Marama was wrapping up her latest interview then the Red Weather Alert rolled in. Her interviewee - a prominent member of pagan dowsing society - flinched at the cacophony, as phones across the café blared the Endtimes Tone. Each phone shrieked like a nuclear payload was incoming, they vibrated across tables, their torches blinking on and off in strobing fits. Marama picked hers up to silence it. Danger: Thunderstorm Incoming. The interview wrapped up abruptly, as her interviewee apologized and left to pick her children up from daycare. 

The alert put her in a particularly foul mood. It was the third storm this year,  even though it was only February: it was meant to be summer. Marama kept working, as the cafe slowly drained of people, transcribing the half of the interview she'd been able to finish. Still, it was hard to focus: Twitter erupted with gifs plotting the storm's path - its red and blue lines tracked across the ocean, slamming the beaches of Piha first, before sweeping inland across Titirangi and the rest of Auckland.

She eventually took the hint from the aggressively loud vacuuming of the barista and packed her things away. Marama had to take the detour home after work: the usual highway was still closed since the cyclone had passed through the week earlier, knocking down trees, cliffs, and even houses onto the road in its wake.

 She made a stop at the supermarket first. Apparently, the rest of West Auckland had had the same idea. The bread aisle was already picked clean, leaving nothing but rows of naked shelves. Marama picked up a haphazard collection of remaining goods - spinach wraps, weird clearance protein bars (vegan), chocolate pudding, and cans of cat food.  If the power lines got blown out like last time, she wouldn't be able to cook anything for days. 

She drove the familiar route of winding narrow roads toward home. The wind pulled at power lines overhead. There was an eerie lack of birdsong and crickets this evening: just the wind lashing at the bush. It was unnatural. She shepherded her car around potholes, through the remnants of orange clay that still clung to the road after the last slips, toward the safety of home.

Huge splats of rain assaulted the windshield as she pulled into the driveway. Further up the hill, she was confronted with a view of Molly's house. Lights off, it was seemingly abandoned, with its curtains were drawn across its large bay windows. His construction van was still in the driveway though, which meant Ryan Davis was skulking around the property somewhere. Marama would feel a lot more comfortable if she knew where. The hairs on her neck sang out with unease.

 She rushed inside, and three cats mewed greetings to her. She ignored them until she'd scouted the house to make sure she was alone, and securely double-bolted her doors and windows. Only then could she lower her guard, and pet the cats. She sighed in contentment, she was barely thirty, but sometimes felt she'd skipped several life stages, jumping from Rebellious Teenage Wiccan to Premature Cat Lady.

The low clouds brought darkness early, as the storm continued to pick up. After dinner, Marama made herself tea and settled into her bed with her laptop across her knees. Rain lashed the window and wind rattled the glass panes. Burma immediately jumped onto the duvet, trying to sit on the keyboard, purring anxiously. She removed him from the laptop, and pulled him into a reassuring cuddle. "It's alright, you silly thing," she cooed. 

When she released him, he burrowed underneath the blankets, flopping down against her thigh.  Burma wasn't even her cat (he, like Pansy, belonged to Molly. Only Muggins, the fat white mutt, belonged to her. He was staunchly denying the storm's existence, his white-fur sprawled out on the couch like a melting snowball. 

 Bless that girl, whatever had happened to her. Ferocious thunder rolled above the house, rumbling deep within the walls this time. Pansy yowled from under the bed. Marama tried, and failed to extract her, but there was nothing she could do to get her out. Pansy was a sleek bundle of black fur, her claws dug into the carpet in a vice-like grip. She yowled pitifully again.

Marama put on an episode of The Last of Us. She drifted off to sleep in the warm cocoon of cats and Pedro Pascal.

Sirens and flashing lights shook her from a deep sleep. She could feel the anger in the storm outside. Rain thrashed the tin roof above. Groggy, she staggered to the window and peered out. Was it finally happening?  The storm outside flashed blue and red: ambulances lined the driveway to Molly's house. There was also a police car, and a howling German Shepherd. Lightning struck nearby, sending the street lights fizzling into darkness. Marama felt her stomach turn. This could be it.

She pulled out her phone and started recording the unfolding scenario, as she dressed for the elements outside. "They're pulling a body out of the house on a gurney right now. It's too dark to make out specifics. But I know it's one, that I've seen. It was a man's body - a huge guy. Maybe Ryan? Oh, a second is coming now. It's smaller. Much smaller. I can't see if the blanket is covering its face or not though."

She said it clinically, for future prosperity. A lack of evidence had kept Ryan out of prison for too long; she was loathe to let a single crumb in the case against him go. Marama pulled her hood up, and sprung out of the house and into the storm, immediately battered sideways by the wind, and soaking wet. As she approached the ambulance, trying to determine what was going on, a third person was removed from the house. The man looked wounded, scarlet blood slicked down his face and neck, washing away in the pouring rain. She recognized him immediately as the locked eyes. The cool eyes of a murder started back at her. Empty like a shark's.

"The suspect is in handcuffs," Marama annotated. "I'm watching Ryan Davis being escorted to a police car by two police officers."

 Ryan was taller, and bulkier than the uniformed men. He put up no resistance. It looked like he was sleepwalking as they guided his head down and into the car. He slumped into the backseat, his back forming an decrepit 'C'. Marama took a few steps forward, it looked like he was crying, muttering to himself. If she could just make out what it was-

The officer with the dog jolted to attention: "Oi! You can't be here!" he said. "What are you doing out in this weather?"

"Just a bit of journalism," Marama said. She recognized him: Officer Tuala. "I take it the remains of Molly Nilsen have been found?"

"Not that I'll ever go on the record for you, but it's far from closed," Tuala said. He tugged on the leash of his dog again, trying in vain to calm its attempted escape. "We have no idea how to explain any of this. Can't even get Ruffalo into the house to help clear things up." He looked sternly at her. "You need to get out of here, before you muck up any more crime scene evidence."