John looks to Karl and Lindsay who signals back that they didn't mention anything like that to her.

"Do you understand what it is that you're saying? That you are admitting to..."

"Killing 11 people," Sarah interrupts again. "I know. You should have found me sooner." Her voice is calm and steady, and she keeps perfect and eerie eye contact with John. The perfect depiction of calm and collected. I look down at her feet. She's putting her weight on her left foot and pointing it straight at me, the right is more relaxed and pointing at John. Something is off. I move behind John and position myself in front of the victims' board, effectively switching places with him. She shifts her weight and moves slightly. Most people don't know or notice this, but our feet tend to point towards what we are paying attention to - and the subconscious aspect of this makes it a good indicator of things people might not want noticed. Why is she so interested in me? And why is she ignoring Robert completely?

Karl informs her of her rights but she declines a lawyer. I notice her fingers digging slightly into her arm and a red, half-moon shaped mark just above. She is digging her fingernails into her own skin. She's nervous. Interested, nervous, and playing games.

"You'll have to come with me." Catherine holds open the door.

"No," Sarah says.

"Excuse me?" Catherine asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Him." She indicates towards John.

"Sorry, you're going to have to talk to Agent Park," John says firmly.

"Did my right to remain silent suddenly disappear?" she asks. She takes a step towards him. "We can play your little games; I have all the time in the world. That one doesn't though." She indicates towards Robert. "But I can assure you of one thing: if you tell Joanna about this you will not get anything from me." She turns around and walks out the door.

"You can't," Lindsay says.

"I know Lindsay, relax. Let Catherine have a go at her."

"Are you going to call her?" she wants to know.

"No information is to be shared with outsiders." He looks back down in the papers spread across the table. "Can you walk me through the address thing again?" Catherine nods curtly and walks out of the room after Sarah. Karl starts explaining.

"The mechanic who left the envelope at the coffee shop got it in the mail along with instructions. We traced back the return address to a man with the same story; he received the envelope in his mailbox, no stamp though. It contained a picture of his house, one of his family and one of a gun, as well as two 500$ bills and a letter to be delivered at a new address within a time frame. We traced it through seven addresses back to that one, the owner of the house claims there was no return address on the envelope he received. If he is to be believed the number of people who passed the key on, from the person who put it in the first mailbox to Joanna and to you is 11."

"11," John repeats.

"I suggest you three go check out the house first thing tomorrow." He indicates to Lindsay, John, and me.

"You'll get more done if I'm not there," I tell them and look back down on my questionnaire.

"Not this again," Robert tells me sternly.

"It is usually easier to get answers if people don't slam the door in your face, at least that'd be the logical outcome." John is the only one looking at me with understanding in his eyes. He doesn't understand anything, he just knows it.

"It might be good for you to face up to it," Lindsay advises. I don't think she can help it. "Wounds heal better if tended to."

"Scarring will only increase if you keep re-opening the wound," I argue. I see the concern in her eyes, and it's almost as annoying as the fake understanding in John's. "I clawed my way out of there on my own, I escaped the demons and made peace with the scars; I'll be fine," I promise her. She doesn't buy it.

"What exactly happened?" she asks cautiously.

"Let's just say the Harper name didn't inspire as much love as, for example, the name Lucas. We can leave it at that." I move my head a little and let my hair fall down and shield me.

"Let her stay if she wants to, she's better protected here anyway," John ends the discussion. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lindsay turn to look at him instead. Good, let him share if he feels like it, maybe that'll satisfy her curiosity and his desire to prove himself. He shakes his head slightly. I guess I'm not the only one who'd rather leave the past in the past.

They pack up and I go with Lindsay again. I don't get to sleep much, but at least she doesn't push on about my childhood.

18th of April

When we meet up again John and Lindsay leave to visit Hill Lake. I've dodged a bullet - or so I'm allowed to think for a few hours before Karl gets a call from John asking to speak with me.

"I just had a really interesting conversation with your mother," he informs me. "It seems that the one door we need to get in is the one I'm not allowed near and you can just walk right through."

"My mother loves you, just smile at her." It really can't be that hard, the woman will swoon at anyone with a good name and a decent face.

"Then why did she just accuse me of murder?" What? That makes no sense, she wouldn't care about that. "According to her, I killed her daughter. I'm assuming she meant Liv?" I don't answer. "Could you explain that to me, I thought she died in a car accident?" he pushes.

"She likes to make a scene," I brush it off. It seems like he's read up on the report of Liv's death.

"I got that much from her fists, I was asking about the murder part."

"She hit you?" I ask in disbelief. Both Karl and Robert look up at me.

"She didn't really do a good job of it, you don't have to..." I hand the phone back to Karl and put on my coat. I'm out the door before Karl has a chance to hang up and follow. I guess it's not just the Doctor who's big on people not wandering off. I think I prefer the lasagna rule though.

He doesn't speak, just acts the part of my shadow without which I'll never grow old. I'll thank him for that later, right now I don't want to spoil the silence. I hail a cab and give the driver the address. I look out the window and watch the masses pass by. I can't believe I'm going back, I never imagined. Something equally unimaginable though, is my mother hitting a Lucas. The thought almost makes me smile. My mother hitting John. She must have thought it was worth it somehow, make a big enough scene... I don't actually know what she thinks she could get out of it - perhaps it's nothing more than attention, some pity maybe. I can just picture the town in an uproar, all the gossip. "Did you hear? Crazy Charlotte accused the Lucas boy of killing her little girl, you remember the odd one, right?" "Really, I heard he's an FBI agent now. Always knew he was a smart kid, that he'd make something of himself. Maybe we'll get lucky and he'll arrest her for assaulting a federal agent!" "What do you think that goes for these days?" "As long as it's long enough to get someone else to buy that house of hers." "I just hope I can be there with a camera when it happens."

Karl hands me a piece of paper and effectively pulls me back to reality. I look down at it and see five phone numbers.

"Just in case."

"Thank you," I mumble. I put the numbers in my phone, in case of a rainy day.

The scenery changes, more trees appear and disappear, the sky is easier to spot, and all that's missing is a few birds singing. I suppose for distance New York was a poor choice, but for scenery though, New York is as far from idyllic horror as anyone could wish for.

John and Lindsay are waiting for us when we arrive. John bears clear signs of an altercation with my mother. I know it's not polite, but I can't help but laugh when I see the stains on his shirt.

"Thought you said you didn't get through the door?" I mock. "Did she bring out the lasagna especially to throw at you?"

"Yes, hilarious, I'm aware. Mrs. Cornwell said your mother was the one who'd spoken the most to the reporter, the others didn't like to gossip as much as her." Unless it's about her.

"And neither of you wanted to deal with Crazy Charlotte."

"I figured we had an expert at hand so we might as well make use of her." Just like everyone else does. I walk over and knock on the door.

"I'll call the sheriff if you don't leave," she yells.

"And he'll call Mrs. Cornwell and ask if it's another fake call." The door opens.

"Nicaa?" she says in surprise. "Sweetheart! What are you doing here?" She looks at the others behind me. "They're with you? They never mentioned that." She steps out completely and closes the door behind her. "What do you need?"

"What are you hiding?" I demand before Lindsay can ask her a question.

"I... I'm not hiding any..." No invitation to come inside, something is definitely off. I push past her and open the door. "Sweetheart, don't..." she pleads. The hallway is a little messy, but nothing to cause alarm, maybe it's just the wrong time of the week. I turn right to the kitchen only to find what looks like every plate, every piece of cutlery and everything else in dirty stacks on the kitchen counter next to old milk cartons and a pan that looks like it's about to walk out of there on its own. I turn back and push past her again as I walk out - only to find my way blocked by the three Special Agents.

"You were friends with the Jackson boy, weren't you?" I demand without looking at anyone in particular.

"Yeah," John replies confused. "About 20 years ago."

"Fine, if I need a bodyguard it might as well be one who can get me through the door."

"Bodyguard?" my mother asks behind me.

"Objections?" I ask John.

"No, I'm good." But clearly still confused. I lead the way to the banker's house.

"You are not going to explain any of this to me, are you?" he accepts.

"Don't see why you need to know," I agree.

"You don't like sharing, I should have remembered that." So, he thinks he still knows me. Newsflash pal, you never did. I point at the door, grateful we got here before I could say something I might regret later. He obeys the order and knocks. The door opens and a middle-aged, heavy-looking man steps out.

"John Lucas!" he greets. "I heard you might be in town. What can I do for you?"

"Actually, sir," he steps aside a little and Mr. Jackson looks at me instead.

"Since you ask, an explanation might be nice," I inform him.

"Miss Harper," he steps back on his heels.

"Not going to take my money and run, are you?" I cross my arms and stare him down. As if his wife would ever agree to leave the prestigious Rose street.

"I wouldn't... I wouldn't dream of it." He steps out completely and lets the door close behind him. Harper's don't get invited in, it's always been like that.

"Good, then maybe you can explain the state of my mother's house?"

"Now, I have nothing to do with that, you pay me to handle her finances, I have nothing to do with anything else!" He has nothing to with her, that is. She's the Harper woman, and he's a respectable banker after all.

"Her finances include paying the housekeeper," I remind him.

"The housekeeper..." He thinks about it. "Just a second," he tells us and goes back inside.

"Who is it, honey?" The sugar-sweet voice of Mrs. Jackson asks from within.

"Just business sweetie," he calls back.

"Why don't you invite them in?" Her face appears in the door. "Oh, did you have any more questions dear?" she asks John.

"No, actually..."

"Oh, why don't you come inside instead? I've got a pie in the oven." And a beautiful house I like to show off. John looks at me. "Sorry, I don't think I caught your name, Agent?"

"Harper, and I'm a client, not an Agent." Watching the surprise wash over her face only to be replaced with worry almost makes the trip worth it. John looks from me to her and back to me. He's noticed it too, how she's trying to think of a way to back out of the invitation. I try to hide my amusement, but she's so busy I needn't have worried. Mr. Jackson comes back out with the phone in his hand and Mrs. Jackson flees back inside without a word. John catches my eye and notices the ill-concealed smile. He raises an eyebrow at me. I shrug, I might as well take amusement in it, and I'm not going to apologize for that. He smiles and shakes his head at me. Mr. Jackson hangs up the phone and turns to me.

"There was a mess-up with a new guy, I'll see that it gets fixed right away," he explains.

"Why was there a mess-up?" I demand. "Am I paying the new guy as well?"

"No, of course not... but you can't expect me to handle it all personally," he defends himself.

"I pay you to handle all her finances."

"Of course, but you know how she gets..."

"Which is why I pay you instead of doing it myself. When I call your office tomorrow the budget will be back the way I set it up and there'll be no more delegating to newbies who don't know how to pronounce the word 'no' when there's a little cleavage in front of them." I turn around and walk away with John right behind me and Mr. Jackson wringing the phone in his hands.

"Don't you think that was a little harsh?" he asks when the door has closed behind us.

"You think I should have said 'please'?"

"That might have been a good start, or maybe you just shouldn't treat him as if he exists to do your bidding," he accuses.

"How do you think he treats his employees?" He shakes his head at the ground. I stop up. "Not only is that the only way I'll get my money's worth out of him, it is also the only way I'll get his respect. If I were to say 'please' and 'thank you' and whatnot, he wouldn't respect me, and he wouldn't respect himself for taking my money. This way he does what I ask, and he doesn't resent himself - it's not like he'd be popular with the wife if he stopped taking the bribe, she's too big a spender for that."

"Why don't you simply use another bank?"

"I prefer to keep the unpleasantries together, not let them spoil anything else. Besides, a city banker would be more expensive." He hesitates a while.

"Do you have a profile like that for everyone here?" Of course, that's what he fixates on.

"You don't need to know much about someone to figure out the appropriate type of communication." He doesn't buy it. "Joanna was wearing designer clothes the other day, am I right?" Okay, so maybe I can't tell if something is a ripoff or not, but it sure looked fancy."

"Yes," he agrees hesitantly.

"I'd say an authority argument would trump a historical argument with her, it needs to be new and by the right people. Her posture is straight, uncommonly so, so either discipline or pride, either way, don't appeal to her pity, she'll resent that. Logos is a safer bet than pathos, but if you do want to appeal to her emotions, go for a definition argument centered around love - nothing obvious though, that'd backfire, make you look weak, unintelligent. Though, of course, I might be mistaken." I look at him out of the corner of my eye, but he looks straight forward.

"Can you tell me how to argue for extra vacation days after this is all over?" he asks. I meet his eyes and there's a teasing glint in the corner, still untouched by all of this. They aren't his eyes, they belong to the dead girl on the whiteboard. I look down at my feet.

"Make Lindsay ask for you," I say.

"What was that all about?" Lindsay asks when we get back.

"Had to see a guy about some money," I say. "Did she give you what you needed?"

"A reporter named Brandon Routh from the Daily Planet was here to do a background story about Dr. Lucas who's apparently going to receive a grand award. He first came here a few months ago to interview the doctor's old friends from back in the day, hear what the family was like. He came back for a follow-up and some pictures."

"Did you get a good description?" John asks.

"Let me guess," I cut in. "Handsome?"

"And that's a detailed as I could get her to be. She kept repeating it though."

"Yeah, it's synonymous with 'male' in her world. So apart from 'Superman did it' she gave you nothing?" Lindsay nods. "Do you want me to give it a go?"

"If you think you can get anything more, please do."

"Catch her off guard and she'll spill her biggest secrets."

"Nicaa Harper?" A voice asks from across the street behind us. I turn around and face a formally dressed woman.

"Mrs. Williams," I greet the mayor's wife with a slight nod and walk into the house.

"Nicaa," My mother greets me with a smile. I go through her cupboards in search of a clean dishtowel. I find a stained one that at least seems to have been washed and throw it at her.

  "What did the money go to this time?" I demand as I start doing the dishes. She comes to stand next to me.

"You wouldn't understand," she tells me.

"What, you saw a sale you couldn't refuse? If there's something you need you take it up with me, you don't fire the housekeeper and pocket the money."

"She quit," she defends herself.

"So you pocketed the money. It didn't occur to you we might need to find someone else?"

"You wouldn't understand," she repeats. I hand her a wine glass, ignoring the fact that there shouldn't be wine in this house.

"Too bad, I'm all you've got."

"You don't know what it feels like," she barks. "Depending on your child for everything, having no say in anything." I've heard the rant before.

"Where did the money go?" I push.

"None of your business," she protests.

"I'm the one paying," I argue. She's pissed, the iron is hot. "How did the journalist look?"

"Well dressed," she says defiantly, evidently focusing on whether or not answering will get her in trouble rather than what I'm actually asking. Just like always. "Tall, dark hair. Large hands," she continues. 

"His face?"

"His eyes were close together, his nose broad, his lips rather thin though, it's a shame. But he was broad-shouldered and tall." Which makes up for anything.

"Skin?"

"Rather pale, but I suspect he sits at a desk most of the day, so that's understandable."

"What did you need the money for?" I spin the conversation back before pushing my luck too far. Better she doesn't recognize where the focus truly lies. She throws the towel in the sink and walks upstairs. I can just imagine her congratulating herself on getting through the interrogation without giving me anything.

"Was that enough?" I ask Lindsay who's been observing from the doorway. She nods with a smile. I smile back. It wasn't as bad as I'd thought, coming here. Time has been kinder to me than to the town. I look over at the cappuccino machine and the clothing tags on the table behind me. At least it wasn't the power that went this time, it seems I got it in the running up for once.

I look at the sink. With the last semi-clean dish towel now soaked, there's not really much left here to do now. I'll have to hire someone new, and soon. This is gonna cost me, and while I have to stay with the FBI I can't go to work. I might even lose one or two of my jobs. Well, nothing to be done about that right now, I'll just have to hope my savings will be enough to keep us afloat for now.

I follow Lindsay out the door to the others who have apparently been talking to Mrs. Williams.

"What brings you back in town Nicaa?" she asks me in a kind and neighborly voice.

"Have a nice day Mrs. Mayor," I tell the car door as I open it and take my seat. Lindsay takes the driver's seat and John and Karl say goodbye and join us.

We put the town in the review mirror. I smile to myself and study the darkening sky, taking in the only thing I've missed about the life I left behind.

"Do you have a special reason for talking that way to Mrs. Williams as well?" John asks.

"Yes," I reply. "I don't like her." I'm also pretty sure the feeling is mutual, and that she was just checking to make sure I wasn't staying in town. John rests his case and lets me sit in silence.

I'm in a good mood now - I realize it's mean, but being in control for once, especially in the same situation I could never control before, it feels nice. I'm almost thankful they pulled me out here. Of course, they could have managed even Crazy Charlotte on their own, I'm guessing Lindsay just wanted me to face my fears.

"How long has she been like that?" John asks after half an hour or so.

"I couldn't say, I've only known her for the 30 years I've been alive."

Robert and Catherine have gotten nowhere with Sarah Winslow when we get back.

"She hasn't said a word," Catherine complains. "She just keeps time with her foot."

"Not a word?" Lindsay asks in wonder.

"Not a syllable," Catherine confirms.

"That takes a great deal of willpower." Seems she was serious about only wanting to speak with John.