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 A Thug Ass Holiday:
Felíz and Naví

A Christmas Novella written by:

Myriah
A Thug A$$ Holiday: Feliz and Navi
Copyright © 2022 by Myriah
Published by Tyanna Presents
www.tyannapresents1@gmail.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by
any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by information storage and retrieval system, without
the written permission from the publisher and writer, except brief
quotes used in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual
events, real people, living or dead, or to the real locals intended to
give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names,
characters, places, and incidents are entirely coincidental.
 First and foremost; thank you, God. There was a period of
time I didn’t think I would ever write again but whew, WE MADE IT!
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
To my publisher; Tyanna Coston. Thank you for taking a
chance on me. I can’t wait to show you why you won’t regret that
decision. Here’s to this one… and many, many more.
To my mom and dad, I know you guys aren’t here
anymore to see this, but I breathe you two in everything that I do. I
hope that this book makes you proud.
To Mauntie Vie and Mauntie Neicey, I really appreciate
you guys. The support, the love, the stuff that I needed to hear even
though I didn’t know it, the support coming from you two has been
immense and there are not enough words in the English dictionary
to thank you. I love you, I love you, I love you.
Tasia, I love you.
 And last but not least- to my READERS. Without you
guys, all of this is pointless so I thank you for taking a chance and I
can’t wait to hear what you think about this new series. This is a
fresh start, a much-needed fresh start, so I hope you’re ready to see
my name EVERYWHERE, because it’s coming.

-Myriah.
 In this Christmas novella, you’ll meet Felíziano Profit. Known
as “Felíz” in the streets because of how happy he is to solve any
problem with his .9mm, he’s preparing to give his three-year-old
twin girls the Christmas of their dreams. When he’s pickpocketed
one evening during one of his mall excursions, Felíziano expects a
no-good streetwalker with nothing to lose— except their life. What
he doesn’t expect to find is a flame that will light up his whole life
that cold, fateful evening.

Naveiyah “Naví” Williams has always been the breadwinner for

her and her three children, but after her car is shot up and she’s hit
trying to protect her babies, Naví is left blind and unsure of what the
future holds for her little family. Despite swearing she’d never be a
thief like her mother, Naví is running out of options to give her kids
the Christmas they deserve and finds herself doing things she once
believed were beneath her, but will her idea of a quick come-up cost
more than she could have ever imagined? Or give her more than she
ever dreamed of?
 Wednesday. October 31, 2018, 4:43 PM

Naví

“Mommy! Diorr bit me!” my six-year-old, Dreyven, cried out

loud.

As I turned around to figure out what was going on, instead

of actually helping me, my baby daddy, Tazz, turned his music up.
The vibrations shook the car so hard I couldn’t hear what any of my
kids were saying, so I turned around in a fury and turned the music
all the way to zero.

“You don’t hear these kids crying, Tazz? Why the fuck would
you turn the music all the way up like that? I can’t even hear myself
fucking think!” I yelled.
 Cutting his eyes at me, Tazz shrugged his shoulder. He
couldn’t even fake the funk and act like he gave a fuck about me or
our babies. I didn’t know what was going on with him, but I knew
better than to go off on him. Whatever was going on, it was best he
just figured that shit out on his own and left me and my kids out of
it. He seemed to be checking his surroundings a lot, and even
though he was in the streets, and I had grown used to him doing
that, but he seemed almost paranoid about something. Most women
would automatically think that there was another woman involved,
but I knew Tazz better than that. There were a lot of “other” women
involved. I just happened to be the only one to give him sons, so I
guess that gave me some special place in his heart. I don’t know. At
this point though, I didn’t really give a fuck. Whether Tazz realized it
or not, I had one foot out the door and I was taking our kids with
me.

Dreyven was still crying, so I turned around to try to comfort

him and get him to stop crying, just to see my baby girl, Diorr,
sleeping. “What happened now, Drey? Why are you crying?” I asked,
frustrated. It didn’t take long to figure it out though because my
seven-year-old son, Dallas, was looking out the window, guilty as
hell, doing his best not to look me in my eyes.

“Dallas hit me…” he whined, causing me to exhale a long

breath of frustration. I closed my eyes, trying to count to ten and
calm myself because I could feel myself about to spazz out and it
wasn’t even about my kids or their bickering. It was the simple fact
that despite having a “partner”, I was still all alone, dealing with my
kids by myself, even though he was sitting right there. I rubbed my
temples and sighed again, feeling my tense body begin to relax.

“Dallas, Dreyven… please keep your hands to yourself, and

stop whining before you wake Diorr up. We’re almost home then we
can get ready to trick-or-treat.”

“Why the fuck would you buy candy, just to go out and get
some more? That’s a fucking waste of money,” Tazz finally chimed in,
but the fact that he had an issue with me, infuriated me. I gritted
my teeth together and turned back around in my seat, clenching my
fist to try to keep myself from slapping him dead in his mouth.

“Because they’re kids, Tazmin, and kids enjoy stuff like

dressing up and going out to get candy. They’re seven, six and
three. We’ve been doing this for years. What the fuck is the problem
now?” I barked back, waiting for him to say something stupid.

I just knew it was coming. Instead though, his eyes began to

shoot around, and he was checking the mirrors like a madman.
That’s when I’d had enough of playing whatever little game he was
on. If he was nervous about something with our kids in the car, I
needed to know about it.

“What’s the problem? ‘Cause you’ve been watching your back

like you have something to worry about. Do you need to tell me
something?” I knew Tazmin like the back of my hand, so I could tell
by the look on his face that for a brief second, he was thinking about
lying. Then he dropped his head for a second, probably forgetting
that he was the one driving until I snapped my fingers in front of his
face to bring him back to earth. “Hello? Earth to Tazz? Anybody
home? I asked you a question.” The knot in his throat looked like he
swallowed a frog and the longer that he took to answer my
question, the more nervous I became.

“I fucked up, Naveiyah…” Seeing the nervousness on his face,

my heart immediately began to race.

“Fucked up how, Tazmin? What are you talking about?”

“I owe some people some money… I took off with some work,
and I intended to sell it but some shit popped off, and I don’t even
have it anymore to sell. These niggas are on my ass, and they’re
looking for—" Tazmin and I had been together for ten years, since I
was sixteen years old. I was a good girl, raised in the church and
leading the children’s lessons every week until I met Tazmin. Though
I didn’t regret being with him because that would mean I would
regret my three beautiful children, I often wondered what my life
would be like if I didn’t know the kind of lifestyle Tazz lived. I
graduated with a 3.97 GPA in high school and a 3.4 in college. How
did I get to the point of even knowing what “work” meant?

“Okay, how much work Tazz? I mean, I have a little

something in my savings but you know I don’t get paid until Friday,
and with rent coming up… I don’t know how much I’ll have left.
Whatever it is, maybe we can work something out. What if I talk to
them?” Tazmin laughed out loud and that just aggravated me more.
“What the fuck is so funny? Have you even tried to come up with a
solution?”

“Naveiyah, I took off with over $40,000 of work. You have

40k in your savings? And you over here talking about working
something out with them. These niggas want their money,
Naveiyah… and they don’t fucking do payment plans.”

“Well, how ‘bout this… Since everything I say is an automatic

no, I’m going to take my kids trick or treating and you can figure this
shit out by yourself, since it is kind of your problem. Besides, it’s
probably safer if we’re not seen with you.”

As he pulled into our driveway, I immediately took off my

seatbelt and opened my door to get out and pick up Diorr, who was
still sleeping. Had I been paying attention, I would have seen the
jet-black Hellcat edging up to us, but by the time that I saw it, I
already had Diorr in my arms. It felt like I was watching the windows
roll down in slow motion but by the time that I was able to jump in
the backseat to cover my children, bullets were already shooting
through the car.

The windows shattered and by now, all three of my children

were screaming and crying. I was doing my best to stay calm for
them, but it felt like the shooting lasted forever. I shooshed my kids,
still silently praying to hear them cry so that I would know they were
okay. This whole time, I didn’t hear Tazz say anything. After what
felt like an hour, the shooting stopped and I silently thanked God as
I tried to get out of the car, touching my face as I felt something
dripping down my face. My vision was completely black and the
earth-shattering screams that came out of my oldest son’s mouth
would stay with me forever.

“Mommy, your eyes are gone!!!”

 Thursday. December 12, 2019. 7:24 AM
Naví
Hearing the alarm clock go off, I reached for my alarm clock,
feeling around until my fingers touched that big, round button that
had now become my best friend. I knew that even if I chose to sleep
in, my mother would make sure my boys got off to school and that
my baby girl was ready for my sister to pick her up and take her to
daycare. I stood up and used my foot to feel around for my slippers
until my big toe hit a large metal part of my bedframe. In pain, I
wobbled over and knocked something over on my nightstand. With
the way that it sounded when it hit the floor, I just knew it was my
lamp.

“Fuck!!!!” I cussed out loud, sitting down, rubbing my foot

while I waited for the throbbing to subside. All of the commotion
caused my mom to come running in.

“Naví, are you okay? Just sit down, sweetheart. I got it. I’ll
clean it up for you.”

She patted my knee like I was a small child, and I fought hard
to not get irritated. After more than a year of this, I still wasn’t used
to not being able to see or having to rely on my mom for everything.
The one-year anniversary of Tazmin’s death was almost two months
ago, and almost every day, I still expected to hear his goofy voice
trying to make our kids laugh. Speaking of my three musketeers,
Dreyven, Dallas, and Diorr were all fine. Bullets managed to escape
all of us, except Tazz.

Despite what Dallas thought when he saw me, probably

because of all the blood, my eyes weren’t gone at all. The doctors
think that I probably dove over them in the same instant that bullets
pierced the glass of our car, causing shards to hit me in my eyes.
Because of the adrenaline that I was feeling in that moment, I
couldn’t feel any of it. I was only focused on making sure my babies
were good. It was the scratches and the bruising of my eye that
made healing tricky, and after a whole year, my doctors weren’t too
sure that I would ever get my vision back. I could hear my mom
scurry away, and I leaned over to feel for my eyedrops. I’d been
using them for almost eight months and even though my vision was
darker than ever, I was still holding out some hope for some kind of
Christmas miracle.

When I realized that my eyedrops were no longer on the

nightstand and had probably fallen on the floor, along with the
broken shards of glass, I sighed, immediately getting on my hands
and knees. Despite knowing that I could cut myself, I continued to
search for it. I heard my mom’s footsteps coming closer and shut my
eyes, knowing she was about to be the most overdramatic person
ever.

“Naveiyah! What are you doing? What if you cut yourself?!” she
exclaimed, trying to pull me off of the floor until I snatched away.

“I’m looking for my eyedrops… and if I cut myself, I’ll get a

band-aid like any other regular person.” When I felt my mom place
the eyedrops in my hand, I sighed. “Mom, I just want to feel like a
regular person sometimes. I know I need a lot of help with a lot of
things, but some things, I can do for myself. I’m not a kid and you’re
suffocating me.” I heard my mom breathe in a sharp breath, and I
assumed I’d hurt her feelings.

“You know, Naveiyah… it might be time for you to look into a

facility that can help you better. It’s clear you’re not happy. Trust me,
you’re not the only one whose life changed that night. We’re all
transitioning.” I knew that my mom was right, but I couldn’t get over
the fact that she had just threatened to put me in one of those
places that my disability case worker suggested.

“I already told you that’s not an option, so you might as well

drop it now. That would involve me leaving my kids… and that’s
never going to happen. I’m the only thing that they have left.” My
mom knew that I was right, so she dropped it and instead of saying
anything, she just walked off. After that, I heard another set of
footsteps and because it sounded like little feet bustling, I knew it
was Diorr. Shortly after, like magnets, Dreyven and Dallas came in as
well. Because of the way that Drey was sniffling, I already knew that
him and Dallas had been fighting like usual, so I just prepared
myself for the bullshit.

“Mommy… Dallas said Santa isn’t real.” Because both of my

boys were sitting next to me, I gently rubbed my hands through
their hair. Dallas wore his hair braided up, but Dreyven couldn’t sit
that long, so he liked getting his hair cut every two weeks. Once I
felt the small, tight braids that my son rocked, I gently smacked him
on the head.

“Dallas, why the hell would you say something like that?”

“Oww Mommy, that hurt,” Dallas whined.

“Good. It was supposed to. Why did you tell your brother that
Santa isn’t real?” I asked again.

“I heard Nani say she wasn’t playing Santa for us this year.
Playing Santa means Santa isn’t real, Mommy.” Hearing that, my
blood began to boil, but I played it off because I could tell by my
babies’ silence that they were all waiting for me to respond. Since it
wasn’t really Dallas’ fault, I sighed, using my arms to guide all three
of them in for a hug. One by one, I felt for their heads and then
gave them a kiss.

“I’ll tell you what, my babies. If your teachers tell me that you
have been good, I can almost guarantee you that I can get Santa to
come, with or without Nani’s help. Now, you all need to get dressed
for school. Your auntie will be here soon.” That news seemed to
cheer all three of them off and they rushed off to finish getting
dressed before my sister, Denasia, arrived. Because Dallas was a
second grader, Dreyven was a first grader, and Diorr was now in pre-
kindergarten, I was blessed enough to get them all together in one
school, and my sister volunteered to drop them off and pick them up
each day so I wouldn’t have to worry about walking out to the bus
stop.

A short time passed and when I heard Denasia’s car pulling up

in the driveway, I rushed my kids out of the door and grabbed my
guiding stick as I made my way to the car, slowly making sure that I
took my time getting down the stairs of the driveway so that I didn’t
trip. I got in the front seat, and I could tell by Denasia’s silence that
she was surprised. Because I had to wear a large eyepatch that
probably looked like I was sleep-walking, I opted to go outside
rarely, but this was an emergency.

“Can you drop me off at the mall? I want to apply for jobs. I
know if I start anything now, it’ll be a late Christmas for the kids but
late is better than never.”

I’d always worked for everything I wanted but now being

disabled, it was harder than ever to find a job that would
accommodate me. I’d now been jobless for almost six months and
even getting a disability check was cutting it too close, especially
with three children leaning on me for their every need.

“I mean, are you sure you’re ready for that, Naví? It’s okay to
take your time getting back into the groove of things.” Denasia tried
to make me feel better, but I felt my skin getting warm as I thought
of Denasia babying me just like my mom. I absolutely loathed that.

“I don’t have time, Nay. I have kids… and they need me.
Disability just isn’t cutting it for me… so can you please drop me off
at the mall? You don’t even have to stay with me. I brought this
dumb guiding stick.”

By the time that Denasia dropped the kids off at school and got
me to the mall, it was only nine a.m., which meant there was
probably barely anyone in there. When I felt the car stop, I
unbuckled my seatbelt and made my way out. Before I closed the
door, I could hear Denasia clear her throat, trying to be careful not
to make me mad.

“Call me if you need me, Naví.” Even though she meant well,
her words caused my heart to race. I could only pray with what I
was about to do, that I wouldn’t have to call her to come get me out
of some shit.

Thursday. December 12, 2019, 11:47 AM

Felíz

“Felíziano, make sure you buy at least one size up. With the
way these girls are growing, if you buy the size they wear now,
they’ll already have outgrown it by Christmas. I don’t know what
you’re feeding these girls, son!” my mom exclaimed, making me
laugh.

It was a welcome to distraction to how overwhelmed I felt,

trying to make sure that my twin daughters had the Christmas of
their dreams. After the year that they’d had, the least I could do was
make the last part of it something they would never forget… in a
good way. Keva, the mother of my girls, had killed herself almost ten
months ago after trying to deal with the loss of her brother, which I
never understood. Dropping my head, I tried to shake off the
sadness that I felt, and I think my mom could feel it through the
phone.

“I just don’t get why she would leave us of all people, Ma. Her
family. Her brother wasn’t shit anyways—"

“Felíziano Profit, watch how you speak of the dead around me.”

My mother knew me well, so the longer I remained silent, the

more she knew that she had to change the subject. Quickly clearing
her throat, I listened as she took a deep breath in, probably trying to
keep herself from crying. Keva had been like a daughter to my mom
so when we lost her, it was like when Mom lost our youngest
brother, Dakota.
 “I know it’s tough for you, son, but in this type of situation,
you need to think of the girls. They’re four years old, and we don’t
really know what they do and don’t understand… but they do
understand that this is the first Christmas they’ve ever had in their
whole lives without their mommy. What good do you think you
flipping out will do?”

Even though Ma Dukes ain’t have to say it like that, I knew

she was right. When I saw a children’s store out of the corner of my
eye, I made my way in to see if I could find anything I liked for my
girls.

“A’ight, Ma. Well, I’ma call you later. I’m ‘bout to head in a few
stores.”

Hanging up before she could say bye, I already knew I was

going to hear about that later, but I didn’t give a fuck. I wasn’t in the
mood to talk anymore. I made my way to the back of the store
where the little girls’ stuff was, and quickly checked the notes on my
phone, making sure I got the right size. The sales associate was a
young redbone and seeing me grab two of everything without
checking the price tags, shorty must have saw nothing but dollar
signs because I watched her beeline her way over to me like her hair
was on fire.

“Hey, do you need help with anything?” she asked, pretending

to look through the clothing stock on the hangers while she was
actually sizing up the piles of clothes in my hand. Sending her a brief
glance, I continued on looking through. She didn’t take my silence
as a hint apparently because she kept talking to me. “You must have
twins?” she questioned as I fought hard not to snap on shorty.
 “That’s what it looks like, huh?”

“Well, it’s December… and you’re putting shorts in your pile,”

she pointed out.

I had no problem admitting when I was wrong, but because

she was getting on my nerves trying to gain a commission, I made
sure I proved my point. Looking at her for longer than a second for
the first time since she’d been in front of me, I glanced at her
nametag.

“Look, Emora… you don’t know what or who I’m shopping for,
and you don’t need to worry about all that shit, lil’ mama. You just
need to go stand at the cash register and wait for me to be ready to
cash out. I ain’t in the mood to talk, so just take these bands and
leave a nigga alone, please. I’m asking you nicely.”

She must have gotten the hint after that because she left me
alone and when it was time for me to finally check out and see how
much damage I’d done to my wallet, she wasn’t even at the register.
Luckily, I’d only come out of a little over $500 and since I knew I
had other rounds to make to make sure my girls had the Christmas
of their dreams and to get a few other little gifts for my family, I
quickly paid, grabbed my stuff, and headed out of the store.

After making my rounds to six or seven other stores, I stopped

outside Foot Locker and stopped. My youngest brother, Sno, had
been raving about their latest release and though I ain’t know shit
about sneakers, I was going to get them for him. Until my sister,
Majesti, called. Because she was watching my girls, I picked up on
the second ring.
 “When are you coming? The girls are hungry, and they already
ate all the snacks you packed them in their bags.” That was the sign
I needed to come back and get Sno’s shoes another day, so I quickly
turned around and headed toward the exit.

“Yeah, I’m about to be on my way. I’ll be there in thirty.”

Majesti didn’t say anything, so I just knew something else was up.

“Can you bring me some food too, please?” If I wasn’t irritated

enough, hearing that my sister was hungry and there was a whole
grown-ass nigga laying up in her house caused me to edge closer to
spazzing the fuck out. That wasn’t ‘bout to be good for anybody.

Majesti and I were number two and three out of my parents’

four children. My father had an older son, Kyezin Profit, but he was
ten years older than us and lived with his mother for the majority of
his life, and because our younger siblings, Shyloh and Sno were only
ten and thirteen, there was a long period of time where it was just
Majesti and me. She already knew what I was about to say and just
as I opened my mouth to finally give her a piece of my mind, she
chimed in.

“Don’t start, Felíziano. Please. Not today,” Majesti begged. I

wasn’t sure if she was tired or she just didn’t feel like hearing what I
had to say, but regardless, she was still going to hear it. That’s just
how I worked.

“You working your ass off, Maj, pregnant as hell, doing

everything for this nigga and he can’t even get you some food?
Come on now, Majesti. You know if Dad knew this shit was going on,
he would be on his way to your house right now to beat Ezra’s ass
and cuss you the fuck out. You’re worth more than that shit he’s
putting you through. You should be sitting up, getting your feet
rubbed and eating whatever the fuck you want… on that nigga’s tab.
Don’t get me wrong, Majesti. You know I love you, so I don’t mind
doing it, but you’re my sister. I’m not the nigga you fucking, and I’m
not the nigga who put a baby in you so this really ain’t my job no
more.” I could tell by the way that she was sniffling that she was
crying, which off rip made me feel bad because I didn’t mean to
come down on her that hard. “Man… just text me what you want
and call the order in. I’ma bring your food ‘cause I got some shit on
my chest for ol’ boy anyways.”

“I’m asking you again nicely, big brother. As your very-

pregnant, very exhausted little sister. Don’t come here starting your
shit… please.”

“Exactly. You said it. I’m your big brother and you know I’m not
the one for all this talking. Call your food in and then text me to let
me know where I’m going.”

I was hanging up the phone and clearly not paying attention

to shit around me because just as I looked up, I was sent crashing
to the ground by a thick shorty, who couldn’t have been more than
5’3. Before I could question her about why she was running into me
like she was a fucking defensive end, I noticed the glasses on her
face and the guiding stick in her hand as she stood back up to her
feet and tried to dust herself off. I dropped my head because I
automatically looked like the asshole for not paying attention to
where I was going.
 “My bad, ma… Are you good? That’s my fault. I wasn’t even
looking. Can I help you get somewhere?” I asked, doing my best to
make an awkward situation better. She didn’t seem upset though
and just shrugged.

“No, I’m fine. Thank you. I’m sorry… I’m still getting used to
this guiding stick thing. It’s tricky. Have a good day.”

As she walked off, I watched her walk away and couldn’t do

anything but shake my head at how her hips were switching as her
cute, little blind ass stammered off. I hadn’t had a chance to catch
her name and if daddy duties weren’t calling my name, I would’ve
caught up to her and asked to get to know her better. For now, I
would just have to hope that I ran into her again and this time, not
literally.
 Thursday. December 12, 2019. 2:02 PM
Naví
There were a few things that it didn’t take eyes to know, and
since I knew the man that I knocked over was watching me. I
stumbled my way to the bathroom, feeling for the closed-off
doorway that would let me know I was in the bathroom entrance.

“Um… excuse me, ma’am. Do you need help?” a mousey, quiet

voice in front of me damn-near whispered. I hated receiving help but
since it wasn’t like I could learn Braille overnight, I sighed out of
agitation.

“Could you just guide me to the bathroom door, please? I really

need to pee.” I fronted, crossing my legs as if my bladder really was
going to just go out on me at any minute.

The sincere lady took me by the hand and walked with me

like I was a toddler inexperienced with my feet, and once I felt the
bathroom door, I hastily made my way into a stall, making sure that
the door was locked and secured before I sat down on the toilet and
began fumbling through my pockets. Though I couldn’t do it at the
moment right after I’d damn near tackled that man, the cash he’d
stupidly had in his pocket was now in mine, and the stack was thick
too. I just knew I’d hit the jackpot. After I flipped through it, I
silently cheered to myself. I still got it. By the feeling of the crisp
paper and just by how smooth it all was, I knew I had a stack a
hundred-dollar bills in my hand. My kids were going to get the
Christmas that they deserved.

My trick had worked like magic, and it worked even better now
that I was blind because people didn’t ask questions about me
running into them, and the added impact of how hard he’d fallen
gave me a few extra seconds to slip in his pocket and pull the
money out. By the time we’d both gotten back to our feet, I’d gotten
what I needed, and the stranger with the voice who made my soul
quiver, had no idea. I knew that my mom and my sister were going
to have questions, since it was no secret how hard I’d struggled
financially since I lost my job after the shooting, but I had that
covered. At least, I thought so. With Denasia asking her five-
thousand questions though, who could really tell?

After a nice older lady guided me to the toy store and the
associate picked out some stuff with my direction, I paid and called
my sister. With my kids about to get out of school, it would be easier
for me to hide the presents if I got picked up before they did.
Denasia was already around the corner, so it only took her a few
minutes to get there. Hearing the car honk, which was her letting
me know she was there, I heard the door open and shut, and I
knew Denasia was coming over to help me get my stuff in the car.

“Where’d you get some money? ‘Cause last time, I checked…”

she began. I shrugged and started waddling to the car with my
hands full of bags until I felt her grab some and put them in the
trunk, shutting it when we were done.

“I got a loan, Nasia…. I needed to make sure my kids had

somewhat of a normal Christmas,” I lied, hoping that Denasia would
be sympathetic and drop the subject, but I should have known
better.

We made it to the kids’ school just as the kids were being

dismissed and hearing my kids jump into the backseat, I couldn’t
help but smile. They were my reason for living and everyone in and
around my life could tell that. Everything I did was to give them the
life they deserved. My sister was unusually quiet but once we got to
the house, she made no effort to just drop us and leave. Instead, I
felt the car parking.

“Go in the house, auntie’s babies. I need to talk to Mommy.”

Cussing under my breath, I already knew what was going on and
prepared myself for the interrogation coming my way. “How’s
everything going in the house with Mommy?” she asked, starting off
the conversation as if she wasn’t about to rip me a new one. I
shrugged, but she wasn’t going to just leave it alone, so I eventually
answered her.
 “Are you asking how everything is going with her, or how she’s
doing?” I shot back, just hoping to relieve some of the spotlight that
was on me, but Denasia wasn’t going for it. When she shook her
head, I began to talk again. “If you’re so concerned about her, why
don’t you just come in?”

“Come in for what? You already know I don’t fuck with our
mom, so why would I waste my time?” Denasia snapped, irritating
the hell out of me.

“You don’t fuck with her, but you’re always asking me about
her… when you could just ask her, but I’m not about to sit here and
argue with you. If you think you’re right, I guess you are.” I
prepared myself to get out of the car, thanking God that things had
gotten too heated before she was able to start asking me the
questions, she wanted to ask me but just as I prepared to pull the
door handle, Nasia locked the doors.

“How did you afford all that shit, Navi? And don’t tell me that
bullshit about a loan either. Just a couple of weeks ago, you were
saying your credit was shit and because you didn’t have income
other than the disability you’re still waiting to come through,
wouldn’t nobody loan anything to you. So how did you get it?” she
asked. I nervously laughed like I always do in stressful situations,
but that just made Denasia madder.

“Ain’t shit funny, Naví. Forreal. With Tazz being gone now, you
are all those three beautiful children have. You think you have
nothing, but if whatever game you’re playing comes back to bite
you, you’re going to lose everything. Life is a bitch, Naveiyah…
believe me. You know I know and yes, sometimes you need to play
some games to get ahead but your life is in one-player mode now…
which means you need to play smarter. Not harder. I don’t know if
you even know the kind of moves that you’re making, but I pray you
figure it out before it’s too late. I’ll bring the gifts tonight when the
kids are sleeping so they don’t see.”

Despite being the little sister, Denasia had a way of making

me feel two centimeters tall and in that moment, when she unlocked
her car door, there was nothing else for me to say so I bounced,
using my guiding stick to help me get back in the house. When I got
to the front door, I could hear my mom saying something to one of
the kids and because of how close it sounded, I knew that she’d
probably been standing there, looking out of the window.

The games that my mom and sister played with each other
was starting to aggravate me and when I heard footsteps coming
closer to me and knew that it was her, I prepared myself to get even
more irritated. They knew how much I couldn’t stand being put in
the middle of their drama. I heard my mom inhale a sharp breath of
air which meant she was going to waste no time being on her
bullshit, so I raised my hand up to stop her before she even started
wasting time neither of us were going to get back.

“Whatever you’re about to ask me, I’m going to tell you the
same thing I just told her… Ask her yourself. You both are too grown
to act so damn childish.”

Feeling my way to my room, I shut my door behind me and

stumbled until I made it to the bed. I used my hands to guide me to
the end of the bed, where I gently lifted up the mattress and
deposited the rest of the cash that I had left after my little spree.
After hearing a knock on the door, I quickly sat down on the bed,
trying my best to not spill my secret, though the gentleness of the
knock let me know it was definitely one of my boys. Diorr still didn’t
give a fuck about rules, manners or anything that had to do with
Mommy’s privacy, so we were still working on the knocking thing
with her. For now, she just barged into whatever room I was in at
the moment.

When I heard the shuffling coming closer to me, I immediately

knew it was Dreyven. Unlike me and his brother, Drey had honestly
inherited the lack of an ability to pick his feet up when he walked, a
lot like his dad.

“Mommy, do you think me and Dallas could sleep with you?

Like we used to? Please?” my son begged.

It seemed I wasn’t the only one craving some sort of

normalcy. I was starting to feel some type of guilt for not taking
Tazz’s death harder but because I knew the lifestyle he preferred to
live, I’d come to terms with the fact that I could lose him like this,
one day. I just didn’t think they’d take my vision along with his life
and leave my kids traumatized for the rest of theirs. After seeing my
injury initially, both of my sons ran out of the car… only to discover
Tazz’s lifeless body near the garage door. From what the officers told
me, it looked like he was trying to get inside to safety but wasn’t fast
enough to outrun the bullets that came raining our way. Just
knowing I’d invested so much time and energy into a man who
cared nothing about me or our children in the car just proved that
now, life was better off without him. My kids didn’t understand that
though, and I probably wouldn’t tell them the truth about their dad
until they were a lot older.

Bringing Dreyven closer into me, I kissed his forehead, running

my hand over my son’s low-cut curly hair.

“Yes, Drey. You guys can sleep with me… but before we get
ready to do our homework and get ready for tomorrow, there’s
somewhere I want us to go first.”

Siri kept fucking up in ordering us an Uber, so I talked Dallas

into doing it and once it was inside, I scurried to the car with my
children in tow. My mom was doing something in her room and
usually, I would’ve announced my departure, but I needed a break
to just feel like my old self; with just me and my kids.

None of us had been to see Tazz or his gravesite yet but since
he was the only person who’d given me some sort of peace, I
decided to go. His family had completely cut me and my babies off
after the shooting and we weren’t invited to the funeral, but now, it
was time for us to start our healing. Both of my sons could read, so
as we walked down the rows of headstones, they read me each one.
After about twenty minutes of searching, it was starting to get chilly
and so we went down one more. If all else failed, I would just have
Denasia help me look for it, if she was still talking to me. Just as we
turned to leave, all of us riddled with the disappointment of a wasted
trip, I heard a voice shouting out to us.

“Hey, you!” Recognizing it as the voice of the man at the mall,

just a lot angrier this time, I froze in fear, wrapping my arms around
my kids as Denasia’s words echoed over and over in my head.
 Thursday. December 12, 2019, 3:15 PM

Felíz

I wasn’t sure if it was because I’d damn-near knocked or over

and fallen on top of her, but I couldn’t get the blind shorty out of my
head until I got to the restaurant that my sister had ordered from
and couldn’t find my wallet. I immediately knew it hadn’t fallen on
the ground and dropped my head, realizing I’d been got.

“Fuck!” I cursed out loud, getting the attention of everyone in

the restaurant.
 Luckily, I’d kept some spare change in my pants pocket and
pulled it out, quickly leaving since everyone was still watching me.
The last thing I needed was for someone to call the police, thinking I
was being the stereotypical aggressive-ass street nigga. Knowing
that I would need to re-up in cash, I quickly headed to my stash
house, already knowing I was about to hear Kyezin and KJ’s mouths,
which I wasn’t in the mood for. I already felt stupid enough being
blinded by shorty and not seeing that she’d used me as a walking
lick.

As if these niggas being there wasn’t enough, when I walked in

the door, I immediately heard the voice of my cousin, Deuce. There
was no way that these niggas were going to let this go, but I knew it
wasn’t something that I could keep on the downlow. With everything
else going on in the streets, all my niggas needed to be on their A-
game in case this shit was all a set-up. When I walked in the room,
everyone stood up to greet me and dap me up and since I gave
each one of them a less than enthused greeting, all of them were
about to call me on it.

“Nigga, why you look like one of your hoes broke up with you,
my guy?” KJ joked, causing everyone, except me, to laugh. One
thing I hated was being made a fool of and the fact that KJ, my
nephew, was always playing around only added to my irritation.

“What’s up wit’ you always thinking shit is a game? Huh? One

of these days, a nigga gon’ pop you in your mouth. We’ll see if shit
is so funny then,” I growled, my voice dropping a few octaves like it
often did when I was upset.
 Kyezin, my brother and KJ’s dad, was the product of some
short relationship my dad had in high school before he knew any
better. He was born when my dad was only seventeen and because
of the drama between my dad and KJ’s mom, Pops made it his
mission not to have any kids until he was stable and ready. It wasn’t
until he met my mom, twelve years later, that he even thought about
having kids. Four years to the day they met, they brought me home
from the hospital then they got married, and then they had Majesti.
We knew about my brother, and he came around every other
weekend, but it wasn’t until we were both grown that we got closer.
Because I was only four years older than his son, KJ, we often acted
like brothers, but the little nigga still needed to know when not to
play with me.

Seeing that I wasn’t joking anymore, KJ’s eyes got big, and
he began to stammer. It wouldn’t be the first time we’d come to
blows and my nephew knew just like I did, that he didn’t want these
kinds of problems. Especially not now. I had too much rage built up
in me that anybody I fought was going to get smoke not even meant
for them.

“Yo, my bad. Unc. Forreal. I’m sorry… what’s wrong? You not
usually like this.”

“I got hit at the mall today,” I answered calmly, just waiting

for the twenty-one questions coming my way. Immediately, they all
started talking at the same time.

“What kind of piece were they holding?

“The fuck? Are you a’ight, my nigga?”
 “Damn, these niggas are tweaking, forreal!”

Before things could get too out of hand, I raised my hand and
waited for them to quiet down so that I could talk.

“It was a bitch… A blind bitch. She ran into me, and she took
my shit.”

KJ, Kyezin and Deuce all looked at each other before bursting
into laughter. Their hysteria caused my whole body to get hot and
before I could snap and say some shit I couldn’t take back later, I
grabbed the money I came for and headed to the door. Aside from
their jokes and the shit that they thought was funny, I wasn’t really
brittle over the money. Money wasn’t shit for me, ‘cause I could get
it back. There was a picture of Keva, me, and the girls when they
were first born, and it was one of one, so I needed it back, if for
nothing else than to give it to my girls when they got old enough.
None of those niggas knew anything about the kind of grief I was
feeling and the more I thought about it, the madder I got. Instead
of going back in on some hothead shit like I really wanted to do, I
turned my car on and headed to my sister’s place to drop off her
food and get my girls. Because I had other things on my mind,
Majesti got lucky. I was gon’ have to press ol’ dude another time,
but trust and believe, a man-to-man was still right around the
corner. For now though, I could only try to find shorty and pray she
still had my wallet so I grabbed my girls and was about to circle back
to the mall and ask to see their security cameras, before I decided to
make one quick pit-stop first.
 There was no way I could visit Keva’s grave and not make
sure she had fresh flowers and since the girls, knew our routine by
now, they both grabbed one balloon each and then we made our
way. The three of us were barely there for ten minutes before I
heard some friendly noise join us in the quiet, somber graveyard.
Hearing the sound of kids, I looked up and my eyes immediately
locked in on the young lady with them. It was the same lady from
the mall. Though, I had been anticipating getting my hands on her, I
didn’t think God would literally offer her up into my hands like this.
Especially not here. I knew that my car was close enough to run to if
need be, so I put my girls in the car and locked the doors, opting to
use my fingers to lock them all manually instead of using the remote
on my car-keys and letting them all know I was there. There was no
way I was going to let my daughters see this side of me but as I got
closer and realized shorty had three small kids with her, I was
apprehensive about approaching and getting closer, until I thought
about never getting my picture back.

“Hey, you!” I called out, halfway expecting her to look up and

not be blind at all. “Damn shorty, for a blind girl, you disappear like a
ghost… I wish I had known you were a thief. I would’ve made sure I
got your name so we wouldn’t have to reconnect like this,” I taunted
her, silently enjoying her big brown eyes looking like a deer caught
in the headlights. I stood there, just waiting for her to say
something, but every time she opened it, probably to try and explain
herself, she closed it back, looking like a fish gasping when it’s taken
out of the water.
 “Please, please don’t hurt me,” she began to beg. “I’m all my
kids have.” Though I didn’t feel sorry for her because this shit was
called natural consequences, I wasn’t in the business of traumatizing
kids. Besides, I ain’t wanna hurt her sons’ feelings for laughing in
their faces for the way they were muggin’ me like that shit meant
something.

“Where’s your ride at?” I asked, stepping closer to her. She

didn’t see it but her boys did and being protective like they should
be, they took one step back, taking her with them. It was their silent
way of letting me know I needed to keep the space between us, and
I couldn’t help but respect their fearlessness, but that shit ain’t mean
nothing to me.

“The u- uber? It’s coming in ten minutes.”

“Coo. Go have your kids sit in my truck while I holla at you

real quick,” I advised her, even though it came out sounding more
like a suggestion than an order.

Neither of her sons moved so I walked closer, grabbing her by

the arm before they could move her out of my way. I put my lips to
her ear, making sure that none of her kids could hear me. “Look ma,
I’m trying to be a gentleman because you got your kids with you,
but you know what’s up. Maybe you ain’t into this street shit, but I’m
about to show you what the streets do to thieves and if you don’t
want your kids to see it, you need to tell them to go wait in the
truck.” I watched as a knot formed in her throat and even though
she didn’t blink, she nodded her head, silently letting me know we
were on the same page. Tears ran down her cheeks, but she quickly
cleared her throat.
 “Mind your manners, boys… You need to listen. Take your
sister and go wait like the man told you to.” Her kids could tell
something was wrong, but they must have known not to play with
her because they took their sister by the hand and walked to my car.
When all of them were inside and the door was shut, I turned back
to the young woman, crossing my arms.

“I’m not used being taken advantage of by the…

disadvantaged and though I’ve taken bigger losses, ma, every single
one of those niggas ended up dead. You’re playing in the big
leagues now, so it might be time for you to learn your first lesson
about street karma. Come on. I’m taking you guys home, so you can
go ahead and cancel that Uber.”

She must have started to realize she was in over her head
because as we walked to my car, she kept turning to me even
though she couldn’t see me.

“I-I-I swear I’m going to make this up to you.”

“And you’re right, shorty. You absolutely will.”

 Friday. December 13, 2019. 10:11 AM

Naví

All night, I dreamed about that man coming to kill me and every
time a car sped by my house too quick, my heart tried to come out
of my asshole. I didn’t know this man’s name, how old he was, or
anything about him. All I knew was that he was the scariest man I’d
ever met, and I couldn’t even see him. Denasia had a doctor’s
appointment early in the morning so even though it was the later
part of the morning, my kids were all still waiting for her to come so
that they could go to school.

Hearing her car honk outside, I wrangled my kids outside and

into the car before Denasia quietly tried to get my attention.
 “There’s a fine-ass nigga standing outside his car right by the
driveway, smoking a blunt and looking right at you,” Denasia
informed, and I knew that she was thinking something completely
different, but I could feel all the color drain out of my face. I hadn’t
expected him to let this go but the fact that he now had my address
to just pop up whenever he wanted to, was nerve-wrecking for me. I
had to get rid of him before my mom noticed him because random
niggas popping up at her house was the quickest way for me and my
kids to get put out.

Seeing my reaction, Denasia immediately went in for the

defense. “What is it? What’s wrong? Do you need me to get rid of
him? ‘Cause you know it’s nothing. I got somethin’ in my purse
that’ll make a nigga jump, jump,” Denasia said, laughing even
though I knew she wasn’t joking. Shaking my head, I felt around
until my hands gripped her wrist.

“I got it, Nay.” Listening for the bass of the car’s music to guide
me to where I needed to go, I carefully walked, making sure I didn’t
trip over anything. “I told you I’m going to make it up to you.
Popping up like this don’t make me want to do shit but move!” I
snapped, crossing my arms over my chest. He laughed softly and
that made me nervous, but I did my best to hide it.

“You’re bold for a blind girl.” That wasn’t the first time he’d
“complimented” me like that, and as bad as I wanted to call him on
it, it wasn’t the time nor the place.

“Yeah, well… I’ve always been bold. I haven’t always been

blind though. This is still new to me.”
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game seems to be up. You've been too smart for me.”
He paused, and a grim smile crossed his face, as though he
found something humorous in the situation.
“You seem to have enough stuff there to pitch a tale to a jury,” he
continued, “and I daresay you've more in reserve. I'm not inclined to
be dragged squalling to the gallows—too undignified for my taste. I'll
tell you the facts.”
Flamborough, eager that things should be done in proper form,
interposed the usual official cautionary statement.
“That's all right,” Markfield answered carelessly. “You'll find paper
over yonder on my desk, beside the typewriter. You can take down
what I say, and I'll sign it afterwards if you think that necessary when
I've finished.”
The Inspector crossed the room, picked up a number of sheets of
typewriting paper, and returned to the table. He pulled out his
fountain-pen and prepared to take notes.
“Mind if I light my pipe?” Markfield inquired.
As the chemist put his hand to his pocket, Flamborough half-rose
from his seat; but he sank back again into his chair when a tobacco-
pouch appeared instead of the pistol which he had been afraid might
be produced. Markfield threw him a glance which showed he had
fathomed the meaning of the Inspector's start.
“Don't get nervous,” he said contemptuously. “There'll be no
shooting. This isn't a film, you know.”
He reached up to the mantelpiece for his pipe, charged it
deliberately, lighted it, and then turned to Sir Clinton.
“You've got a warrant for my arrest, I suppose?” he asked in a
tone which sounded almost indifferent.
Sir Clinton's affirmative reply did not seem to disturb him. He
settled himself comfortably in his chair and appeared interested
chiefly in getting his pipe to burn well.
“I'll speak slowly,” he said at last, turning to the Inspector. “If I go
too fast, just let me know.”
Flamborough nodded and sat, pen in hand, waiting for the
opening of the narrative.
 Chapter XVIII.
The Connecting Thread
“I don't see how you did it,” Markfield began, “but you got to the
root of things when you traced a connection between me and
Yvonne Silverdale. I'd never expected that. And considering how
we'd kept our affairs quiet for years, I thought I'd be safe at the end
of it all.
“It was in 1925, as you said, that the thing began—just after
Silverdale came to the Croft-Thornton. There was a sort of amateur
dramatic show afoot then, and both Yvonne and I joined it. That
brought us together first. The rest didn't take long. I suppose it was a
case of the attraction of opposites. One can't explain that sort of
thing on any rational basis. It just happened.”
He hesitated for a moment, as though casting his mind back to
these earlier times; then he continued:
“Once it had happened, I did the thinking for the pair of us.
Clearly enough, the thing was to avoid suspicion. That meant that
people mustn't couple our names even casually. And the way to
prevent that was to see as little of each other as possible in public. I
dropped out of things, cut dances, left the theatrical affair, and posed
as being engrossed in work. She advertised herself as dance-mad. It
suited her well enough. Result: we hardly ever were seen in the
same room. No one thought of linking our names in the remotest
way. I gave her no presents. . . .”
“Think again,” Sir Clinton interrupted. “You gave her at least one
present.”
Markfield reflected for some moments; then his face showed
more than a trace of discomfiture.
“You mean a signet-ring? Good Lord! I forgot all about it, that
night at the bungalow! So that's where you got your story about the
initial ‘B.’ from? I never thought of that.”
Sir Clinton made no comment, and after a few seconds Markfield
continued.
“In the early days, we wrote letters to each other—just a few.
Later on, I urged her to burn them, for safety's sake. But she
treasured them, apparently; and she wouldn't do it. She said they
were quite safe in a locked drawer in her bedroom. Silverdale never
entered her room, you know. It seemed safe enough. It was these
damned letters that landed me in the end.
“Yvonne and I hadn't any reason to worry about Silverdale. He'd
lost all interest in her and gone off after Avice Deepcar. Oh, that was
all quite respectable and above-board. She's a decent girl—nothing
against her. We'd have been quite glad to see him marry her, except
that it wouldn't have suited our book. My screw was good enough for
a single man. It wouldn't have kept two of us—not on the basis we
needed, anyhow. And a divorce case might have got me chucked out
of the Croft-Thornton. Where would we have been then? So you see
that alley was barred.
“By and by, young Hassendean turned up. When I found he was
getting keen on Yvonne, I encouraged her to keep him on her string.
She had no use for the boy except as a dancing-partner; but we
used him as a blind to cover the real state of affairs. So long as
people could talk about him and her, they weren't likely to think of
her and me. So she led him on until the brat thought he was
indispensable. I suppose he fell in love with her, in a way. We never
imagined he might be dangerous.
“That was the state of things up to ten days before the affair at
the bungalow. There seemed to be no reason why it shouldn't have
lasted for years. But just then Yvonne got news of this money that
had been left her—about £12,000. That put a new light on the affair.
It gave her an income of her own. We could afford to let Silverdale
divorce her; then I could have chucked the Croft-Thornton, married
her, and set up in private practice somewhere. Her money would
have kept us going until I had scraped a business together; and no
one cares a damn about the matrimonial affairs of a chemical expert
in private practice.
 “We talked it over, and we practically made up our minds to take
that course. It seemed a bit too good to be true. Anyhow it would
have got us out of all the hole-and-corner business. After three years
of that, we were getting a bit sick of it. Another week or two, and
Westerhaven would have had all the scandal it needed, if it was
inclined that way. We'd have got each other. And Silverdale could
have married his girl with all the sympathy of the town. Ideal, eh?”
He puffed savagely at his pipe for a moment or two before
speaking again.
“Then that young skunk Hassendean. . . . He must needs get
above himself and ruin the whole scheme, damn him! I can only
guess what happened. He got to know about the properties of
hyoscine. There was plenty of it at the Croft-Thornton. He must have
stolen some of it and used it to drug Yvonne that night. However,
that's going a bit fast. I'll tell you what happened, as it seemed to
me.”
Markfield paused and glanced inquiringly at the Inspector.
“It's all right,” Flamborough reassured him. “If you don't speak
quicker than that, I can take it down easily.”
Markfield leaned over and gave the contents of his flask a gentle
shake before continuing his narrative.
“That night, I'd been out late at the Research Station on a piece
of work. I mean I'd gone there after dinner for a few minutes. When I
finished, I came in by the Lizardbridge Road in my car. It was a bit
foggy, and I was driving slowly. Just after I'd passed the bungalow, I
met an open car. We were both crawling, owing to the fog; and I had
a good look at the people in the other car. One was young
Hassendean. The other was Yvonne; and even as I passed them, I
could see there was something queer about the business. Besides,
what would she be doing with that young whelp away out of town? I
knew her far too well to think she was up to any hanky-panky with
him.
“It looked queer. So as soon as I was past them, I turned my car,
meaning to follow them and stand by. Unfortunately in the fog, I
almost ditched my car in turning; and it gave me some trouble to
swing round—one wheel got into the trench at the edge of the road.
It was a minute or so before I got clear again. Then I went off after
them.
“I saw the car at the door of the bungalow, and some lights on in
the place which hadn't been there when I'd passed it on my way
down. So I stopped my car at the gate and walked up to the
bungalow door. It was locked.
“I didn't care about hammering on the door. That would only have
put Hassendean on the alert and left me still on the wrong side of the
door. So I walked round to the lighted window and managed to get a
glimpse of the room through the curtains. Yvonne was lying back in
an armchair, facing me. I thought she'd fainted or something like
that. The whole affair puzzled me a bit, you see. That young skunk
Hassendean was wandering about the room, evidently in a devil of a
state of nerves about something or other.
“Just as I was making up my mind to break the window, he bolted
out of the room; and I thought he meant to clear off from the house,
leaving Yvonne there—ill, perhaps. That made me pretty mad; and I
kept my eye on the front door to see that he didn't get away without
my catching him. That prevented me from breaking the window and
climbing into the room.
“Then, a bit to my surprise, the young swine came back again
with something in his hand—I couldn't see what it was then. He
walked over to where Yvonne was, in the chair, lifted his arm, and
shot her in the head. Deliberately. Nothing like an accident,
remember. And there, before my eyes, I saw the whole of our
dreams collapsing, just when we thought they were going to come
true. Pretty stiff, wasn't it?”
He bent forward and made a pretence of knocking the ashes
from his pipe. When he looked up again, his face was set once
more.
“I'm no psychologist to spin you a yarn about how I felt just then,”
he continued. “In fact, I doubt if I felt anything except that I wanted to
down that young hound. Anyhow, I broke the glass, got my hand
inside, undid the catch, and was through the curtain before he knew
what was happening. I don't know what he thought when he saw me.
His face was almost worth it—sheer amazement and terror. He was
just bringing up his pistol when I dropped on him and got his wrist.
Then there was a bit of a struggle; but he hadn't a chance against
me. I shot him twice in the body and when he dropped, with blood
coming from his mouth, I knew I'd got him in the lung, and I didn't
bother further about him. He seemed done for. I hoped he was.”
Markfield's voice in the last few sentences had expressed the
bitterness of his emotions; but when he continued, he made a
successful effort to keep his tone level.
“One thinks quick enough in a tight corner. First thing I did was to
look at Yvonne.”
He shrugged his shoulders to express what he seemed unable to
put into words.
“That dream was done for. The only thing to do was to clear
myself. I had another look at Hassendean. He seemed to have had
his gruel. I'd a notion of shooting him again, just to make sure, but it
didn't seem worth while. Besides, there had been row enough
already. A fourth shot might draw some passer-by. So I left him. I
picked up the pistol and cleaned my finger-marks off it before putting
it on the floor again. Then I did the same for the window-hasp. These
were the only two things I'd touched, so I wasn't leaving traces.
“Then I remembered something. Silverdale was always leaving
his cigarette holder lying about the lab. He'd put it down on a bench
or a desk and wander off, leaving the cigarette smouldering. That
happened continually. That very afternoon, he'd left the thing in my
room and I'd pocketed it, meaning to give it back to him when I saw
him again. There it was, in my vest-pocket.
“In this world, it's a case of every man for himself. My business
was to get out of the hole I was in. If Silverdale got into a hole
himself, it was his affair to get out of it. Besides, he'd probably have
an alibi, whereas I hadn't. In any case, the more tangled the
business was, the better chance you fellows had of getting off my
scent. If the whole story came out, I didn't see how I was to
persuade a jury it had been pure self-defence when I knew myself
that it wasn't that really. Besides, there were these infernal love-
letters waiting at Yvonne's house, all ready for the police and
pointing straight to me as a factor in the affair. I'd have had awkward
questions to answer about the contents of them.
 “The net result was that I cleaned Silverdale's cigarette-holder
with my handkerchief to take off any finger-prints; and I dropped it on
the floor to amuse you people. It had that fly in the amber—
absolutely unique and easily identifiable.
“Then I switched off the lights, got out of the window again,
closed it behind me in case it should attract a passer-by. I used my
handkerchief to grip the hasp when I closed it, so as not to leave any
finger-prints there. In fact, as I walked down to my car, I felt I’d done
remarkably well on the spur of the moment.
“As I drove in toward Westerhaven, I conned things over; and it
struck me I'd be none the worse of seeing someone as soon as I
could. My housekeeper was away nursing a sick relation, so no one
could swear whether I'd been at home in the evening or not. If I
could drop in on someone, there was always the chance of creating
some sort of alibi. The bother was, I knew I wasn't quite normal. That
was only natural. But if I called on someone who saw me every day,
they might spot that I was a bit on edge and that might lead to
anything, you know. Then it flashed into my mind that Ringwood had
come here lately. I hadn't seen him for years. He wouldn't see
anything funny in my manner, even if I was a bit abnormal.
“I drove to his house, and there I had a bit of luck—a perfect gift
from the gods. From a telephone message he got while I was in the
room with him, I learned that Silverdale was out that night, one of his
maids was in bed, and the maid wanted Ringwood to call at once.
One's mind works quickly, as I told you, and I saw in five seconds
what a chance I'd got. I offered to pilot Ringwood over to
Heatherfield. That meant I'd a perfectly sound excuse if I was seen
in the neighbourhood of the house.
“I dropped him at the end of Lauderdale Avenue, as I expect he
told you. During the run, I'd had time to think over things. There was
only one solution that I could see. I had to get hold of these letters,
cost what it might. I calculated that Ringwood's visit wouldn't be a
long one; and as soon as he'd gone, I meant to drop into
Heatherfield, silence the maid, and get the packet of letters.
“I must have run a bigger risk than I intended; for evidently I got
into Heatherfield between Ringwood's visit and yours. Can you
wonder I was a bit pleased with my luck, when it all came out? I
made the tourniquet while I was waiting about. Then I went up to
Silverdale's house, rang the bell, and asked for Silverdale. Of course
he wasn't there; but the maid knew me and let me in to write a note
for him. Once she'd seen my face and recognised me, it was all up
with her. One's own skin comes first. I might have risked it if it hadn't
been that the drawer was locked and I had to burst it open. That
meant leaving traces. And, since she knew me, that meant losing the
game. So . . .”
He made a gesture as if using the tourniquet.
“I went home after that and destroyed these letters. Then I sat
down to do the hardest bit of thinking I've done in my life. Time
meant a good deal to me just then, for I had to have everything cut
and dried before any questions were asked.
“Then the notion of a double game came into my mind. Why not
follow up the cigarette-holder move and do my best to throw discredit
on Silverdale. It was up to him to clear himself. That gave me the
notion of anonymous letters. And obviously if I wanted any attention
paid to them, I'd have to make a good start. That suggested giving
the police the earliest information about the bungalow affair. If they
got that from ‘Justice’ then they'd pay real attention to anything else
he liked to send them. So I hit on the telegram idea as being the
safest and the quickest. And, as a sequel to that, the obvious thing
was to make a show in public of being on Silverdale's side, so that
you wouldn't suspect me of having any possible connection with the
anonymous letters.”
“You overdid it just a trifle,” Sir Clinton commented in a dry tone.
Markfield made a non-committal gesture, but did not argue the
point.
“Then,” he continued, “just as I thought I'd fixed everything neatly,
this creature Whalley descended on me. He'd taken the number of
my car at the gate and faked up a yarn about an accident, so that he
could get me identified for him. He called on me and started
blackmail. I paid him, of course, to keep him quiet. But naturally I
couldn't let him stand in my way after all I'd gone through safely. He
wasn't a very valuable life at the best, I gather.
“Anyhow, I got him up here one night—my housekeeper was still
away—and throttled him without too much trouble. Then I took the
body down into the garage, put it into my car, and drove out the
Lizardbridge Road a bit before tipping him into the ditch. I left the
tourniquet beside his body. It was a specially-contrived one, meant to
throw some more suspicion on Silverdale. I forgot to say that I
borrowed Silverdale's lab. coat to wear during the operation, in case
of there being any blood. And I tore off a button and left it in
Whalley's hand. Then I put the torn jacket back on Silverdale's peg,
ready for the police.
“Naturally I was quite pleased to hear that Silverdale had been
arrested. That was his look-out, after all. And he seemed to be in
trouble over an alibi, which was better news still. The next thing was
to clinch the business, if possible.
“I've told you that once upon a time I played some parts in an
amateur dramatic show. I was really not bad. And it struck me, after
I'd seen you once or twice, Sir Clinton, that I could make myself up
into a very fair copy of you. We're about the same height to start
with. I wouldn't have risked it with anyone who knew both of us; but
I'd learned that Avice Deepcar was out of town, and I thought I could
manage to take in her maid easily enough.
“So I raided her place, posing as Sir Clinton Driffield—I'd had
some notion of the sort in my mind for a while and had cards printed
in London all ready: one of these print-’em-while-you-wait places
which left no traces behind in the way of an address or an account.
In my raid, I got a valuable document.”
“It was a clever enough fake, Dr. Markfield,” Sir Clinton said
reflectively. “But you left one or two things in it that we took hold of
easily enough. By the way, I suppose you simply traced Mrs.
Silverdale's writing from some old letters when you put the faked
address on the code advertisements you sent to the newspapers?”
Markfield nodded.
“You don’t seem to have missed much,” he admitted.
He rose slowly to his feet and put down his pipe.
“I think that's the whole story,” he said indifferently. “If you've got it
all down now, Inspector, I'll sign it and initial it for you. Then I
suppose it'll be a case of ringing up the Black Maria or something
like that.”
He glanced at Sir Clinton.
 “You wouldn't care to tell me how you worried the thing out, I
suppose?”
“No,” said the Chief Constable bluntly. “I don't feel inclined to.”
Markfield made a gesture as though regretting this decision. He
drew his fountain pen from his pocket, unscrewed the cap
deliberately, and moved round the table towards the sheets of paper
which the Inspector had spread out for signature. A thought seemed
to occur to him as he did so, and he bent forward to the apparatus
on the tray. His manner was so unconcerned and the gesture so
natural that neither Sir Clinton nor the Inspector thought of interfering
before it was too late. Markfield put his hand on the tap of the funnel,
and as he did so, his face lighted up with malicious glee.
“Now!” he exclaimed.
He turned the tap, and on the instant the whole house shook
under a terrific detonation.
 Chapter XIX.
Excerpts from Sir Clinton's Notebook
Written after the murder at Heatherfield.

. . . The following things seem suggestive. (1) The break-up of

the Silverdale ménage, with Silverdale turning to Avice Deepcar
whilst Mrs. Silverdale lets Hassendean frequent her openly. (2)
Hassendean's interference with the usual routine of coffee serving
after dinner at Heatherfield. (3) The “dazed” appearance of Mrs.
Silverdale when she left the house after coffee. (4) The fact that the
two shots which wounded Hassendean at close quarters were not
fired in Ivy Lodge. (This exonerates Dr. Ringwood, who might
otherwise have come under suspicion). (5) The disappearance of
Mrs. Silverdale, who was last seen in Hassendean's company. (6)
The words: “Caught me . . . Thought it was all right. . . . Never
guessed,” which Hassendean uttered before he died. (7) The murder
of the maid at Heatherfield, which was clearly done by someone she
knew well or she would not have admitted him at that time of night.
(8) The ransacking of one particular drawer in Mrs. Silverdale's
bedroom, suggesting that the murderer had full knowledge of her
private affairs. (9) The envelope fragment with the date-stamp 1925,
which might indicate that the drawer had held letters compromising
to the murderer. (10) The old dance programmes on which asterisks
stood for the name of some partner, who must have been intimate
with her at that period.
The affair can hardly have been the usual social-triangle tragedy:
Silverdale surprising his wife with Hassendean. This hypothesis fails
to account for (a) the dazed appearance of Mrs. Silverdale, which
suggests drugging; (b) the murder and burglary at Heatherfield,
Silverdale's own house in which he could come and go freely without
resorting to such extremes; and (c) The expression “Caught me . . .”
in Hassendean's last words, since “Caught us . . .” would have been
the natural phrase in the case of the triangle-drama.
Curious that Dr. Markfield should pilot Ringwood right across the
town and then drop him at the end of the avenue instead of going a
hundred yards or so further, to the very gate of the house. Worth
keeping in mind that Dr. Markfield knew Mrs. Silverdale well at one
time, though he cooled off later (Ringwood's evidence). Compare the
old dance-programmes?

Written after the discovery of the bungalow tragedy.

This is clearly the second half of the Hassendean business.

Obviously Hassendean prepared the bungalow beforehand for the
reception of Mrs. Silverdale. Either she consented to go there
willingly; or else, as seems more likely, he drugged her after dinner
and took her there without her consent. In any case, it was
premeditated on his part. Evidently he overshot the dose of the drug
and killed her. His subsequent shooting the body suggests that he
meant to leave an obvious cause of death, which might divert
attention from the poison altogether and cause it to be overlooked in
a P.M. examination. In that case, it's likely that he meant to take the
body elsewhere in his car and leave it—meaning to suggest that she
committed suicide. Of course the shooting may have been done
accidentally or by a third party who did not know she was already
dead. But this seems unlikely on the face of things.
Four people at least were at the bungalow that night: Mrs.
Silverdale, Hassendean, and the two watchers at the windows. One
of the watchers must be this fellow “Justice,” who had the first news
of the affair. One of them was probably the murderer of Hassendean,
since he entered the room. The second watcher may have seen the
murder committed, though this is not certain.
Apart from the general state of the bungalow, the only clues of
interest are the cigarette-holder and the signet-ring on Mrs.
Silverdale's finger.
Silverdale denies that he gave her the ring; and as the date 1925
in it belongs to the period of dissociation in the Silverdale ménage, it
seems probable that he is speaking the truth. The initial “B”
engraved in the ring evidently indicates the donor, and it may stand
for either a real initial or the initial of a pet name. Possibly the donor
was the person indicated by an asterisk on the dance-programmes
and (or) the person who burgled Heatherfield to get hold of letters
which perhaps compromised him.
The cigarette-holder found at the bungalow is undoubtedly
Silverdale's, but that does not necessarily prove that Silverdale was
ever there. Someone else, who had a chance of laying hands on his
cigarette-holder, may have left it to mislead us. All that it tells is that
someone associated with Silverdale was at the bungalow. Both
Hassendean and Mrs. Silverdale fit this description.
As to Silverdale, it's evident that he wanted to get rid of his wife
and marry Miss Deepcar. But that does not prove he was prepared
to go the length of murder to gain his ends. He has no alibi for the
period of the bungalow affair; but few of us could produce an alibi for
a given time on the spur of the moment.
Miss Hailsham had a grudge against Hassendean, but there is no
evidence connecting her with the bungalow affair.
The maid at Heatherfield seems a mere pawn in the game.
Silverdale might have used her to drug the coffee; but Hassendean's
unusual interference with the normal serving of the coffee (coupled
with his preparations beforehand at the bungalow) point to him as
the administrator of the drug.
As to the drug, Hassendean must have had easy access to it. It's
a mydriatic drug, since the eye-pupils were expanded. Miss Deepcar
mentioned hyoscine when she came into the room at the Croft-
Thornton Institute, so that evidently they have it on the premises
there. Hyoscine narcosis has one special peculiarity: it obliterates
from the patient's memory all recollection of what may have
happened while the drug was acting. At least that's what they say
about the “Twilight Sleep” treatment. This would be the very drug
Hassendean would require for his purpose. Mrs. Silverdale would
wake up from the narcosis with only the very faintest recollection of
what had happened.
A preliminary hypothesis seems possible. Hassendean resolved
to drug Mrs. Silverdale with hyoscine and take her to the bungalow
while under the influence of the narcotic. He prepared the place
beforehand and got her there successfully. But he overshot the dose
he gave her, and she died in his hands at the bungalow. He then
shot her in the head, meaning to take her away in his car and leave
the body somewhere, arranged as though it were a case of suicide.
He might hope that in these circumstances the drug might not be
spotted and thus he would be completely clear. But someone else
saw the shooting and, being keenly interested in Mrs. Silverdale,
shot Hassendean in revenge. On the face of things, this third party
must be either “Justice” or the second watcher. Then, if this third
party had been intimate with Mrs. Silverdale, there might be letters in
her possession which would bring out their relations; and these
letters it might be essential to secure. Hence the murder of the maid
and the burglary at Heatherfield. Very sketchy, of course, but it
seems suggestive.
If it be the truth or near it, then the murderer must have known
when to strike at Heatherfield, for usually there were two maids on
the premises, which would be too big a job for a single assailant.
But, from Ringwood's evidence, Markfield learned the state of affairs
at Heatherfield that night from the 'phone call which came through
when he was at Ringwood's house. And at once he offered to pilot
Ringwood through the fog—which gave him a perfectly sound
excuse for being in the neighbourhood of Heatherfield if anyone
happened to recognise him. Further, he deliberately avoided taking
Ringwood up to the Heatherfield gate, but dropped him at the end of
Lauderdale Avenue. This would avoid any chance of his being
directly connected with Heatherfield that night; and after he left
Ringwood, he could easily drive round to the back of Heatherfield
and watch his chance to enter the house.

Written after reading Hassendean's Journal.

Three things emerge from Hassendean's M.S. (1) He seems to

have excited Miss Hailsham to the extent of a loss of control when
he jilted her; but that does not in itself prove anything. (2) Mrs.
Silverdale obviously led him on and continually disappointed him.
This fits in with the hypothesis I made. (3) His remark: “Only I shall
know of my triumph,” agrees very neatly with the memory-blotting
property of hyoscine. As a whole, then, the hypothesis, seems
justified.
As to Markfield, I notice he makes a parade of intense reluctance
if he is asked to give evidence involving Silverdale; but when he is
actually induced to talk, he says things which tell heavily against his
colleague. As he's by no means a fool, this seems worth attention.
It is possible that the moneylender might wish to ensure that
young Hassendean's death should be proved to be due to murder;
but I doubt if a firm doing so well (as appears from their office, which
Flamborough describes as opulent) would be likely to go the length
of murder itself for the sake of a mere £5,000. And if Spratton had no
hand in the actual murder, it is hard to see how he could get the first
news of it. On the face of things, it's unlikely that he was “Justice.”
And it is practically impossible to fit him into the affair at Heatherfield,
which is interlocked with the bungalow tragedy. Renard's story of
Mrs. Silverdale's inheritance may have some bearing on the affair—
but only if Silverdale is the murderer; and that won't fit in with the
Heatherfield business on any reasonable assumptions.
One point certainly tells badly against Silverdale's credibility. He
must have told a deliberate lie when he said that on the night of the
bungalow murder he was working late at the Croft-Thornton Institute.
This tale seems completely exploded by the evidence which
Flamborough unearthed.
Silverdale, however, is not necessarily a murderer because he
has been trapped in a lie. He may have used his lie to cover up
something quite other than murder; and since he was obviously
being suspected of murder, his motive for lying must have been a
strong one or he would have made a clean breast of the affair. The
only factor of sufficient importance seems to be a woman whom he
hoped to shield by his lie; and the only woman in the case, so far,
whom he has a clear interest in is Miss Deepcar. One can easily
imagine circumstances in which he might find it politic to lie.

Written after the identification of hyoscine in the body.

 As I expected, hyoscine was the poison. That fits in with
Hassendean's journal entry and with the hypothesis I made before.
Hassendean, like most people at the Croft-Thornton, had access to
the hyoscine in the store. The over-dose which he used gave me
some trouble at first, but I think that's cleared up. All the available
evidence shows that Hassendean was a careless and inaccurate
worker. From his notebook, I found that he used the abbreviation gr.
for “gramme,” whereas Markfield uses gm. It seems probable that
Hassendean looked up the normal dose of hyoscine in a book of
reference, found it given in apothecaries’ weights as “1/100 gr.,” and
copied this down as it stood, without making a note to remind him
that here gr. meant “grain” and not “gramme.” When he came to
weigh out the dose he meant to give to Mrs. Silverdale, he would
read “1/100 gr.” as the hundredth part of a gramme, since in
laboratory work the metric system is always used and chemists
never think in terms of grains. Thus Hassendean, weighing out what
in his carelessness he supposed to be a normal dose, would take
0.01 grammes of hyoscine. (The reference books state that serious
poisoning has been caused by as little as 0.0002 gramme of
hyoscine). As there are fifteen grains in a gramme, his quantity
would be fifteen times the normal dose, which fits fairly well with the
amount found in the body. He had no reason for killing Mrs.
Silverdale, provided that the hyoscine obliterated her memory of that
evening's proceedings; and it seems most improbable that he
deliberately planned to cause her death.
Miss Hailsham obviously does not wish to see Hassendean's
murderer caught; and therefore her identification with “Justice” is
more than problematical. She may or may not have an alibi for the
time of the bungalow affair, since she admits going to a dance in her
car and coming away almost immediately. One may keep her case in
reserve for the present.
Markfield's car, GX.9074, is alleged to have been in an accident
that night. The man who complained about it might provide a clue to
Markfield's movements, if we can lay hands on him.
The man who appeared at Fountain Street Police Station, fishing
for a reward in connection with the bungalow affair, can hardly be
anyone but one of the two watchers at the windows. Unfortunately,
unless he chooses to talk, we have no power to extract information
from him. Flamborough states that he can lay hands on him at any
moment, as he is well known to our men.

Written after the receipt of the code advertisement.

This “Justice” is an ingenious fellow. First his trail was covered by

using letters clipped from telegraph forms; now he resorts to
advertisements, so that we do not get his handwriting. However, he
betrays his knowledge of the internal affairs of the Croft-Thornton,
which is a bad mistake since it limits the circle of inquiry.

Written after the interview with Renard.

I don't care much for Mr. Renard. He poses too much as the
honest fellow rather puzzled by the course of events. His evidence,
certainly supplied a fresh motive for Silverdale in the rôle of
murderer. But Silverdale will not fit into the Heatherfield affair on any
reasonable basis; and the tragedies at Heatherfield and at the
bungalow are obviously interconnected. It's a nuisance that
Silverdale won't tell us where he spent the night of the murders. It
might save trouble if he did so.
“Justice” seems to be making a fool of himself. The fact that he
forged Mrs. Silverdale's writing in the advertisement addresses limits
the circle still further. We now know: (a) that “Justice” must have
learned of the bungalow shooting almost as soon as it was done; (b)
that he knows hyoscine was in the Croft-Thornton stores; (c) that he
is in possession of specimens of Mrs. Silverdale's writing.
Markfield might fill the bill.
Other possibles are: Miss Hailsham, Miss Deepcar, and
Silverdale himself.

Written after the Whalley murder.

So Flamborough has let Whalley slip through our fingers!

My impression is that Whalley was murdered elsewhere and
taken out in a car to be dumped into the ditch where he was found.
The man behind all this is clever, and wouldn't go in for an open-road
murder in which he might be interrupted by a motorist coming round
the corner.
The tourniquet was obviously intended to mislead us, or it would
never have been left beside the body. The Heatherfield tourniquet
was a makeshift thing which indicated no one in particular; this new
one, with its pressure-tubing and banjo-string, seems constructed
specially as evidence. The tubing suggests the Croft-Thornton
chemical work; the banjo-string points to Silverdale, since I learned
from Ringwood that Silverdale was a banjo-player. Both these points
would be familiar to Markfield.
The laboratory coat was apparently left on its peg every night
after work was done. It was therefore accessible to anyone in the
Croft-Thornton, after Silverdale had gone for the day. Markfield could
have procured it, if necessary, and returned it when his work with it
was over. If the Whalley murder was committed in some secluded
spot—say inside a house—the murderer would hardly have left a
clue, like this button and shred of cloth, in his victim's hand, since he
would have plenty of time to search the body at leisure. As things
are, it looks like a manufactured clue, especially since the shred of
cloth is so characteristic.
Silverdale again has no alibi; but neither has Markfield, since his
housekeeper was away nursing a relative. We shall need to wait for
further evidence.

Written after the raid on Avice Deepcar's house.

Flamborough has arrested Silverdale. Perhaps it's a sound move,

though not from his point of view. I hope it will bring things to a crisis,
and that we may be able to fish something out of the disturbed
waters.
One point is already established: Silverdale had nothing to do
with this raid on Miss Deepcar's house.
The raider must have been a man. Miss Deepcar herself could
not have impersonated me well enough to deceive her own maid.
Miss Hailsham has a girl's figure and could hardly have posed as
myself. The shape of her face, and especially her mouth, would
make that impossible. No other woman that we know about is
sufficiently mixed up in the business to make it worth while to run a
risk like that.
Markfield, according to Ringwood's evidence, used to go in for
amateur theatricals. Further, Markfield knew—for he told me so at
the Croft-Thornton—that Miss Deepcar was out of town on the night
of the raid on her house, so if he was the raider, he could be sure
that he wouldn't have to meet her and run the risk of meeting (a) a
person who knew him when undisguised; and (b) a person who
knew my appearance well enough.
What was he after? Letters, evidently. And again this limits the
circle, since the raider must be someone who has knowledge of the
relations between Silverdale and Miss Deepcar.
Miss Deepcar's evidence gives Silverdale a complete alibi for the
time of the bungalow murder. On the other hand, they may both have
been mixed up in it; in which case her evidence carries no weight.
But the Heatherfield affair seems the key to the whole business, and
Silverdale had no motive for that murder, even assuming he wanted
to destroy the draft of his wife's new will. On the face of it, Miss
Deepcar's evidence seems sound and clears Silverdale.

Written after the receipt of the photographs.

Curious how people will never let well alone. If this fellow
“Justice” had been content to stay out of the case, we'd have had a
much stiffer job. Now at last he's let us see what side he's on—anti-
Silverdale definitely.
The photographs are obvious fakes if one examines them
carefully. Their only importance is as a guide to the identity of
“Justice.”
They limit the circle still further, since the production of them
implies the use of a good microphotographic camera; and the Croft-
Thornton Institute has more than one of these.
Points which seem to tell against Markfield:
(1) He was intimate with Mrs. Silverdale shortly after she
came here.
(2) He was near Heatherfield on the night of the murder.
 (3) He knew the maid was alone in Heatherfield except for her
sick companion.
(4) He could easily have obtained possession of Silverdale's
cigarette-holder.
(5) Owing to his housekeeper's absence, he could move
about freely with no check on the times when he left his
house or returned to it.
(6) He was out at the Research Station on the Lizardbridge
Road early in the evening on the night of the bungalow
affair.
(7) The evidence he gave us, for all his pretence of
reluctance, was directed against Silverdale.
(8) He was well acquainted with all the arrangements of the
Croft-Thornton Institute.
(9) Owing to his earlier association with Mrs. Silverdale, he
had access to specimens of her writing.
(10) His car's number, GX.9074, was known to Whalley, who
made inquiries about it with reference to the night of the
murders.
(11) He knew that Silverdale had a banjo.
(12) He had access to Silverdale's laboratory coat.
(13) He knew of the relations between Silverdale and Miss
Deepcar.
(14) He knew that Miss Deepcar would be out of town on the
night when the raid was made on her house.
(15) He was a good amateur actor.
(16) He had access to a microphotographic camera.
These are established facts. Make the assumption that his earlier
association with Mrs. Silverdale was a guilty and not an innocent
one, and see where that leads. It suggests the following:
(a) That they took special care to conceal their intimacy, since
Silverdale would have been glad of a divorce.
(b) That they themselves did not wish for a divorce, possibly
for financial reasons.
(c) That Hassendean was utilised as a shield for the real
intrigue, without understanding that he was serving this