Will Maddox

"Will, honey?" Ally's voice called through her door. "You gotta eat. Come out, please?"

She didn't want to get out from under her covers.

"Hon, you can't sulk forever. Come out." She knew what it was like, being in Ally's shoes, trying to comfort someone so inconsolable. It sucked. She forced herself to open the door, seeing her roommate who had a bag of McDonald's and a matching cup.

"To hell with men," Ally tried to crack a joke. "How about you join Linds and me and we'll just be a ménage à trois?"

Will cracked a smile, a bit of it forced, for Ally. "I swear, it never gets easier. Maybe I should join a convent."

"Oh, god, honey, don't do that!" Ally put an arm around her and steered her to the living room. "Your ass would be wasted in a habit. Let's just watch some gratuitous violent action movies, eat our problems away, and just remember. You've got a friend in me."

Will groaned. Ally had been getting into the Toy Story series as of late, blaming Lindsay for the introduction. The references had been unrelenting.

"I rented us the Matrix. Finally, it was taking for-ever to grab a copy. I had to fight an old lady for it at Blockbuster." Ally laid their meal out in a junk food spread.

"That poor old lady," Will leaned back on the couch, trying to blink back the tears that carried flashbacks to Mark. To Angelina. To everything that had gone wrong in her life.

Despite the guilt, she selfishly wondered if there was a way to go back. Was it possible he could ever forgive her? Take her back? These hopeful, delusional wishful thoughts sprang up, giving her bits of life to only have herself snuff it out.

He doesn't want you. Why would he? Wouldn't you want the same, if you were in his situation? If he was the reason Bram's murderer walked?

She couldn't imagine forgetting about him so easily. But if she was being honest with herself, she wasn't trying to.

"Nuh-uh, you don't get to sulk." Ally handed Will a quarter pounder and got up to push the tape into the VHS player. "Hoffman may be giving you hell but Angie would be pissed to see you so worked up about all this."

"She'd want Baxter in prison."

"And world peace, the end of homelessness and hunger, but Angie never lingered on holding grudges on people she cared about." Ally must have been trying to stretch the truth for Will's sake, for she distinctly recalled how more like her brother Angelina had been. Stubborn. Indignant on how unfair the world was and how it shouldn't be. And that temper.

"She'd be heartbroken to know it was her murder that broke you two apart. She always wanted you to be her sister-in-law. I know she's watching us right now, probably thinking Mark's such a damn knucklehead. And mourning the loss of your future children."

That, Will could imagine. She remembered when Angie would tease Mark.

"When are you two getting married already? Stop leaving me in suspense!"

Between the two Hoffman siblings, Angie would have been the more forgiving one. Will was sure of it. She nodded, sniffing. "Yeah."

"So you're going to ogle at the fight scenes and I'm going to fantasize about Trinity. Pull yourself together and eat something."

"Angie would be so disappointed in us, getting McDonald's."

"Yeah, well, nothing gourmet will ever be as good as what she'd make for movie nights."

Will forced herself to eat, the sudden taste of salt and grease hitting her in a way that made her feel instantly less miserable. By a fraction.

Despite how sorry for herself she was feeling, having Ally there made it bearable. But Mark, who does he have? Will wanted to call him. But she knew it was not her place and she had no right to try to push herself into his life any longer.

He wanted a clean break. She would respect his wishes, even though it broke her heart.

She tried to focus on the movie. There were definitely great moments she could lose herself to. The panning of the camera as Neo froze in the air was a breathtaking shot. It was one of the coolest looking movies she had ever seen.

She just wished Mark was there to see it.

She sniffled and tried to play it off that she was just going through some allergies. Ally didn't say anything, only reaching over to hand her the box of tissues.

Mark Hoffman

Larry shook his head.

"You're cutting me off?" Mark stared in shock up at the bartender he had been going to for half his lifetime now. "Why?"

"And taking your keys," Larry growled, holding his hand out. "For your own good, Mark."

"No," Mark got to his feet, trying to find his pockets. He couldn't seem to get his fingers in them. He was going to tell the guy to shut up and give him another bottle. But it was hard to stand straight.

The room was spinning.

He admitted, he probably had too much to drink.

He slumped forward, against the counter, a wave of nausea rushing through him. He managed to push it down, burping and standing up straight. He believed he was looking Larry in the eye.

"You already gave me your keys. Hours ago. It's closing time. Go home. Call your partner."

He blinked at Larry, never hearing him speak so much before. "No. I'm fine on my own."

"Well, you can't stay here. I'll call you a cab."

Hoffman tried to stumble away, to say he didn't need anything. From anyone.

But he lost balance and fell backwards, feeling his head hit the ground but it didn't hurt.

Nothing hurt anymore.

And that was just fine with him.

But then, he realized he was standing again.

Where was he?

He was standing on grass. There were flowers. A graveyard.

Oh, this graveyard.

He recognized his parents' names. Hoffman. Mark. Darcy. Besides, Acomb. Peter and Angelina. Angelina. There wasn't much room left, but the rectangular shaped grass patch next to her would be his one day.

He figured why not lie there? Might as well. He fell back onto the grass, the cool damp dirt seeping into his clothes. Which was fine by him.

He had half hoped he'd feel Angie through the ground. Maybe hear Pete crack some lame joke. Maybe he'd even hear his mother's voice one last time. Hell, he'd be happy to just see his old man's ghost, to ferry him to the afterlife.

Dad, I could really use some advice here. As usual, there was no response.

He was disappointed he was still aware enough to know he wasn't dying of alcohol poisoning.

"A bit late to mourn, son," a man stood over him.

Mark blinked up, seeing a familiar face. A ghost did visit him. He shivered.

"Knox."

"That my name?"

"Why?" Hoffman let out a strangled whine. "Why did you go and leave me too?"

"Now, son… it wasn't like that." The man squatted by him. A warm hand, on his shoulder. "We should get you inside. You'll catch a cold. You got a friend I can call? I'm sure a goodlooking guy like you has a nice girl waiting at home, who's worried sick."

He felt his eyes burn. Fuck. He was going to cry like a kid. "Knox. It's over. I can't stand the sight of her." He blamed Will, blamed her despite the whisper in the back of his mind telling him it wasn't fair to her. That she did her best.

He just couldn't get past the fact that Angie's murderer was free. That the one person he trusted had failed him.

"Oh no," the old man let out a sigh. "Well, I got a couch in my office. You won't mind if it's got some broken springs. On your feet now. My bum leg won't get you up on my own. Come on now. Easy going. There you go."

Hoffman pulled himself up, steered by Knox, and was led to a small shack. He felt himself collapse onto a lumpy couch, leaned back, breathing heavily. Damn. he hadn't felt this drunk since he and Matthews were boys in the Academy.

The Academy. Right. He's a cop.

What a sorry excuse for one.

"Now, son, I've got some water right here. You drink it. And can I get a number? Got an address book on you? A number in your wallet? Help me out."

"Yeah." He struggled to paw through his pants.

"Is that a gun?!"

"Here," Mark took out fistfuls of everything that had been inside his pants. "Take them." He heard clutter drop and the old man cursed.

"Damn, that's a police badge. Son, you could get in a lick of trouble, running around drunk as a skunk. You're lucky I'm feeling mighty sad for you right now." The man was grumbling more to himself, Mark barely making out anything but syllables and consonants.

He leaned back and let himself fall back to sleep.

He next awoke with violent shaking that jolted him back to consciousness. "What?!"

"Hoffman," the face was a mold of flesh color and lines until his focus revealed who had jerked him back to the pain of reality. He smelled cigarettes.

"Eric?"

"Come on, Mark, on your feet," Matthews was pulling him up. "Grab his other arm, fucker's heavy."

He felt another pair of hands grab his arm and shoulder. He turned, blinking to see Rigg's solemn face. "Dan?"

"We got you, man. Just one foot in front of the other. Come on, there you go." Mark slumped his head forward.

"Here, thanks for keeping things down low," he heard Matthews mutter.

"Oh, don't worry, I ain't going to the media about this. Nothing exciting about a broken hearted cop who drank himself stupid. I've been there. Just make sure he doesn't drown in his own puke. Lost an ol' army buddy that way."

"We will. Damn, Hoffman, when'd you get so fucking heavy?"

"When my sister was fucking murdered," he snapped back, trying to wrench his arms from being held. But he was too sluggish and slow. Fuck. He felt so weak.

"Hey, now, don't go putting your shit out on us. We're helping you out, after you go and kick Mad Max to the curb. Tracy's gonna have my head."

"Yeah, Hoffman, you're being a real bitch right now. You're gonna outshine me at this rate."

He bowed his head again. They were right. He was being a little bitch.

Life was a bitch.

Why couldn't he just wallow a little more about it?

"You're lucky we ain't gonna toss you in the drunk tank. Though you deserve it."

"Fuck you."

"Nah, you stink, asshole. Come on, you can crash at my place. But if you throw up anywhere, you're cleaning it up."

"Next time you want to drink yourself to oblivion, let one of us know. We'll join you."

"Hell, I certainly will, I got nothing else to do these days."

Hoffman let out a groan. "Fuck, my head hurts."

"Yeah, no shit."

Mark Hoffman

"Mark," Will poked her head into his office, looking more nervous than usual.

He stared at her, waiting for her to say what she was going to say. He had avoided her since he called to end things. It had been a successful month of him dodging every glimpse of copper curl and petite curve when he was at the department. He had screened his calls and declined to call back whenever she left voicemails.

But it seemed she had enough of his dodging and came to him directly.

Fine, then.

A part of him knew he was in the wrong with how he had been treating her. These days, he was always angry. It wasn't just her but everything else that set him off. He had been making a point to stay at his desk to avoid ending up grounded like Matthews.

And with Will. It was almost too easy to let his rage out on her. She made it too easy. When she approached him now, it was with a wounded look, always submissive and needy. She was always hovering around him, within verbal punching reach. It was almost like she wanted him to lash out at her. He only had cruel words to say, mostly just because she would stick around to listen, but also because he just wanted someone else to hurt as bad as he felt.

He didn't understand himself. He didn't want to talk to her but he still secretly enjoyed her attention. But he needed to make the end of their romantic relationship clear to her.

When he had said they were to remain professional, and they were still partners, he did not intend for them to share any amicable rapport. He wanted her to be a stranger. To not be someone he wanted. Needed.

He wanted to hate her.

Attachments only brought him pain and suffering. He didn't want to experience loss again. He didn't want to feel anything, ever again.

"So," she put on a brave expression and stepped deeper into his domain, closing the door behind him. She looked good, he admitted, and he wished he wasn't mad at her so he could tell her so.

She had something behind her back.

"What is it?"

"Happy Birthday," she revealed what she was holding behind her back. A gift wrapped in blue and gold paper. She stepped around the desk and sat on it, her knees close to his side. "I know you never like to make a big deal about it, and I know we're not in a good spot, but I bought this a while ago. Can't return it. So please, take it." She put the gift in front of him, on the untouched documents he had been 'reviewing'. "I hope this is okay?"

He swallowed, feeling a little less spiteful. "Yeah," he muttered, "thanks."

She looked visibly relieved. In fact, she seemed a lot livelier since they last saw each other. There was a genuine smile on her face. She looked fine.

This made him feel worse all over again. Why did she look so damn happy?

He hated her for how she could just shine so bright after everything. He hated her for trying to move on while he was still dealing with Baxter's freedom.

And Baxter. That was all he wanted to focus on these days. He had found where the punk was living. Every free chance he got he was the prick's shadow, waiting for the right moment. The right opportunity.

For what, he didn't know.

"Mark?" The smile left, replaced with worry.

"Nothing," he decided to put an end to this, scorched earth style. Will, long the object of his focus, his affection, his obsession, was no longer a priority in his periphery. She was a distraction. She was in the way.

"Mark," Will folded her arms, eyes shining. "I want to make things right. With you. With Angelina."

"I know." That was the problem. She wanted to be involved. And it was her involvement that got them into this mess in the first place. Now, it was time he did it his way.

"Will, I meant it when I said we're done."

She stared at him, face blank. "I know. But. Maybe we can still be friends?"

"I don't think so."

Her face had fallen, filling him with both satisfaction and the burning pangs of loss. But he wouldn't backpedal on this.

"You're suffocating me, all right? I'm tired of it. Stop trying to talk to me. Just stop." He got to his feet, needing the higher elevation to stick to his conviction.

"Mark, can't we talk abou-,"

"No. I've decided." He looked down at the present she had brought, taking it in his hand and handing it to her. "I want a clean break. For both of us."

She refused to take the gift back, turning and rushing out of his office with a slam of the door.

He sighed, sinking back into his chair, swiveling around to look up at the book shelf, where a picture of Angelina smiled down at him.

Will Maddox

"Why were we called in for this?" Will sighed, rubbing the sweat off the back of her neck. She was trying to act unperturbed to Hoffman's presence. He, too, pointedly ignored her. They had both driven separately to the scene, surprised to see the other as they approached the yellow taped perimeter.

They were both partners still, technically. So it made sense that when a homicide was called in, they would both be called on the scene. But over the past few months, they had been especially careful about staying out of each other's domains. They took turns with assignments and had succeeded in closing cases with this arrangement.

The only times Will had seen Mark was in passing when they crossed paths, neither looking directly at the other, pretending the other didn't exist. Fifteen times, that had happened, and each time had left a stinging tattoo of hurt that had fermented into resentment.

Will's grief had turned hostile and she couldn't help but feel short tempered whenever she was within five feet of her partner.

Grissom had turned a blind eye to their current ballet. So long as they didn't start shouting matches or throw furniture and got the job done, everything was just peachy at MPD. After all, they were adults about it. Sure, they weren't romantically involved anymore despite having been for the majority of their careers. Hell, they weren't even friends now. But they could close cases just as well.

In fact, because they had made a point to stay separate, their 'partnership' had resulted in almost double the case closing rate as pairs. Will had already been crowned Detective Lieutenant just a month prior, enjoying the extra decorative badge dangling on her hip, a small pleasure knowing she now outranked her ex-boyfriend. What kept her going, now, was the need to compete.

She was fine without Hoffman. Doing great, in fact.

Hoffman, surprisingly, had even acknowledged her about it, giving her a rare moment of eye contact and a passive, "Congratulations, Maddox," during the award ceremony. The impersonal way he greeted her had been the harshest slap to the face, far worse than his silent treatment had ever given her.

Standing at the crime scene, Allison gave her a hard look, silently telling her to cool it. Will sighed and looked down at the victim. Multiple lacerations across his face. Deep, what looked like reaching the cheek bones of his skull. Severe punctures in his inner wrists. And the chaotic tearing of flesh all over him.

"Looks like he fell into a pit of razor wire and had a seizure," she calmly observed and looked up at her roommate. Hoffman stayed a respectful distance at her back.

"Name's Cecil Adams. Got quite the rap sheet. Was found in a dumpster in the outskirts of town. He was last seen behind the Homeward Bound Clinic, where he was a regular. Had an arrest warrant out for assault of a pregnant woman." Allison looked down at an open folder she was holding. "Because of the victim's history, we thought at first it was a drug deal gone bad. But this level of torture? I haven't seen something like this since Rosello."

This got Will's attention. She straightened up, her knees popping. She winced. She wasn't as young and spry as she used to be. "But Rosello tortured women."

"I'm not saying Rosello's back from the dead, but I think this should be on your radar."

"Don't tell me," Will grimaced, already feeling dread grip her throat. "This city's got a new flashy serial killer?"

"Won't know for sure until the coroner hands me the autopsy. But I can feel it. This vic? Way different from our usual. We've been having it easy for a while. Some sicko was bound to show up. I've already told Linds and Strahm."

"Aren't you rushing into things, Ally?" Will bit her lip and couldn't help but glance back at Hoffman. He was watching them, narrowing his eyes slightly.

"See, that's why I called you. There's another victim on this block."

Will widened her eyes. "Show me."

They followed Allison, who guided them down the narrow alleys that were now being gated off by yellow and black tape, into a worn down building that smelled of rust and oil. Tapp and Sing appeared around the corner, looking grim and shaking their heads.

The body was covered with a dusty blanket, the smell of decay and the buzz of flies grew stronger as they approached the body. Fisk was squatting, holding the blanket up to squint at the meat underneath.

"What makes you think these cases are related?" Hoffman's voice made the muscles in her neck tighten. She strode over to Fisk to join in observing. She saw the carefully cut skin, an almost perfect incision of a jigsaw puzzle piece.

"Looks like this guy likes to leave a calling card. We've had reports of two more bodies last month. Coroner has been keeping track, he's never seen it before," Ally's heels clicked on the concrete as she paced back and forth.

She was on edge. Hell, Will, too, didn't like the looks of this. This body had his knee caps blown clean off. "Jesus," she whispered, and was transported back to the days when she would see victims with their faces peeled back or their breasts sliced off. This was violent and sadistic.

"This whole building's a crime scene," Fisk announced, pulling back and looking up at the rafters. He pointed up at what looked like a carefully arranged matrix of chains and pulleys. "This guy had been suspended five stories up. Was told to either jump or get his kneecaps blasted. Looks like he was afraid of heights."

"How do you know the killer wanted him to jump?" Will asked.

"Because he left this," Ally had in her hand an evidence bag with a tape recorder. She pushed play.

"Hello, Larry. I want to play a game." Will felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand. "For years, you've poisoned this city with your heroin, even when you didn't need the money. Did you do it because you like seeing desperate addicts debase themselves for your entertainment? Well, let's see what you do when you have nowhere to go but down or up. Only this time, going down, I assure you, will be far more beneficial for you. Live or die. Make your choice."

"So what was up?" Hoffman asked, craning his neck.

"A ladderwell with a shotgun angled below his waist and rigged to explode if he opened the door. Bastard must have hoped it was a prank."

"Media's already got a whiff," Tapp commented, "They've been blasting the morning news, calling this the work of the Jigsaw Killer. Looks like he puts them through the damn ringer. Forensics found gunpowder all over him. Whoever is killing these people, he left plenty of his instruments behind. And he's got tech skills. Strong mechanics knowhow. But no prints we can use. Nothing that gives us a hint on who he is."

"We don't know if it's a he or she yet. Let's wait til Strahm develops a profile," Ally commented, exchanging a nod with Will.

"Just what we need, another psychopath," Sing shook his head, folding his arms. "Fuck, getting blasted by a shotgun sounds terrible."

"He's just killing people for kicks?" Hoffman asked, notably more interested than Will expected him to be. She was surprised he hadn't left sooner.

"Vigilante kicks. We've got ourselves a guy who is targeting victims he sees are commiting wrongs he wants them to fix. And he makes them choose death or severely crippling themselves," Ally grimaced, shaking her head. "Nobody's safe."

"Some less than others," Fisk commented, shuddering. "So far, it's been drug addicts and dealers. I'd say most people are safe."

"Well, that's the tricky thing, with vigilantes. They may start like they're doing good work, until the power gets to their head," Will commented, remembering Peter Strahm mentioning a serial killer who believed he was a vigilante and soon developed a god-complex. She felt eyes on her and turned, locking onto Hoffman, who was watching her. She raised an eyebrow. "What?"

He shook his head and turned away and continued to ignore her.

Mark Hoffman

He awoke, his hair wet, drenched in sweat. His sheets were soaked. His heart was racing. "What the fuck," he whispered aloud, trying to remember what had gotten him so worked up.

Angie. He had a dream about Angie. He had reached out to hug her, to only pull away with the sensation of bugs crawling up and down his chest. Worms. She was full of worms. They had flown out of her mouth.

And he saw in the distance, Baxter, laughing at him, whole and clean.

"How can you let him go?" Angie had asked him, black eyes full of accusation. She lifted her chin to reveal the deep cut in her neck where a millipede writhed out of the skin.

He pressed the meat of his palms into his eyelids, willing the images to disappear. He needed to take a walk.

He had been cutting back on drinking but it made the nightmares worse.

So he got out of bed, put on the clothes he had worn earlier that day, and gone straight to the graveyard.

He went there, because he had an idea. And he wanted their blessing before he went through with it. The walk to the Hoffman family gravesite was long and full of mist. A perfect night for a haunting.

He half hoped the ghosts would take him tonight. He stopped when he reached Angie's resting place. He noticed fresh flowers had been placed. He knelt to examine them, wondering who left them. He didn't know shit about flowers. Were these her favorite kind? He wished he had paid more attention back then to know.

"Ange," he looked down at the marble, her name staring back. "Baxter's free. But I can fix that. I'll have to get my hands dirty, though." Like before. He remembered when he worked for Rosello, all to protect her. And in the end, it had been all for nothing.

He hadn't protected her when she needed him most. But the least he could do was make sure Seth Baxter paid for it. "I know you won't like what I'm going to do. But I hope you understand. I need to do this. For you. For all the other women out there he'll hurt. I can't let him get away with it."

No response followed, except for the gentle breeze that made him shiver. It was cold for a summer night. "Rest easy, sis. I love you."

He turned, hearing the rumble of thunder above. It was going to rain. He needed to buy a raincoat. He'd be outside a lot from now on.

Will Maddox

"Will," Bram's voice sounded tired. "Dad's awake."

She had dropped the phone receiver and had to scramble to pick it off the ground. "That's amazing," she tried to sound pleased, smiling, though the idea of flying to San Diego weighed heavy on her. "H - how is he?" What she really wanted to know was how extensive the brain damage was.

"It's a miracle. The doctors can't explain it, but he's speaking full sentences and has passed all their screenings. He woke up last week. He's only now stabilized. He freaked at first, still thinking it was 1981." Bram's voice broke. "He said I look like mom."

"You do." Will wiped her eyes. Damn tears seemed to come so often these days. "I'll catch the first flight to you."

"Yeah. He's asking about you." He gave the number to the hospital extension where their father was staying. "I'll likely be there if you can't reach me at home or on my cell. Hurry home, Will."

She hung up, gathered her things, and went straight to Grissom.

"How long do you need?" The man leaned back, incredulous and pivoting his chair back and forth.

"Two weeks. Maybe longer. I'm not sure what the plan is, now," Will's voice was gentle and automatic. She had never thought her father would wake from his coma. She had always assumed he had been brain dead. That's what the doctors always told me. They kept him alive, though, as he had requested in his will.

"Not a convenient time, what with this Jigsaw nutjob on the loose." Grissom scratched his head, sighing, "but when is it ever a good time? I'm happy for you, really. But we'll be worse off without you."

"I'll get back as soon as I can. Kerry and Fisk are taking point on this one. And the FBI should be helping out. And you have Hoffman. I bet you'll apprehend the killer by the time I get back."

"I hope so. This guy's already causing panic. Phone's ringing off the hook with tips on who the 'Jigsaw Killer' is. People always love the theatrics. Christ." Grissom had bags under his eyes and his thinned white hair was almost gone. "Safe flight, Maddox."

She turned and left, knowing Grissom would tell the others. She had a plane to catch. And a resurrected father to reunite with.

Mark Hoffman

"You know where Maddox is?" Kerry barged into his office, blowing strands of hair out of her face and looking flustered.

Hoffman slowly leaned over his work, covering the schematic with a police report, looking up at her blankly. "How should I know?"

She rolled her eyes. "Because she's your partner." After an awkward pause her expression widened into astoundment. "Well, she's on a plane to San Diego. Her father woke up from the coma."

He blinked, the news actually surprising. "What does this have to do with me?"

"Come on, Hoffman, you seriously don't care?"

"No."

"I don't believe you." Kerry closed the door, stalked closer, pressing her hands on the desk and leaned to him. This was not usual of Allison Kerry, the laid back and apathetic woman barely ever gave him the time of day. But she must have been pissed. "When are you going to let her live down what happened? She forged some documents. Big deal. We'll get Baxter, in time. He's bound to fuck up eventually. But right now, we're understaffed and there's a madman out there."

"You don't know if we'll get him. And this is Angie's murderer, Kerry. Not some random guy that walked. You were her bridesmaid for Christ's sake. You may be able to let it go. But I can't. Of all the times to try to play dirty, she chose my sister's case?" He shook his head. She should have told him. He would have made sure no lawyer would have ever found the trail. She should have trusted a pro.

"Obviously, she was scared we couldn't convict him with what we had. Her one fuckup is a drop in the bucket with what you've done your whole career."

"Exactly. She got proud and that's what got him off."

"Jesus, this isn't about her not trusting you. This was to protect you, you idiot!" He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to the side, waiting for her to continue. "Your name couldn't be anywhere attached to the case or Baxter wouldn't have even sat in jail for five years. But that's beside the point. We've got a madman going around giving Michael-Meyers-level-life-lessons to our citizens every week and you're here sitting on your ass not out there helping? Why? Because you're mad at your girlfriend?"

Ah, so that's her angle. Hoffman knew Kerry had an ulterior motive, coming here and giving him the after school special.

"Ex-girlfriend." Hoffman pretended to return to filling out the report, checking boxes, ignoring her.

"Men," Kerry grumbled under her breath, turning to storm out. "And I knew Angie, a lot more than you, Hoffman. And she would think you're being a real bastard right now." She slammed the door behind her.

Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out, bitch. He clenched his jaw, returning to his work. So Will was out of state. This was good to know. Less chances she would suddenly want to try reconnecting with him at the worst of times.

He looked at the drawing, trying to crunch the numbers in his head of how the pendulum's arc length would spread as it descended down and across the board holding Baxter in place.

He had gotten inspiration from Edgar Allen Poe, the writer Angie loved back when she was still an undeclared major in college. Before she became a culinary chef. Once, she talked about being a writer. Horror and mystery.

"I love getting chills and being kept awake from a scary story. You know?"

He hadn't known. He had plenty of real life to keep him awake. But he humored her.

Back when she still lived with him, she used to read to him the classics. The Raven. The Pit and the Pendulum. Hoffman intended for this to be for her. This would be Angie's retribution. And the extensive technical needs - all skills their father had bestowed upon him.

He erased a portion of the lowering chassis that supported the pendulum. A clockwork mechanism would lower after a complete period, resulting in the bob - really, a blade - getting closer to the victim's stomach. Eventually, the arc of motion would result in lacerating the victim.

He needed to implement a factor of choice, to disguise it as a Jigsaw trap. So many victims had been popping up as of late, one more would be thrown on the pile, and no one would be the wiser. If anyone found evidence tying him to this, he could easily make it 'disappear', as he did so often back when Rosello had been in power.

This would be easy. Because he would be careful. Meticulous.

The only people he was worried about catching on would be the usual types. Tapp. Kerry. Matthews, if he was in a good mood. And Will.

Speaking of, she's probably going to be gone for weeks. He was eager, he knew, and rushing was risky. But he had Baxter's routine memorized. The guy had kept busy and in public view, to Hoffman's frustration, going to his therapy sessions and choosing to walk about shopping malls.

What was worse was the bastard had kept his nose clean. As if he had a right to change. He worked at a shoe store, selling sneakers to kids with a salesman smile. Baxter also had a hobby of sculpting. He went to a studio at the same mall every Tuesday night to make shitty vases or coffee cups for his mom, before taking the trash out the side exit that led out the back of the mall.

It was a place Hoffman had made sure the cameras' wiring was severed. And in the past two weeks, no maintenance guy had bothered to fix it.

Hoffman thought of how it was Baxter's hands that continued to touch, grope, and create. Those very hands had also been responsible for taking Angie away from him.

He thought of how satisfying it would be, to watch the man destroy those hands himself, to try to escape the pendulum. The pressure plates emerged from this and he considered how many pounds-force would be required to crush his hands. He would make it as slow as possible, to make Baxter feel every crack and every crunch of bone.

He knew of several of Rosello's old properties that had still not been seized. They just sat there, collecting dust. He would build the instrument tonight. It would take a week, likely, needing to only bring in gears one trip. The harder piece to conceal would be the giant sheet of steel that would compose of the blade. But it was all well within his ability.

He smiled, realizing he had drawn an ugly sketch of Baxter, his bowels ripped open, and Hoffman couldn't fucking wait until he saw it all happen in real life.