Ciarra bent down by the acoustic guitar, frowning slightly.

“That’s strange,” Ciarra mused, “because when I was visiting, I distinctly remember that the E string on the guitar was metal.”

She thought back to the victim’s marred face.

“It snapped.”

“What?”

“The guitar string – it snapped! And it cut her,” Ciarra continued, “on the cheek! Because…because she tried to use it as a shield!”

Wesley was looking at her queerly now.

“And the killer knew about blood showing up under UV rays…so he replaced it! But in his hurry,” Ciarra reeled, “he forgot that acoustic guitars don’t have nylon strings!”

“You’re scaring me, Ciarra.”

“That’s what I usually do.”

She stood, dusting herself. “I know who the killer is. And I found the unknown weapon that caused the blood spatter.”

“How could you possibly – “

“Our perp is someone who knows how to replace guitar strings.”

“Guitar shop guy?” Wesley asked.

“You got it. I bet you, if you swabbed that instrument, you’d find blood trace.”

“I don’t doubt it.”