured in. Justice and Gumshoe told him what was happening on the ground. Kristoph, shot in the head. His body retrieved from the water not long after they arrived. Dr. Sarah Brum, also shot. Shattered shoulder. Responsible for Gavin's death, now in police custody. Phoenix in a critical condition, on his way to hospital. Trucy in the ambulance with him.

  Safe. Everyone he loved was safe.

  There were macabre details he read again and again. Dr. Brum kept a medical chart on Phoenix's condition during the kidnapping. Gumshoe skirted around the contents, only saying it went with Phoenix to the hospital. Justice complained that police handed vital evidence over to a paramedic.

  They found the bloodmobile on the other side of the lake. The exterior was renovated to look like a plumber's van. Inside was scrupulously clean, brightly lit. Like an operating theatre, Justice wrote, and Miles had to close his eyes for a moment, willing his stomach to settle.

  We're still searching the van, sir, Gumshoe sent in his last message, and we've uncovered a bunch of newspapers, all of them about Mr. Wright's disappearance. And there was a magazine with Prosecutor Gavin and Mr. Justice on the cover. That was in the bin. There was a lot of blood on it.

  Justice sent him photos of the crime scene. It was like double exposure: the image he had of the bloodmobile in his head, overlaid with the reality. Strong and bright where they matched, like the colour of the walls. Blurred and fuzzy in their differences, like the restraints bolted onto the reclining chair.

  Finally, he received a single message from Trucy, right before descent: Daddy's in ICU but they're saying he needs surgery really soon. Please hurry.

  The adrenaline burned like acid. Miles clutched the arms of the seat and willed the plane to go faster. He landed in LAX, found his car and drove. Déjà vu - nearly spinning out in the 5-minute pick-up only zone - and him rushing, running, through the hospital. Climbing the stairs - faster, not a phobia. Stopped by electronic doors, again, and being told only close family could go in, may I ask your relation to Phoenix Wright?

  His mouth was dry. He wanted to laugh. How to fit decades of complicated emotions into a single word?

  The doors opened. Trucy walked through and he hugged her. Just hugged her, arms tight, lips in her hair - she lost her hat? - and felt her shake and sob against his chest. For a single second he forgot why he was there or where they were. Trucy Wright was distraught and Miles hugged his daughter as tight as he could.

  Slowly, reality flickered back. He was out of breath and sweaty. They stood in front of the doors to the ICU. Phoenix Wright was on the other side of them, and he needed to get through.

  "Trucy. Darling, where's Phoenix?"

  She took a breath. Wiped her nose on a ragged tissue. Raised her chin in a stubborn gesture he'd seen from her father.

  God, he was proud of her.

  "I'm sorry." Her voice was tight. She wouldn't last long. "I tried to get them to wait, I really did. I said, not yet, not before Uncle Miles gets here. But," lips quivering, eyes filling with tears, "Daddy's in surgery, they took him away. Y-you just missed him. I'm s-sorry." And then Trucy's fragile strength failed, and she threw herself into his arms again, sobbing.

  I'm too late. I'm always too late.

  The last time Miles Edgeworth cried in public, he was nine years old, crying silent tears he couldn't stop, no matter how hard he tried. They soaked into the stiff collar of his new shirt, the one bought for the funeral; he had a growth spurt and his old formal clothes no longer fit. He'd cried during the whole ceremony. Cried when they put his father's body in the ground. Cried until he went to open the door to von Karma's town car and a cane rapped against his knuckles. Crying solves nothing. It merely makes you look weak. Do I need to tell you this twice? Miles had shaken his head and accepted the handkerchief von Karma offered. After that, he seldom cried, and always, always, in private.

  Now, hearing he'd done absolutely everything in his power to get back as soon as possible, and still missed his chance to see Phoenix before surgery, shattered the wall he'd put around himself. It broke him; cracked him open. His heart fell to his shoes and his jaw clenched, and then he was sobbing hot tears into Trucy's neck.

  "No, no. I didn't get to say it. I didn't get to tell him I love him."

  "Shh, Uncle Miles," she said as she rubbed his back. "It'll be OK. They're fixing him now."

  All his tightly wound emotions unravelled. The last month. All the worry. Thinking Phoenix was dead. The letter they found with his will. Apollo Justice telling him to get therapy, and he did and it was chipping away at his problems, but, fuck, it was going to take a long time. Disappointing Trucy, making her think he didn't love her. Loving her so much it ached. Trusting her. Having her trust him. Seeing Matt Engarde. Compromising his integrity; compromising Phoenix's integrity. How am I ever going to tell him what I did? How I betrayed him? Will I get a chance to?

  Miles cried because they'd worked so hard to find Phoenix and it wasn't going to be enough: saving him from death was not the same as saving him from having it happen in the first place.

  Eventually, the tears stopped. He simply ran out of emotion. He felt empty and slack; deflated.

  The waiting room was prepared for occasions such as these, this outpouring of unseemly emotions. There was a box of tissues near the nurses' station. Trucy brought it over and offered it to Miles. He took two, folded them over and over, then dabbed at his puffy face. A dispenser for cold water was built into the wall, and Miles poured them both some into paper cups. A very nice nurse walked past and handed them plastic wrapped cookies. She squeezed Trucy's shoulder and told them there was a kitchenette around the corner, if they wanted more. Miles and Trucy sat on hard, moulded plastic chairs and ate the cookies in silence, chewing through the stale-dry taste.

  He took a shuddering breath. He had to ask

  "Did they say why they were operating on him?"

  Trucy fiddled with her cape and shook her head. "They didn't say... just that he was getting worse and what they were doing wasn't working, so they had to take him to theatre. Daddy... he was a mess, Uncle Miles." Her big, blue eyes were horrified. "I don't know what Kristoph did to him. But... I think they need to, um," she had dropped to a whisper, her words getting thick and damp again, "I think they're going to amputate. His fingers. They... they didn't look like fingers anymore."

  The waiting room spun. Miles gripped the chair underneath him just to stay upright. Saliva pooled in his mouth as his nausea rose; he pushed it down. No, this is absurd, I haven't seen the injury. How can I react so violently? Trucy was the one who had witnessed her father's injuries, and that was heartbreaking in itself.

  Miles wrapped an arm around her and brought her closer. She lay her head on his shoulder, and Miles remembered a dozen other times like this, her falling asleep next to him. The bottomless trust she had for him, and the safety that she felt. He let his eyes go unfocused as he worked out what he wanted to say.

  "Trucy, I'm not adept at platitudes. I'll leave them out if it's all the same to you." She snorted, a puff of air against his cravat. "Your father has suffered greatly, not just physically but psychologically, too. It's going to be a long road to recovery -" Trucy stirred, and he knew her well enough to know she was about to comment on exactly how bad he was at this, "- but he has the chance to recover, because of you. You fought for him, Trucy, when no one else did. You asked me to put my faith in you.

  "For that, I can never thank you enough."

  After Trucy got in the ambulance, Apollo kept himself busy.

  He helped gather evidence for a while, sinking deep inside himself as the extent of the horror unfolded. A sharps container, full of needles and scalpels - why the fuck did they need so many scalpels? Pots of tattoo ink, lined up neatly in a cupboard; he frowned at them and pushed down what that might mean. Klavier's face and his own, printed on a magazine cover; a bloody latex finger mark smeared across where their lips met. A garbage bag, heavy and reeking of death, which turned out to be Mr. Wright's suit screwed up into a ball.

  Someone gave Apollo coffee at one point, and he sat down to drink it. He sent a few messages to Mr. Edgeworth with what details he knew, and the photographs he'd taken. Then, he wrote out short texts to both his Moms and Clay, telling them he loved them. He pressed send before he could overthink it, and rubbed his nose to stop the itch he always got before he cried.

  Klavier.

  Apollo called his boyfriend's number. It only rang twice before it connected.

  "Apollo!" A sigh of relief. "Oh, mein Gott, are you OK?" 

  "Yeah. I'm fine. Mr. Wright's alive. We found him. But, it's about Kristoph..."

  "He is dead, ja?" The tone was flat. Resigned.

  "I'm sorry." It wasn't enough. "For the loss of your brother, I'm sorry, Klavier."

  Their conversation lapsed. Apollo saw Ema Skye walk out of the crime scene and sway on her feet. There was a bottle of her ever-present luminol clutched in her hand. Like a coward, he was glad he hadn't been there to see where Mr. Wright's blood had been spilled and cleaned.

  "Gott," Klavier continued, and if he sounded choked, Apollo wouldn't begrudge him that, "after everything he did, all the people he hurt and all the lies, I feel as if I never had a brother in the first place. Isn't that strange?"

  "Maybe. I don't know." Apollo winced and made himself vulnerable. "I haven't spoken to my brother since we were nine."

  "Oh, Stacheltier." The pity in his voice made Apollo blink rapidly. I shouldn't have brought him up. This shouldn't be about me. "I did not know you had a brother."

  "I keep things close to my chest."

  "Really? I had no idea!" They both laughed a bit. Klavier adjusted the phone on his ear, a muffled, scratching noise coming down the line as he did. "For me, I simply... I do not know how to understand this life he led. I do not know how to hold both the memory of Kristoph tying my shoes for me on my first day of school, and the knowledge that he spent months - years - planning to kidnap Phoenix Wright. It is one of your contradictions, Herr Forehead." He laughed again, and there was no humour in it. "Can you tell me which one is the truth?"

  Apollo thought about meeting Mr. Wright that first time. Being used to drag Kristoph's crimes to light. Forged evidence from a man once known for his pursuit of truth. How did he reconcile his idol with what he'd become? Did I ever find equilibrium? Or am I still waiting for the 'real' Phoenix Wright to show himself?

  "I think... I think it's different. People, I mean. Contradictions in court are because you can't hide the truth. Like, if you sweep it under the rug, there's going to be a wrinkle, you know?"

  God, he was terrible at this, and talking on the phone made it worse. He forged ahead.

  "The truth can't be broken up, either. It's a lie if it's anything less than perfect. But that isn't how people work. They're messy and flawed. Kristoph cared about you, Klavier. That was real. You have the proof - stuff like him tying your shoes. But..." Apollo released a breath, "he was also a terrible person."

  "Ja. He was."

  "You're allowed to feel sad, Klavier. Or anything, really. This is a fucked-up situation. You can feel however you want."

  "Danke." A pause. "Stacheltier?"

  "Yeah?"

  "When you are free - in a few days, please, do not rush on my account - I would very much like you to see my apartment. If," Apollo could hear him swallow, "if that is a thing you would enjoy."

  "Oh. Oh." He licked his lips. His face was hot. "Yeah. I think I would."

  They said their good-byes. Apollo checked his phone's battery. There was enough juice left for one more call. His thumb hovered over the screen before he surrendered to his better instincts and called Trucy.

  "Polly!" He yanked the phone away from his ear, then cautiously moved it back, keeping it far enough away not to be injured by her volume. "Where are you? I'm at the hospital, and Uncle Miles is here, and they took Daddy off to surgery and where have you been?"

  "I'm still at Gourd Lake. Detective Gumshoe is my ride, I guess?" Apollo could see the detective waving at him, and he waved back and pointed to his cell phone to show he was in the middle of a call. He got a thumbs up in return. "Anyway, things look like they're winding down here, so I wanted to know if you needed me to do anything at the office before I went home."

  "Oh! Yes, God, that would be so helpful. Could you grab some stuff on your way to the hospital? Daddy's going to be here for a while, and he'll need socks and underwear and maybe his beanie? His ears get cold."

  Apollo frowned. "Sure. Send me a list." He rubbed at his forehead. He was so tired. Like, a month's worth of tired, all squeezed into his short body. "But, I was probably going to go home and get some sleep after that. I figure I can open up the office tomorrow and see if we have any clients."

  "What?" Trucy was incredulous. "Why?"

  "Well, I don't want to get in the way. You and Mr. Wright and Mr. Edgeworth have a lot to talk about. I want to give you guys space, you know. As a family."

  Trucy sighed, or groaned, or something: whatever it was, it fully expressed the deep exasperation she held for him in that moment. "Polly. You are being so dumb right now. You are family. You've been a goddamn rock this entire time and I love you, but you are so stupid it makes me angry." She sighed again. "Please, Polly. You should be here. I want you here, and I know Daddy will. So, stop being a dork and go pick up some clothes."

  Apollo rolled his eyes. She was the most annoying person in the world. He couldn't stop smiling. "God, you really are demanding. Do you need anything else?"

  Waiting was awful. Lately, Trucy had experienced a lot of different kinds of awful, and she decided this was the one she hated most. It had none of the intensity of mourning her Daddy, and it wasn't exciting, like trying to find him.

  Waiting was boring. Mundane. The ICU waiting room was sealed off from the rest of the world; it unmoored her sense of time completely. Whenever she checked her phone, the numbers on the clock didn't seem to make sense.

  People came and went with purpose. Carrying papers. Talking to a colleague. Walking briskly, head down. The contrast made her frustrated. She wanted to move. She wanted to do something.

  Eventually, Polly arrived. That helped put the waiting into context: he called her, and there was nothing, and then he turned up, so time had passed.

  He hugged her. Offered Uncle Miles a hand to shake and shared her surprise when the older man brought him in for an awkward not-hug involving a pat on the back. He had phone chargers for all three of them, and he'd stopped at the convenience store on the way to the hospital to get some candy bars and chips. He had a whole rant about how overpriced vending machines were. For once, Trucy didn't complain that she'd heard it before.

  At some point, Trucy pulled out the envelope containing Daddy's letter. It was pretty rumpled by now, soft and wrinkled. Ever since they found his will, she'd kept it on her, tucked into her clothes. Unopened, like one of the talismans Jinxie would give her at the start of each year.

  Omamori must remain sealed, Trucy! Otherwise, the blessing will escape, and you will be vulnerable to all sorts of evil demons!

  She definitely didn't share her friend's fervour when it came to warding off bad spirits, but she still couldn't bring herself to open the letter. Not while Daddy was in surgery. It didn't feel right.

  A staff-only door opened. A woman wearing scrubs came through, and Trucy shoved the letter away and sat up straighter.

  "Good evening, I'm Dr. Braithwaite." She had a folder in her hands and glanced at it. "Are you Phoenix Wright's family? Trucy?"

  She stood up. "Yes, that's me." Trucy felt poised on the edge of something. It took all her courage to leap. "How is he?"

  Dr. Braithwaite sat down and Trucy did, too. "He's stable. When he wakes up from the general anaesthetic, we'll bring him back to the ICU and you'll be able to visit him."

  "How long will he need to remain in intensive care, doctor?" Uncle Miles asked.

  She gestured, turning her hand back and forth. "A day, two maybe. Once we're satisfied that his sepsis is improving, he'll be moved to a different ward. Which does bring me to some difficult news."

  Dr. Braithwaite put down the folder and leaned forward. She touched Trucy's wrist, and Trucy knew what she was going to say, just clearly as she knew the doctor thought physical contact improved her bedside manner.

  "The reason we rushed your father to surgery was because he had a severe infection. It was shutting down his organs. To save his life, we needed to amputate two fingers from his left hand."

  Beside her, Apollo sucked in a breath. Uncle Miles put his palm on her back, steady and warm. Trucy nodded. She heard the words. She understood them and could feel their impact, the crater they would make in her life. There was no emotion attached, not yet; she was wrapped in a protective layer of shock that absorbed how she should be feeling.

  "How is he? Other than that?" Apollo asked. He was holding her hand again, and Trucy only knew because she was looking at her own fingers, healthy, pink fingers, peeking out from where he squeezed them.

  "We'll be running tests over the next couple of days to get a better idea, but let me see." She picked up the folder again. "OK. Left and right hands and all remaining digits are broken. Left foot, possibly broken. Cracked ribs. We'll need to get proper X-Rays done before I can tell you the extent.

  "Severe blood loss from the injury he sustained to his neck. We've given him a blood transfusion and will be monitoring him for anaemia. His nose was broken, and we've reset it. One missing tooth, four others showing signs of damage. Dislocated right shoulder. And there was nothing we could do about the section of flayed skin on his inner thigh, the one bisecting his tattoo -"

  "His what?" Uncle Miles was the first to find his voice.

  Apollo was close behind. "His tattoo. He has a tattoo. Is there -" he was losing colour rapidly, "- do you have a photo?"

  "Justice!"

  "Polly!"

  He swivelled in his seat to face them. He looked haunted. Hollow.

  "Please, I... I need to know. Not even a photo. Just, tell me if I'm wrong." Apollo tugged at his hair. "Was the tattoo, by any chance, a black and white flower? About," he used his hands to portion out most of his thigh, "this big?"

  He was smart, Apollo, even in his distress: his description caused the doctor to thin her lips and breathe out, hard enough to flare her nostrils. It didn't matter what she said, she'd already told him the answer. "I do not feel comfortable discussing the details of the patient's tattoo without his consent."

  Apollo nodded. "Yeah. OK." He stood up, in a daze. "I'm...I need to go to the bathroom."

  Dr. Braithwaite's pager beeped. She took it and grumbled. "I have to go, I'm sorry. It won't be long before Phoenix is out of recovery, and then you can see him and talk to him - though, he may be a bit loopy." Another hand on Trucy, this time on her shoulder. "Your father was extremely lucky. His injuries are unlikely to impact his day-to-day life."

  She left the way she came, another person knowing where they needed to be; what they needed to do. Uncle Miles was a rigid presence next to Trucy, and there were tears on her cheeks again, god, was she ever going to stop crying? Daddy's alive. Daddy's alive. Daddy's alive. Why don't I feel anything? Daddy's alive. She took another tissue and wiped her face.

  Minutes (probably) ticked past. Polly wasn't back from the bathroom yet.

  "I'm going to find Mr. Justice." Uncle Miles told her. "Will you be all right by yourself?"

  "Yeah." Too uncertain. Uncle Miles looked at her sharply. She gave it another attempt. "Yeah, I'll be fine."

  Trucy took out Daddy's letter again. Jinxie told her that a battered omamori was a good thing: it was proof that it was working, and that the talisman had absorbed the damage intended for the owner. She scoffed, suddenly angry. So, you could stop him from dying, but not save his fingers? Or keep him from getting fucking tattooed? Or... or the other things they don't even know about yet. God, I was so dumb. Why did I think not opening the letter would save him?

  She stuffed her thumb under the glued-shut flap of the envelope and tore it open.

  He woke up in stages, swimming against the current that wanted to drag him down further.

  Everything was heavy. Everything was stuffed with cotton wool.

  His eyelids were heavy. His limbs. His tongue was anchored behind his bottom teeth, and his mouth was horribly dry. His head was stuffed up, and too heavy to move, so he just lay there, which was new: usually when he woke up, he was sitting in the chair. But, no - he remembered being flat, and the stars above him. And water.

  What?

  Phoenix opened his eyes.

  He was on his side. He could see white. So much white. White bedding. White curtains. White rails. Overhead, the lights burned too bright; they hurt his eyes so he shut them again. There were soft voices. Footsteps. Someone hovering at his side, turning his wrist - that should hurt more than it does - and he opened his mouth to speak.

  "...am I?"

  "Are you awake, Phoenix? We've been waiting for you, sleepy head. How're you feeling?"

  "...been better."

  She laughed. "They all say that. Are you ready to go up and see your family?"

  Oh. Oh, OK. I'm alive.

  The woman released the brake on his bed and started pushing. "You are the talk of the hospital, Phoenix. I heard your daughter's a magician. Do you think she'd put on a magic show for the pediatrics ward? Once you're feeling better, of course. She's been worried sick about you."

  They waited at the elevator doors. "Does your husband have a bright red sports car?" Husband? What? That's Miles' car. What? "Apparently, someone illegally parked one out the front of the hospital because they were in such a rush to see you. Right before it got towed, a policeman came by and parked it somewhere else."

  Up in the elevator, then they were flying through corridors, effortlessly, painlessly. Phoenix wanted her to say more things; she spoke to him so casually, like a close confidant, and he was desperate to hear about the people he'd left behind.

  "There's even a rumour going around that Klavier Gavin might pop by because his boyfriend is a friend of yours. Is that true? My daughter's a huge fan. I'd love to get an autograph for her."

  Phoenix frowned. Klavier Gavin's boyfriend? Wait. Polly?

  "Sorry, sorry, getting ahead of myself. You just focus on waking up. OK, we're coming 'round the corner. Patients usually get a little teary-eyed after surgery when they see their loved ones, so prepare yourself. No one's going to hold it against you, not after what you've been through."

  A wide-open space, framed with curtains. Three figures, and he saw Miles first, of course: he was the tallest, and worried, and wearing his ridiculous suit and cravat. Miles!

  "Oh, fuck," Phoenix muttered. He was crying already and couldn't see anything now, everything was blurry. He held out his hand - my hand's bandaged? "Miles. Miles, you're here, oh, my God. I love you."

  Miles opened his own hand and let him rest it there for a moment. It felt weird, with all the gauze, and the painkillers; not-quite-pain where his body thought there should be agony.

  "I love you, too, Wright."

  Fuck. God. He sobbed a bit. "You said you love me. You're still calling me 'Wright'."

  "You might need to tell him again once he's sober, sir."

  Polly! He was standing next to Miles, ramrod straight. Pale, but relieved. "Polly, I'm so sorry. I hated you, I'm sorry." The young lawyer blanched, his eyebrows furrowing. "I was so angry at you."

  "He's just confused," the nurse explained. "People say the strangest things when they wake up from anaesthesia. He doesn't mean anything by it."

  Finally, Trucy. Wonderful, shining Trucy. She peered at him, so fucking concerned, and that made him cry harder. "Where's your hat? Honey, your hat's gone." She pat her head, and laughed when she realised it wasn't there. It didn't matter. "I love you so much. I missed you. I just wanted to come home and see you."

  Phoenix's bed was in position now, and nurses were swapping portable machinery for the built-in ones in his room. Trucy stood out of the way. She looked like she'd been crying for weeks.

  "I know, Daddy. I missed you, too. It's so good to have you back."

  He nodded, helpless as another wave of emotion crashed over him. Phoenix reached over to brush away the tear from her cheek. He froze. Trucy froze. His heart clenched with fear.

  No. No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Please, fuck, God, no.

  His hand was bandaged. Neat. Clean. There were splints on two of his fingers, and this thumb had a nasty blood blister under the nail.

  He was missing two fingers.

  Phoenix Wright screamed.

  Someone was stroking Phoenix's hair. It was nice. Didn't hurt. Each brush went from his forehead, over his scalp and down below his ear. The same path each time, the same rhythm. He carefully opened an eye, pretending it was a flutter of his eyelid in sleep: Miles was sitting at his bedside, fingers smoothing through his hair as he read something on his cell phone.

  Miles. Miles is here. Miles loves me. Miles is touching me, like he's not afraid.

  If this is a dream, I'll be fucking crushed.

  The room was dark. He didn't know if it was night time or an artificial version: thick curtains sealed off any light from the window and from under the door leading to the rest of the ward. He had a private room, of course, partly because he was famous at the moment for stumbling into his own kidnapping, and partly because Trucy had told everyone he was practically married to the Chief Prosecutor. Something about how Phoenix tried to confess his feelings during a channelling?

  She'd explained it, like she did everything else: with a wave of her hand and a look that said are you stupid, Daddy? This makes complete sense. Apparently, he'd heard the whole saga several times, but he kept forgetting it as he drifted in and out of lucidity. By the time he was clear-headed enough to remember, Trucy, Apollo and Miles were telling the story through teeth clenched with frustration.

  It was so much. The extent of Kristoph's planning. The damage he'd done to his body. His hand, god, his hand, he couldn't think about it. He tried to ignore it most of the time.

  And then there was the rawness of his family's emotions when they thought he was dead. How hard Trucy fought for him, and the investigation the three of them spearheaded. Trucy had broken down in tears, apologising for giving up on him, even for a week; Miles had held her in his arms before Phoenix could croak out a reply.

  Now, Trucy was asleep, curled up on a reasonably comfortable armchair. Her head was on Apollo's shoulder, and Miles had covered her with his coat. Polly was asleep, too, his phone still in his hands. He'd downloaded a European board game and made Trucy and Miles play it; the former complained about how complicated it was, the latter's eyes gleamed with interest.

  Trucy and Polly knew. At least, Phoenix suspected they knew. He'd written letters and tucked them in his will, after all, and sometimes when Trucy looked at him now, it was as if it was through glass: transparent, but not open; a way to protect herself. It hurt, and part of him enjoyed the pain. It was clean and deserved and something he brought on himself. No one else inflicted it on him. He owned it, entirely.

  Maya and Pearls visited the day before. Maybe? Time was weird. But they did visit, and brought him Pink Princess DVDs to watch; Miles had picked up the topmost one and sneered at the summary, but the disc somehow made its way into the player, and it certainly wasn't Phoenix's doing.

  The Feys told him more about the channelling and their theory on how it happened. A freak occurrence. Hear that, Nick? You're a freak! I always knew it! Mystic Maya, be nice to Mr. Nick! Yeah, be nice to me, or I'm taking back the pudding cup. The timing needed to be perfect, the exact moment Phoenix had one foot in the world of the living, and the other in the afterlife.

  He took their word for it. He didn't remember being channelled. He didn't remember much about his time with Kristoph, not in detail. He could feel the edges of the memories and the space they occupied in his brain. Like a letter censored with big black bars, the meaning turning to nonsense with all the missing words. He was too much of a coward to bring his memories up to the surface, to the light.

  In fact, Phoenix was happy to let them rot.

  Miles' fingertip suddenly brushed lower than before, running over the curve of Phoenix's ear, and he squirmed, surprised by how ticklish it was. There was a chuckle, warm and low; a laugh he didn't get to hear enough. "Sorry. Accident." He pulled his hand back. "Are you awake, or in-between?"

  Phoenix considered the question. He was awake, but sleeping was always an option at the moment, something that he could slip into as easily as breathing. He was thirsty, though, and the pain was beginning to intrude again, so he was probably awake for good right now. He grinned, a lop-sided smile, and tried to waggle his eyebrows. "Think I'm asleep still, 'cause I must be dreaming."

  Despite the darkness of the room, Miles lit up pink. He spluttered, quietly; looked down at his lap, and then back up at him. There was a shy smile on his face. "That was terrible."

  "Eh, I'm in hospital, gimme a break." Phoenix coughed and realised how dry his throat was. "Can you get me some water, please?"

  Miles poured him water from the jug. He positioned the straw under his mouth and Phoenix drank deeply from it. It was cold from the ice they kept making Apollo get; the kid would start to fidget if he didn't have anything to do, and it was a simple errand that seemed to keep him occupied.

  Once his raging thirst abated, Phoenix laid his head back on the pillow. Just doing that had sapped his strength, god, his recovery was going to be fucking slow.

  Miles narrowed his eyes. As far as Phoenix was aware, he couldn't read minds, but what he said next did make him reconsider. "You're in hospital. Give yourself a break."

  His control slipped. "Don't need to. Kristoph gave me plenty."

  Phoenix knew, as he said it, that the humour wasn't there. It was too dark, too soon; it was bitter and sharp, and it stung both their hearts. He was trying, he really was. But he had a simmering ocean of rage under his skin that he didn't know what to do with. It wanted to drown him. He held it back, but he only had two hands (two broken hands and two thumbs and only six fingers instead of eight fuck fuck they cut my fingers off). It flooded him and spilled out, submerging anyone who dared get close to him.

  "Phoenix - "

  "I'm sorry. I'm..." he went to lift his hand to his face and then realised and left his hand lying on the sheet where he couldn't see it. "...I don't say these things on purpose, I swear." His anger evaporated. Now all that was left was insecurity, rising fast. "Tell me again?"

  Miles looked at him. Then: "I love you, Phoenix Wright." He resumed stroking his hair, one pass of his fingers with every statement. "I'm not going anywhere. I won't leave you. I won't leave Trucy. I'll stay as long as you'll have me. I'll repeat this until you believe it."

  "Thank you, Miles. I love you, too. So much."

  What if I never believe it?