22nd of April

The next day is just as fruitless for us. Interrogation turns into a kind of Shakespeare ping pong without any real meaning. I ask in the east she answers in the west, I inquire through Hamlet, she jokes by Much Ado About Nothing, and not one solid answer will she give me. I tell her "Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue." she replies "No, not till a hot January." John observes with a patience I cannot find in myself. I analyze every quote she presents me - is it a reference to the killings starting in January? Is it a vague taunt to John for the loss of his sister? Or it is merely what a seems, a witty response and a way of avoiding the subject?

But the day does yield a few results. Roolan confessed just before time ran out (what a shocker) and an expert told Robert the pictures were taken by an amateur with a good camera. It's within the realm of possibility, though not at all likely, that there's a lead in that somehow.

23rd of April

The next morning, I am woken by a hand on my shoulder. Evidently, the nightmare made me cry out in my sleep. John hands me a glass of water and goes back to bed without a word. I sleep more peacefully the rest of the night, but I doubt the same can be said for him.

I spend the day having a staring contest with Sarah. That is to say, I have a staring contest with her while she has one with her shoes. She seems determined to not give us any more names, perhaps out of fear of 1,8,11 recruiting more, perhaps simply out of fear of 1,8,11.

Karl and Lindsay have no luck in their search - they find no overlap between Sarah and Roolan, no common ground where they could have been recruited. Roolan seems even more unwilling to talk than Sarah. The photo lead has turned into a wild goose chase after luck. They've been visiting stores that sell the right type of cameras hoping someone will be willing to hand over a list of recent purchases without a warrant. They manage to get a few - along with the surveillance footage. Now it's just a matter of sorting through it to see if there's anything useful.

24th of April

The next day Lindsay and Karl take to the streets, going through both suspects' hangouts, asking people if they recognize either of them - hoping someone will say both. I don't envy them the leg work. Or maybe I do. Sarah's only connection to the outside world is John and me, and she seems increasingly desperate to keep us in the room - but also equally cautious not to give us anything useful. Hopefully, she'll be more helpful tomorrow.

"There you are," Joanna says when we step through the door to John's apartment.

"Jo, what... What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?" she looks at me instead.

"Nicaa needed a place to stay," John answers. "But that's not really any of your concern, is it?"

"She needed a place to stay? Really, that's your excuse?"

"I'm just going to go..." I say. But the apartment only has four rooms, so apart from his bedroom, the best hiding place is the kitchen. However, that does not offer any shelter from their voices.

"You'd rather I sent her back to her own apartment where she found her friend murdered?" He inquires harshly.

"Murdered?" Her voice softens into surprise. "I thought she was a consultant?"

"That really isn't any of your business Jo," he states again. "Why are you here?"

"Why do you think? We need to talk."

"You made it pretty clear we have nothing to talk about."

"I was angry!"

"And what, you're ready to forgive me now?" There's no hope, only mock in his voice.

"I didn't say... I'm ready to hear you out." There's a forced calm in hers.

"So I'm no longer a 'poor excuse of a man'?"

"John, honestly, I just came to talk," she pleads.

"Why? We've never talked before, we have nothing to talk about now."

"Really, you're going to go with that? After all this time you can't even..."

"We have known each other for four months Jo, give it up."

"So that's it, we're done? Just like that?" Anger rises in her voice.

"Yeah, we're done. We were done before you came here. We had a good time, now it's over." I hear the door open, but it takes a while before the sound of heels marching out follows.

"It's safe to come out now," he calls to me. "She's gone." I step out awkwardly.

"You think I should have said 'please'?" he mocks me. "That I should have told her the truth? Being with me isn't safe for her."

"I didn't say anything."

25th of April

The next day lends us the first somewhat useful information we've had in a while. Robert has apparently been looking at the time between strings in each murder category. For someone so obsessed with numbers it seems unlikely to have 80 odd days between strings. Robert did a little counting and found it to match 11 weeks in each case.

Catherine has been going through the camera purchases, checking the numeric value of those that pay with a credit card and matching the purchases to the surveillance footage.

It's not till the second day of this she finds something. She shows me a picture of a tall guy with narrow eyes and thin lips.

"Handsome," I agree. They call in my mother to see if she can pick him out of a photo array. She does it easily and with so much certainly, I begin to wonder exactly how much time she spent with him, and what they were doing.

She doesn't ask for me, she doesn't come looking for me. I catch her eye in the hallway. She stares at me for a second but keeps walking. She's still mad I'm meddling in her life. When she learns to earn and manage her own money I will gladly relinquish control - then I might actually be able to afford a decent apartment. Dreams, that's what that is, dreams that'll never come true.

Catherine and John hit the streets around the camera shop to see if they can identify Superman. Robert goes over the CCTV footage of the car being parked again. Lindsay agrees with him, it could easily be Superman in that picture as well - at least based on height and size.

26th of April

John is looking worse and worse for every day, and I can't help but connect it with me staying at his place, but I don't know what to do about it. My own nightmares are not as bad as they have been, and I attribute that to being able to do something, to keeping my mind busy during the day and not having time to dwell on the unpleasantries. I'm getting better, and the circles under his eyes are getting bigger. I feel like I'm somehow stealing his rest and taking it for myself.

27th of April

It takes time, but in the end, they identify Superman. Since we still don't know how information is escaping and finding its way to 1,8,11, Catherine suggests we all go out to dinner; Karl invites us to his apartment instead. The light blue walls and great windows provide us shelter from prying and potentially untrustworthy eyes and ears. We've barely ordered the pizzas before Catherine blurts out the best piece of news we've had in a long time.

"Scott Forester. 5,6,8." I try to remember when his next string starts up...

"That is in June, right?" Lindsay asks.

"Yes," Catherine agrees.

"He's the one who killed her," I realize. "Little Lucie." I keep eye contact with the table as I speak.

"Yes," Robert says. Now we know. How much does that go for? 20 to life? Somehow I don't think any punishment would be enough.

"We have time," Karl states. Silence spreads among us. Even I can tell he didn't want to say that. He's right though, June is a long way off, it might do more damage than good to arrest him now. No one wants to admit it, but not arresting him makes sense. I suspect they'll put surveillance on him, maybe even try to catch him as he's entering his target's house. He'll have his gear with him then, and 1,8,11 will be there to supervise and do the tattoo. The only problem is that the 11,22,33 string comes before 5,6,8. That's as much as 32 civilian lives still on the line, and of course...

"Sounds good," Robert says. Karl looks from one person to the next. I follow him around. Robert is confident. This is the closest they've ever been to catching 1,8,11, and that's what matters to him. Catherine busies herself with a running her finger around the edge of her glass and refuses to meet anyone's eyes. Lindsay is tense, biting her lip. John is leaning back in his chair, away from Karl. No one seems to be able to come up with something better though.

"I'll make the call," Karl says and gets up pulling out his phone.

28th of April

Surveillance is put on Scott Forester, and Denmark and France are informed of the hydra-like nature of the case. Denmark has a suspect in sight, but agrees to go the surveillance route - apparently, red paint has some significance to them, someone threw it at the Prime Minister in 2003 to demonstrate against the Danish military participating in the Iraq war. As for France, whether they will follow our example or not will be up to them. Our focus should be on 11,22,33 now, hopefully, all the rest will be overcome the end of June.

29th of April

The increasing stress has triggered an increase in nightmares, and I'm now back to the old song on not getting any rest in sleep.

A strangled noise draws my attention to John's bedroom. I am apparently not the only one having trouble sleeping. The door is slightly ajar - probably so he can hear what goes on out here better. I fill a glass of water for him and try to shake him awake. It takes me a few attempts to get through to him, and when I finally do the response is quite different from what I was hoping. One minute he's sleeping, next I'm staring at the gun he apparently keeps at his nightstand.

I have never stared down the barrel of a gun before. My heartbeat quickens and my palms become moist. I stare helplessly at the gun. This piece of metal, this piece of human creation, this is a concrete manifestation of the abstract threat hanging over my head. Pull the trigger or pull the strings, the difference is insignificant. And then it blinks. The eye of the barrel closes as the gun is lowered. I meet John's eyes instead.

"Sorry," his chest is rising and falling rapidly.

"I scared you," I apologize. I realize the floor I'm standing on is wet and the glass in my hand half empty. I turn around with the words "I'll get a towel." I hear the rustle of sheets as he starts to get up, but he seems to change his mind and sinks back into the bed. I lean against the kitchen counter and tell my heart to take it easy. It was stupid of me to go in there, I should have stayed on the couch.

"Who do you think you are?" I ask myself silently. "Emma Swan? Born to magically save everyone and reunite families?" I turn on the tap and let the water run cold.

"You are not Emma Swan, if you are anyone it's Clara Oswald  only completely possible and not nearly as adventurous." I ignore the small reminder of Donna my brain fires at me. "Donna Noble has left the library." I tell myself stubbornly and fill up the glass. I grab a towel and head back into the room. He lifts his head from his hands as I enter, but I chose to ignore the awkwardness and instead put the glass on the bedside table and wipe up the spilled water.

"I'm really sorry," he tries again. I shake my head slightly - he has nothing to be sorry for, I should have stayed out of his bedroom.

"The nightmares still haunt you," I stay instead. If he can't get rid of them what are my chances?

"They come and go," he reassures me unconvincingly. "You couldn't sleep?" he changes the subject.

"It's almost morning anyway," I evade. He looks down at his watch.

"It's 4:39." He smiles tryingly.

"It's 5 PM somewhere." If that can be considered an excuse for drinking in the morning I can use it too.

"You really should try to get some rest." Yeah sure, I'll just take a bloodbath - nothing I would rather do. But I nod anyway and go back to the couch. But sleep flees fear with its tail between its legs. I spend an hour staring at the ceiling, trying to heed John's advice, but the walls close in on me and the air despises my lungs. I swing my legs over the side and sit up, forcing my lungs to work steadily. I open the window and let the fresh air slow down my panicking brain. I can't stay cooped up like this, I have to breathe.

I push the idea away. John would be so angry, I can't do that to him. After all he's been through; I shouldn't add to his worry. I look back at his bedroom door - as long as I get back safely it'll be alright, and it'll be a while before I'll be in any real danger - the lat 1,8,11 string isn't due to start until late June. I can't last much longer like this. I grab his keys and my wallet and throw on a jacket. It'll only get more dangerous the longer I wait. I take the stairs two steps at a time.

  "Where do you think you're going?" A man gets out of a car parked on the other side of the street. I take a step back. Maybe this really was a bad idea.

"I'm just..." I step back gingerly and reach for the handle behind my back. He reaches inside his inner pocket. I turn a pull the door handle. Of course, it doesn't open, it locks automatically. He puts a hand on my shoulder and turns me around.

"Here," he says and hands me a badge. "Next time you're scared, make some noise." I look at the badge, trying to remember what it's supposed to look like.

"What are you doing out here?" he asks again.

"I needed some air." I decide John would have noticed something off if fake agents were staking out his apartment like this.

"That's nice." He doesn't sound like he agrees. "Where's Agent Lucas?"

"Sleeping." I feel like a child being scolded.

"So you decided to sneak out? Damned the consequences?" His face is stern and disapproving, not a hint of sympathy hidden there.

"I needed air, and there's no real danger for me yet," I defend myself.

"Let her go." A second agent steps out of the car. "I'll go with her." They look at each other, apparently arguing about it.

"Where to?" The second agent asks me.

"Grocery store. Know of any nearby open at this hour?" Having made up my mind to be bad, all there's really left is to get the most out of it. The most fun for the least amount of trouble.

She leads the way, clearly thankful that's all I had in mind - and perhaps slightly surprised. She keeps silent though, and I appreciate that. The walk isn't long, and soon I'm filling up a basket with all the best essentials.

I guess I should have wondered more about the other guard though and exactly what he was guarding. John's face is furious when he bursts through the doors and marches up to me.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" His hair is messy and he's wearing only a coat and pajama bottoms. Clearly, the agent woke him up as soon as I was out of sight.

"Stress relief." He doesn't appreciate the use of his own argument against him. I hand him the shopping basket.

"You have every right to be mad," I allow him. "But there are only two ways to end this now, and letting me finish is by far the easiest." I place a carton of milk in the basket and resume my collecting. He simply stares at me. Before he's figured out which leg to stand on the basket is half full and he simply accepts it. He allows me to collect the rest of the ingredients and pay, he even allows me to walk back in silence. And then hell breaks loose. Standing guard over my newly acquired meditation tools he demands a proper response.

"What the hell are you doing? Why didn't you just wake me?" I hesitate for a moment. I don't want to fight with him.

"Because you haven't been sleeping well since I moved in here."

"Well that's rich - you don't think this little escapade cost me sleep?"

"Look," I cut in. "You can go wherever you want - you aren't chained up like a prisoner." I try to be calm, not shout, and not sound too panicky. "You have every right to be mad, and I have no apologies to offer - I just needed air. I just needed to feel like I still had a life to fight for." That defuses his anger. Slightly.

"Next time: let me know." We both know that would kind of defeat the purpose, but I nod anyway. I don't anticipate a next time. He releases my groceries to me and I begin rummaging through his cupboards to find bowls and whatnot.

"You should get some sleep," he tells me off.

"I should get somerest," I correct him. He leaves it be and goes back to bed. By the time hegets up again, I am taking the croissants out of the oven and replacing themwith the buns. By the time he gets out of the shower, I am packing it all up tobring with us to the office.