"Are you alright?" he asks as soon as he's closed the door. I consider it for a second. I don't know, and we have more important things to take care of. I turn around and head back to the others.

"Did you get anything out of her?" Catherine inquires.

"1,8,11 is female," John says. "Sarah knows the identities of some of the others, but claims that if we catch one, 1,8,11 will just recruit more," he rattles off. "And she passed the treat on to Nicaa again," he says in a less forceful voice.

"No," I argue. "That wasn't a threat. That was a description. That was her worldview described in a single word," I define.

Robert catches my eye. "I'm fine," I realize. He smiles at me. I really am fine. I actually have communication with the opposition, it's less abstract now, more real. Real is what fiction battles. This I can handle; this I am ready for.

"How long can you hold her for?" I ask.

"Without a confession, we only have about ten hours left." John's voice is robbed of the last of its anger, and a simplicity of fact stating turns his voice almost plain. "And even if they get Rolaan Summers there's still no guarantee that we'll be able to hold him. By the way, did anyone find out which string he is?"

"7,8,8," Catherine says. "But even if we can't hold him at least it will break his pattern."

"Would that mean starting over, or giving up?" I ask. Or would it be something else entirely? But we don't get a chance to discuss it. At that moment the door opens and Joanna walks in.

"What the hell John!"

He turns to look at her but doesn't respond verbally.

"I walked past interrogation looking for you," she continues. Her eyes are looking for answers, his lips refuse to move.

"I demand to know how long has she been here?" she demands.

"Little less than three days," he informs her.

"Three..." She swallows hard. "Three days?" Her voice is weak, and her head tilted as if hoping he'll admit he was lying. He doesn't speak.

"How could you not have told me?" she accuses. "I thought she... How could you let me think that?"

"I didn't. I went by her apartment for you," he replies logically. Before any of us realize what is happening his cheek exhibits a bright red mark in the shape of her hand.

"Don't you dare. Don't you dare pretend you are faultless." Her voice trembles.

"I'm not, I'll gladly accept my faults," he claims. I doubt it. "But I will not apologize for not risking this investigation, not risking people's lives, simply for your comfort."

That takes her aback. "People's lives?"

"Sarah is being held as a suspect in 11 murders," he informs her with a cool voice.

She shifts her weight, trying to find out which foot to stand on. "No," she says, her voice almost imitating his coolness. "Not Sarah. I don't believe it. You're wrong."

"Maybe I am," he admits. I look at him in surprise. "But it's not my call." She considers it for barely a second before turning to Robert and Catherine.

"You're wrong," she says defiantly.

Catherine meets her eyes for a split second before looking away. John is the only one comfortable with lying to her. I get up and leave the room. In interrogation, Sarah is still waiting for us to come back, and the clock is ticking. I press in the code John used earlier and go in. She considers me for a second, smiles slightly, and goes back to studying her feet.

"You're the black piece alone in the white's base. Change your color, or change your position," I tell her. She keeps staring at her feet. "The thing is, time is almost up. We'll have to let you go soon." She meets my eyes, and I recognize the fear in them she can't hide.

"You don't want to play, I get that. I don't either. But neither of us have a choice the way things are. You thought you could get out by hiding in here?" I ask her. She turns her head and keeps very intense eye contact with the floor.

"If you tried to hide in here then you didn't have permission to confess. You didn't have permission to mess up the game. What happens when you get back to your half of the playing board?" I pause. She turns her head slowly and looks sideways at me. "We can't hold you unless you confess on record. It's out of our hands, and in yours." I push the pen and paper towards her. She accepts them and starts writing. I lean back and watch her progress. After half an hour John joins us. She looks up as he enters but otherwise ignores him. He sits down next to me and we wait in silence. An hour or so later she hands the papers to us, signed and dated.

"Thank you," John says and takes the papers. We leave. When we get back to the others Karl and Lindsay are back as well. Joanna is gone though.

"She did it," John says and hands Karl Sarah's confession. "How about you? Did you have any luck?"

"He wasn't home at first," Lindsay replies. "But he came home shortly after we arrived and asked if we were looking for him."

"Way to state the obvious," John replies.

"There was something about the way he said it though. He walked straight up to us and said 'I believe you're looking for me.'"

"Those were his exact words?" I ask.

"Ye, yeah." She looks worried. "Something wrong?"

"It sounds kind of familiar," I admit. I can't quite place it though. I grab my phone and google it. Zugzwang was from Criminal minds, so I try that first.

"Judge Shuller walked into the station and said that in season 5, episode 3, Reckoner." I look up from my phone, remembering what the episode was about. "The team had no evidence, only a profile. The judge was stalling so his partner could finish the job."

"But no one else is killing now. The next killing is supposed to be..." she looks down at the predictive timeline we've constructed. "11,22,33" she says.

"Sarah's confession messed up the plan," Robert says, ignoring the mention of his likely future murder. "The others don't matter to 1,8,11, they are a distraction."

"Pawns on a chessboard," I agree. "Only these pawns are replaceable."

"They are now," Lindsay says with the hint of an idea. "But she needed them for something before. They were the trees that were hiding her forest." 8 different killers disguised as one, masking any behavioral clues in each other and masking any patterns too.

Catherine opens her mouth to speak, but regrets it and keeps silent.

"So until we catch 1,8,11 there's no end to this," Robert says in a regrettable, but calm voice.

"And we have no idea who she will recruit," Lindsay despairs.

"We take it as it comes," Karl decides. "We bring in those we can, and focus on stopping this."

"We need a recorded or written confession from Rolaan Summers." Catherine moves on to the task at hand.

"He'll give it to us," Robert says.

"The motivation is split," Lindsay disagrees. "Some of his actions are dictated by 1,8,11, and some by himself. Confessing is a split interest, helping one while hurting the other."

"But what happens if he goes against 1,8,11?" Robert argues.

"You think he'll accept prison to avoid something worse?" Lindsay is doubtful. "You think he's going to just lie down and take it?"

"Depends for how long," I say. They all look at me. "'You confess, maybe lead the FBI astray, and I'll have you out again before next round.' No real risk for him."

"You really think she'll break them out of prison?" John asks with doubt in his voice. "Didn't we just agree that they are replaceable to her?"

"Sure, but do they know that? She is clearly playing games, why can't she be playing her pawns too?"

"You think she's manipulating them?" Lindsay asks. "That would make sense. Fear makes them consent to be her puppets, promises makes them loyal - or at least more loyal to her than to us."

"The whip and the carrot," I sum up.

"She won't break them out, but she might still be playing them?" John states.

"Wouldn't it'd be easier to just kill them off?" Robert wonders. "Once they've served their usefulness."

"Tie up the loose ends," John agrees. "Sarah Winslow certainly thinks she's still in the danger zone."

"And we trust her information?" Catherine asks.

"She's not telling us everything, but what she is saying seems to be legit at least," John answers.

"Lindsay, what have you got with the profiles?" Karl asks.

"I've focused on 1,8,11 since she's the one calling the shots. I haven't been in the interrogations so I don't have anything on Sarah Winslow. I can say that 2,9,11 profiles as a submissive personality, but leaving the fingerprints indicate a desire to be stopped, but also courage enough to attempt a hidden agenda. As long as she's not face to face with her fear she can muster a little strength.

"She's not the type to go for a direct confrontation, she gets her relief from fantasizing about the confrontation."

"John?"

"I never met Sarah before, and I think Nicaa has a better read on her."

"Nicaa?"

"She's well-read," I start, not exactly sure what they want from me - I'm not a profiler. "I don't think she wanted any part of this, she's more comfortable with subjects not related to the case. She quite enjoyed making fun of John. She's scared and alone, she just wants someone to understand."

"Can we trust her word?"

"It's bad enough to carry out a conversation using Shakespeare quotes," I answer. "Add lies to that and she would be juggling a lot."

"So that's what the book was about?" Catherine asks with a curious smile. "How did you come up with that?"

"If Shakespeare doesn't move something in you, it's because there's nothing there to move." I smile back at her. "It was a longshot, I just thought she might react to it, I was so surprised she actually recognized it."

"Seems taking a chance sometimes pays off," Robert compliments me. I smile, I can't help it.

"And 1,8,11? What do you have there Lindsay?"

"She enjoys control, she's a perfectionist, has an eye for detail. She's confident in her work, and wants the world to see it, admire what she's capable of. She will have a prestigious job, something that reflects this. She likes playing god, deciding who lives and who dies, so she's likely a doctor or something similar. She's somewhere in her 30's, judging by her focus on Robert, John, and Nicaa. She's adept at portraying herself the way a particular person would be likely to respond to, otherwise, she couldn't have convinced so many different people to do her bidding.

"While she's successful in her work she will likely have a hard time forming lasting, meaningful relationships. Her perfectionism leaves her disappointed in most people, and she would rather have a bunch of people looking to her needs, creating a form of perfection through combination - therefore the many "affairs" with different killers.

"She's both rational and emotional. She desperately wants things to go her way and will lash out when they don't. At the same time she's capable of rational thinking, she hides her trail well. She will want to insert herself into the investigation, but she will know it is a bad idea. Judging by the microphone in Nicaa's apartment it would seem she has chosen a middle ground. She's somehow keeping track of us without being present personally. Most likely she has done this by inserting a trusted lieutenant instead, so while we may not have met her personally we should not be surprised to know someone close to her."

"Could that someone be Sarah Winslow?"

"Possibly, but that would mean that 1,8,11 told her to lay the trail of fingerprints and to confess. It also doesn't account for how she knew we found out about the numerology."

But Karl's phone rings and effectively stops the conversation. We all listen carefully to the answers he gives. "Elano Garcia," he tells us as he hangs up again. We were too late. "Robert, I want you and John on interrogation. The rest of you - get some sleep, there's nothing more to do right now. We'll search Sarah Winslow's apartment tomorrow."

"I have a spare bedroom," Catherine tells me. "That'll give you a more permanent temporary home."

"My sister is coming to town," Lindsay explains. I meet her eye and smile reassuringly - I hope... I get up and walk to the victim board where I draw 20 squares with standard silhouettes in them. Sarah Winslow was missing 11 murders to finish, and Rolaan Summers was missing 9. 20 lives saved, and no more phone calls to anticipate for at least the rest of the month.

I grab my coat and walk with Catherine.

"So, Shakespeare?" Catherine asks in the car.

"I'm still surprised it worked," I admit.

"You have it all memorized just in case, or what?" she turns halfway towards me.

"You spend enough time with something that great it will stick with you."

"What's your favorite quote then?"

"'Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of trouble, and by opposing, end them.'" She doesn't recognize it. "You probably know the first line better: 'To be or not to be, that is the question.'"

"Yeah, that I recognize. Isn't he talking about death or something?" she asks.

"'To die, to sleep. No more.'" I continue the quote. "' And in that sleep of death to say we end The heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.'" I don't say the rest out loud, but it resonates in my thoughts. 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wisht. To die, to sleep. To sleep perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub. For in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have cast off this mortal coil?' Without the fear of what is to come, would death still be scary? I have always believed in God, in heaven and hell. Why should death scare me? To be honest, faith in something good is a lot harder in times like these. I can believe in God; I can believe in heaven and hell - but can I still believe in goodness? And if I can't: what God do I believe in? And if I don't believe in God, what do I have to fear then? If God doesn't exist, then neither does hell. Hell is the absence of God, so if God doesn't exist everything is hell. This is hell. This is hell, I can agree to that. I don't have the answers, and I hate not having the answers.

Neither of us speaks for the rest of the drive. I think she's trying to come up with something to say, but I am thankful she doesn't. I'm not much in the mood for empty conversation lately. I appreciate the gesture though. She parks the car and shows me to her apartment. There's only one word for it: homey. Candles line the windowsill, blankets lay thrown across the arm of the couch, two plate settings are still on the table.

"You hungry?" she asks.

"Not really." Apart from the fast food that somehow finds its way to the team every now and then I haven't really eaten much. She nods and points towards a door leading from the living room.

"Guest room is in there, bathroom there. Make yourself at home." I mumble a 'thanks' and go in. The room is small but quaint with deep blue walls and a white carpet in the middle of the room to contrast. I sit down on the bed and bury my head in my hands. With nothing more for me to do the hopelessness of the situation hits me squarely in the face. Even if we stop this, how will we ever move on?

20th of April

I don't know how I managed to get to sleep, I just know that at one AM I wake up with a jerk. Something in the ocean of blood had grabbed my ankle. An echo of 'I'm coming for you' bounces off the walls and comes back to hit me. I lie back down, but I'm too scared of grabbing hands to want to sleep anymore. I get less rest in my sleep than I do awake. I get up again and start pacing the room.

Thoughts are having a rave in my brain. What if Rolaan won't confess, and they'll have to let him loose again. What happens then? His second streak was interrupted - does that mean he'll have to wait to finish it, start it over again - or possibly start over completely with his first streak as well? Did bringing him in save lives or possibly cause more deaths?

I sink down on the floor and lean against the wall. It's a mess, it's all just a mess. How are we supposed to get through this - how are we supposed to survive? Even if we do survive physically how are we going to survive this?

The crashing waves wash over my head, and I can't breathe. Steadily, timely, they force themselves down my throat and rip the air from my lungs. I try to hold the air in, I try to stay conscious, I try to stay alive. It's useless. The blood gathers together and forms the silhouette of a woman. She laughs at me, but the sound comes out as splashing. She reaches out her hands towards me, and I can do nothing to stop her from picking me up and placing me on a great chessboard made of blood. Other pieces spring up like plants from the squares. She laughs again. Sarah Winslow is standing directly opposite me.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm so sorry."

"Then do something about it!" I shout back at her, but bloody ropes spring from the board and wrap around her. She is dragged away to another square, and I am left alone. Only I'm not alone. I look around me. The horse over there is positioned to take me, so is the tower and the pawn. I look behind me. He looks like he's made of dried blood, and he can't move a muscle, but it's definitely John. Catherine is a little behind him, and so is someone else. I can't see properly. I try to move, but my feet are cemented in dried blood. I lean to the side instead. Someone is lying down just behind John. She's dead. I see lines of blood run from her to each of our chess pieces. The blood has dried now and cemented everyone to their assigned positions.

"Do something!" I hear from my other side. I turn around and see Robert. He's bleeding.

"What do you want me to do?" I ask in despair. "What can I do?" He looks down at the pool of blood at his feet flowing steadily on its mission to keep his colleagues on the board, keep them trapped.

"Do something!" he screams at me in anger. I hear waves splash together again and look up.

"Why are you doing this?" I shout. She leans down her gigantic shape. Her face is as high as I am.

"Because you haven't stopped me," she whispers to me, and only me.

"Do something!" Robert screams again. A pawn lying dead in the middle of the board rolls over and its shape changes.

"She can't," Zoe says. "She can't do anything, she's useless." I look into her empty eyes. She used to have such spirit, now she's just an empty shell.

"Please don't say that," I beg. I can feel tears come together in my eyes. "Please don't say that," I cry.

"Look at your hands," she orders me. I don't want to. I don't want to. Her empty eyes stare into mine till I can no longer ignore her. I look down. Unlike everything else in this place, my hands aren't made of blood. They are covered in it though. I sink to my knees and bury my head in my arms. I can't stand it, I can't take it anymore.

"Just stop," I beg. "Juststop," I cry. Robert continues to yell behind me, and Zoe joins in by tellinghim I'm useless. Mark and Elle both join the choir as well.