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The Ex-Wife has found a deserted spot in the Discovery Station where, during busy days, little children can often be seen engaging in a few minor hands-on experiments. Tonight, the room is still and empty—the tables are clear, the projectors are off, and the computer screens are dark. All is quiet and motionless, except for the woman fretfully pacing back and forth, back and forth, wringing her hands together in nervousness or distress—it’s difficult to tell which.

She is a young woman, much the sort of ex-wife one would expect a man with a lucrative profession to have. She wears nice clothes, carries a designer handbag, and struts around in $300 shoes, the tap-tap-tapping of which can be heard against the strip of floor she compulsively treads. Rings sparkle on her hands under the overheard lights. She received a great deal of money through the divorce, and it’s obvious that she’s used it to make sure she lives comfortably. It’s what she deserves after the fiasco that ended her marriage, or so she tells herself. In some ways, she thinks she deserves more.

Her husband is dead. Ex-husband, ex-husband, she reminds herself. He hasn’t been her husband for quite some time now, not since he decided to shack up with that other woman. That worthless tramp, schmoozing her way in to get her hands on The Scientist’s money. The Scientist was no better. That no good, traitorous cheat, making a fool of her among her family and friends!

The Ex-Wife had only been partially paying attention to the demonstration of The Scientist’s invention, steeped in anger and bitterness and spending much of her time glaring in unconcealed hate toward The Lover. One second The Scientist was prattling on about his work—as he was wont to do—and the next second he was dead on the floor. The Ex-Wife is stunned. Not too upset, no—any love she’d had for him had shattered when she’d discovered the affair; she’d always loved his money more than him anyway—but stunned, to be sure.

She continues to pace, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, until an uncommonly wide turn brings her attention to the audience that has arrived for her—a cluster of people she sees from the corner of her eye. She stops and faces them, wringing her hands together once last before forcing them apart and allowing them to hang by her sides.

Gigi waited quietly until the inspector had finished talking to the ex-wife.

She spent the time admiring the suspect’s lovely dress and wondering where she bought it. Not that the other people around didn’t have lovely outfits too, but Gigi had a thing for ruffles, and she really admired this girl’s style. It was a pity she was probably the murderer. Adjusting her own dress (which was pale pink and not nearly as fancy as the other girl’s) she stepped forward to ask some questions.

“So the deceased was you ex-husband? What happened, why did you get divorced? And how long ago? And do you have any kids, because that sort of thing messes up kids.” Not that the actress looked old enough for that, but who knew if the characters were the same age? “Did you ever come visit him still? I mean, you’re at his demonstration so you must have still been in contact? That other woman was pretty angry with you - did she think you were going to get back together?”

“Also, your outfit is really cute!” And because she was too engrossed in the game to leave it there: “Was it a present from him?”

From the depths of one of his pockets Detective Stark fished a pen and notepad. He was not playing the role of the reporter, but Jack thought it would add a little panache and credibility to his character if he pretended to take notes. Perhaps real investigators were so good at what they did that there was no need for them to write things down. Jack didn't know.

His job was to act. The lines were already prepared. They had practiced, and practiced, and practiced. All he had to do was say them.

Jack licked his thumb and flipped to somewhere random in his notepad the moment Paris started talking, pretended to copy down the things he said, and was preparing to ask more questions when Gigi exploded vocally all over the room. Irritated, the detective turned.

There was something rude and a little bit nasty on the tip of his tongue, which Jack bit in two the moment he got a good look at the girl who was interfering with his investigation.

What a cutie.

Rather than open his mouth and lose any chance he had at making it with this pretty stranger, Jack suffered in silence through the tirade of her questions.

And then he listened to the Ex-Wife's answers. Something Paris said made Detective Stark look up. He fixed the other boy with his dark stare, and seemed almost as though he was trying to peer into the depths of his soul.

It was a bad look for Jack.

"Did your husband have a lot of money?" He waggled his cigar at Paris, and puffed out his chest to get Gigi's attention. "What happens to it now that he's dead?"