Sorry for the late update, and sorry if I've not been reading or reviewing stories recently. I just don't have a lot of down time anymore, but I'll try and catch up too. This will probably be the second to last chapter, and the next one will have Maltara in it, so thanks to everyone for staying with this story! And thanks so much to mozzi-girl, Maltara101 and BreezyFan for the reviews!

Megan Selover. Age 24. She was a recently dropped-out college student, or rather, she was kicked out after losing financial aid when her grades dropped. She wanted to be a profiler. Found amongst her possessions was a scrapbook, filled with newspaper articles that mentioned either Mal or myself. She admitted to all her crimes, and is being charged with several accounts of murder. She's currently in critical condition at a nearby hospital.

This is the news that shows up in an E-mail the morning after the hotel incident. It's all over now, but I don't feel like it is. On some subconscious level, I think I truly believed that solving this would bring Oscar back. That somehow, miraculously, I could reverse all of this. But I can't, and as I get ready for the day in my recently re-occupied apartment the words that were pounded into my brain in college throb in my mind like a heart beat.

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

I try and ignore it, but it doesn't end. Those words seem to take over my mind, circling around me like a tornado of letters. By the time I'm ready it's still the only thing my mind can seem to handle, and I give up on trying to forget it. It's no use, the words are forever wired into my brain.

I decide to head down to the hospital instead of the station first, seeing as it's fairly close, and I still want answers. I've already gotten past the fact that all the knowledge in the world couldn't bring Oscar back, but maybe knowing the reason why can bring me back. Maybe it can still help the living.

I reach the hospital on foot in less than fifteen minutes. Since it's still morning, it's not too terribly busy. After stating my business at the front desk I'm directed to a room down the hall, which I go to straight away.

I'm surprised at what I find as I enter. Megan's lying down, an oxygen tube up her nose. Her arms, neck and head, which are the only things not covered by a thin blanket, are horribly burnt. She looks similar to a doll Neha had once when she was little. She tried to curl it's hair with my curling iron, and ended up melting it's face in.

This rather stupid thought is only enhanced by the fact her hair has been singed away in chunks; leaving some parts bald, while others have awkward chunks of hair sticking out. To my surprise she's awake, and without hesitation I sit next to her on a nearby chair. She glares at me with hatred as I sit, but I ignore it.

I want to hate this girl. I want to hate her so badly. But I can't. All I can really do…is feel sorry for her. Sorry that she has so much darkness, so much hatred inside of her, that she had to take it out on me and the people I love.

"Why did you do it?" is the first thing I ask, my voice much flatter than usual. I might as well start the questions now, I'm going to have to later anyways, and I'd rather do it alone. I can turn in my report on this later, I'm sure no one will mind. Megan doesn't respond, but just keeps staring at me. Then I add "You just threw it all away, didn't you? You could have done something with your life. You could have been the good guy".

Her eyes flicker to something on her nightstand, and I look over. Sitting behind her is a small poster, the kind found in magazines that are meant to be torn out. I recognize it immediately; the familiar two faces meant to look like Mal and myself, the backdrop meant to look like Alcatraz. It's from the movie Mal and I had to investigate so long ago, 'The Rise of the MaskMaker'. I can remember saying to Mal how maybe the movie will inspire people to get into criminal justice. My guess is this is the result.

"You tried to be a profiler" I say, stating my thoughts out loud. What I thought was angry silence I now think might be the lack of strength to speak, but hopefully she'll able to nod. "But you failed. You couldn't do it".

Megan doesn't nod, but I can see the answer in her eyes. A kind of light behind them that asks "How do you know this?".

"And when you did, you were angry. Bitter. You wanted to take it out on the person who got you into this mess".

Once again, her eyes don't lie. But now there's a little bit of fear there too; the fear of how much I know about her. The answer is a lot, and I even know why she went after me and not Mal. I'm more like her, in fact, behind the burns we even look a little alike. The small parts of her face that were spared, mainly around her eyes, are a light olive tone. The remaining hair is coffee-brown, as are her big, round eyes.

"But you didn't just want to hurt me" I continue "You wanted to prove to yourself, to me, that you were smart enough. You wanted to beat me at my own game, make a case that you thought I would never solve. That's why you set yourself on fire. After you were gone, there would be no more leads. And I would spend months, years maybe, looking for a clue that I would never find. And then, maybe one day years and years from now, I would see why you killed people with things relating to their occupation, and I would realize that that is what all of this was about. But by then I would understand, I would know how you felt when you wasted all those years of your life trying to be something that you can't".

What happens next is surprising. Megan starts to cry. Not the shoulder heaving, loud and deep sob like normal people do; since I doubt she would even have the strength for that. But rather a distinct frown on her barely-existent lips, and a few tears slipping down her unmoving face. It's one of the saddest and most pathetic things I've ever seen.

What I do next is probably the hardest thing I've ever done. All the thoughts of everything I've been through for the last few days try and stop the words from coming out, but it had to be said. Because deep down, she's just a girl who lost her way. She must have people who care for her, people who are suffering just as much as I was. And they're probably asking the same questions as me too. Why?

Besides, I'm not a doctor, but I know there's a good chance this girl is going to die. I can't let it end yet. Not like this.

"If it's any consolation…I-I forgive you".

I don't wait for her reaction. I don't even look at her. Because, before I can say anything stupid, I get up and leave. What's done is done, and even if I wanted to, I can't take what I said back.

Now if only I could forgive myself.