Mark Hoffman

"Why am I not needed for the next game?"

He knew the underlying hypocrisy in his taking offense in being left out. He had maintained a begrudging attitude throughout his tenure since he started as John's apprentice. But he had grown to expect at least the decency of being trusted to be involved in every aspect of John's work. Was he not the very first of John's helpers? The one who served John from the very beginning? Being sidelined, and replaced by that woman of all people, was downright insulting.

"You have work to do here, keeping watch over the warehouse. The rack needs greasing. The glass coffin needs to be filled. We also need more supplies, the list is on the refrigerator."

Mark narrowed his eyes and pulled his mouth back in a sneer. He wanted to protest. John was looking at him with cool indifference.

"Are these tasks beneath you, Mark?" John already seemed to have expected Mark's anger and responded with a calculated smile. "Normally, you take all my orders with the same stoicism, regardless of what they were."

"Amanda's not someone you can count on. She'll slip. It's putting you at risk."

The aging blue eyes softened, as if he understood. "She will learn. As you have. As you still are."

"You're implying I'm still a novice."

"No. You are not a novice. But you are still headstrong. You are still allowing your heart to be involved. I've told you from the very beginning that the heart cannot be involved. There can be no emotion. You must disengage from personal feelings with this work, Mark."

Mark clenched his jaw, trying to calm himself down. He had a good handle on his temper. A damn good handle on it. But for John, it wasn't enough. It was never enough.

This damn feeling.

In the back of his mind, shoved deep - yet still there, padding its scabby fingertips under his skull, was the ugly nostalgia that conjured memories of his father.

He would never tell him, never admit it out loud, but John reminded him so much of him. The way he would seem to always know more - the way he would always have this shadow of disappointment in his gaze that pierced through Mark's confidence. And the brilliance - the uncanny instinct of looking at a machine or gadget and simply knowing the best way to manipulate it to perform what he needed it to - It made Mark feel as though a kid again, helping his old man out with changing the oil or being the tool gopher when the plumbing went out. Desperately trying to prove to him that he could help. That he knew what he was doing.

It's just like that.

"You should be helping Amanda, not seeing her as your enemy."

Mark withheld a scoff. He would never find anything redeemable about that junkie.

"Do my methods show promise, Mark? Is that why you want to be more involved?"

How the hell does he always seem to hit the nail on the head, every time? "Can't deny the statistics. This past year we've seen the biggest drop in violent crimes since the sixties." His inbox tower was half the size it normally was. He couldn't remember the last time the first floor had every desk manned with well rested, groomed, and practically whistling cops. He had seen the holding cells only housing the random wino. Grissom even smiled - in spite of the fact the city was being terrorized by a single vigilante.

The Metropolitan Police Department, despite struggling to catch Jigsaw, were overall in a better place now that all the scum of the city hid and stayed well behaved in hopes of not capturing Jigsaw's attentions.

"Do you find this work goes hand-in-hand with your profession, Detective?"

Mark had begun to blur the lines of separation between his honorable, real life and this shadowy world. He had grown more accustom to each late night venture through the rusted remains of the Gideon Meatpacking Plant. He practically craved it when he was stuck in his office, filing reports or giving Kerry another fake lead to chase down. A part of him felt the twist of triumph when he watched her get the reinvigorated spark in her eye as she steeled herself.

"We'll catch him, this time, Hoffman. I can feel it."

If she only knew.

He should have felt guilt but he could only detect the exhilaration from pulling everyone's strings. They were so blind. How could they not see what was right in front of him?

Maybe they were just that good.

And they were just shit.

He had long ago lost that fire he still saw in his coworkers. It used to bother him, that numbness and coldness that had come when Angie was killed and Seth Baxter walked free. Catching criminals had never felt the same after that. It always felt as though he was just pretending to stop the evil in the world, playing a sick charade where he would throw the perp in prison to watch as the justice system would open the doors wide open with a grin.

You're free to go, have a nice day.

Mark no longer felt fulfilled with being a cop.

Now, he lived for the only true solution to end crime.

He lived for trap building. He always thought about the newest design he wanted to create. He thought of the most ironic and poetic torments he would inflict on his subjects - all to force them to dwell deep into what they had done and come face to face with their true selves. Their hideous, evil selves.

He enjoyed hunting these societal leeches. To him, it was euphoric. It was almost as good as sex.

Almost.

To him, stalking a future test subject was thrilling, like foreplay. There was something empowering about knowing the person would soon be in his grasp, helpless and at his mercy, and that anticipation for pleasure had replaced his nightly whisky binges and self-pity parties.

He found his control again, and it was because of John. John had shown him how to reclaim his life. John had given him his purpose back. John had restored his control. Control of those who hurt others. Control of who would face justice.

"For I see passion in you now, Mark. Perhaps I will consider your involvement in the next few games. There will be plenty more soon."

There was not quite a passion for John's method, but Mark had grown to respect it. Even see a need for it. And Mark had given too much of himself, sacrificed so much, to see it handed over to some junkie trash. If Amanda wore Jigsaw's mantle, the reputation John and Mark had carefully cultivated in striking fear in those who dared tried to harm others would be tarnished.

"She's a loose cannon."

"And you are an oak. Amanda is only beginning to get her feet wet. But in the end,we are all in this together. You will need Amanda as much as she will need you."

"I doubt that. And what about you? Who do you need?"

John smiled. "Time." The answer hung in the air, suffocating the conversation. Mark bowed his head, feeling like an asshole. John's cancer always smacked Mark when he least expected it, often forgetting that he was doomed. But John was forgiving, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Take this as a chance for a break."

"I'll check my phone every day. You know I don't keep it on all the time, though."

"A wise decision. No, go about your business, detective."

"John?" A woman's voice - not the piteous muffle of Amanda but more authoritative, mature. Mark turned to see Jill Tuck, looking wide eyed at the two men, confused, moving the large fabric bag in both her hands in front of her. She cocked her head to the side. "Aren't you that Detective? What are you doing here?"

"Do not fear, Jill, he knows. He is on our side."

Her eyes flashed to John. "Oh. How are you feeling?" She stepped forward, unzipping her bag and pulling out the stethoscope. She was already touching John's face, prodding his lymph nodes.

"Jill. You know how I feel about your visits." John did not push the woman away, instead simply watching her with a softer expression.

Mark chose to walk away, not one for trying to get involved and taking the obvious hint that Jill had no intention to acknowledge him. But when he left the room and went to turn the corner, he kept himself within hearing distance, the curiosity too strong to resist.

"Is he…?"

"If you are here to simply check on me, then please proceed. But I will have no discussion on my current business. I'm not happy you're here."

"Well, someone's got to check on you. When was the last time you saw a doctor?"

"That is my business."

"Damn it, John, don't be like that. I'm here. Let me help."

"You are not just here to help. So say what you came here to say."

"Fine. Art called, he's still trying to get you to sell."

"Well he can wait when I'm dead and the estate distributes what was mine. You'll soon have control of my assets. Then you can sell to your new lover as much of my possessions as you'd like."

"John, please."

"I think you've seen enough. Now please get out."

Mark wouldn't learn anything from eavesdropping. The pain in Jill Tuck's voice and their interaction hung heavy and that maniacal nostalgic monster eagerly pattered its fingertips like it was trying to play a painful piano. Only now, he was reminded of Will.

He pushed it away as he thought of the glass coffin. How the hell was he going to fill that thing up? Would a glass supplier ask too many questions? Would it be prudent to clean out the thrift stores? He'd look real weird, buying up every odd drinkware he could get his hands on.

He'd have to figure it out.

David Tapp

"Sing. I'm so close, Sing, we'll get that bastard." David promised his partner, staring intently through his telescope at his vantage point across the street from Lawrence Gordon's apartment. The room was getting cluttered. He had ransacked it from some dopeheads and was staying there, even with the lack of heated water and the faint smell of piss.

"Gordon's up to something. But where is he? Haven't seen him, Sing. But someone's in his house with his wife. Who is he, Sing? Maybe Mrs. Gordon is getting back at Dr. Gordon?"

"Does Dr. Gordon know you're at home with his wife? I know you know something. What are you doing in there? Waiting for the doctor? I'm waiting for the doctor too. Hmm."

Tapp, he's getting away. I'll be right back.

David flinched, the memory a sharp pain that physically churned his spine and slapped his sense. "I should have never let you go."

"Who said anything about a warrant, Sing?"

"Damn foolish." He slapped himself, the pain helping him stay grounded. The memories were strong. Sometimes, they made him forget where he was.

"You want to go right now?"

"Why not?"

"I should have never let you go." He was panting, his heart pounding, sweat pouring down his temples. His cheeks.

"I'll be back, okay? I'll be back."

Jigsaw. Lawrence Gordon. This was all because of him. Damn him. "Had you… had you on your knees." Tapp was now sitting on the couch, digging through the piles of documents on the coffee table. "You're running. You're running. You're running scared because we had you. I'm going to close this case. Ram close it."

A framed picture of Sing and him, what felt like a lifetime ago, back when he was still a fresh-faced rookie, along with the others of the Serial Killer Task Force, back when Rosello was the worst of their problems. Sing. I'm so sorry.

"Right, Sing? Right? We're gonna close it, Sing." His eyes were beginning to burn. His throat felt as though someone was gripping it and squeezing his airways closed.

This was our case, from the very beginning. You and me, we were always the ones to close the case.

"We're gonna close it, Sing. I promise."

Zep Hindle

His chest was burning. The poison. He wanted to hurry. But he couldn't rush things. It had to be at six. Six was when he would receive the antidote, one way or the other.

His fall back, if Gordon failed to kill Adam, was going to be ugly. But he reassured himself, gripping the gun on the table as he stared intently at the screens that witnessed more griping between the two players, that he would go through with it.

The distant whimpers of the little girl and the woman made Zep cringe. But he shook it off. No. It wasn't fair. But life wasn't fair. And he wasn't about to let himself get killed because of someone else.

Especially someone as insufferable as Lawrence Gordon.

The wife and kid were collateral. But that's what Jigsaw wanted. And Jigsaw had him by the balls with that damn antidote.

"So what's it going to be, doctor?" He muttered as he glared hatefully into the monitor as it went black. They had turned the lights off only to turn them back on again.

And then Lawrence tossed him a cigarette. The lighter.

And the dumb kid lit it up.

After some long seconds, Adam began to convulse.

Zep's heart skipped with excitement. Yes. He was going to be free. He was going to be fucking free.

Adam collapsed, lying on the tiles, very dead.

Gordon looked to the camera, waving his arms, clearly trying to communicate that the deed was done.

Zep pumped his fist in victory. So that was it. He got to his feet, eagerly waiting for his burner cell phone to go off to tell him where the antidote would be.

But then Adam started twitching. Spasming. Seizing.

He couldn't hear what was going on between the two - it was only video, not audio - but he could tell Adam was very much alive.

It took Zep several seconds of staring, fuming, until he realized that they had just tried to lie to him.

It could have been a stroke of genius, Zep admitted, if it had fooled Jigsaw.

But somehow, it failed. Adam looked angry and was shouting at Gordon. More fighting.

Zep leaned back in his chair, letting out a sigh that erupted into another coughing fit.

He looked at the clock. Three more hours left.

He narrowed his eyes. Come on, Gordon. Don't you want your family to live? At least your daughter?

But he wouldn't be surprised if Gordon just let them die. He was barely a man, cheating on his wife with med students and looking down at his patients like they were cadavers to analyze.

But Zep was counting on him. Otherwise, he'd have to do some terrible things to stay alive. But he was ready for it.

John Kramer

"Did you hear what I said? Get this thing off me! Get it off!"

"Stop acting!"

John knew they would have tried to cheat. Connecting the piping to a remote controlled switch to a circuit with a 1200 Volt battery connected in the next room had been a good contingency. He held the remote in his other hand, hidden from both of them, having to press the engagement button with the meat of his hand. But it worked.

While they were bickering, Adam's voice grew with apprehension. "I remember everything now. I remember how I got here."

Hearing this young man, who normally had walked the streets with such rebellious attitude reduced to a whiny, snivelling brat had been expected. The kid had witheld details, likely not trusting the doctor. John could make predictions. He was confident Adam would die. But the doctor was coming around. Now, it was dependent on whether Zep would keep with his role.

John was not concerned, though, as he had Amanda who was waiting back at the Gideon Meatpacking Plant for his message at exactly an hour after the game completed. If he failed to call her, she would come with Mark to clean up whatever mess had been left here.

Amanda was approaching a level of maturity that left John with no further need to manage every aspect of these games. She had proven capable of taking subjects on her own. She had demonstrated a creativity with the schematics she had prepared. She had been a faithful student and loyal follower. Soon, she would be running her own trials.

As for Mark, he still needed to be tethered on a leash, as was clear with his lack of enthusiasm whenever John instructed him or made suggestions on how to improve his traps. Mark was far more independent. This made him more dangerous.

Whenever John made suggestions on how Mark's future traps could be improved upon, there was a hint of arrogance in the concealed snear and glitter of his reproach. Mark clearly believed he knew better than John and had no desire for any of John's advice. This made John conclude he would need to be set free of the burden of game master.

John wanted Amanda to take on the crown of Jigsaw. Mark would still remain a resource for her. If she wished to use him. One day, John hoped she would learn to not let her emotions get in the way of their calling and work together. One day, John would like to imagine Mark would see past his own ego for their work.

But that day would likely be after John was gone. For now, Amanda despised Mark Hoffman. And Mark Hoffman detested everyone. But perhaps one day they would work together. Perhaps.

Now if Doctor Gordon passed his test? If something caused Amanda to no longer be trusted? John would need to recalibrate. It was unmistakeable the detective had the most potential out of all of John's chosen. Ultimately, John needed his heir to be the one to have the highest probability of succeeding.

Yet Mark Hoffman had made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with Jigsaw's legacy - or so he said. Over the long months, John witnessed the detective grow. He become more invested in caring for the traps. It was Hoffman who would run his hands over the dusty contraptions John had shelved long ago. John had watched the young man quietly wipe down and fiddle with old cogs and motors, treasuring John's old work with a fondness that warmed his heart. He was as meticulous with preserving their armory of machinery as he would if they were his own personal guns.

Compared to Amanda, Mark was indeed a worthy competitor for the crown. He was quick thinking, methodical, and level headed - for the most part. And his original traps were far more ambitious. Powerful and with a hateful vigor. Machine gun turrets, entire rooms cultivated to be claustrophobic gas chambers, themed and satirical scenarios that were mocking and cruel, John admitted there was a strong brilliance to the detective's vision.

He also would immediatly point out potential risks, such as knowing when one of their subjects had experience defending themselves or if they were likely able to put up a good fight in a struggle.

With John, Mark had begun to share his thoughts and ideas more. There was a trust underneath the ice. The man was capable of building machinery that Amanda could never dream of. Amanda tried all her might, but many of her traps were mere imitations - strongly inspired from John's past creations. The Angel Trap - was simply her own personal rendition of the Reverse Bear Trap, but shifted down to the torso. She tried for the grander contraptions but the prototypes always failed. Her latest frustration was a shotgun collar, which still remained on the workbench, the contact initiator still not connecting to the pulse reader properly.

The latest work Mark had been proposing, a room that crushed the subject if they refused to enter John's long forgotten glass coffin, was both a mechanical challenge that John found fascinating and resourceful in ensuring his old work would not go to waste. And Mark had already proved its function, showing John first hand the walls close in until they pressed into the corpse of a pig, pancaking the carcass flat.

Yes, Mark would be a strong candidate.

If it weren't for his clear bloodlust and his inability to separate his need for dominance and power in the equation, John would have selected him. But John witnessed the unnecessary way Mark handled the unconscious subjects. He treated them as if they were sacks of dirt, throwing them around, and once, kicking the ribs of one of them for no legitimate reason. Mark had a darkness within him that would be dangerous if unleashed. It revealed its ugliness here and there.

And lately, more frequently.

It was Amanda, who still had a heart. Albeit she let it rule her more than John would have liked.

"My wife," Gordon moaned, John's attention returning to the game. He heard the distant beeps of the buttons and his pitiful weeping.

"Lawrence, please, it'll be okay."

John grew bored of the self-pity and returned to his thoughts. He wondered if it was something personal for Mark that made him behave more cruel lately. The man desperately clung to his privacy and John did not feel it necessary to intrude. But John had picked up on his heightened anger whenever Amanda tried to goad him with details on his career. His partner, it seemed, was an especially tense subject. Amanda wanted Eric Matthews tested. Mark would often straighten when the topic was raised, narrow his eyes, and calmly refute hat his partner would not be involved.

Something about this tickled John's curiosity. Mark's behavior was not likely a loyalty to his department. He had handed over David Tapp and Steven Sing on a silver platter without batting an eye simply because they were getting too close. And Eric Matthews, when called by name, had not raised too much of a concern.

It had been when Amanda brought up the word 'partner' that Mark would shift.

The phone rang again.

John knew it was about time for the game to reach its climax.

He restored his attention to his subjects.

"Hello?" Gordon's voice trembled. His breathing was heard, rapid, nervous.

The silence in the room allowed for John to just barely make out the words of his wife, Allison Gordon.

"You failed." A loud noise erupted through the speaker. John made out the screams and a gun shot. So chaos it is. He wondered if Allison Gordon had decided to take matters into her own hands. He had no doubt she would have done what was necessary to keep herself and her daughter alive.

They had never been intended to be harmed.

More gunshots. Another man's voice distantly broke through.

John did not recognize the voice but he had heard the distinct, "Freeze," that had been declared. A part of him worried it was the police. But Hoffman would have ensured they would not have interfered. So who was it?

"Ally?! Ally! Hello?"Gordon was crying into the phone. More gun shots popped, muffled, and John's thoughts drifted to popcorn.

Jill would make popcorn late at night, the sound waking him up. It used to annoy him but now he felt nothing but a grave nostalgia. Jill. Gideon.

"Lawrence!" Adam was braying while Gordon broke down. The doctor was sobbing, clutching his chains, wailing.

"FUCK THIS SHIT!"

"Lawrence, calm down, there must be a way out of this."

"I can't be calm! My family neds me! God! Lawrence! No! Oh my god, what are you doing?!"

John wished he could turn his head and watch what was unfolding. He heard the rip of fabric. The metallic clang of the hacksaw against the ceramic tiles.

And then he heard the screams, muffled, but clearly from Gordon.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

John heard the sound of heavy breathing, rapid repetitive movement, and the wet slick slicing of flesh.

John felt triumphance fill his veins and drive the urge for his fingers twitch. He had done it. Doctor Gordon woke up. And he chose to live.

Peter Strahm

He was staring intently out the windshield, gripping the steering wheel, forcing himself to breathe long, deep breaths through his nose. She was leaning against the passenger door, clearly dying to escape the car and from him.

Cool it, Peter.

He had to reel in his hot temper before he said something he regretted. Things were finally going well.

"I don't like it," he fumed, finally turning to her. He traced the worry in her eyes and wished they could have still stayed in their hotel bed instead of being at some prison parking lot.

"I don't want Rhodes to clam up, Peter. You know I can get men to talk better on my own."

And that was the problem. It was dangerous for her to go into the prison as a lone visitor. He wasn't worried about her physical well being. He was more concerned for her mental health. Facing the man who had so viciously traumatized her and her family, was something he would have never advised to any patient of his. It would reopen wounds and potentially result in fresh trauma. He had explaind all this to her and she had waved his concern away.

He was starting to understand just how stubborn Will could be. And this irked him.

"I need to do this, Peter. And I need you. You are crucial and have been such valuable help. But for this part, I want to face him alone. Please, understand." Her lashes fluttered and her mouth pulled into a familiar plead that would normally make his heart melt.

He wouldn't let it this time. He refused. "I think it's best if I go in and you stay here. It would be a simple negotiation. He would have no idea of your involvement. I'm sure he'd be interested if I can negotiate some benefits if he confesses. A cell with a better view. Garbage picking privileges."

She shook her head and now she looked angry. "This is my case, Peter. I need to be involved with everything."

She had dug her heels in and Peter knew better than to push her. But he felt like a bull facing the red cape, no matter how much he snorted and stomped, he'd never get what he wanted charging head on.

"Fine. But promise me if it starts becoming too much for you, come straight back. I'll be right here if you need me." He quickly added, "I know you've got this. I'm just worried."

She looked relieved. "Thanks, sometimes, it throws me off how -," her face flushed with embarrassment and she looked away, "supportive you are."

This felt like a victory strike for him but he refrained from bursting out into a grin.

He could tell when he was being compared to her past relationships in a good way. The petty part of him liked it when he came out on top.

He watched her disappear into the visitor wing and leaned back into his seat to rest his eyes. Their fight had been going on since breakfast. Back and forth, he had tried to talk her out of going in there. He was still worried.

He knew he was projecting his own insecurities onto her.

Will was not Jessica. She would not shatter at the slightest inconvenience. She was strong. And he was not the same man he was back then. He had neglected Jessica and left her alone. This time, he would pay close attention to the signs that were right in front of his face. He would make a point to be there for Will, no matter what and where.

He would do right by her and treasure her. He sighed and turned to grab his briefcase nestled under the back seats. The ring case was there. He took it out to admire the brilliance of the diamond, knowing it would be enough to wow her.

But will she say yes?

He kept it on him, just in case there was some magical moment. The right time. But he knew it was very unlikely that would happen that day. Or that week.

After we confirm its Rhodes, maybe then. When we close this case. He had considered the standard ring in champagne, sunset dockside, or top of the mountain gesture, and all seemed grand - but when would they be the right time?

He knew there was the slightest possibility that he was going too fast. That she was not ready. But he trusted his instincts and felt Will would say yes when he asked.

They weren't getting any younger.

Though somewhat arrogant, he knew he was a catch. And Will was, too. He hadn't met another woman in all these years that just felt right to him.

He still imagined that American dream ending. Beautiful wife, cute kids, piicket fence, baseball, and apple pie. A happy life. And they were still able to achieve that - it could still work.

His FBI career was rewarding but he still came home to an empty house and the quiet sometimes suffocated him.

He wanted a family and he would happily step out of the field to have that. He could go into consulting. He knew Will could give up the dangers of being a city cop, too. He just needed to give it a little more time to convince her.

He imagined a life with no more serial killers. No more needing to examine the rotting carcasses of brutalized innocents. No more crime scene photos of blood splatter or some demented ritual to analyze. No more recordings of deranged lunatics torturing young girls for their sick kicks to study and empathize with. No more having to dive into the twisted perspectives of the cruelest psyches of humanity to solve another case.

He was tired of having to intimately absorb and step into the shoes of such monsters.

He imagined a simple, good life. The smell of chicken roasting when he walked through the front door after a long day in the office. Will, hair down, greeting him at the door. The noise of young kids and maybe a dog barking to fill the air. Safety. Peace. Weekends coaching sports games. Always going to sleep in a warm bed.

He wanted all of that, and more.

The hard part was the wait.

But she's worth it, Peter knew.

David Tapp

He chased after Jigsaw, his heart pounding in his ears. He wouldn't get away. Not this time. So it hadn't been Doctor Gordon. He could admit when he was wrong. And he would make everything right.

I'll avenge you, Sing. We're so close to making that bastard pay!

Jigsaw was just out of his reach. David swore at him when they had been racing throughout the city. He wished he still had his issued vehicle for the lights and eight cylinder engine. The perp drove like a lunatic and David was just barely keeping up. They narrowly missed a pedestrian and a few collisions during the ordeal.

Now, they were at some abandoned house. The piece of shit was quick and knew exactly where to go. Down some ladders. Turning sharp corners. It took David every ounce of energy to keep up with him.

These knees just aren't what they used to be.

He wished Sing was here with him.

"I'm gonna kill you, you sick asshole!"

He was now just a stone throw away from the guy. He leaped forward to tackle him. And he went down.

But then he jumped back up, so Tapp lurched, getting a good grip on the bastard. He threw him against the wall and began pummeling, fist contacting the back of his neck, his kidney region, wanting more than anything to make this fucker hurt.

But somehow, the guy slipped out of his reach and then the explosive bang of the gun and Tapp felt the sharp stab in his chest. All his rage, his energy, fizzled into nothing. He gasped, trying to breathe.

Just the wind knocked out of me.

But he looked down, seeing the blood down his shirt. He looked up, seeing Jigsaw, the sharp nosed beady eyed face still holding the gun. His gun.

Tapp felt the world pull him to the ground. He was so tired. And now, Jigsaw was gone and he was alone in this dark room.

Sing, I guess I'll be seeing you now, Tapp thought as the cold darkness closed in on him.

Wilhelmina Maddox

The harsh buzz made Will blink. The slide of the door followed by the thunk of metal as the barred barrier moved filled the tense atmosphere. She followed him as he approached their visitor booth. He wore orange prison garb. Philip Rhodes was a gaunt and short old thing with stubble and cold eyes that were almost as pale as snow. He was missing some teeth which he showed to her with a wide smile.

"What's a pretty little thing like you visiting this old timer for?"

Throughout her decades in the police force, she had smiled through interviews to get what she wanted. She had smiled when a man tried to play the victim after beating his two children to death. She had smiled shortly after a suspect had thrown a punch at her face, pretending she forgave and only cared about him confessing than her own feelings.

Smiling often got her what she needed for her work.

But no matter how important she knew it was to play this the right way, she just couldn't bear to smile. Not when it was for the man who murdered her mother.

And she knew it was him, as soon as he had walked through that door.

"Well, what'd'you want? You one of my kids? I got no money. So what is it?"

Words failed her. He had aged well, his features identical to that night. She had seen him through the crack of her closet door, hands clasped to her mouth, as he stepped, staring at her empty bed. Bram's cries had been nonstop in the other room. And when he left, the sound of the gun had cracked.

"You deaf?"

Will now regretted telling Peter to wait in the car. "My name is Wilhelmina Maddox. And your fingerprints were found at the scene of a crime over twenty years ago." She held out her badge. "I'm here to ask you some questions."

Recognition sparked in his eyes before the man recovered. He squinted and rubbed his bald head. "Maddox. Ma-ddox. That name rings a bell." His eyes darted to her face, looking caged but malicious. "I knew a redhead, once, looked kind of like you. She's dead, now."

Her blood drained from her face. "How did she die?"

The man began to smile. "Information ain't cheap."

"There's little I can offer, Mr. Rhodes. But I do have friends. Friends that can make your life a little easier here."

"Call me Phil. And I think that would be dandy," he put a hand on the glass, "so why you want to know? I saw that badge ain't local. You've come a long way, girl cop."

She nodded, familiar with this game. "I have my reasons. We have enough to submit to the DA and you will go to court." The anger was always boiling deep underneath the surface of her spirit but she did everything she could to hold it back. She needed him to confess. And confessions were always easier with honey. "Now, it's looking like murder in the second degree. Armed robbery. Battery. The family needs closure and it looks like it's finally going to happen. But I'd like to hear your side of the story."

He let out a laugh. "You're the family, aren't you? Yeah, that tough-girl with hard eyes is trying too hard. I know your city's got that psycho out right now. And you're wasting time on some petty burglary gone wrong? No, I'm putting the pieces together. This is personal, isn't it?"

She leaned back, letting out a huff. In the end, he had the upper hand and he knew it. "It is." She quickly added, "you're sharp, Phil." Play the friend. Build rapport. She needed to remember her training. She could do this. She could get this man to talk.

"Heh, you're one of them charming cops. If this was just an interrogation room, I'd ask for some cigarettes and a coke. Maybe a blow job, with those pretty lips." Rhodes looked to the guard at his back and smirked. "Oh well. Information's got to cut it. Information is gold. What's your first name again, Maddox?"

"Wilhelmina."

"Hell of a name. German?"

She nodded, "It was my grandmother's." She gave pieces of herself up. Chum for the shark. "Let me be honest, Phil, it's like you said. It's personal."

"Yeah, I know. I already have an idea. That hair. Those freckles. It was your mom, huh? That girl I shot up, who had that crying baby? Was that baby you?"

"Yes." She wouldn't bring up Bram if she could help it.

"Thought it was a boy's room, there were dinosaurs on the walls. Lots of blue."

His memory was sharp. He wanted her to know this. "My parents were forward-thinking with gender roles."

"What?"

"They thought it was fine for me. They wanted a boy. So what happened, that night?"

"Well, not sure what to tell ya. It was a hard call. I didn't mean to do her in. It just happened."

He was eying her with a careful reproach now as if at any moment, he was expecting a punch to the face. It was a futile fear, though it made Will remember to unclench the fist she held at her knee, out of sight of the glass.

"Please tell me how it happened."

"You really want to know?"

"I wouldn't be here otherwise."

The man sighed, rubbed his face. "Dear God." He shut his eyes for a long while as if praying. "There isn't much for a man to have here, but religion is one of those things. I'm a saved man, now, and I know this is a test from the lord himself."

Will raised an eyebrow, examining his blink rate and the rise and fall of his chest. His behavior had changed and this set off the alarm in her mind to be wary of deception. He was being too forthcoming, but iut was all wrong. But she played along.

"Do you have something you'd like to unburden yourself with me?"

He nodded. "Oh, yes. I have a lot."

"I'm all ears."

"That night. It was supposed to be an easy score. Family's out of town, my guy said. So it would be quick. In and out."

He was storytelling. The fish was this big.

"Apparently, the intel was wrong. Man of the house was out. But the wife and kid was still there. I figured I could still get things done. The woman was tiny. If she even woke up, I'd just knock her out and move on. But things got out of hand." He was rapping his fingers on the countertop. "But then, she tried to fight. She had gotten the phone and had called the cops. And she had a mouth on her."

Will swallowed, keeping her shoulders squared. "So what did you do?"

He smirked. "You want the rest, get me transferred to a nicer prison. One of them fancy ones you give to the rich. With ping pong tables. And golf."

"I'll see what I can do. But I can't make any promises."

"When you can, I'll spill all the terrible things me and my partner did to your mother, kid, but til then," he slammed his fist on the table suddenly and got to his feet, spitting on the floor. "I'm done here."

The abrupt end and the loud smack of his fist jumbled her thoughts and she struggled to register what was happening. She had only remembered him from that night. And he said… "Wait! Who was your accomplice?"

He ignored her and nodded to the guard to let him leave.

"Mr. Rhodes!" A wave of desperation hit her and she pressed her hands against the glass. "Phil! Tell me!"

The man ignored her as she stared at the sliding grated door as the air filled with the harsh buzz.

She was left to gawk until the guard behind her cleared his throat. She turned, cheeks burning, and stalked out of visitation.

This rarely happened to her. She usually got them to open up. What went wrong?

She knew what went wrong.

She had let her true feelings be shown. And unlike back in the interrogation room, where she had a partner to let her walk out for a break and shift attention, she had been on her own.

Damn it. She had tried to hold it all back but she just couldn't completely disassociate and allow herself to charm him. She wasn't sure if she ever could. The next time she talked to him, she needed to come up with a different plan.

When she got back to the car, sitting glumly in the passenger seat, Peter let her wallow for a few long seconds.

"Didn't work?"

She nodded.

"I told you."

This was not what she had wanted, needed, nor expected at that moment. She wanted to turn to him and tell him to fuck off. She suddenly felt so alone.

He put a hand on hers, squeezing it against her lap. "Sorry. That's not what I meant."

But it was too late. She had felt that petty jab and her ears were ringing with the callousness of it. The ego he had was more important to him than comforting her.

She thought of Mark, knowing how he would have pulled her into a hug in silent comfort. A part of her felt sudden revulsion. Why was she thinking about Mark? No, she was over reacting.

Or am I? She always seemed to find herself with men who made her feel so small. But Peter was different. He was supposed to be different. Maybe this was normal? And all this time what she kept thinking on how a guy was supposed to make her feel - was just an unattainable standard?

"You hungry?"

"No," she whispered, needing a drink. "Just take me back to the hotel. I have a headache." She kept her eyes staring out the window until she blinked away the tears.