The day following the day she witnessed the horrors in Jackson Elias' hotel room, Mireille had secluded herself in her room at the Klippen-Muninssen, attempting in vain to process what she had seen. The loss of her dear friend in such horrible circumstances. Her nerves were shot; she hadn't slept in nearly thirty-six hours, but the very idea of sleep seemed laughably impossible. Instead, she kept herself upright with enough caffeine to wake a corpse, visibly shaking as she nervously sipped her coffee (which she had also spiked with rum) and smoked cigarette after cigarette in the dim light of her room behind the drawn window shade, wondering what else may have been left at the scene...any other clues or evidence that her "family" may have missed. Her head was swimming with so many questions...
Knock, knock, knock came a polite rap at the door.
Taking another drag from her cigarette, she groaned as she stood from the side of the bed for the first time in what was probably a few hours and she shuffled to the door. When she opened it, she found Mr. Higa standing there, gingerly holding his hat. "Mireille," he said softly with a bow. After some pause, he continued, "I have... a request. I've... I've written an obituary, for the Korukkan papers, and I was wondering if you'd... you'd be willing to give me a statement; of raw feeling and emotion, something we can use to remember him by... legitimacy, honest passion."
Mireille stared at him for perhaps a moment longer than would have been comfortable for him, her cigarette hanging loosely from her lips, the gray wisp wafting gently towards the ceiling as she thought. But then her expression softened to something more resembling her usual demeanor, although still shadowed by loss. With a weak smile, she said to him, "Oui, my friend. Please, come in. Help yourself to come coffee," she said, gesturing to the still-steaming pot on a tray atop the modest writing desk in the corner. "Care for a smoke?" She asked as she lit another, casting her burnt match and mashing the butt of her previous cigarette into the glass ash tray on the bedside table. She sat down on the end of the bed, gesturing for Mr. Higa to have a seat in the chair at the desk across from her. "Tell me, what do you need from me? Anything I can do to help."
When Mr. Higa voiced his concerns about splitting up with unknown enemies afoot, she nodded in the affirmative. "Absolutely, Mr. Higa. But before, they had the element of surprise. Now, we know to be prepared." She patted a lump in her jacket pocket -- it was her father's revolver. "Of course, we should still step softly, but be sure to carry a big stick." She had been too fearful to use it before, but now things were personal; she doubted she would hesitate to use it if it became necessary again. Her friend was dead and she was out for justice, but revenge might do.