Note: Another huge project I've been wanting to write forever. I'm really excited to be finally posting the first part! This is a rewrite of the first season (and, because of my undying love for the Originals, probably later seasons as well) with a slightly different Caroline at work. Sort of unacknowledged Veronica Mars fusion. Anything the character Caroline Forbes influenced might not have happened or happened very differently. Don't take anything for granted.

Btw just to be clear: I love Caroline. I adore her. She's a great character with great development and I don't think she was ever "just the dizzy blonde" at all. I replace her with Veronica not because I don't like her but because Caroline is the sherif's daughter- it's the position that fits the best. Just so we're clear on that.

Warning: [canon-typical] blood, violence and character death, cursing, frequent law-breaking, ambiguous morals, drugs, alcohol, tbc.

Pairings: undecided, suggestions welcome (though most of the canon pairings from S1 will make an appearance as long as they don't involve Caroline)

| Chapter I: V is for Vocation |

"Some of us aren't meant to belong. Some of us have to turn the world upside down and and shake the hell out of it until we make our own place in it."

—Elizabeth Lowell

[ Mystic Falls | November 2nd, 2009 | Monday | Morning ]

The problem with living in a small, backwards, sad excuse of a town is that you know everyone and their grandfather. Or perhaps the actual problem is that everyone and their grandfather knows you.

You went on a date with that cute guy from second period chemistry? Your tatter-tale neighbour's sister probably served you the coffee. You tried your hand at a little harmless underage drinking? Your mother's best friend probably stumbled upon you when she cleared out the house.

You ask around about what happened to you last Saturday night? You're known as the town's slut before the sun goes down.

And when your name is Veronica Forbes and you're not only a part of the oh so admirable Founding Families— a title that totally deserves the capital letters, just ask Mrs. Lockwood—but also happen to be the local sherif's daughter, well. Your mere existence is just asking for trouble. If you have the audacity to actually have a life, may god have mercy on your soul, because this town's inhabitants definitely won't.

Trust me. I know.

I am Veronica Forbes after all.

I'm the kid with the gay father who had a scandalous affair with another man and left my mom and me when I was fifteen, destroying not only my mother and our family, but also the christmas holidays in the process. Anybody wondering who won the Parent of the Year award in '07?

Of course, with my mom being Sherif Elizabeth Forbes, the news of the divorce were all over the town before I had gotten off the phone with my best friends. That's just Mystic Falls for you. Nobody has the faintest clue what's going on, but everyone has an opinion about it. And once they've judged you, you'll never get rid of that stamp on your head. It doesn't matter how often you shower, there are some things water just can't wash off.

Don't get me wrong, the harsh crash and burn of my parents' marriage had it's good points too. For one thing, I learned the hard way that blood isn't always thicker than water. The people you love can disappoint you. They can leave you behind, and all you can do is get used to the empty spaces and move on with your life.

The other thing this whole affair has taught me is not to care what people think. It's kind of inevitable when your home town consists of nothing but gossiping hags. I learnt to deal with it. I always deal with it.

Turns out that lesson was a lot more valuable than I ever expected it to be. Because when my world fell apart when I was fifteen, I had no way of foreseeing that being the sad remains of a failed relationship would one day be one of the more flattering things I would be known for.

Life is funny that way. In a very bitter, dark chocolate kind of way.

But even without getting into the boring details, it's safe to say that mom and I have two of the more colourful reputations around here. Especially considering we are technically part of the high society—or as close as Mystic Falls gets to having a high society. That's the nice thing about being a part of the Founding Families. It's a hereditary privilege that can't be revoked.

I can't say the same about mom's job, but with her competence and her legacy backing her up, I seriously doubt they would have dared removing her from her post for a broken marriage. Then again, these people value their spotless image above all else. Quite possibly the only difference between Mystic Falls and Manhattan's Upper East Side is the current lack of Gossip Girls around here. And while that particular comparison might be an exaggeration, it isn't completely unreasonable.

The scandals that have haunted my family—though, not counting the first one, they've really centred a lot more around me than my mom, and when I say a lot I mean one hundred per cent—over the last two years have made me cautious. An uninformed outsider might go so far as to call me paranoid, but thanks to my mother's job I have absolutely no illusions about the other inhabitants of Mystic Falls. Trust me when I say that, if anything, I'm still not cautious enough.

Besides most of the changes I've made in my life aren't even that excessive. Yeah, I've forced mom to install a new security system—not that it took much to convince her to begin with—and set up some standard surveillance cameras, but nothing over the top. And so what if I'm careful to always lock the door behind me and keep my curtains shut at all times?

I of all people know how much you can learn through simple observation. Hell, most of the time I'm the one spying through the windows. If anyone knows what they're talking about, it would be me! Although I prefer the term investigating. It sounds much more professional, and less like a creepy stalker, who can't get his kick from the vast supply of internet porn like every other perverted asshole.

Not that I care what other people think about me, of course.

As per usual, the kitchen is empty. Mom tends to leave before the sun rises—should you ever bother to look up the term 'married to their job', you'd find a picture of my mother right next to it—but there is a yellow sticker pinned onto the fruit bowl, wishing me a good day and reminding me—yet again—to be careful.

Right. Because there is nothing more dangerous in a teenager's life than High School. Honestly. Sure, for the average girl's self-esteem and sense of worth that assessment might be true, but I don't think that's what my mom has in mind. I seriously doubt she's worried about my confidence of all things.

Still, the mere fact that the woman, who knows me better than anyone else, felt the need to write this note makes me narrow my eyes in suspicion. My mother has always been a better-safe-than-sorry kind of person—it comes with the job description—but the countless warnings this semester are getting a little out of hand. I'm old enough to know better than to follow strangers to their white van because they promise me candy, thank you very much.

To be honest, these constant reminders have been toying the line between 'justified, paternal worry' and 'suspicious behaviour' for a while now. Pity I don't have the time to analyse my mother's motivations right now. For the moment the Enigma of Elizabeth Forbes will have to wait, I can't be late for trigonometry again or Miss Vance is really going to kill me—or worse, call my mom.

So I put the matter out of my mind, for the time being at least, and the sticker between the pages of my notebook. Never leave potential evidence behind, you never know when you might need it and all that.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is what happens when you spend your formative years being raised by a sherif.

Maybe—if doubtfully—I'm reading too much into this, but I trust my instincts. And said instincts are currently screaming at me that there's something fishy going on.

(More accurately, they are screaming at me to get the hell out of this town, but that is what they've been telling me for two years now, and I'm not going anywhere. I'm not letting myself be driven out of home town, by anyone. That isn't who I am.)

Well, my gut feeling and the suspicious disappearances that have been increasing with an alarming rate of late. Usually those cases end with a very bloody, very dead body. And as much faith as I have in my mom's abilities—it's a lot, trust me—she doesn't seem all that in control of the situation so far.

If things continue to go this way, there'll be a couple of personal bodyguards in my very near future. Which would be unfortunate. The effort it takes to get rid of your watchers every time you want to do something interesting just isn't worth the protection they may or may not offer in an emergency. Not to mention that the other students hardly need any more ammunition against me.

Which reminds me—I'm late for school. Again.

#

In many ways Mystic Falls is just like any other American high school. There are the expected and easily identified cliques that you would find in every TV show. The jocks and the cheerleaders are perhaps the most recognisable ones, and usually found near each other for whatever reason. Maybe because their clothes fit so nicely.

Then there are the stereotypical stoners who, like vampires, shy away from the daylight and, more often than not, sneak off to their secret hideout—the one everybody knows about. There is the popular crowd where you find the kids of the rich, the beautiful and the influential. As far away from them as physically possible you'll find the nerds. In short: the usual.

Then, there is, of course, me.

Slamming the car door shut with more force than necessary and earning a few nervous glances in the process I stalk towards the one building in Mystic Falls I hate even more than the Lockwood Mansion—not an easy feat to accomplish, I can assure you.

Welcome to Mystic Falls High School, where another year and a half of hell are waiting for me. Whoever had the brilliant idea to invent a twelve year school system better hope I'll never catch up to him.

"Hey, V!" The loud, obnoxious voice of Tyler Grande-Sized-Asshole Lockwood sounds from somewhere behind me, interrupting my internal scheming.

[TL: Father is the Mayor. Mother organises the social functions. Member of a Founding Family. Football player. On-again-off-again boyfriend of VD.]

"We missed you at the party last Saturday! Let's face it, it's not a real party until Veronica Forbes does a strip tease on the couch table!"

Cue the too-loud laughter from his pathetic band of followers.

Of all the fucked-up, psychotic bastards Mystic Falls has to offer, Tyler is probably the worst. Not in the least because his dad is the town's major and the teachers literally let him run wild. If anyone in this town could get away with murder, it would be Tyler Lockwood, and he knows it. He makes sure to flaunt it too. It made breaking his nose that one time all the more satisfying.

"Lockwood, Moronic Interchangeable Face One and Two." I send them a smile dripping with distaste. "Do tell me, how does it feel to have to rely on drunk girls to pathetically get off with because your latest ex realised she could do better, and get herself someone who can actually perform to her satisfaction? A fifteen year old at that?"

I don't put much stock into rumours—with everything people say about me, that's kind of a given—but I'm certainly not above using them in my favour. Tyler's death glare—Snape's would have been more effective and I was immune to that dungeon bat's evil eye by the first half of the second movie—is worth it. No doubts about that.

Too bad one day not so many years ago someone taught the guy how to talk back. It would have spared me so much trouble if they hadn't.

"At least I have girlfriends! What about you, Forbes?" Lockwood spits my name out like a particularly vile insult. Too bad it's not poisonous. "Oh, I forgot." Sure you did. "Nobody wants you, right? Even your friends got fed up with your attitude!"

I can literally feel the fake sweetness drain from my smile as my eyes turn frosty. Moronic Interchangeable Face Two shifts nervously. Good. Means I'm doing something right.

"Careful, Lockwood," I warn him. It's the only chance he's going to get. Tasering his sorry ass might just get me expelled, but damn, it's a price I'm willing to pay. "You really don't want to piss me off today."

"What, you're on your period or something?" Tyler mocks but he's backing off now, if slowly. For all his posturing, he's self-aware enough to know hitting a girl won't get him any points. Not even if that girl is me.

Sending the jackass a small wave and an accomplished smile that's going to bug him to no end, I turn my back on the tedious trio and walk towards my class room. There's one good thing about this unpleasant encounter: after the tiresome macho play, I'm almost looking forward to trig. Almost.

Congratulations, Tyler, I think as my smile turns vicious, you're on the list.

#

After trig I head to biology which—unsurprisingly—turns out to be a complete waste of time. I couldn't care less about the different components of human blood, thank you very much. Not to mention that the whole blood group testing is a little too Twilight-esque for my taste. Honestly, what does it matter if the blood is A positive or O negative? All I need to know is who it belonged too, who spilled it, how and why. That's the questions mom gets paid to answer.

The scientific details fall under the jurisdiction of the forensic team. Of course, a place the size of Mystic Falls doesn't have a real forensic team, mind you. It's a part of the whole size-matters-conspiracy they want to indoctrinate our minds with. I mean, it's not like two thirds of those recent murders might have been solved if there were people around, who can do more than search for fingerprints like an excitable eight year old with a Toys'r'us detective kit.

But that's just Mystic Falls for you. Common sense is a rare good, as far as the residents are concerned. So is self-preservation for that matter.

Still, the local police department isn't useless. Not with mom there to kick their asses into the exact shade of purple that compliments her skin tone. Which reminds me, it's high time for a little mother-daughter family discussion. If I'm lucky I might even get my hands on some of her files; if only for my own peace of mind.

Especially the one of my late—violently so—history teacher, Mister Tanner.

Now don't get me wrong, I hated that bastard more than I hate Tyler Lockwood, and I've spent my fair share of daydreams fantasising about his death, but he was still my teacher. More importantly he was killed here, on the school grounds. Not somewhere out in the woods, like those hikers that disappeared a couple of weeks ago.

I didn't like Tanner, but I like a killer who ripped a man's throat out during a football game and got away with it even less.

Not that things couldn't have been worse.

Tanner could have been killed during one of those social functions I am obligated to attend, where the first thing people would have done, was pointing their collective finger at me. I'm not even sure if I'm flattered that people assume I'm capable of murder or insulted that they think I would get caught. Yet no matter how many other students repeatedly threatened to suffocate Tanner in his sleep, the second he dropped dead my name would have been on the top of the list of potential suspects.

Scratch that. My name would have been the list.

Thankfully his mysterious attack happened during a football game. Me being who I am, I wouldn't have been caught dead at any school-spiritly-event. Ever. I would have probably been taken into custody regardless if I didn't have an air-tight alibi: I was eating dinner with my mom.

So yeah, I wasn't there when they found Tanner's body, and until now I haven't seen any reason to involve myself in that mess, but maybe it's time to change that. Who's to say that the next person who disappears is another faceless stranger or unbearable asshole?

I, for one, don't plan to have my year book photo plastered across the local newspapers. I look terrible in that picture, and I'm still certain Ethan Milton 'forgetting' to airbrush my red eyes was not a coincidence. Nor where the fifty dollars Ryan from the football team handed him later that day. Suffice to say their names have earned a permanent placing on the list.

Actually, most of this town just so happens to be on the list. But hey, what's life without a challenge?

Anyway, I'm working on it.

Which in hindsight was probably a mistake. Because if I had been paying closer attention to my surroundings I could have avoided another awkward encounter. I guess some days life just isn't on your side though, because here I am, innocently walking towards the gym and planning the destruction of my fellow classmates self-esteem, when I stumble straight into another girl, almost sending her crashing to the floor.

And my PE teacher tells me I need to work on my strength.

"Oh, I'm sorry-"

"Sorry, I didn't-" Whatever meaningless apology was initially on the tip of my tongue dies a very abrupt death in the back of my throat, when the girl I've knocked down gets back onto her feet again, and I am faced with a way too familiar person.

Hello unwanted past, nice of you to catch up with me every once in a while.

Because there, in the middle of the hallway are two of the closest things to Mean Girls Mystic Falls High has to offer. The girl I've run into is Bonnie Bennett.

[BB: Mother disappeared years ago. Father almost never around. Close relationship with her grandmother SB. Single.]

And standing right by her side, brown eyes wide open in shocked surprise is her best friend Elena Gilbert.

[EG: Parents died in a car accident this summer. One younger brother JG. Her legal guardian is her aunt JS. Member of a Founding Family. In a relationship with SS.]

Bonnie and Elena used to be my best friends. The key word, just in case you didn't catch it the first time, being used to. I really can't stress that part often enough.

"-see you there," I lamely finish my sentence after a very long moment of awkward silence. It's still more than either of them manage though, so I'll count it as a win. Of course, the moment the thought runs through my mind, Elena just has to open her mouth.

Nope. Forget it. I'm not in the mood to deal with this shit.

I don't give her the chance to say anything. There is nothing Elena Gilbert could possibly say that I want to hear. Instead I turn on my heels and hurry into the opposite direction. That I won't make it to gym on time doesn't deter me in the slightest. Mom's just gonna have to deal with it.

#

[ Mystic Falls | November 2nd, 2009 | Monday | Midday ]

As it turns out, gym is almost over by the time I get there, and the last minutes I'm present are spent apologising to the coach. Thankfully he is almost ridiculously uncomfortable with the topic of menstruation, and explaining I was suffering from terrible cramps ensures that he doesn't ask more questions than strictly necessary.

Besides my unplanned skipping got me out of the only class I share with Matt Donovan, another one of the very long list of former friends I'm not and probably never will be on speaking terms with again.

[MD: Father unknown. Mother careless and usually absent. One older sister VD. Busboy at the Grill. Football player. Ex-boyfriend of EG. Friend of TL.]

Not that I'm one to back down or run away—Mystic Fall would have only seen a cloud of dust from me otherwise—but sometimes avoidance is better than confrontation. Especially when you're already treading on thin ice with the principal, because you kneed a pretentious jackass into the groin.

(If nothing else the football team—Tyler Lockwood being a notable exception—leaves me alone now, so I'd call it a win.)

Of course there is nothing confrontational about Matt. He is one of those rare, genuinely nice people, who always gets along with everyone. Everyone except me. I live to defy people's expectations. There are a lot of upsides that come with it.

For example, not having a social status to speak of means nobody expects me—or invites me for that matter, not that it would stop me if I wanted to attend—to turn up on every we-are-so-badass party with the exact same wasted kids. Yeah, so not missing that. Not to forget the fun it was to run from the cops when they finally turned up. The sherif's daughter could hardly be caught drinking, could she?

Still, it's not like the life I had back then was all bad. I loved being popular, I loved the friends I had, and I would have died for Elena and Bonnie. And on some days, days like today, I almost regret throwing it all away.

Which is my excuse for why I'm spending my lunch break watching the table I used to sit at. It's funny—in a very bitter way—how little our old table has changed over the last year. Almost like they don't even notice the metaphorical empty spot among them, the seat to Elena's left that Dana's occupying now. The seat that used to be mine.

Elena and Bonnie have their heads bent closely together in a not at all subtle, let's-subtly-discuss-some-deadly-secret-without-anyone-noticing pose that makes me want to roll my eyes. So I do. Not like anybody's paying me any attention.

Honestly, even after all these months it baffles me how those two manage to get anything done without me. Every tense muscle is practically screaming 'trouble' at the rumour mill and Elena's unusually strong make-up isn't fooling anyone.

Next to the plotting duo sits Stefan Salvatore, the newest addition to Mystic Falls High. I don't known much about him—yet—except for a few obvious facts. But the silence surrounding him is suspicious in itself.

[SS: Member of a Founding Family. Good-looking. Football player. In a relationship with EG.]

This is Mystic Falls not New York City, and if there's a new resident, his stepfather's secret affair five years ago in Europe should have been common knowledge by the end of his first day. But I guess that's the nice thing about having a sherif as a mom. On a rainy Sunday afternoon, when all your friends ditch you because they've got something better to do, they sit you down and tell you how to go about examining a crime scene. Absence of evidence, as mom likes to remind me every few cases, isn't evidence of absence.

I need to keep an eye on new guy. Nobody causes trouble in my town without me knowing all about it.

Slowly, but not so slowly that it will raise suspicions, I lift my favourite camera and snap a quick picture of my ex-table. I don't have anything else going on at the moment, I might as well start my research today after school.

"Hey…Nika."

I jerk in surprise as a quiet voice says my name. Only to come face to face with the last—or, at least, very low on the list of possibilities—person I would have expected to stand behind my chair, uneasily swaying from one foot to the other.

Chancing one last glance at the people I gave up on a long time ago, I turn around fully and observe my unexpected company.

"Well, this certainly is a surprising turn of events," I note drily, taking great delight in the grimace that briefly crosses his features. I gesture at an empty seat on my table. "Sit down, will you? I'm don't bite. Much."

It's almost sad how easily people are intimidated by a petite, blonde, ex-cheerleader, but I'd be lying if I said they don't have a reason to be afraid. Leaning back in my cheap plastic seat, I watch with open amusement as he nervously squirms in his place.

"So, what can I do for you, Jeremy Gilbert?"

[JG: Parents died in a car accident this summer. Legal guardian is his aunt JS. One older sister EG. Fifteen.]

Jeremy Gilbert. Rumoured to be a junkie. Rumoured to deal drugs. Rumoured to have an affair with Vicky Donovan. Rumoured to be constantly drunk or high or both. Rumoured to fail most of his classes. Rumoured to have gotten into multiple fights with Tyler Lockwood. In short, Jeremy Gilbert is perhaps the only person at this school with a more colourful reputation than I have. And that's quite an achievement.

Our shared status as social outcasts could have brought us closer together, but, well. The truth is, the only thing that brought Gilbert and me together, ever, was the one thing that completely tore us apart. The last time the two of us talked was almost a year ago, only days after my fall-out with Elena and Bonnie. It wasn't a fun conversation, and we've been on a stand-still ever since.

Which makes this little get-together even more interesting.

Gilbert hesitates, and I can read in his eyes that he's seriously considering jumping out of this chair and running back to whatever hole he crawled out of. I can see in the tense set of his jaw that he won't though. For all our distance, I can still read Gilbert like an open book.

But what interests me even more is his appearance. His clothes are wrinkled but clean. His eyes aren't suspiciously red, and he doesn't smell of weed or an insane amount of cologne designed to cover said smell. There are tiny crumbs of yellow paint under his fingernails, where black nail polish used to be. In fact, nothing in his appearance supports the stories I've heard about him since his parents' death a couple of months ago.

That's not to say he looks good because he doesn't. He's too pale, there are dark shadows under his eyes and he seems—jumpy. And I doubt it's because he's afraid I'll give him the same treatment I gave Nick Cooper from the football team. The kid has always been too confident for his own good.

"I need your help." Gilbert forces the words through his lips like they cause him physical pain—actually, they just might. I certainly hope they do.

"Really?" I drawl. "You want my help? What did you get yourself into, that you need the help of a jealous tramp that needs to get over herself and stop blaming others for her own mistakes?"

Like I said. Our last conversation wasn't fun.

Gilbert lowers his eyes for a moment, though I can't quite tell if it's because he feels guilty for what he said back then or because what he did is going to complicate things for him now. Frankly, I'm not sure I want to know the answer.

"Look," he straightens his back then, clearly having come to the decision to get this over with. The kid has guts, I'll admit that. Unfortunately he doesn't have much else going for him. "It's about Vicky."

And, well. That confirms one of the rumours at least.

[VD: Father unknown. Mother careless and usually absent. On-again-off-again girlfriend of TL. Potential girlfriend of JG. Drug addict. Waitress at the Grill. Current status: missing]

"Listen Gilbert, I don't know if you heard but I'm not exactly the person to go to for relationship advice." I snort at the mere thought, an ugly sound that makes Gilbert wince. "As for the tramp part, I doubt Vicky Donovan of all people needs my help in that department. You're on your own. Now if you excuse me, break is almost over, and while there are certain things worth getting a late pass for, you definitely aren't one of them."

With that I push my chair back and stand, staring down my nose at Gilbert as I sling my bag around my shoulder. The words are harsh, but I don't regret throwing them at him. I'm not a forgiving person, haven't been, even before. It's just not in my nature. It helps that Jeremy Gilbert is about the last person I want to do a favour, and he most definitely knows that. The fact that he still asked makes walking away so much more satisfying.

"Nika, wait!"

Of course, like all Gilberts, Jeremy is a persistent little bugger. Not that his cry stops me. Not until the kid gets a hold of my arm at least. The second he touches me, I whirl around so fast he has no chance to react and I kick him in the shin—hard—and twist my wrist out of his grip in a move my dad thought me when I was nine.

"Don't ever call me that name again, Gilbert!" I hiss, thick trails of rage uncurling from where they have slumbered deep within me, in that dark, concealed place, where I lock all my emotions away until I'm ready to deal with them. But once awakened, it takes me forever to box them back into their tightly controlled prison, and I can feel them now, spreading, growing, raging. Pulsing with the need to lash out.

"I won't, I promise!" Gilbert holds his palms up defensively. "Just listen, please! I know you don't like me, okay? I know I have no right to ask for your help, I just—You're the only one I know who might be able to find her!"

I raise my eyebrows at the kid's unfairly impressive puppy eyes. They don't stop the desire to punch him, but they do remind me of how Gilbert used to look at me, back when he was just Elena's kid brother, always following us around like a puppy. And that memory is a lot harder to shake off than I'd like it to be. "I suppose it's true, flattery will get you everywhere," I mutter in annoyance, mostly at myself.

"Does that mean you'll do it?" Gilbert positively lights up at the prospect, meaning it's highly unlikely that this is a trick or a game. Then again, he might be a fantastic actor for all I know. I can't allow myself to underestimate him.

"It means I'll grant you an audience, where you'll be given the chance to convince me that Vicki Donovan of all people is worth my time." I make sure to convey how likely that outcome actually is.

Gilbert tenses a little at my words, but he bites his tongue in an effort not to argue. So he has some brain cells left after all. Interesting. He nods, face drawn into a mask of determination, and I read the silent 'whatever it takes' in that gesture.

"Meet me at my car after school," I order—I'm hardly going to ask Jeremy Gilbert anything—, "And don't make it obvious. I wouldn't want to cause a rift in the golden family after all." I make no effort to keep the sarcastic drawl from my voice.

Gilbert grimaces, probably imagining Elena's reaction, should she see the two of us together, and I almost sympathise with him. Almost.

Instead I brush past him before he has the chance to ruin my day any more than he already has. I might even make it to English on time for once.

#

[ Mystic Falls2nd of November, 2009 | Monday | Afternoon ]

"So, let me get this straight," I start the engine the second Gilbert slips into the passenger seat. "You want me to find Vicki Donovan."

He nods. I resist the urge to hit him.

"Care to elaborate?" I ask through gritted teeth.

"She told me she needed to leave, get away from everything. The drugs, the people, me." Gilbert laughs weakly, the sound not as bitter as I would have expected. "And I understand that, I just—"

Everyone who has ever set a foot into Mystic Falls understands that. It really sucks that Bitchy Donovan got out of this hellhole before I did. Not that I'm going to admit that.

"Because you love her and dream about some cheap Disney love reunion shit," I interrupt him instead.

"No." Gilbert blinks. I'm not sure who's more surprised by this confession, me or he himself. "I loved her but it's for the best. I'm happy for her, I'm ready to move on. I just want to know that she's fine, that she's happy, and not-"

"Whoring herself out on the streets for her next fix," I finish his sentence once it becomes obvious he won't say out loud what everyone else already thinks. This time he makes no move to correct me.

"So you just want to know where she is, not actually bring her back."

Which of course makes my job so much easier. Because how do you get a druggie back into the town she ran away from? Especially considering I'm not exactly well-muscled. When Gilbert nods affirmatively, I stop the car at the side of a random street and turn to face him fully. It's time to cut the chase and get down to business.

"Why me?" I shoot the question at him the way my mom usually speaks with suspects that are getting on her nerves. It's a very appropriate comparison. "Why ask me for help?"

It's a valid question. Even before the big fall-out Gilbert and I were never close. He was just my best friend's kid brother. Never more, never less. Besides I know for a fact that mom is already on the case. She ditched our Sunday family time to investigate dear Vicky's disappearance after all. And mom is good at her job. If there's a way for the police to find her, she will.

Gilbert bites his lip, hands restlessly drumming against his thigh. It's painfully obvious that he's uncomfortable, but I refuse to give him an easy out. For Jeremy Gilbert to approach me, there has to be more to the story than a run-away crush, that much I know for sure.

"You're good at what you do," Gilbert reluctantly admits, dark eyes looking everywhere except me. "I know the police is on the look-out, but they're just that, the police. They have other things to do. They're bound by laws and everything."

And you never let that stop you.

The last part is left unsaid, but we both know it's true. I've done my friends—ex-friends—too many questionable favours over the years. Everyone and their mother knows I don't take the laws as serious as the daughter of a sherif probably ought to. Then again, nobody ever outright asks how I get the things done that I do, so it's not like there's any incriminating proof.

"That might be true but there are other private investigators to hire," I reply, entirely unconvinced by his reasoning. Sure, none of those investigators can be found in Mystic Falls but Vicky isn't exactly here either, is she? Besides this is me and Gilbert we're talking about.

"Perhaps, but they don't know this town, they don't know Elena," Jeremy snaps right back and, oh, now we're getting somewhere. It's all in the way he stresses his sister's name, not quite in anger but rather frustration.

"Trouble in paradise?" I try and fail to keep the snarky comment at bay—alright, so I don't try very hard. Sue me.

Gilbert glowers at me, but that's an answer in itself. "She doesn't want me looking for Vicky, she just wants me to let her go," he mocks, doing a fairly good impression of Elena in one of her overprotective moods. "She doesn't get that I don't want Vicky back, I just want her safe."

"So you've come to me because you think the chance of pulling one over Elena is enough for me to ignore my intense dislike for you." It's a statement, not a question, because we both know it's the truth.

"Isn't it?" Gilbert challenges me confidently.

I glare straight back at him.

There are few things that annoy Elena more than someone messing with her baby brother. And as much as I hate the younger Gilbert, I love the idea of annoying her even more. Damn it. Damn Elena. And damn that smug little bastard that calls himself her brother straight to hell.

"You better start saving your pocket money, because I'm going to rip you off like you've never been ripped off before," I hiss and continue before Jeremy's lips have the chance to form that satisfied smile I know all too well. "And you owe me. Three favours, you don't ask questions, you keep your mouth shut, you just do what I tell you and never mention it again to anyone. Are we clear?"

Gilbert hesitates for just a moment, proving once more that he's smarter than his grades make him out to be. He knows I'm going to use these favours and he knows he's not going to like them. Too bad, so sad. I'm not a good samaritan. I don't help others out of the goodness of my heart.

"Deal." He offers his hand and I only hesitate for a moment, mainly just to make him feel uncomfortable. It's not like I'm going to back out of this, not with such a tempting offer.

Besides Jeremy Gilbert or not, this is what I do. Finding missing persons, discovering the skeletons' in other people's closet, putting my nose where it doesn't belong. This is what I'm good at.

"Deal." I shake his hand. "Now get the hell out of my car."

As I watch Jeremy scramble to comply, I can't suppress a small smirk from growing on my lips. Sometimes, and only sometimes, it's damn good to be Veronica Forbes.

End of Chapter I

Author's note: So. I'm basically sitting at the edge of my seat here, hoping desperately someone made it to this point. If you'd consider leaving me a review with your thoughts I might cry. I don't want to beg for comments and I'll update regardless, but if you like this beginning, please let me know! Tell me what you think of Veronica, her interaction with people, what you think a wanna-be detective might notice while living in Mystic Falls, heck, just tell me about your day. Just knowing that someone is reading my ramblings is incredibly encouraging!

Thank you for reading this and I wish you a wonderful weekend!

Love, ReRe