22nd of June

My bags are packed with what feels like everything I own. Since the whole point of the relocation is that nobody knows where I am, I don't know what climate to pack for. Lindsay went by my apartment to get me some winter clothes, and I asked her to bring my Complete Works of William Shakespeare as well - the one John bought will be staying here, just in case they need my notes or Sarah wants a chat, but I just don't feel right leaving it behind anymore. She comes back with my entire Wordsworth collection and The Mark of the Lion resting on top.

"Thank you, Lindsay. It's going to be okay," I hear myself tell her. "It's going to be alright," I repeat as an order to myself.

"We've got her gravesite, we have a profile, we have witnesses," Lindsay reminds me. I smile and nod.

"Joanna will be in the car when they come for you," Karl informs me. "I need you to hand over your phone and credit cards." There's an odd sense of finality in all of this. Next time I see them - if I do see them again, 1,8,11 will have finished her last string. Who knows what that will mean. I hand Karl what he asked for, but he checks my wallet just the same. I see him frown when he notices the folded up note addressed 'Family and friends', but he doesn't say anything. There's an identical one hidden in John's desk where he won't look for a while, just in case one is lost or goes unnoticed.

"What about my mom?" I ask him. Mrs. Jones and Principal Lawrence both know a little something about what's going on, or at least that I'm with the FBI now, they will understand if they can't get hold of me, my mother won't though, she doesn't know anything. "What will you tell her?"

"You think she needs to be told something? I didn't think you two really spoke." There's an awkwardness filling the room as everyone remembers either how I spoke to her in Hill Lake, or how she ignored me when she was at the office to identify Superman.

"We don't, but she still might call, and she can be rather insistent." The more inopportune the moment, the more likely she is to call.

"We will deal with that if she calls, the fewer people who know you're gone the better." I nod at the floor. Might be best. Still, I hate leaving them to deal with her, it feels like putting my burdens on them and they have more than enough to deal with already.

"What about Joanna? She hasn't been as cut off from her normal life as me, has she?"

"Joanna is on a well-deserved vacation in Hawaii," John tells me with a half-smile meant, I think, to lighten the mood a little. I can't remember the last time I was upset by a goodbye. Usually, goodbye means better things ahead, like when I left Hill Lake, or when a class of students graduates. I look around at them all. Lindsay has somehow managed to fit the books in my bags - she really can do anything. There's an almost empty look on her face, as if her mind is pulled in too many directions and she cannot collect it. Catherine is standing silent by her seat, eyes on the floor and her posture curved to the side. I can almost see Robert standing next to her, a light hand on her shoulder and an encouraging smile on his face. God be with her, no one else can truly help her now.

Karl signals that the car is here. John opens the door for me and walks me down. He stops me at the bottom of the stairs, holding out a hand to block the door.

"You should probably take this now." He hands me the box with my long sword. I accept the package and feel it's weight in my hands. Yes, I want this with me, I want every protection I can possibly get, but I also want him not to take offense in it, or what is worse.

"John, I want you to promise me something." He looks down at me, and I make my eyes meet his. "Whatever happens now, if this doesn't go as hoped, if something should go wrong... It's not on you. Whatever happens, everything that's already happened, it's on 1,8,11, not you." I hold his gaze. He doesn't look away, but he doesn't promise either. I never thought he would, but at least he'll have heard it from someone. He breaks eye contact and looks down at the package in my hands.

"Take care Nicaa." He rests his hand on the box, pushing it gently towards me.

"John..." He meets my eyes again. I step forward, awkwardly trying to hold the package so it's not in my way. My heels lift from the ground, my eyes dart to his lips. I listen to his breathing pause. I chicken out and kiss his on the check instead. I look down and reach for the door. He blocks my way with an outreached arm. He takes the package from me and leans it against the wall. His hand brushes against my cheek, and he doesn't chicken out. His lips brush against mine, lightly first, drawing me in. My hand locks around his neck. His fingers brush gently against my arm. I can feel his beating heart as if it were my own. I can feel it all. Every part of his being, every string of his heart, torn and broken, but still beating. I move in closer, and he wraps his arm around my waist. He pushes me up against the wall, his tongue playing, seeking, exploring. His lips part from mine. I reach out for him again, but he rests his forehead against mine. I lean back against the wall.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I shouldn't have done that. Not now, not here." I look down, unable to bear that. His fingers rest lightly on my arm which is still around him, holding on to his shirt. "I should have waited," he whispers, his breath tickling my skin and making every nerve stand on edge. "Eight days. Eight more days and you would be free and clear. Or a month, and this would all be over, wrapped up." His thumb traces along my cheek. "Like you keep saying, don't react, just act. I should have waited, or I should have done it sooner." He presses his lips against my temple for a prolonged second, and then he releases me.

He reaches out and places the package back in my hands as if none of it happened, but his lips are curled into a little smile when he opens the door for me and leads me out to the waiting car. He holds open the car door for me and places my bags in the trunk. I keep the long package with me, despite how impractical it is in a car. I smile back at him as we pull away, unable to help myself. In the seat next to me Joanna is looking out her own window, ignoring John as best she can.

I watch Karl's apartment building fade away as we drive off. I am now cut off from any and all information, and the only protection I have is the strangers in the front seats and the sword in the package. It makes me feel a little safer, knowing that there is something I can do if anything goes wrong. I sneak a peek at Joanna, wondering what her version of a sword is. She seems oddly calm. She too clutches her bag a little closer to herself - hers a nice handbag and not a big brown box. It rattles a little. That explains it then: pills. I suspect as a lawyer she must be used to the stress, but maybe not exactly like this.

I don't know if I should feel guilty for what just happened, sitting next to Joanna like this. From what I gather their relationship wasn't picture perfect, and she broke up with John after finding out about Sarah - and then John broke up with her when she came to his apartment. But New Years is almost 6 months ago now, and that's when they got together, when they met.

I push the thought away and decide not to feel guilty. Considering everything else, feeling guilty seems ridiculous - plus, I could really use something to not feet crappy about.

The car pulls onto a parking lot in the middle of nowhere. A small plane is waiting for us there. We get out and start hauling luggage out of the trunk. Both of us have packed a lot for a one-week trip.

A car pulls up behind us and the police officers turn to greet their colleagues.

"Get behind the car," one of them calls to us as they both draw their weapons. I look around, unsure what is going on. Harley Quinn steps out of the newly arrived car, dragging a giant hammer with her. I fall to my knees and hide, but I watch the proceedings from under the car.

"Play nice boys," she tells them and opens the hammer to reveal a bomb and a timer.

Two Jokers get out as well and flank her.

Two Jokers and one Harley. That just leaves one missing.

"Like my outfit?" She turns her hips to show it off. "I got it especially to please our little nerd girl." I fumble with the package, still clutched tightly in my hand, and I manage to get it open enough to draw out the sword. Next to me Joanna pulls a gun out of her purse. Her choice might be slightly more logical than mine, but I am more comfortable with the blade.

"Don't worry boys," we hear Harley Quinn say. "The other car had a bomb of its own, we didn't leave anyone out." A hail of gunfire rings out around us. I throw my arms over my head and almost hit myself with the sword. Bullet after bullet hits the car, the sound of metal battling metal ear-shattering, but the armored car covers us.  And then it stops, just as suddenly as it began. I still hold my breath, but when it doesn't start up again I chance it an lower my arms.

"Get the baggage, will you boys." That would be us. I look at Joanna. She clicks the safety off her gun and leans her back against the car. I copy her pose, making sure I have a good footing and a good grip. The two Jokers come around either end of the car. If I'm going to die it's not going to be at the hands of 1,8,11. I swing the sword around with all the force I can muster, effectively cutting open his shirt and revealing the bulletproof west underneath. He looks down at me crouching on the ground as if I just spat in his face. He drops the gun and clenches his fists. Stepping forward on one foot he puts his whole body in the punch that collides with the car door as I throw myself forwards, out of his reach. He curses and holds his hand, and I take the opportunity to regain my balance, and I send the sword thrusting through his thigh. I don't hesitate, but stand up and spin around, sending the sword's flat side straight into the back of his head. He sinks down on the ground, unmoving.

"I'm sorry," I mumble. He might not have had a choice in any of this. I turn around to look for Joanna, but instead, I see the second Joker on the ground, blood running from a shot to his head. Joanna is standing straight up, pointing her gun at Harley Quinn instead. I move around the car and walk to her, sword held out.

"Where's the real one?" I ask her. "The one who doesn't want her voice heard." Her eyes are blue, no contacts. There's no smell of cigars, no corset wires visible, no makeup behind the mask. This isn't 1,8,11.

"Behind you," she says, and I feel a bag go over my head and a needle in my arm.

When I wake up again it's dark, and my neck aches. My hands fumble instinctively around, trying to make sense of it. I'm sitting up, leaned against a wall beside me. I stretch out my legs, or that is, I try to, because I can barely move my knees to a 90-degree angle before my foot is blocked. There's a wall behind as well, I realize. And one above. I heave in a deep gulp of air. I force myself not to start crying. My right hand shakes as I carefully, slowly, hold it up and move it out from me. It reaches a wall too, maybe about four inches from my shoulder. I can't stop myself, a strangled sob gets stuck in my throat. No. No, no, no. This is not happening.

I move as far to the side as I can, and I set my feet against the other side, and I push. I don't even have enough room to put my legs horizontally so I can apply any real pressure, and the walls of the box don't move. I put my back against the wall behind me instead, and with my feet on the wall in front of me, I push with all my might. Nothing. It doesn't budge, it just makes my shoulder blades hurt.

I heave in air. I hit my fits against the side. I push with all my might on the top. I kick the end. I thrust my elbow into the side, and I let out a howl of pain. This isn't happening. This can't be happening. I feel the tears flowing down my cheeks. This isn't real. It's a nightmare. Wake up. Come on Nicaa, wake up!

"You told me the darkness couldn't hurt me." The accusing voice is here, right next to me, and yet, she's not here at all. "You told me to be a big girl," she continues. I tighten the grip around my legs and bury my head further into my arms.

"Nicaa!" Liv screams angrily at me. "You promised! You promised me the darkness wasn't dangerous. If it's so safe why are you scared of it now?" The sobs force their way through my reluctant throat.

Every muscle in my body aches, like red hot iron attached to my skeleton and covered by my skin. I can't move. I can't stretch my muscles and relieve the cramps. I cry. I scream. I sob, but nothing helps. There is no relief.

Can darkness suffocate? Can it physically rip air from your lungs? I feel hands forming around me, brushing against me, closing in on my throat. I let out another scream no one will hear. Where are you? I need your help!  I thrust my feet against the wall again, but the effect is still nonexistent.

"Have you found her yet?" The sound is deafening at first, like she's screaming.

"No, not yet. I don't know how long she has." Have I gone insane already? I could swear that's John's voice. But it's like he's coming from below me. My hands reach down for him, search the floor of the box, but all they find is something odd in the corners. It feels... like a tight, moving net. Speakers? It's real then? He's actually there? I can feel a slight vibration in them.

"Do you have any information, anything new you remember?" John asks.

"I'm sorry, I wish there was something. I want to help her." It sounds like it's Joanna there with him.

"John?" I try. No response. I try again and my voice breaks. I clear my throat and manage a nice yell. There's no response. I pound on the sides. I kick the walls with all my strength. I scream. I cry. I despair. I'm here! John, I'm right here! Get me out!

"Could you wait outside guys?" Joanna asks. I hear a door open and close.

"That was a bad idea, Jo, you need them here. Just because 1,8,11 let you go this time doesn't mean she won't come back for you, she likes games, likes to play with people."

"Is that what you think of her?" He doesn't reply. "John, why did she take Nicaa and not me?" At the sound of my name, I pound my fist against the side. Hear me, please. But of course, just because I can hear them doesn't mean they can hear me.

"As I said," John replies. "She likes to play with people."

"You mean you. She likes to toy with you. That's why she killed Elena?" I lean my head against the side of the box, my hand curled up in a fist and still hammering on the side.

"Why did you ask me to come, Jo?"

"I thought that would have been obvious."

"Nicaa is out there, somewhere, what is obvious is that we need all hands on deck to find her."

"John, don't go!" she pleads.

"I'm not gonna stay here just to make you feel better," he replies. "I'm sorry, Jo, but Nicaa's life is at stake, you have to understand that." I hit my fist forcelessly against the wall.

  "Hold on John, I... I have something you might need." I hear her steps retreat, her high heels against the wooden floor. She comes back shortly after.

"What is it?" John asks. She doesn't answer.

"Stay with me," she says instead a moment after.

"Of course," he replies. My head snaps up. What does she have? What did she show him? Does she have something from 1,8,11? Tell me what it is!

But they have fallen quite. The next thing I hear is two sets of shoes walking across the floor and away from me. Then suddenly they are right next to me again. It takes me a minute to realize it's a new set of microphones. I hear springs creaking like someone sat down on a bed. A short while later a series of high clangs make me cover my ears. It sounded like something fell on the floor next to the microphone, a lot of small somethings. The springs creak. Someone breaths heavily. Someone groans.

"What the hell John?"

The sounds stop as abruptly as they started. Someone turned the speakers off. I remove my hands from my ears but the tears keep flowing down my cheeks. I bite my lip. Why would he... and now... of all times... it... I mean...

My thoughts are jumbled up messes of inconsistencies and unfinished lines. Only one thing really sticks, and I try to push it away. But I remember the feel of his lips against mine. The smell of him. The electricity in my arm when his fingers had brushed against my skin. The memory is everywhere I look.

I don't know how long it's been. I just know I'm out of tears, but not done crying. My muscles feel like stone. Electrified, fiery stone. And I can't move. I don't even know if I want to move. Why should I? I'm clearly no more important than...

Who would miss me? Have they all given up, moved on, written me off? Are they looking for me, or for 1,8,11? Is anyone coming? Is anyone coming who cares enough to look for me?

My stomach is a pit tied into a knot. I think maybe I'm hungry, but the feeling doesn't quite register. I don't think I could eat even if I had something. How long has it been? How much longer until she takes me out? Under any circumstance, it can't last more than 8 days. She did 11 in January, and she did 1 in Marts, that only leaves 8 for June.

I cling to that. No more than 8 days from beginning to end. Within the next 8 days, I will be dead, and the pain will be gone.

My stomach feels like it's eating itself. I have no sense of time, only pain. I can't tell if it's been 8 hours of 8 days. I can't tell anything, except that my legs are on fire and my ass is made of rocks. I try to shift, but nothing makes it better.

"Nicaa! Can you hear me?" John's voice greets me. I open my eyes and blink. Something is different. "It's going to be alright, we'll get you out." And then the entire box is flooded with light. It is blinding and my first instinct is to cover my face, but my arms are unwilling to do anything, and my legs just twitch. Arms reach down and help me out, and I can smell the same deodorant the bathroom stinks of every morning.

"No," I whisper. I don't want him near me.

"It's okay, it's going to be okay now, I've got you. I've got you." He lays me down on the floor and I scream in pain.

"No," I plead. "No, no." With tears streaming down my eyes I keep pleading.

"The medics are here," Karl says somewhere above me.

"I've got a muscle relaxant," a stranger says and I feel a needle in my arm. The pain lessens.

"There now, why don't we get you back to the hospital," he says. I'm lifted onto a carrier and carried out the door.

"I'll go with her," John says. I try to protest, but they all seem to think that it is a result of the trauma, and no one takes me seriously.

"I'll give you something to sleep on, let you get some rest," the medic says.

I wake up in a hospitable bed. It's really bright, really white, and all sterile looking.

"Hey, you're awake." I look over at Catherine who's leaning in. Catherine. I smile, relieved to see a familiar and friendly face.

"Yeah, I'm... How long was I out?" How long was I gone?

"A few hours."

"And did they...?" I ask weakly. "Did they catch her?" She looks down for a short second, and I have my answer. She's still out there.

"Do you feel up for talking?" Catherine asks softly.

"Where did you find me?" I ask.

"In a storage unit," she says, not looking at me. So what? It wasn't real? I didn't... I didn't hear John there? But I did. I heard it all, every moan, every creak of the bed spring, every kiss. I heard it.

"You're awake," John says from the door. "How are you?" He walks over and puts his coffee down on the table next to my bed. I look away. I can still hear him... there. With her.

"I'm sorry, but I really would rather if you could just..." I push the air in front of him back.

"Sure, it must have been claustrophobic in there," he explains away my behavior. He pulls over a chair and gently takes my hand. I pull it away from him and lay it on my stomach, pointing towards Catherine. They look at each other, and then me. I look straight ahead, avoiding both of them.

"John, maybe you should call Karl," Catherine requests. He looks at me for a moment, as if unwilling to let me out of his sight again. I want him gone. I realize I have no business deciding who he can't and cannot see, but the sight of him makes me nauseous.

"Sure," he says and gets up. She waits till he's out of the room.

"What is going on Nicaa? You look like he's the devil?" I stare up at the ceiling. I don't want to say it. Saying it makes it real. I want to forget it. I can feel the tears running down my face.

"Nicaa, are you okay?" There's a panic in her voice that wasn't there before. She gets up and leans over me, holding my hand. I move my arm up to cover my eyes.

"I don't... I can't do this now..." I try to explain.

"It's okay," she assures me, squeezing my hand. "It's fine, just relax." I hear footsteps come in, and I roll over with my back to the door. Neither of them talks, they just sit there in the awkward silence.

"We'll be right outside," Catherine says after a while. I ignore her, but I listen to their footsteps retreating, and I listen to their muffled voices outside the half-closed door.

"What did you do, John?" Catherine demands.

"What do you mean?"

"Well," she says exasperatedly. "She seems to hate your guts. Did you two have another fight or something?" He's silent for a minute. Go ahead, John, tell her. Tell her what you did. Tell her where you were while they were working. Tell her.

"I kissed her," he says finally. "Just before she got in the car. I handed her the sword, and I..." He pauses. "I shouldn't have done it, I know that," he says as if she had reprimanded him. You coward. You absolute, mother***** coward. I open my eyes, and before I know it I have grabbed hold of Catherine's half-empty coffee cup and hurled it at him with a force I wouldn't have thought myself capable of.

"Coward!" I scream at him. "You don't get to do this!" I can feel my chest rising and falling hurriedly. I can feel my heart beating against my ribs. "You don't get to make me out to be some scorned high school girl with a crush! You don't get to make me out to be the irrational one!" I look around and locate a glass of water. I hurl that at him too. It collides with the wall and shatters, water splashing over the floor and walls. "You slept with her!" I spit out the words. "You thought getting your dick wet was more important than my life! I heard you! I heard all of it!" I throw something else without looking at what my hand wrapped around. "I never wanna see your face again! You hear me? Don't ever come near me again!" Both of them look dumbfounded at me. I am not overreacting! I am not insane! I think I have a right to expect... I was...

A nurse comes hurrying over, and Catherine nods at her. I let her give me the sedative. Anything will be better than this.

When I wake up again it is Karl sitting by my bed, watching me. I blink a few times, but I don't speak.

"How are you feeling?" he asks calmly. I ignore it and just stare back at him. "Nica," he starts out but falters. He looks away and down, and then back up at me. "You said some things, last time you were awake." He has the courtesy of keeping eye contact. "About John. Do you remember?" I don't contradict him. He accepts my silence as a yes. "Can you elaborate on it? Can you tell me what exactly happened?" What, do you want a play by play?

"Ask John," I tell him with venom in my voice. "He was there." He hesitates, and his jaw tightens for a second.

"I'm asking you," he tells me. Fine.

"He slept with her. What else do you need to know?"

"For starters, who 'her' is?"

"Joanna," I tell him. Who else? Does he have some other model type in the wings I don't know about? He nods curtly.

"And when was this?"

"Well, let's see," I start with fury in my voice. "The small arm was pointing at three, and the big arm... How the hell should I know? I was locked in a dark box! Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep track of time when surrounded by complete darkness? There weren't any sounds before the speakers were turned on, I have no idea when this was! I have..." He holds up a hand to quiet me. Fine. But he was the one who asked.

"The thing is..." he pauses and looks me in the eye again. "We had Joanna under surveillance the whole time. From we found her alone and abandoned at the airstrip, she wasn't alone for a moment, and John was never with her. Is it possible... Is it possible you were mistaken? Or that what you heard wasn't real?" My heart beats against my chest. I know what I heard. I might not know what happened, but I know what I heard. I am not mistaken. He doesn't believe me. He is taking John's side.

"Get out," I tell him. "Get the hell out." I don't need this. He doesn't move.

"Nicaa..."

"Get out, I said." My voice is firm and unrelenting, but he stays where he is.

"We just need to get to the bottom of this. I need you to be patient a little longer." I take in a breath to speak again, but he continues and cuts me short. "Can you explain how this could happen? Why you think it happened?"

"I think it happened because I heard it all. I heard every moan, every creak of the mattress springs, I heard them. And I think if any of you had the slightest inkling to believe me and not simply take John's word for everything, then you could figure out how just as well as I could tell you." He doesn't respond immediately, so I go on. "She asked the guards to leave, to give them a moment alone. And since John is one of you guys, they obeyed. They just did what she asked. I'm sure they waited outside the door like good little boys, but they did go outside." He looks down, and something about his countenance makes me refrain from going on.

"The thing is, they say they didn't. Neither the guards nor John have any memory of anything you are saying. I'm sure it all seemed very real, locked up in that box, but is there any chance that what you heard had been edited? John and Joanna were seeing each other for a while, they will... it's possible someone might have recorded them at a previous time and used that now."

"He said my name. Before they went into the bedroom. He said I was missing."

"I'm very sorry, Nicaa, but that could have been manipulated. Sound bits from various occasions pieced together." He falls quiet, watching me. But... Then... It could... Could that be? It would mean...

"Can you think of any reason why this wouldn't be possible?" I don't know... I don't want to think back on it. Was there anything... Anything that didn't make sense? Anything that couldn't have been faked...

"We think, given you and John's history, your childhoods, and how close you've grown now... We think that was her intended torture for you, not so much physical as psychological. Not that the physical wasn't bad," he hurries to add. "But she wanted you completely broken, she wanted you hopeless and defeated before ending it. Your personal attachment to this team would have served as a beam of hope, she needed to extinguish that before her power over you was complete." That makes sense. The speakers too, someone had to have turned them on. He stands up.

"I'll let you think about it," he says kindly and gives my shoulder a squeeze. "Lindsay is right outside. I don't know if you'd prefer to be alone or not, but she's right there if there is anything, and she'll sit with you here too if you prefer." I don't answer. He leaves. I play it over in my head, their conversation. I look for anything proving timing in that, or anything proving copy-pasting.

It doesn't take long until the door opens and I hear Lindsay tip toe in. She takes the seat by my bed.

"How are you doing?" she inquires. I don't know how to answer that, somehow just saying "fine" doesn't seem like a legitimate option. She accepts my silence and instead takes my hand, gives it a soft squeeze, and tells me: "We are all here for you. Even if it doesn't feel like it." Even if it feels like John is more... I push the thought away.

"He's the one who found you, you know. He never gave up on you, regardless of what she might have made you think. He didn't sleep, didn't eat, not until you were safely back here." And I treated him like the plague. It seemed so real... It seemed... And I believed it. Did I believe that because he's John Lucas? Because blaming him for everything has always been the easy way out? Or because believing it was what hurt the most? If it had been Karl, would I have cared as much? Or might I even have been happy he was talking to his ex-wife again? Was there a hint of jealousy in my anger? A hint of resentment? Of old animosity?

"How?" I ask instead.

"Sarah Winslow," she replies. "He got her to talk."

"But she was terrified."

"Well, he managed it somehow. I'm sure he'd be willing to tell you how if you want to know." If I want to talk to him, that is.

"Where is he?" I ask.

"Only a phone call away," she assures me. I nod once but don't ask her to call him. Not yet. I don't think I could do it. "Or you could just rest for now." I nod. "Do you feel up for answering some questions?" I will have to eventually. I suppose that eventually could just be now. I nod almost unnoticeably, but she takes it.

"Can you walk me through what happened? From your point of view?"

"Well," I hesitate. "We got to the airstrip," I tell her everything, from Harley Quinn and her Jokers showing up, to how I don't think it was the real 1,8,11 behind the mask because she spoke. I tell her I stabbed one of the guys, and that Joanna shot the other one. I tell her about the bomb, the threat, and about how someone, possibly 1,8,11, came up behind me and injected me with something. "Next thing I know I wake up in a tiny box, barely big enough to move." I stop, and she waits, but I don't want to continue. I don't want to acknowledge the rest. They all want me to accept it was fake, that it didn't happen. I can't tell anymore. I can't tell where my thoughts end and theirs begin. It can't tell if it really was faked.

"And that's when you heard them? When you were in the box, you heard John and Joanna having sex?" I give a short nod of acknowledgment but refuse to open my mouth. "Nicaa..." She starts out in a cautious and wondering tone, but instead of finishing the sentence she looks down.

"What?"

"It sounds like..." But she stops again. "No, never mind, that's not for you to be burdened by now." She stands up instead. "I will be right outside, I just need to make a call." She walks towards the door.

"Lindsay, what is it?" I demand. She doesn't turn around, look back, or answer. She closes the door firmly behind her, and I can't hear what she says. Does she have a lead? If she did, why wouldn't she tell me? Why wouldn't she let me know if there was an end in sight? Would I not like it?

It only takes her two minutes to come back in, but those two minutes feel like an eternity. That is until she comes back and starts writing notes down without sharing anything, then the two minutes seem but a heartbeat and the present seems like eternal damnation. But I know better than to ask, so I keep my tongue and wait for someone more talkative to come. Half an hour later the entire team is there, and I get all the information I could want - just not a lot of sense in it.

"We all agree that 1,8,11 seeks control, correct?" Lindsay starts. Catherine nods to herself, looking down, John is looking at the floor in what I assume is the perfect position to watch me out of the corner of his eyes, and Karl looks expectantly at Lindsay. "We said that her job would be about control too, about choosing who lives and who dies. We said she was getting bored more and more easily. We said she's obsessed with John, which is why she killed Elena and brought Nicaa in. We said she might want to insert herself into the investigation." She falls quiet, hesitant. John looks sideways up at her. Catherine stops studying the floor and joins him. Karl doesn't move, but even he seems to know where she's going with this. Am I clueless? Am I as oblivious as Harry Potter? I notice Lindsay looking at me. She raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to acknowledge I understand what she's talking about. I don't.

"Joanna fits all of that," she says. I wait for her to continue, to say something that makes sense, but she doesn't. And then I realize, she is saying she thinks Joanna is 1,8,11. But she doesn't fit though. She doesn't. She's a lawyer, not a doctor. Granted, a lawyer is pretty powerful too, and life and death, and free and imprisoned might be the same power-wise, but still...

"You said it yourself, she was the only one you didn't have eyes on when 1,8,11 grabbed you," she tells me. I look around to the others, waiting for someone to object. No one does, even John just looks down.

"Okay, fine, she matches the number string which would make sense for 1,8,11," I say. "And sure, 1,8,11 would probably kill to be that close to John, but..."

"I met her on New Year's," John interrupts solemnly. "It was only meant it to be for one night, she's the one who wanted to continue it." Okay, well....

"You said it yourself, she was there with me at the landing strip, I mean, how long did it take you guys to find her? I doubt she would have had enough time to get me out of the way before letting herself be found."

"We are still missing one of her accomplishes, she would have had help - possibly she didn't even need to leave the airstrip at all."

"She fits the profile to a T. Contact with the team, special focus on John, her job offers control and power, it even lets her have contact with criminals without raising red flags. Plus, she wouldn't have needed much to record the audio you heard. It would explain Sarah, how someone could persuade her to kill. Plus, we found the second Joker shot, you said you only stabbed him in the leg and hit him over the head. When we got there he had been shot close range."

"He could have gotten back up after I was gone, she could have shot him in self-defense."

"Why are you arguing for her?" John demands, his jaw tight and his voice angry.

"Because... she brought you coffee!" He laughs scornfully.

"And killers can't bring coffee?"

"No, that's not what I meant." My voice adopts his anger. "She brought you coffee, you all know her, you," I indicate at him, but my voice falters and the sentence disappears from my mind.

"I slept with her," he finishes for me. "Repeatedly. I slept with her on the night she killed Elena. You thought I'd forgotten?" His words sting. No one ever forgets not being there to prevent their sister from dying.

"No, I didn't think you'd forgotten, I think you all are better judges of character than that."

"But you'd still believe that I would go off to get laid rather than look for you," he counters with toxicity.

"How about we put you in that box and let you decide reality from fiction!"

"Okay," Karl holds out his hands between us. "Let's cool it for a second and think rationally. It's a good theory, Lindsay, it fits. But we can't convict on theory."

"She has an alibi," I remember. The theory isn't as good as all that. "She was with John, she couldn't have killed Elena."

"Sure she could," John says. "A sleeping pill in my champagne, she would have had plenty of time." I look at him for the first time, but he avoids looking at me. Elena was found... He found Elena. He found her in an iron maiden, in her apartment. That is not something you just set up, knowing you have limited time on your hands. The only way... She would have had to set it up before... If Elena was in the... If Elena was taken before Joanna even went to find John, if she was already locked in... Like a roast in the oven, you don't need to watch over it all the time, just at the beginning and towards the end.

"But how could she have known? How could she have known John would go for her on New Year's? That, out of everyone, he would choose her?"

"She's confident," Lindsay says, but her voice isn't all that confident.

"Confident and cocky are two different things," I tell them.

"Not if you're willing to work for it," John replies, looking at his shoes. "I was talking to someone else when she interrupted. I didn't think much of it at the point." No, I bet girls always flock about him, a Lucas will never lack company unless they chose so themselves.

"Time-wise there is no problem," Lindsay says. "There's nothing there to rule out Joanna." But she... She knew their coffee orders, she hung out with them, she... They cannot do this. They are the ones supposed to be able to stop this, they are the ones who are supposed to keep me alive, to protect the public, and they have the audacity to tell me they think the killer is someone they invited into their lives? Someone they called by nicknames? I trusted them, and this is what they want me to believe?

They refuse to believe me, to even consider my account of things, but this they will believe? They have known Joanna for longer than they have known me, and they are willing to believe this about her?

"We can't link her to any of the other strings," Catherine says with regret like it's no longer about figuring out who is guilty but about proving it. "We would have found that."

"So let's check her instead of them," Karl determines. "Any movements of hers outside the norm, any clients, any..."

"You won't find anything," I say stubbornly.

"Yeah, well, you keep thinking that," John replies. I want to throw something at him again, but someone has removed all free objects from my reach.

"1,8,11 is too smart to have left trails," I argue spitefully.

"Have you ever done those labyrinths as a kid?" Catherine asks. "On the back of cereal boxes? Remember how the path was always easier to find if you took it from the end to the beginning?"

"Joanna could just as easily be a fall guy," I insist. "The girlfriend of one of the agents on the case as the main suspect? That would suit the need for public attention and the desire to blame you guys, which we have already seen in the letter to the media."

"She's right," Lindsay says. I feel a little spike of pride. I am right, and they should accept it. "We need something conclusive." At that moment John's phone rings as if someone had been waiting for the best exact moment to divulge the news. It's a brief conversation, and he hangs up after no more than three grunts of acknowledgment.

"CSU is done at the storage locker. They found fingerprints and hair. The lab is putting a rush on it, they'll call back as soon as they know anything else." None of them reply. I get it. If the prints come back with a match we still won't know if it's yet another misdirection. The chess game has become a guessing game, a game of "if she knows that we know that she knows, she will do X, but if she knows that we know but doesn't know that we know she knows, then she might do Y instead." Guessing games like that have no end, there's always another "what if" to be added.

"Let's go over it again," I request, resigned to continue the guesses until we find a flaw in the logic. "No one is perfect, she can't predict our every move." But none of them say anything. Not even Lindsay, the logic loving profiler. "How did you find me?" I prompt. Like with my class, just doing something for the sake of not doing nothing.

"Sarah," John says. "When she found out her beloved 'Shakespeare Girl' was missing she untied her tongue." I avoid looking at him.

"Where did you find me?" I continue my questioning.

"Storage locker," Lindsay says. Like an object, not a person. "And I know what you're thinking, lockers have numbers, maybe there's a clue in there somewhere. We haven't found anything." She looks down at her feet.

"What were the numbers?"

"1910. Numerology doesn't use multiple digits unless they are multiple of the same number, and they don't use zero either."

"But 1,8,11 is obsessive, right? She wouldn't just pick any random numbers; it would drive her crazy."

"It's not numerology, so it has to mean something else. A lucky number? A birthday?" She asks herself. "I'll check the numbers against Joanna," she decides. "Just in case," she adds when she sees my look of doubt. "Unless you can guess what they mean? They don't have some significant meaning to you?"

"No, none," I say. "At least none come to mind, and with Zugzwang I knew right away. She hasn't been that subtle before."

"Which would make sense," John says, looking at his stretched out feet. "She never intended us to find the storage room, she didn't think Sarah would turn on her."

"We didn't think Sarah would turn on her," I agree.

"So you agree?" Lindsay demands. "That anything we find at the storage room will not be a distraction or a misleading?"

"Well, if you find the fingerprints of the Danish queen I might question it."

"Obviously, but if it's Joanna? Can we agree that it is far more likely that Joanna is actually 1,8,11 than 1,8,11 is putting out misleading clues in a place she had no idea we would ever find." I hesitate, considering it.

"How sure are we Sarah didn't get permission to talk?" I demand. "I mean, if we assume for a second that Joanna isn't 1,8,11 what are the chances that Sarah would know about the storage locker? Why would she know?" John looks out the window, avoiding me completely now.

"I don't know," Lindsay admits. "Maybe she wouldn't know."

"That's what you want," I argue. "It doesn't count unless you actually try to disprove it."

"This isn't a paper you're grading!" She gets up furiously and turns her back to me. I watch her put her hands on her hips and study the hospital floor, trying to keep herself from shouting at me. "Of course I want her caught," she says, turning halfway around to me again, but still staring at the floor. "She took Robert and Elena." She talks slowly, restrained. "She took Michelle. I want her gone. You should too."

"I do. I want 1,8,11 gone. I just don't want the decoy gone and the real one free and unrestrained."

"She's not a mythological creature!" Lindsay screams furiously as she swings around and looks me full in the face. "She's human, she has weaknesses, and she is gonna make mistakes! She isn't a villain from one of your precious books or movies! We have a chance to catch her now, we have an actual lead, and I'm not gonna sow doubt just because you're..." she stops herself.

"Because I'm what? Because I'm just an English teacher and I have no business being here?" I gesture to the room around me. "Frankly, I would rather be anywhere else!" She looks down and away from my hospital bed. I lean forward to a sitting position. "I just don't want to live the rest of my life wondering if the 1,8,11 is still out there, still coming for me somewhere down the line."

"Joanna is the right 1,8,11," she insists. "I know it, they know it," she indicates around to the others. None of them dare look at me either, not fully at least. Karl is watching me out of the corner of his eye. "You're the only one still in doubt. And you're the only one not trained for this."

"Really? From where I'm sitting it doesn't look like that. I, at least, still remember the phrase 'beyond reasonable doubt'."

"Okay," Karl says and holds out a hand between us.

"No," I insist. "If you can't convince me how the hell are you gonna convince a jury?"

"Sarah," John whispers at his shoes. We all look at him, but he takes his time before answering. I look at the window next to his head. "1,8,11 will know she told us about the storage unit, if Sarah didn't have permission to do that she's about to die. She has nothing to lose now, she can tell us everything."

"That's not a very trustworthy witness," I comment.

"She will be, if she can piece the puzzle together," Lindsay says. "If she can make the connections. And like I said earlier, the labyrinth is easier to get through from the end to the start, I'm sure we could match some pieces ourselves." I look down at the white sheets, and I sense them all, one by one, turning to look at me.

"I'm just a school teacher," I resign. My opinion doesn't matter here.

"You're one of us," Catherine insists quietly. "Robert said so." And no one can argue with a dead man, not even Lindsay or me.

"I'd like to be alone now," I say. John gets up immediately, glad to be allowed to quit the room. After a nod from Karl, Catherine and Lindsay get up and leave too. Karl pulls out a laptop and takes over the table meant for my food.

"You should get somesleep," he says. He opens the laptop and starts typing something. I lean backon my pillows again and turn my head away from him. John is standing in thedoor, looking at me. I meet his eye for a split second. He turns away in a hurryand leaves.