16th of April

The clock is ticking, but we have no idea how long ago it started. How many grains left in the hourglass? How many bodies already lie at the bottom - and is there any guarantee that Robert will be the last grain to drop?

Right after the pattern with the names is discovered, a gift is left for an Agent informing the entire team that there's a hit out for their colleague and friend. 11,22,33 means 66 people in total are going to be targeted. How many possible targets are there? What is Robert's chance of being on that list? Probability must surely be in his favor. Realistically it doesn't matter though, regardless of how many possible targets there are, it does seem quite certain that Robert is handpicked to be one of the 66. Only question left is whether or not they will be able to stop it from happening.

Trust. Hope. Stay strong. Stay brave.

A small part of me can't help but be a little pleased. Their friend on the line means they'll work that much harder. His life in danger increases my chances of survival. It's cold logic, it's survival instinct, and I hate myself for it. I have to trust that they will get it right before it's too late. My life is in the hands of a group of strangers.

In the morgue lie the bodies of all those they didn't save, in the ground lie even more of them. They themselves are buried in papers and numbers. These are the people my life depends on. Karl, who never says much of anything other than orders and facts. Lindsay, the profiler who knows the files and facts backward. Catherine, competent with a computer but didn't believe me when I first called her. Robert, a real team player, and now carrying the weight of a death sentence. And John, the face from the past who ruined everything. What are my chances then? If you count in lives saved they are 0 for 40-something - or 60 if you count the 11,22,33 victims. Wherein lies my hope?

Why does the cat play with the mouse? I was never a cat person, but I do love analogies. I google it. Cats play with their prey to protect themselves. A cat kills by a bite to the neck, but that means a risk of bites or pecks to the face or even eyes, so they tire out the pray so it can't defend itself and they can safely go for the kill without risking injury. What happens then if the mouse refuses to play? It's not a new lead, it won't lead us anywhere. It's the cat toying with its prey. 1,8,11 toying with us so we won't scratch out his eyes. I think back to what they were doing before the wan was found.

"2,9,11." Lindsay looks up at me.

"That's where his Achilles' heel is."

"You think it's a distraction?" she meets my eye. "Of course, it's a distraction, they wouldn't give us anything intentionally helpful, but we still have go over it. People tend to reveal the most when they are trying to hide something."

"But shouldn't you still be looking into what they are trying to hide?" I press.

"We have a greater chance of finding something in the new information," she insists.

And while they spend the time trying to prevent the next murder by looking through a new grouping, which will most likely follow the exact same rules as every other grouping, they will not have time to look at the things they were distracted from.

"Give the files to me then."

"Look," she says empathetically. "I get that you want to do something, but these are classified files, I can't just..."

"You can't ignore the new data; I won't ignore the old. I'm under constant surveillance, what do you think I'm going to do with the files?"

She holds my gaze for a moment. "No." She goes back to her own files.

I grab a block of paper and start going from memory. 2,9,11 was in England when I was. Killed two people there. Effect? He followed me to a different country, killed two people, and then went home? I reacted by calling the FBI, they reacted by providing me with protection. Was that the desired effect? What are the possible effects, what were my choices? Only I didn't react to the murders, did I? I reacted to the packages containing the hand of a murder victim. Confronted with a package like that the only probable reaction is to call the authorities. The change in victim nationality matching the time perimeter of my travel forced the authorities to take the threat seriously. So the package along with the murders placed me here. Like a chess piece.

But does that make the 2,9,11 the chess player or a piece like me? The 1,8,11 murders came first, on the first of January. 2,9,11 came second. 1,8,11 killed Elena, the sister of an FBI agent. 1,8,11 killed Zoe, my neighbor. It was Zoe's bracelet that was sent to me, a souvenir for 1,8,11. It's not 2,9,11 moving the pieces around the board, it's 1,8,11. He started the game, and he's controlling it all. Or is it perhaps someone completely outside the murders? How do you get someone to kill for you without first establishing dominance though? No, it's more likely that it's 1,8,11 - it is after all those numbers tattooed on the victims. What does that make 2,9,11 then? He has killed 11 people so far; nine in the US and two in London. He has 11 more to go before the number sequence is done. That will be 22 lives taken all in all. What kind of person agrees to something like that? Was he driven to it because he likes killing, or was he somehow forced to do it? Hard to imagine such a thing, isn't it? And yet, he doesn't seem to enjoy it either. There's no torture, no signs of anything apart from what is absolutely necessary to the ritual. An involuntary chess piece perhaps? And the only one who left behind any kind of physical evidence - which was determined to have been planted. It seems illogical to do something like that without first having run down the prints, and interviewed the people they belong to. That means the prints either didn't belong to the 2,9,11 killer or that the killer changed his mind and didn't want to talk - and was able to fool the FBI into thinking he was innocent. Better to work from the assumption that the prints were planted, but as a clue of some sort. That means a connection between the people interviewed and the killer. I'm guessing they are unaware of that side of their acquaintance.

So, all in all, as far as speculation goes, it would seem like Karl was right about going back to the 2,9,11 files. It would also seem that someone doesn't want anybody to look too closely into that. So, someone has to look into it, and if nobody else will, I will have to get the files somehow, I need the names of the owners of those fingerprints.

They would most likely have been brought in for questioning, and that might have made the news. I start googling. Without names, it's not that easy.

Karl and John come back from autopsy shortly after I begin. A discussion breaks out among the three of them about where to look for more bodies. I ignore them and focus on my own little project, assuring myself that I will do more good like this. John goes back to the current 7,8,8 murders to see if there's anything there that might save a life, and Lindsay keeps going with the 11,22,33 grouping, trying to construct a timeline. After a couple of hours of research, John interrupts my work.

"Where do you have those names from?" he asks curiously.

"Google," I answer shortly.

"What exactly are you looking for?" he insists.

"The planted fingerprints."

"The names are right here in the file..." he offers helpfully.

"The classified file she shouldn't be allowed to look at," Lindsay says with her head still buried in her own file.

"You don't want the extra help?" he asks her.

"I don't want to give a defense lawyer the opportunity to tear this case apart on technicalities," she says, still not looking up. He looks at her for a moment, considering her argument. He shouldn't, it's a good argument. Then he takes a pen and crosses out one of the names on my list.

"The dates don't match," he says.

After three hours I have 8 names, and I'm beginning to understand why they believed the fingerprints were planted. First of all, none of the people have any connections to the victims as far as I can decipher, secondly, some of them live rather far away - like in Texas. The most noticeable though is that they are all female. It's definitely not random, and it's quite a lot of unconnected fingerprints to find in an apartment. A few might be explained by an electrician coming by or similar things, but not this many.

I start working on the names, calculating their numeric values - it seems a logical place to start. I calculate both the first and last names of them all, I calculate the numeric value of all the names combined. A few of the last names match a number sequence from a grouping, but those are based on first names, and it's not enough to suggest a connection. If I picked 8 names at random I would probably also find a match or two somewhere. Other than that, I have no results to show for my work. Nothing matches, nothing seems the least bit significant.

"She was a social worker, they were considering adopting." John points at one of the names.

"And you're missing some. There were 12 women who couldn't explain why their fingerprints were at the crime scenes."

"Their prints were at more than one crime scene, or some of them at one scene and others at another?"

"All of them were at three separate crime scenes." In other words, highly unlikely that they weren't planted.

"12 you say." I go back to google.

"Wouldn't it be an idea to get her a security clearance?" he asks the room at large.

"We can initiate the process; but it takes time," Karl agrees.

With John dropping innocent hints and crossing out a name or two on my list, I eventually get to the right names.

Anja Collins

Anja Harrison

Hanna Hunter

India Hines

Lena Quinn

Natasha Tate

Olivia Roth

Rachel Hayden

Sasha Turner

Sasha Christensen

Wynona Noel

Wynona Shepard

Once again the numerology reveals nothing that is likely to be significant. All in all four surnames - Hunter, Roth, Christensen, and Shepard - match number sequences known to us, but it's three different strings and one of them is the French one. All the first names combined add up to 6,7,8; all the last names combined add up to 4,5,8. Nothing relevant there. However, it must be significant that the names Anja, Sasha, and Wynona are repeated.

John breaks everyone's concentration with the words "We need to address the consequences."

Lindsay immediately looks up at him as if to silence him.

"Then make her leave if it bothers you that much. Let me just point out that she has a right to know."

I put my pen down and look from one to another.

"Protection detail is out of the question," John continues.

"What do you suggest?" Karl asks.

"No one we can't personally vouch for."

And I understand it. The keys delivered, and especially the timing of it means that there's a leak somewhere. Lindsay turns her head and looks at me.

"You can stay with me tonight."

"Rotation then. For both her and Robert," Karl concludes. I take up my pen again and stare down at the information that fails to yield anything useful. Rotation. Shifts. Constantly moving. This will mean that I will not get to have a life of any sort until this is over, they are stretched thin as it is, and if they can't delegate my protection to someone outside the group I can't go where the group wouldn't go - I can't split them up. So, I'm apparently not going back to work anytime soon. Not only that, this will mean that used as they are, they will now need to literally bring it all home with them. If there is one thing I can't stand it's being a burden. Of course, there's one way to avoid that: be useful. I force myself to focus on the paper again.

Why are only three names repeated? What is significant about those? The numeric value of Anja is 2,6,8 - which matches the French killings; Sasha is 1,1,2; and Wynona is 2,5,6 and neither of those match anything. Looking at the surnames Collins equals 3,6,6 and Harrison 3,5,7; Turner equals 6,7,8 and Christensen equals 1,6,7. So the two Anjas both have surnames with the number 3, the Sashas have surnames with 6 and 7. Noel equals 1,2,8 and Shepard equals 2,6,8 leaving the Wynonas with 2 and 8 in common. Common factors are then 3,6,7,8; the last three of which are sequential and also match the numeric value of all the first names combined. Christensen matches the string that took Mark and Elle, and Shepard matches the French string, so there's no consistency there either. If this is supposed to be a clue it is extremely vague.

3+6+7+8=24

2+9+11=22.

I'm fishing, and nothing is biting.

"Maybe some sleep will help," Lindsay suggests. I reluctantly put down the pen. I'm not going to get any sleep, and if I do I'm certainly not going to get any rest, and I'm not much inclined to try. But if they have to give up their time to protect me, the least I can do is not ruin their sleep too. I grab my coat and walk out with her.

It is a quiet drive, though I can tell it's from hesitation to speak rather than a desire for silence. For her part, at least.

Her apartment is light and roomy, with pictures covering one wall, and textbooks filling up the bookcase on the next one. I see personal achievement, academically as well as socially, in center. The pictures are grouped to show childhood on one part of the wall, and friends - a lot of those with members of the team - on another part, and one grouping with faces I don't recognize. None of these faces ever appear in more than one picture.

"Victories," she explains. "Those we managed to save."

"It's lacking," I comment. "For every killer taken off the street, there will always be potential future victims saved."

"And for every killer set free?" she asks.

"Trail went wrong?" I glance back at her out of the corner of my eye.

"Two young girls." She leaves. Not a shrine to herself then, a reminder that it is worth it; that she can make a difference. A minute later she's back with bedding, a towel, and laundry detergent.

"The guest room is in here, and bathroom there." She points at the doors. "How much clean clothes do you have left in there?" She indicates at my vacation bag from London.

"It's running low," I admit.

"There are laundry facilities in the basement." She leads the way and helps me get a machine started.

"I'm sorry about the thing with the files, it's really nothing personal," she starts out.

"I had this classmate once," I tell her. "When I came out of an exam she was waiting for her turn. She asked me how I'd done, what my grade was. When she found out I'd gotten an A+ she demanded I give her my notes. She told me if I didn't give them to her it would be my fault if she failed."

"Did you give them to her?"

"She got a B all on her own, and she was thrilled about it." I smile, and she smiles back. We go back upstairs and I take a shower. When I get out the bed is made and Lindsay is on the phone with someone. She sends me an apoplectic smile.

"What makes you think it's any safer here? We're in the middle of it all," she tells the phone. "Yes, I know, there's nothing I can do about that from here... Michelle, just... Just calm down Michelle, just trust me, I know more about this than you... Michelle... Michelle, just listen okay, we are doing everything we can... Why do you want to come here? Please just... I don't know what else I can say to make you feel better. No, I can't tell you that, you know I can't tell you that. Michelle, just calm down, this isn't going to solve anything." They continue like that for about half an hour. I turn away from her and dry my hair. The pictures on the wall catch my eye again. In the center of the 'friends' grouping is a photo of the entire team together, smiling, having fun. Catherine spotting jet black hair and wrapped up in Roberts's arms, Karl actually smiling, John with his arm resting on Lindsay's shoulder.

"Sorry about that, my sister can be a bit... insistent. Do you have any siblings?"

"No, I'm afraid not." Not anymore.

She can't let me out of the apartment on my own - even just to go to the basement to put the laundry in the dryer - and she can't leave me alone in the apartment either, so we end up both waiting for the clothes to be done. She turns on the news and we watch TV mindlessly. Around midnight we can finally turn in.

It becomes another restless night, drifting in and out of the blood pool that is sleep, and trying desperately to stay awake. Fear is a motivator like no other, but sleep is a necessity. I think the longest anyone has ever survived without any sleep at all is 11 days, or at least I heard that somewhere.

17th of April

When we get back to the others Robert and Catherine are back. I take my seat and pick up the pen.

"Who was it?" Lindsay asks. She took me home before the phone call came in.

"Turell Mathews," Karl informs her.

"Rose str. 5, Hill Lake," John mumbles to himself. My head snaps up, looking straight at him, but I look back at the table before he notices. "How did you find this address?" he demands.

"Tracking the key," Karl explains. "It was sent in a letter ring; it seems that was the first house it was delivered to."

"I grew up in Hill Lake," John says in wonder. "Nicaa lived just down the street from us."  I look up again. So he does remember me. The others don't seem surprised at the revelation. Did they know already? That's not fair, this is the one thing I'm not supposed to be the only one out of the loop on.

"I didn't think you remembered me," I accuse.

"Well, I actually recognized the name more than you. You were blond back then I think." He wasn't supposed to remember, he was supposed to think I was a stranger, just like the others. It seems he's told everyone but me that he knows. I feel the panic build up. How am I supposed to act now? I've been acting like he was a neutral stranger, not the boy who ruined my life.

"How's your sister doing?" he asks politely. The panic dissolves as fast as it came. No, faster. I feel the heat in my lounges and the fire on my tongue build up instead. I know the tears come next. I get up and walk out before anyone can see.

I take refuge in the coffee room and try my best to stop the memories from taking form. Despite all my defenses, my everlasting attempts at blocking her out, her face swims to the front of my mind. She was so happy, her whole face lit up, and I couldn't stop her. She ran right out onto the road, holding out her arms as if she was going to hug the car. She smiled her way into death. I can feel the tears running down my face now.

"This is your work?" Catherine asks from behind me. I assume she's talking about the fingerprint stuff.

"I thought there might be something there, I'm not sure anymore." I keep my voice as steady as I can manage.

"You just need to find the right key to the code," she encourages. "Do you want to talk about it?" So much for talking shop.

"She's dead, nothing to talk about." I listen to her breathe in as if to speak, change her mind and walk out, leaving the papers on the table. I feel almost rude. It wasn't Catherine's fault she died. I wipe the tears away and take a few deep breaths before picking up the papers. I might as well be of use if I have to be here.

If it's not the numeric values of the names, maybe it's the letters. I convert it all to initials and start looking up what they could be abbreviations for. At first, I think it might be places - AC Atlantic City, and AH Auburn Hills, but neither HH or IH fit anything like that. I get no results. Besides, in the first names, the starting letters repeated are the ones where a name is repeated. I put down all the first initials down and ignore everything else. I start playing around with the order of the letters.

AAHILNORSSWW.

WAR SOW SANHIL. WARS SOW ALHIN. WINS WARS HOALS.

I hear someone come in but childishly chose to ignore them.

"I'm sorry to hear about your sister," he says empathetically. I resist the urge to throw something at him. "I really didn't mean to be insensitive," he apologizes.

Win slow rasha. Winslow... Isn't that...

"That woman who was here the other day, what was her name again?" I ask.

"Joanna?" he answers in surprise.

"Last name?"

"Winslow." He walks over to look over my shoulder. "Sarah Winslow," he reads in amazement.

"You know her?" I ask, surprised by his tone.

"I think she might be Jo's sister," he mumbles. "You need to show this to Karl." I hand the papers up to him. He retreats and I follow a little behind.

"Sarah Winslow," he says as he hands Karl the papers.

"You figured it out?" Catherine smiles at me.

"Sarah equals 2,9,11," Lindsay informs us.

"What are we saying?" John demands. "That she's a killer, or that she's a potential victim?"

"That we need to talk to her," Karl states.

"Am I the only one who thinks it's a bit out there?" I ask.

"You were the one who found the name," Robert reminds me.

"Yeah, I know, I just mean... It's not that, really, it's just..." I hate myself for even thinking it, but I take a deep breath and say it none the less. The words come out in a tumble and I'm surprised anybody even understands my ramblings. "You said you weren't sure about the connection," I look at John's shoulder, unwilling to look him in the face, "but all the other connections... I mean...it just seems... far-fetched." I lose my courage.

"My sister, your neighbor, Robert. They are all close connections," he finishes for me.

"And Joanna. She matches 1,8,11," Lindsay reminds him. I suppose that's in her potential-victims-we-know file.

"Both sisters?" Catherine asks quietly. And she's right, that would be quite a coincidence. Almost as big a coincidence as it being a different Sarah Winslow.

Karl breaks the creeping silence. "Let's go talk to her. Lindsay?" She closes her file and leaves with him. He comes back a second later and hands me some papers. QUESTIONNAIRE FOR NATIONAL SECURITY POSITIONS.

"I'll get right on that," I agree, looking at the thick stack of papers.

Karl calls John after about an hour. It's a short call, and John doesn't say much, he just listens to whatever Karl has to say and hangs up again.

"Caryn Garrison," he tells us.

"In Indiana?" Lindsay asks.

"Yeah, why?"

"I went to school with a Caryn Garrison once," she says. "But as far as I know she still lives in Idaho." John calls up the agents working the Indiana segment.

"She moved to Indiana two years ago," he tells Lindsay. "I'm sorry. Did you know her well?"

"Michelle did," she whispers. "They were tight back then." This is below the belt. How many people does Lindsay know? How many people would someone as caring as she have that she would do anything to protect? And how many people do they have that they love?

"I'm sorry," I tell her. I know how my sister reacted to losing her friend, and I don't envy Lindsay having to deal with that kind of fear and hopelessness.

73 pages later (out of 127!) Karl and Catherine come back accompanied by a slim woman with her hair tightly tied together in a high ponytail. Despite sharing the same general frame and hair color as her sister, there are striking differences as well. Where Joanna carries herself with an air of confidence and isn't afraid to let her hair down - quite literally - Sarah has her arms crossed, closing herself off. We all get up and walk away from the papers.

"John?" she asks looking at him.

"Yes," he smiles at her. "We just want a word with you, you don't need..."

"I did it," she interrupts. "I killed them."