If it was getting dark, Norman couldn't tell. The sky was just as black and stormy as ever, and the rain cast a haze over every light. The car rocked as he drove over the uneven pavement, sending up crashes of water which doused the windows even more. He leaned close to the steering wheel as he scanned the nearby houses. Calling it a rough neighborhood was an understatement. Some of the houses looked as if they had caught fire recently, and the others that survived were torn apart and boarded. Black figures stood in circles by the street, a few turning their hooded faces to watch his car as he passed. Norman felt nervous chills. He needed to be certain of the house if he wanted to avoid unnecessary trouble.

The numbers on the mailboxes were hard to read through a combination of rain, darkness, and scattered graffiti. Norman followed the numbers that he could read, and spotted the house of Thomas Roman on his right. The sight of it didn't make him feel any better. He pulled alongside the curb and stared up at the ruined house through the windshield. It was in somewhat better shape than the rest of the houses, but still nowhere near hospitable. The roof of the porch was slanted sideways, and the edges of the windows were oddly shaped as if they were held together with duct tape.

Norman did a nervous once-over of his car, and put a hand to his side to check for his firearm. Then with a deep breath, he opened his car door and stepped into the black rain. It was colder now that it was getting late, and Norman gripped his elbows tightly as icy water trickled through his hair and down his neck.

The rain cascaded in streams off the lopsided porch, and Norman darted under the shelter. Beyond the windows he could see a faint yellow light, though there was no movement. With anxious shivers, he knocked on the hollow wooden door.

There was no response. He knocked again and there was a scramble on the other side. The door creaked open a crack, and Norman shifted sideways to peer through.

"Thomas Roman?" said Norman. He squinted through the darkness, then something protruded from the crack. Norman jumped backward, yanking his pistol from his side. "Put the gun down!"

The long barrel of the rifle didn't move. Someone spoke from inside, and Norman moved forward cautiously so he was out of range of the rifle. "What did you say?" he called.

"I said show me your wrists!"

Over the pounding of his heart, Norman felt a dash of confusion. "Why?"

"Just do it! One wrist at a time."

Norman shook his head and breathed heavily. He was dealing with a paranoid schizophrenic after all. He stepped sideways to the door, and shook his hand upward so his jacket sleeve dropped closer to his elbow. Feeling slightly foolish as well as terrified, he held his left hand over the barrel of the rifle.

"Alright, now the other wrist."

He pulled his hand back, and switched the gun to his left hand. Dropping his sleeve back, he stretched his arm in front of the door.

The barrel of the rifle vanished inside the crack, and the door opened further. Norman held his pistol at the ready, forcing himself to stay focused.

A tall man stood in the doorway, framed by the dim yellow light from inside. Despite his shirt and tie which were well-pressed, he seemed worn down and beaten. He gazed at Norman with sunken eyes, and held his hands up. "It's okay. I've put my rifle down."

Norman glanced at the floor and saw the glint of the rifle on the entry mat. Relief flowed through him, and he jerked his pistol upward. "Back away."

The man stepped backward, and Norman quickly reached down, scooping the rifle in one arm. He tossed it to the side and held his pistol in both hands.

"I take it you're a cop?" said the man. "Or just a very polite burglar."

"I'm Agent Norman Jayden, FBI," said Norman. "Are you Thomas Roman?" The man nodded slowly, and stared at the floor. Norman felt his confidence rise a bit. "Alright, Mr. Roman. I'm going to put my gun away." Norman held his palm outward, turning the gun to the side, and slowly put his pistol in his jacket. Roman barely seemed to be paying attention to him, preferring to stare at the ground. Somehow, it made Norman feel safer, though his muscles were still tense from adrenaline. "I'm here to ask you some questions about your son. Do you mind if I come inside?"

Roman shook his head, and dropped his arms. "Not anymore, I guess." He turned slowly and motioned around him. "Watch for the string."

The thought of being alone with a schizophrenic was unnerving, but standing outside in the rain with shadowy strangers staring at him was worse. Norman shook off his apprehension and stepped inside the man's house. He gazed around curiously. It wasn't as bad as Nathaniel's apartment, but if Thomas Roman wasn't the father of one of the victims, Norman would have considered him a suspect.

Every window was covered with a sheet, tacked to the wall with nails. The doorways were bordered with mirrors, angled slightly like the mirrors of a car so that Norman could see around every corner. A network of strings criss-crossed each room from wall to wall, and Roman stepped casually around them as if they weren't even there. Norman stood still in the doorway, unsure of where to go. He closed the door behind him, and cleared his throat.

"Why all the strings?" he said. He couldn't be sure how sensitive Roman was of his condition, but the string was too obvious for Norman to ignore. Roman stood near an old leather couch and adjusted one of the mirrors.

"People have to step over them," said Roman. "The others go through them." He motioned towards Norman. "I'm sorry about needing to see your wrists. Had to make sure you were real."

Norman bottled his confusion and nodded. The more Roman spoke, the more interested Norman became in his mental state. He ducked underneath one of the strings and stood at the edge of the man's living room. "Mr. Roman, I'm investigating the Origami Killer. I understand your son was murdered by the Origami Killer last year."

Roman was silent as he busily cleaned one of the mirrors. Norman shifted slightly and scratched his neck. "I wanted to ask you if you noticed anything unusual at the time of your son's disappearance. Did anyone try to contact you, or did you see anything?"

Roman set the mirror against the wall. "Why are you asking me this now?" He began to unwind a string from a nail. "It's been a year."

"Another kid was kidnapped this morning," said Norman, watching the man's fingers. "The police suspect his father was involved. I'm trying to prove his innocence."

"And what's that got to do with me?" Roman followed the string, winding it around his hand as he walked.

"Because all of the fathers of the previous Origami victims have either disappeared or been killed," said Norman. "You're the only one left."

Roman stopped in the middle of the room, slowly winding the slack of the string around his finger. He looked at Norman, a sly smile in his eyes that gave Norman nervous chills. "And what makes you think I'm still alive?" said Roman. He tugged on the string, pulling the nail from the wall. "If you can call this living." He motioned around the room. "I call it purgatory."

Norman crossed his arms over his chest. "Your file said you had no history of mental illness, but after your son was killed, you were diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. What happened, Mr. Roman?"

Roman sighed as he continued to wind the string around his finger. "My son died. That's what happened." He moved across the room and tied the end of the string to another nail. "I didn't know losing your son wasn't enough to fry your brain."

"I'm not trying to say your son's death wasn't a tragedy," said Norman. "I'm saying paranoid schizophrenia isn't exactly what you'd expect from someone who's had a loss. Depression, maybe." He felt frustration leak through his nervousness. "There's something you're not telling me."

Roman's hands slowed. His head dropped slightly, and Norman leaned sideways a bit to see Roman's face more clearly. Then Roman turned, his eyes narrowed. "I've seen my son every day since the day he died." His fist clenched on the string. "I hear him in my sleep. I feel his hand in mine. And I can't save him." He moved towards Norman, pressing against the string. "I couldn't save him then, and I can't save him every single day afterwards. My wife calls me crazy because she can't see him, and I can't make her see him. He's going to haunt me for the rest of my life, so I deal with it." He fidgeted with the string in his hand, his eyes puffy and red.

Norman felt his shoulders sag. This man was suffering from a pain that Norman couldn't fathom. He ran a hand over his face. "What do you mean you couldn't save him? I'm sure the police did everything they could to find your son."

"It wasn't up to them." Roman shook his head, his eyes full of energy. "They did enough to say they tried. Meanwhile I suffered─" he yanked back the sleeve of his shirt "─and bled─" the shirt ripped as he pulled his other sleeve, revealing a network of scars along his arms "─burned─" Roman pulled at his tie and loosened his collar, exposing a star-shaped burn scar on his neck "─to save him. I gave everything, and it wasn't enough."

A strange silence fell over the room. Norman stared at the man's scars, an ominous intrigue creeping over him. "You got all that… because you were looking for your son?" Norman straightened and his heart began to pound. "Did you know where your son was?"

Roman barked a laugh, causing Norman to jump. Tears ran down the man's face as he backed against the wall. "Do you think… my son would be dead if I knew where he was?" His head tilted sideways, and his eyes focused on a spot near the hall.

Norman shook his head to clear his mind. The man was beginning to sink into a typical schizo meltdown. "Mr. Roman, I need you to tell me what happened after your son was kidnapped. Where did you start looking?"

Roman was silent, fresh sweat beading his face. He stared sideways, fumbling with the string in his hand. Norman stepped through the lines of string towards him, feeling his frustration begin to boil.

"You said you looked for him," said Norman. "Where did you start?"

Roman nodded his head slowly, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Started at the show, remember? I knew when that green Camaro pulled up that you were just gonna be gone." He laughed and bowed his head. "Yep. Gone. I didn't even try to follow. Figured I'd just come grab you after about ten minutes or so." His shoulders shook as he began to sob. "I should have just gone with you. You're only twelve for god's sake."

"What about after that?" said Norman, struggling to keep his voice under control. "Who contacted you? How did you know where to start looking?"

"We should have just not gone at all." Roman shook his head. "It was pouring rain. They were having another show the next day, I mean with classic cars and I know you don't really like them. But at least…"

Norman put a hand on Roman's shoulder. "Mr. Roman, look at me." He gave the man's shoulder a shake. "Look over here."

Roman gazed at Norman, his eyes lighting up as if he'd just noticed him. "I um…" Roman shifted against the wall, narrowing his eyebrows.

"How did you know where to start looking for your son?" said Norman, his muscles tense with frustration.

Roman rubbed his forehead, his face focused as if he were struggling to remember. "I… it was in the box."

Norman straightened as he felt relief flow through him. Now they were getting somewhere. "A box. Okay, what was in the box?"

"My son," said Roman. "He was in the box."

Norman felt his gut wrench. He put a fist to his mouth. "Your son was in the box?"

Roman nodded, then tilted his head to the side. "I still have him. I burned the rest of it, but I still have him."

Despite the investigative side of him, Norman felt a deep disgust fill him. He leaned away from Roman, feeling his muscles tremble. "Can you show me?"

Roman glanced at the hall, and twisted the string around his finger. He tilted his head as if listening to something, then nodded. "Okay," said Roman, looking sideways at Norman. He moved past Norman, ducking into the living room near the television. "Okay, okay."

Norman watched as the man opened a drawer on the television stand and fumbled through the contents. As much as Norman didn't want to believe his story, and as much as it sickened him to know part of the boy was in a box, Norman felt an overwhelming excitement. He was on the clearest track that any officer had been in years.

Roman stood up, holding something small in his hand. He moved toward Norman, and held it out.

Norman gazed at the object, tension locking his whole body. Then he picked it up, holding it in the light. It was a cell phone.

He held the power button, cautious anticipation flowing through him. The buttons lit up white, and a loading bar appeared, filling slowly. Roman was quiet next to him, and Norman focused all his attention on the screen. The bar filled, and there was a garbled rush of sound as a video played. It took a moment for Norman to realize what he was looking at. A metallic circular floor, flooded with rainwater. And a steel grate in the center. Norman's heart hammered as the camera panned closer. Through the rush of rain, a young voice cried from the depths of the steel container. The camera zoomed close, and a pair of small hands reached up through the bars of the grate.

The video ended, and a message appeared in white: How far are you prepared to go to save someone you love? The message vanished and a set of lines appeared, separated by random letters and numbers.

Norman breathed heavily as the realization hit him. "A trial…" He looked up at Roman who was still gazing at the end of the hall. "That's why he keeps them in a well instead of killing them outright. He's running a god damn trial." Norman pulled his glasses from his pocket and clumsily fitted his glove onto his hand, energy flowing through him. "Mr. Roman, who gave this to you?"

Roman was silent. As the ARI ticked in the corners of his vision, Norman held the phone in front of him. "ARI recording. Location four seven zero two three. Note date and time." The phone illuminated as he analyzed it. "Mr. Roman, you said this was in a box. Who gave it to you?"

Roman mumbled lightly as he moved toward the hallway. "No no, it's okay. See, step over it." Norman sighed as a list scrolled to the left of his vision.

"ARI, comment. The phone's an LG KM330," Norman mumbled the details. "No service. It was bought or donated, probably from a private sale. Reformatted to factory settings on April 7, 2009. 5 GB external memory with 4.2 GB remaining. Just enough to have a video on it." Norman pulled his gloved hand away from the phone, scanning it deeper. "Come on… where'd you come from?" he growled under his breath. Nothing. There was absolutely nothing on it except the video.

Frustration burned through him. Besides the actual video evidence, there was no information on the phone itself. He turned to Roman. "Listen, it's very important that you─" He froze, heart pounding in his chest.

Roman leaned against the wall, rifle held in the crook of his arm. "I've tried… so hard," he tensed his face, "to have him go around the lines. But he always goes through them. They all go through them." He swallowed heavily, sweat pouring down his face.

Norman slowly reached for his sidearm, bottling his panic. "Mr. Roman, put down your rifle."

Roman pressed a finger against his temple. "That's why you're not going to find him. The Origami Killer." He gazed at Norman. "When your life is spent trying to tell the difference between what's real and what's not. Who's the killer and who's innocent. You never stop to ask yourself where the hell you fit in all this."

Norman wrapped his hand around the grip of his pistol. "Just drop the gun." He struggled to keep his hands from shaking. "It's alright. Everything's going to be fine."

Roman smiled as he shook his head. "It's not fine. I can't tell anymore." He shifted against the wall, raising the barrel of the rifle. A jolt of terror shot through Norman's body, and he froze. "I can tell if someone is real or not if I point a gun at them," said Roman. "And when I shoot, the bullet just passes right through them. You can't kill them. Because they don't exist. They're already dead."

Roman's face softened, and he gazed at Norman with glazed eyes. "No more strings." He swung the barrel of the gun underneath his chin.

"No!" There was an earsplitting pop as Norman swung his pistol forward. Roman collapsed against the wall, a slow trickle of blood winding down from the top of his head to his jaw.

For a moment, time seemed to have stopped. Tremors ran through Norman's body as he stared at Roman's slumped form. This couldn't be real. The man had been completely sensible only minutes before. Norman's breath shook, and his chest heaved. The last remaining father was dead.

Norman stepped forward, pushing the strings out of his way. He kneeled in front of the man, struggling to comprehend the situation. The cell phone was a dead end. Roman hadn't told him who had given him the phone or the box. And it seemed that secret was going to be lost with him.

A dark shape darted to his right, and Norman spun wildly raising his pistol in his gloved hand. His pistol shook as he scanned the room. Then with a slight wave of relief, he realized he was still wearing the ARI. He rested the gun against his knee and dropped his shoulders. Now he was starting to doubt the difference between reality and imagination.

Norman pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed the station. The operator answered.

"This is Agent Norman Jayden," said Norman. "I'm gonna need a coroner and a team of officers at 422 Pepper Brook Lane. A witness just shot himself." He hung up the phone, and breathed deeply as his nerves began to calm.

There wasn't much hope, but Norman held his hand over the man's body and released a pulse of light. It faded against the floor, and a minor list scrolled to the left of his vision. The expected items appeared. Skull fracture, Razadyne, vicodin, cotton string, folded paper, three pennies, two nickels…

Norman pressed a finger against the list, highlighting the folded paper. Apprehension tugged at his chest. He sent out another sphere of light, and a line indicated that the paper was in Roman's shirt pocket.

As much as it unnerved him, Norman reached forward, fumbling in the man's pocket. He drew back, a small folded paper pinched between his fingers. The edges were soft and the paper had faded. It was clearly old. Carefully, he unfolded it, spreading it so it lay flat. A single word was typed into it.

Coward.

Norman looked up at Roman, a dull ache in his throat. He wasn't positive, but the geometric folds were telltale signs that the paper was once an origami figure. The killer had contacted Roman after his son was killed. After Roman failed what Norman was sure was a trial. And here was another origami figure, taunting the man after he'd suffered and failed to save his son.

No wonder the man had gone insane. And as Norman rested his hands on his knees, a sad understanding filled him. It explained why two of the other fathers had also been found dead after their sons were killed. He guessed the missing fathers had met a similar fate.

A sudden, miserable realization hit him, and he slowly pulled his glasses from his face.

This was no longer a fight to save Shaun Mars. This was a fight to save the boy's father as well.