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The city that never sleeps has a peculiar way of swallowing its dead.

Your phone buzzes for the third time this morning, a news alert. You don't need to read it, you saw it an hour ago on the morning feed, scrolling bleary-eyed over cold coffee. Naomi Evans. Twenty-seven. Found in a hotel room, strangled, dressed in her regular “work clothes”, and by her side, a wedding ring in a little velvet box. Naomi didn't wear a ring, you'd know, you were friends, you worked the same industry; luxury hotels, private dinners, the kind of men who write checks that clear before the sheets are cold. Naomi was your friend, or as close to one as two women in this line of work can be.

You look around your studio. It's small, clean, and deliberately modest. A fatigue-green couch you found at a thrift, books stacked on milk crates, plants by the windowsill, lavender hanging upside down your window to dry, crochet blankets over the sofa and the bed, nothing flashy. Nobody that stepped into your apartment would guess what you do for a living, nobody that saw you on the streets would either.

Naomi had been with a new client, she mentioned him twice — once with that particular giddiness you'd learned to recognize in yourself and every other girl in this life. The kind that comes from a client who blurs the line, who stays past the hour, who texts in the morning, who promises things you know he’ll never keep. “He's different!” she'd said the last time you grabbed drinks, a bar in SoHo, her laughing behind her glass. “He told me he's going to leave her.” You nodded, smiled, you told her that they always say that, that it didn’t work like that. Now she's dead, and a wedding ring is in an evidence bag somewhere, and you know her better than the cops ever will. You know what hotel she preferred, the alias she used, the stupid shit she'd laugh about when she'd had too much champagne. You know the shape of the men she went to bed with.

Hours pass, you can’t take her out of your mind. You keep ravishing your mind for memories that could help the police, you need to have something, and you did; she had a booking two nights before she died, she told you about it, the same client that she liked so much. Tall, silver-haired, always wore cufflinks with a family crest. “He's the one”, she whispered. The memory settles in your chest like cold water. Tall. Silver-haired. Cufflinks with a family crest. You don't know his name. Naomi was cagey about names, you both were, you had to be. But you know the hotel she worked out of when she wanted to be discreet: The Langham on Fifth. You know her favorite color, you know what she would dress to go out with you when you two just wanted to feel like normal girls without all the pressure on your shoulders, you know how her voice would get softer, her eyes glimmering with hope, when she talked about that man, and you knew how your stomach would turn when you saw her that way.

You're still staring at the ceiling when a knock comes at your door.

"Ma'am? We're with the FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions about Naomi Evans." The voice comes through the door before you can even get up. You pull the door open, stepping aside. "Come in."

Two figures step past you into the apartment. The one who spoke first is a woman. She's pretty, dark hair, sharp eyes, the kind of quiet authority that fills a room without effort. She scans your space once, cataloging the crochet blankets, the stacked books, the clean counters. The man behind her is taller, lankier, with hair that looks like he's been running his hands through it. You can’t help but wonder if the FBI is hiring people based on their looks now. His gaze lands on your bookshelf immediately and softens with interest.

"I'm Agent Emily Prentiss," the woman says, showing her badge. "This is Dr. Spencer Reid. We're with the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit." Reid offers a brief nod, already tilting to read a spine. The Left Hand of Darkness. "You have good taste," he says, almost to himself. Prentiss's eyes return to you. "We're running down everyone Naomi was close with. Her phone logs show you two talked frequently." A pause. "When's the last time you saw her?"

You sigh, closing your door and moving to the kitchen (two steps from the couch, the whole apartment is that size), you can’t do this now, not without coffee. “Before we start, would you want something to drink?" You try to be polite. “Coffee? Tea? Water?” You offer. “Coffee would be great, actually," Prentiss says, settling onto the edge of your couch with the ease of someone used to making herself comfortable in strangers' homes. Reid tears himself away from your bookshelf. "Tea, if it’s not too much trouble. Otherwise coffee's fine." He takes the armchair, pulling out a small notebook that looks like it's been folded and unfolded a hundred times.

You fill the kettle, watching as the water starts to boil. It makes you want to put your hand inside, feel the warmth, feel something, anything at all. You snap out of your thoughts, the coffee's already made, a half-pot from this morning, still warm, you pour Prentiss a mug, black, and drop a bag of black tea into another for Reid. "When's the last time you saw her?" Prentiss asks again, wrapping her hands around the mug. You lean against the counter, coffee in hand. The ceramic is warm through the sleeve "Last week. We got drinks in SoHo." You pause. "She told me she was seeing someone, it was regular. She was really excited about him, told me he was going to leave his wife for her."

Both agents go still. The shift is subtle, but you catch it. Reid's pen hovers over his notebook. Prentiss's eyes sharpen. "Did she mention his name?" Prentiss asks. "She never said his name," you say, wrapping your fingers around the warm mug. "But she mentioned the Langham. Said he always booked the same suite." Prentiss's eyes meet Reid's — a brief, loaded exchange that tells you this means something to them. Reid scribbles in his notebook. "When was this?" Prentiss asks. "A few days before she died. She called me after their last date." You pause, turning the coffee mug in your hands. "She sounded way happier, said that she thought he would propose.” You think back. The call had come late—past midnight. Naomi's voice had that hushed quality, like she didn't want to be overheard. I told her I was happy for her, and to call me if she needed anything. She said she would." You let the silence linger for a second. "That was the last time I heard her voice." You lean forward, setting your mug down on the counter. "There's something else. The cufflinks. He wore a family crest." Reid's pen stops. Prentiss's attention narrows, her head tilting slightly. "Naomi mentioned them more than once," you continue. "She thought they were romantic, said they made him look distinguished. Old money. Silver, with some kind of engraved emblem. She didn't know what it meant, but she said she'd seen them up close enough to draw them." Prentiss exchanges another look with Reid. This one's longer. "Do you remember anything else about the crest?" She asks, her voice measured. "Colors? Shapes? Animals?"

"A bird, maybe." You open your eyes. "Or a lion. Something upright. I'm sorry, I only saw them once, when she showed me a photo. She was obsessed with them."

"Can we pull up some family crest databases?" Reid asks Prentiss, already half-rising. "If it's a legitimate noble or merchant crest, we could narrow down the family name." She nods slowly, then turns back to you. "We'll need you to look at some images. Help us identify it." She pauses. "And Miss, we appreciate you talking to us." Reid's already pulling out his phone, scrolling through something. "I can pull up a database of registered family crests. If we can narrow down the bird or lion motif, cross-reference it with New York-based families with significant wealth..."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Emily says, but there's a flicker of something like approval in her tone. She turns back to you. "You said she showed you a photo of the cufflinks. Do you still have it? Any text exchanges, saved images?" You think back. Naomi had sent you a picture, you remember that now. It was a mirror selfie, arm outstretched, his hand visible on her waist, the cufflink catching the light. "Maybe," you say. "She sent me a photo a few weeks ago. I don’t think I've deleted it." Spencer's head snaps up. "Can we see it?" You push off from the counter, crossing to the small desk wedged near the window. Your laptop sits there, a beat-up silver thing with a cracked corner and stickers layered over the lid, there’s a faded daisy, a Brooklyn Public Library barcode, a Panic At The Disco! logo old peeling sticker. You flip it open, the screen lighting up to your desktop: a photo of a cat you don't own, saved because it made you laugh. "Give me a second," you say, clicking into your messages. "We mostly texted, it was surface-level stuff, regular banter. But the photo…" You scroll, there’s grocery lists, some stupid memes, a new dress she bought, and then… "Here." You turn the laptop toward them. The photo is a mirror selfie, she's in a champagne silk robe, her hair loose, her smile soft. Behind her, a man's hand rests on her waist. The cufflink catches the light, just as you remembered, silver, ornate. A crest in the center: a winged figure, maybe a griffin, standing upright with a sword raised in one claw. Reid leans in immediately, eyes sharp. "That's rare, not a generic design at all." He's already pulling out his phone again. "It’s a specific heraldic crest. The griffin rampant with a sword."

You stare at the photo a moment longer before speaking. "She told me he was married, that he treated her like a princess, that he would leave his wife for her." Your voice is flat, careful, calculated, even. "I told her it doesn't work like that." You pause, sighing. "Once these guys know us as whores, that's all we'll ever be to them." The word lands in the room, plain and unadorned. You don't flinch at it. Neither does Emily, she's definitely heard worse, you can tell. Spencer's pen pauses, but his face doesn't change. He's looking at you, not with pity, but with the focused attention of someone who's taking you seriously. "I hate it," you say, quieter now. "But I know what I am."

The silence stretches long enough to be uncomfortable.

Prentiss breaks it first. "What you are is a woman who's trying to help her friend." She holds your gaze. "And that’s more than enough. Most of the girls in your line of work wouldn’t have trusted us enough to say a word, and you did.” Reid clears his throat. "The griffin crest is a good lead. If we can match it to a family name, we might be able to pull financial records, property holdings." He flips a page in his notebook. "Did Naomi ever mention specific locations? A summer house, a family estate, a private club?" "There's a private dinner club in Midtown," you say. "She said he took her there." Emily's eyebrows lift. "Do you know the name?" You shake your head. "She was cagey about it. Said it was member-only, the kind of place where you need an invitation to know it exists. The only thing I remember is that she mentioned a fireplace there.” Spencer's fingers are already flying across his phone. "There are a handful of private clubs in Midtown that fit that description.” He starts listing names, you try to recognize them, but nothing comes to mind. "Most of them require membership by invitation or sponsorship. If our unsub is a member of one, it would explain how he maintains a veneer of respectability." "Would they give you a list of members?" you ask. Prentiss's smile is thin. "They wouldn't give us a list without a warrant. And we don't have enough for a warrant yet."

"But if you had a name—" your voice falters, knowing that this guy is so settled in high society makes your hope that he’s caught drop to a very low number. "We'd have a place to start." She studies you. "Did your friend even mention any names?’

"No name. But I know what hotel suite he booked. That might be on a registry." Emily's eyes glint with something like renewed focus. "Which hotel?"

"The Langham on Fifth. He always booked the same suite, the Imperial, I think she called it. Top floor, corner view." You cross your arms, leaning back against the counter. "She told me once that he had a standing reservation. Every other Thursday, like clockwork." Spencer's already typing. "A standing reservation under a false name, or his real one?" You shrug. "She never said. But if it's the same suite, same night, every two weeks, someone at the front desk has to know his face. Hotels like that, they remember the ones who tip well." Prentiss nods slowly. "It's a lead. A good one." She pulls out her phone, glancing at the time. "I can have a uniform check the registry, see if any name matches the crest we're pulling. But we need to be careful, if he's connected, tipping him off could bury the evidence."

Emily offers a small, genuine smile, the first crack in her professional composure since she walked in. "Good." She stands, pulling a card from her coat pocket and setting it on your counter. "My direct line. If you remember anything else, anything at all, you can call me, day and night." Spencer closes his notebook, tucking it back into his jacket. "I'll start cross-referencing the crest with registered family heraldry. If we get a match, I'll have a name by the end of day." He pauses by your bookshelf, fingers brushing the spine of a worn paperback. "You might want to hold onto that photo. Don't share it with anyone, including the police." Prentiss gives him a look. "Reid."

"Just being thorough." He shrugs, unapologetic. "If this man is as connected as the evidence suggests, local precinct leaks are a real concern." Emily turns back to you, her expression settling into something more serious. She glances around your apartment, at the quiet modesty of it, the deliberate distance you've kept between your life and your work. "Stay low. Don't tell anyone we talked. And if he contacts you somehow, if he even knows your name, you call me immediately." The weight of what you've stepped into settles over the room like dusk. You nod. "Of course. Whatever helps." Prentiss's smile is brief but warm. She starts heading for the door, Reid trailing behind her with a final glance at your bookshelf. "Stay safe."

The door clicks shut.

In the hallway, the fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Spencer's already pulling out his phone, scrolling through the image you showed them. Emily waits until they're halfway down the stairs before she speaks. "She's sharp." He nods without looking up. "Observant. Good recall of details. The crest identification alone, most witnesses wouldn't remember a cufflink from a photo they saw weeks ago."

"She's also beautiful," Prentiss says, her tone light. Almost offhand. Reid's thumb pauses mid-scroll. "I- what does that have to do with anything?" Prentiss reaches the landing and turns, one eyebrow arched. "Nothing. Just an observation." She resumes walking. "You seemed interested in her books."

"They're good books." His voice is a half-octave higher than usual. "Le Guin. Butler. She has Parable of the Sower. That's not exactly airport reading."

"So she's well-read and beautiful." Spencer stops at the building's front door, holding it open for her with pointedly exaggerated politeness. "Are you profiling me, Agent Prentiss?"

"I'm observing, Dr. Reid." She steps past him into the late-morning light. "There's a difference." Prentiss pauses. Something shifts in her expression. "It's a shame," she says quietly. Reid looks up. "What is?"

"A woman that smart, that clearly well-read, having to subject herself to that life." Prentiss shakes her head. "The clients. The danger. The way the world looks at her." She walks through the door, letting the late-morning light spill in. "She deserves better." Spencer follows her out onto the sidewalk, tucking his phone away. "The life he's offering, her friend's client, it's a pattern. Charm, promises, isolation, then.." He stops himself. "Then death." Prentiss finishes the thought. She looks up at her window, visible from the street. "She's not just a witness, Reid. She's a target. If he finds out she talked to us…" "Then we make sure he doesn't." His voice is firm. "We find him first."

The next night, you're working.

The Pierre on Fifth. A client who's been booking you for six months, married, lonely, doesn't want conversation. He leaves by ten, as always, pressing an envelope into your hand at the door. You're fixing your hair in the suite bathroom when you hear it. Commotion. Raised voices. Curiosity gets the best of you, You step into the hallway. A door's open three suites down. Hotel security is barking into a radio. And there, emerging from the chaos with a familiar economy of motion, is Agent Prentiss, Doctor Reid’s behind her, badges out, faces set in grim recognition. Their eyes land on you. The world narrows to a point. Your bare feet meet the hallway carpet as you step out of the suite. Emily spots you first, she has a flicker of recognition crossing her face before she masks it. Spencer’s head turns, following her gaze. And then you see the rest of them.

A tall man in a dark suit stands near the open door, speaking in low tones with hotel security. His face is all sharp angles and authority, Hotch. Beside him, a man built like he could break someone with his hands, moving with the coiled energy of someone who's always watching the exits. Morgan. And farther down the hall, an older man in a leather jacket kneels by the body, his expression unreadable. Rossi. A woman lies on the floor, sprawled at an angle that tells you everything, she’s blonde, young, you think you might have seen her before. And beside her — stomach drops — a small velvet box lies open, a wedding ring catching the light. Spencer reaches you first, he calls your name, his voice is low, urgent. "What are you doing here?"

"I had a booking. Sixth floor." You meet his eyes. Reid's face goes through several micro-expressions: surprise, concern, calculation, before settling into something carefully neutral. Behind him, you see Emily’s head snap toward you. She excuses herself from Hotch and crosses the hallway in quick, measured steps. "Hey." Her voice is tight. "You were working here tonight?" You put your hair behind your ears, and Spencer notices your hands trembling. "Client checks out by ten. I was fixing my hair when I heard the commotion." You gesture vaguely toward the suite behind you. "I didn't know… I just heard a lot of voices." Morgan appears at Prentiss's shoulder, assessing you with dark, sharp eyes. "You know her?" he asks her, low. "Naomi Evans's friend. We interviewed her yesterday." Prentiss doesn't look away from you. "Same night, same hotel. I don’t think that's a coincidence." Hotch approaches, his presence carrying a quiet weight that silences the hallway. He looks at you like he’s measuring, not unkind. "Ma'am," he says, "we're going to need to talk to you. Now." Down the hall, Rossi rises from beside the body, his leather jacket creaking. He catches your eye and holds it for a long moment before turning to Hotch. "Same signature. Ring box. Strangulation. She's fresh, maybe an hour."

An hour. While you were three suites away, with a man who pays you to pretend he exists. Your voice comes out smaller than you want it to. "Haven't I told you enough?" The words hang in the fluorescent light. You feel the tears coming before you can stop them, a hot, sudden pressure behind your eyes that spills over before you can turn away. "I can't take this anymore." Your voice cracks. You press the heel of your palm against your mouth, muffling a sob. "Are we just- is this just going to keep happening? Are they just going to keep showing up dead?" Prentiss steps forward, her hand hovering near your elbow, not touching, but there. Spencer looks stricken, his notebook hanging forgotten at his side. "I told you everything," you manage, the tears coming freely now, shame and grief braiding together. "I told you about the cufflinks, the hotel, the crest, everything and she's still dead. Another girl. Another ring." You look at them, at all of them, Hotch's controlled stillness, Morgan's clenched jaw, Rossi watching you with the weight of decades. "What's the point? What's the point of any of it if they just keep dying?" The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.

Morgan's voice cuts through the silence, low and steady. "You're not alone in this." You look up at him through the tears. He's "We’re only here now because you were willing to give us valuable information, we have a pattern now, we’re not trying to scrape our way through the leads.” He holds your gaze, a hint of carefulness behind his eyes. "We can help you, really, if you need time.” Rossi straightens from beside the body, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. "He's right. This isn't on you, You. This is on the man leaving these rings." Prentiss steps closer, her hand finally settling on your shoulder, a warm, grounding weight. "We're going to find him. But we need you to let us do our job. And maybe let us get you a coffee while we do it." Hotch gives a short nod toward the stairwell. "There's a break room on the second floor. We can talk there, away from this."

The hallway feels too bright, too cold, too full of ghosts. But Morgan's words have steadied something in your chest. You wipe at your face with the back of your hand, but the tears keep coming, quieter now. "I need to work," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "But I don't feel like I can do this anymore." You look down at your hands, the same ones that fix your hair before a client arrives, the same ones that count cash in hotel bathrooms. "I'm so afraid it'll be me next." The words hang in the air. Spencer shifts on his feet, hands tucked into his pockets, looking like he wants to say something but doesn't know what. Prentiss's hand stays on your shoulder, steady. Rossi breaks the silence first. He steps away from the body, wiping his hands on a handkerchief, and walks over to you. His voice is rougher than you expected, older, worn in by years of scenes like this one. "You're afraid because you're smart." He tucks the handkerchief away. "Fear keeps you alive. But it doesn't have to keep you frozen." Morgan crosses his arms. "You don't have to go back out there tonight. We can have someone drive you home."

"Or," Emily adds, her tone careful, "you could come down to the field office. Sit with us while we work. You don't have to talk. You don't have to do anything. But you don't have to be alone."

"I can't afford to miss a night. Rent's due." The words land plain and unadorned, there's not much you can do, it's just a fact.

Derek exchanges a look with Prentiss. Something passes between them, something like a silent conversation you're not privy to. Then he reaches into his jacket, pulls out his wallet, and extracts a card. "Call this number tomorrow." He holds it out to you. "It's a victims' advocacy fund. They provide emergency financial assistance to witnesses cooperating with federal investigations." He pauses. "Tell them Derek Morgan referred you. They'll expedite it." You stare at the card. Your hand doesn't move. Emily gently takes it from Morgan and presses it into your palm, folding your fingers over it. "It's not charity, it’s support for people helping us catch a killer. You’re not any less for accepting help.” Rossi watches from a few feet away, arms crossed. "And in the meantime, consider this a work night that got cut short. Go home. Sleep. We'll call you tomorrow." Hotch's voice cuts in, practical and grounding. "We'll have an officer walk you to your apartment. Just to be safe."

Spencer steps forward, hesitant. "The advocacy fund also covers counseling, if you need it." He adds quickly, "Not that you have to. But it's available." The card is warm in your hand. The hallway is quiet except for the distant murmur of hotel staff and the soft crackle of a radio. You sigh, feeling your dress start to itch, your hands trembling, your eyelids twitching in nervous ticks. “I really need to go home." Prentiss's mouth tightens, but she doesn't argue. Morgan looks like he wants to, but a glance from Hotch holds him back. "If anything happens to me," you add, meeting each of their eyes in turn, "I'll call you." The weight of your choice sits in the space between you and them. A uniformed officer appears at the end of the hall, and Hotch gestures him over. "Officer Roberts will walk you to your apartment," Hotch says. "He'll stay outside until morning. Just in case."You nod. The officer is young, his face is serious, but you can sense how uneasy he feels behind it all.

Reid steps forward, pulling a card from his pocket. It's different from Emily’s, handwritten on the back, a phone number in neat script. "My personal cell," he says, quieter than before. "If you can't sleep. If you think of something. If you just need someone to talk to." You take it. Pocket it without looking.You smile softly at him. Prentiss holds your gaze a moment longer. "We'll call you tomorrow. Stay safe.." You turn and follow Officer Roberts toward the stairwell. Behind you, the BAU team's voices resume. As you leave, the stairs swallow the sound.

Your apartment is dark when you key in. The officer takes a post by the building entrance. Inside, the familiar smells of lavender and coffee greet you. The card from the advocacy fund sits on your counter beside Reid's number. You sink onto the edge of your couch, the springs creaking beneath you. The card with Spencer’s number it’s between your fingers, staring at you. You pick up your phone. Type. Delete. Type again. Your thumb hovers over send. Then you stop thinking and let it go.

you (11:47 PM): hey. it's me. i know it's late. i just, i hate that i have to do this. i hate that this is my life. i grew up in foster care, no one taught me how to be anything else. i used to dream about writing books. going to college. having a family. normal shit. but who's gonna want me after this? no man wants to marry a whore.

You stare at the screen for a long time, chest tight, regretting it already. You're about to toss the phone aside when three dots appear.

Spencer Reid (11:49 PM): Hey. I'm glad you texted.

Another pause. Three dots again.

Spencer Reid (11:50 PM): The first thing you said to me was that you know what you are. But I don't think you do. You're a woman who risked her safety to help a friend. Who noticed details no one else did. Who gave us our only lead in a case that would have gone cold.

Spencer Reid (11:51 PM): You survived foster care. You're still here. You're still fighting.

Spencer Reid (11:52 PM): And for what it's worth, the right man wouldn't care about what you've done to survive. He'd care about who you are.

You type slowly, the glow of your phone the only light in the room.

You (11:56 PM): i don't believe you. but thanks for saying it.

You watch the three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Spencer Reid (11:58 PM): That's fair. You don't have to believe me. But for what it's worth; I don't say things I don't mean. It's a problem, actually. Makes small talk difficult.

Spencer Reid (11:59 PM): I grew up in Las Vegas. My father left when he found out my mom was sick, and I think I took care of her more than she took care of me. I know what it's like to feel like the world has already decided what you're worth.

You stare at the screen. You didn't expect that.

Spencer Reid (12:00 AM): You mentioned writing books. What kind of books?

The question catches you off guard. It's so normal. So human. Like you're just two people talking at midnight instead of a witness and an FBI agent connected by a string of dead women. A breath escapes you; half laugh, half disbelief. But something about the quiet of your apartment, the late hour, the fact that he asked, loosens the knot in your chest.

You (12:03 AM): it's dumb. it’s about this woman who goes back to the house where she grew up after her mother dies, expecting to clear it out, but the place ends up forcing her to confront everything she’s been trying to outrun. idk, i think is really about memory, grief, identity. it’s quiet and very introspective, i can’t manage a lot of characters at the same time, and as she sorts through the house, she’s also trying to figure out who she is beyond everything she’s inherited. i don’t know how to end it though..

You (12:04 AM): maybe because i don't know how to end that story for myself either.

You watch the dots appear immediately this time.

Spencer Reid (12:05 AM): That's not dumb. It reminds me more of a psychological literary novel than anything else. The house almost sounds like a character in its own right. Gaston Bachelard wrote that "the house shelters daydreaming, the house protects the dreamer, the house allows one to dream in peace." Memory has a way of attaching itself to places, and sometimes we don't realize we're grieving a version of ourselves until we walk back into the rooms that made us.

You stare at the paragraph, then type a response slowly.

You (12:08 AM): you really just quoted a french philosopher at me over text at midnight.

Spencer Reid (12:08 AM): I told you. I have a problem with small talk.

A laugh escapes you, real, unexpected, cracking through the grief. You cover your mouth with your hand, surprised at yourself.

You (12:10 AM): okay dr reid. fair enough. so what are you reading right now?

You (12:11 AM): or are you not allowed to have hobbies when your job is chasing serial killers

You curl deeper into the couch, pulling your knees up. The phone glows in the dark. Outside, the city hums. The officer is somewhere downstairs.

Three dots appear immediately.

Spencer Reid (12:12 AM): I'm rereading "The Anthropologist" by Leonard Cohen. It's a small book, more of an extended essay, really. He writes about the nature of longing and how we try to fill the spaces inside ourselves with work, with love, with meaning.

Spencer Reid (12:13 AM): And I do have hobbies. I go to the shooting range. I solve Rubik's cubes when I'm thinking. I watch old B-movies. But yes, mostly I read.

You read it twice. The Leonard Cohen thing catches you off guard. You didn't expect an FBI profiler to be quoting a poet-songwriter at midnight, but Spencer is different, you've come to notice that.

You (12:15 AM): longing and filling spaces. that's heavy for a tuesday night.

You (12:16 AM): do you ever read things that aren't about the human condition? like, just a fun book?

The banter sits warm in your chest for a moment, but the image of the blonde girl in the hallway flickers back: the velvet box, the ring, the stillness of her body.

You (12:18 AM): hey. the fitzwilliam name. and the new girl. have you guys found anything yet?

You (12:19 AM): sorry. i know you're probably not supposed to tell me. i just, i can't stop seeing her.

Three dots appear. Pause. Disappear. You're about to set the phone down when they return.

Spencer Reid (12:21 AM): I can't give you details. But I can tell you we're running the Fitzwilliam name through property records, business registrations, and any known aliases. If he's in New York, he's left a paper trail somewhere.

Spencer Reid (12:22 AM): The new victim's name is Julia Williams. Twenty-four. She was an escort too, working out of the Pierre. Same M.O. No wallet, no phone found at the scene. The ring was the only thing left behind.

You read the name. Julia Williams. Twenty-four. Someone's daughter. Someone's friend. Maybe someone who had a novel she never finished too.

You stare at the screen.. Twenty-four. The name prickles at the back of your memory. You scroll through your mental catalog of faces, hotel rooms, clients who wanted two at once. And then it hits you, a warm spring night, a suite at the Mandarin Oriental. A client who paid triple to have you both.

You (12:26 AM): julia. i knew her.

You (12:27 AM): someone booked us together for a threesome once. about six months ago.

You (12:28 AM): she was quiet. sweet. she chain-smoked on the balcony after and told me she was saving up for nursing school.

The three dots appear but take longer than before.

Spencer Reid (12:30 AM): That's… I'm sorry.

Spencer Reid (12:31 AM): Can you remember anything about the client who booked you both? Any details at all?

You close your eyes, pulling the night forward. The suite. The champagne. The client, he was older, distinguished, silver hair. He'd been polite, almost gentlemanly. The kind of control that some men wore like cologne.

You (12:33 AM): silver hair. tall. wore cufflinks. i didn't see them clearly that night but…

You (12:33 AM): he could be the same man. i don't know for sure.

You (12:34 AM): but he knew how to make two women feel like the only people in the room.

The dots disappear. The night feels heavier.

The confession about Julia sits heavy in the digital space between you. You stare at the ceiling for a long moment, then pick up the phone again.

You (12:36 AM): i'm sorry for deflecting, but i wanted to talk about the books.

You (12:37 AM): there's this author. brazilian. her name is clarice lispector.

You (12:38 AM): she wrote about the small moments. the ones that don't seem like anything until you look closer. a woman standing at a window. a cockroach dying (?). the space between two people who don't know how to reach each other.

You (12:39 AM): i wanted to write things like that. maybe a mix of her and sylvia plath. the quiet and the scream.

Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again.. Then:

Spencer Reid (12:41 AM): Lispector's "The Hour of the Star" is one of the most remarkable novels I've ever read.

Spencer Reid (12:42 AM): You're the first person I've met who's brought her up in conversation.

Spencer Reid (12:42 AM): You should write that book, really.

Your throat tightens. You type, delete, type again.

You (12:43 AM): maybe someday.

You (12:44 AM): if i live that long.

You type, delete, and finally send:

You (12:46 AM): i'll try to sleep. i'm sorry for bothering you, for venting like that. i just couldn't be alone with my thoughts.

You nearly put the phone down, but three dots appear immediately.

Spencer Reid (12:47 AM): You're not bothering me. That's what the number is for.

Spencer Reid (12:48 AM): Get some rest. I'll be here if you need to talk again.

You stare at the words for a long moment. Then you set the phone face-down on the nightstand, pull the blanket up to your chin, and close your eyes.

In Spencer’s hotel room, the last of your texts sit on his phone as he reads them again. He'd typed and deleted three responses before settling on the one he sent. Professional. Kind. Safe.

He'd stared at the ceiling for another hour after that. Thinking about Clarice Lispector. About a woman who reads Le Guin and wants to write like Plath. About the way her voice cracked in the hallway when she said “Are we just going to keep showing up dead?”

At 3:14 AM, his phone buzzed with the property records hit. He forwarded it to the team chat and sent her the update, it was brief, factual, professional courtesy, it’s what he told himself.

His phone sits dark on the hotel nightstand. He's been lying in bed for the better part of an hour, the ceiling tiles counting themselves above him. He replays the texts.

clarice lispector. i wanted to write things like that.

He'd felt something catch in his chest when he read it. The same feeling he gets when he finds a rare first edition in a used bookstore — recognition. The quiet thrill of discovering someone who sees the world the way you do. He thinks about the way she said “once these guys know us as whores, that's all we'll ever be to them.” No self-pity. Just a fact she'd accepted so thoroughly it had become part of her posture.

The right man wouldn't care about what you've done to survive.

He'd meant it when he typed it. That's the part that unsettles him. He'd meant it so completely that he'd stared at the words after sending them, startled by his own certainty. He doesn't know her. He's spoken to her twice, exchanged late-night texts about dead women and Brazilian authors. That's not enough to feel this — this pull, this concern, this urge to call and make sure she's actually sleeping. But here he is. 3:47 AM. Thinking about a woman with sad eyes and a half-finished novel. He turns on his side. Forces his eyes closed. But when he finally slept, he dreamt of rings and hotel hallways and a woman standing in a doorway, barefoot, crying.

Morning comes grey and indifferent. Your phone has a text from Spencer, sent at 3:14 AM.

Spencer Reid (3:14 AM): We found a property in Connecticut under the Fitzwilliam name. Estate in Greenwich. Hotch is getting a warrant now.

Spencer Reid (3:15 AM): I'll update you when I can.

Sunlight spills through your thin curtains. The officer is still outside, a shape in the doorway down below. The coffee maker stares at you from the counter, waiting.

You peel yourself off the bed, stretching and getting started with your morning routine. You brush your teeth, wash your face, do your hair, apply some light makeup and get dressed, until your phone buzzes. It’s him..

Spencer Reid (8:47 AM): Just got to Greenwich. The estate is gated, three acres, main house, guest cottage. Grounds team is sweeping the perimeter. I'll let you know if we find anything.

Spencer Reid (8:48 AM): Did you sleep?

Your thumbs move before you've fully decided what to say.

You (8:49 AM): barely. you?

You (8:50 AM): good luck at the estate.

You don't open your laptop. You don't check the news. You sit on the couch, pull out your yarn basket, and start knitting. The rhythm takes over. Loop, pull, twist. Loop, pull, twist. Your hands move on their own while your mind drifts somewhere distant, the hotel suites, silver cufflinks, a girl on a balcony chain-smoking and talking about nursing school. The yarn bleeds through your fingers, navy-blue and maroon, a pattern you started weeks ago without a plan. The afternoon light shifts across the floor.

Your phone buzzes once. Twice. You don't check it.

Hours pass. You finish the sleeve, then the other. You seam the shoulders, weave in the ends. It's only when you hold it up that you see what you've made. A sweater. Simple, soft. A man's size. Long enough for someone lanky, with sleeves that would reach past his wrists. You stare at it in your hands.

Oh.

Your face warms. You set the sweater down carefully on the arm of the couch, heart rabbiting against your ribs for no reason you're willing to name. Your phone glows from the coffee table. Three unread messages from Spencer Reid. You reach for the phone, the sweater still warm in your lap.

Spencer Reid (12:14 PM): The estate is empty. Furnished, maintained, but no one's lived here recently. The grounds team found tire tracks in the back drive, they were fresh. Whoever he is, he knew we were coming.

Spencer Reid (12:52 PM): We found a locked study. Forced entry. Inside: newspaper clippings. Local obituaries. A map of Manhattan with pins at the Pierre, the Langham, and three other hotels. He's been planning this longer than we thought.

Spencer Reid (1:47 PM): Hey. I know you're probably processing. Just, please, check in when you can. So I know you're okay.

The last message is two hours old. You look at the sweater folded on the couch. At your phone. At the grey afternoon light slanting through the window. You type and send before you can second-guess it.

You (3:52 PM): i'm okay. sorry, i was knitting. lost track of time.

You (3:53 PM): the other hotels. do you know which ones?

You hit send and set the phone down, heart doing an annoying little flutter that you firmly ignore. The sweater sits on the arm of the couch, soft and navy and maroon. You drag your eyes away from it. The phone buzzes almost immediately.

Spencer Reid (3:54 PM): The St. Regis. The Ritz-Carlton Central Park. And the Greenwich Hotel in Tribeca.

Spencer Reid (3:55 PM): He has a pattern. Every other Thursday. All high-end. All hotels with private entrances and staff trained to be discreet.

Spencer Reid (3:56 PM): Do you remember any other regulars? Anyone who booked you consistently at a specific hotel?

You stare at the question. Every other Thursday. High-end hotels. Private entrances. Your mind sifts through the calendar, the appointments, the repeat clients. There are a few who book regularly. A hedge fund manager who always takes the penthouse at the Mandarin. A tech executive who prefers the Four Seasons downtown. And one more.

A man, early sixties, silver hair. Always the Pierre. Always the same corner suite with the view of the park. The last Thursday of every month. In all this time, you didn’t even think that Naomi’s guy could have been seeing other girls too, even less if the other girl was you. You'd always thought of him as safe. He talked about his wife and his boat and never stayed past midnight. Your fingers move before your brain catches up.

You (3:57 PM): there's someone. regular at the pierre. last thursday of every month. corner suite, park view. early sixties, silver hair. he talks about his wife and his boat and he's never stayed past midnight.

You (3:58 PM): i never thought, idk… he seemed so normal. boring, even.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. You grip the phone, waiting.

Spencer Reid (4:00 PM): Last Thursday of every month. That's consistent with Naomi's schedule at the Langham. It is a different hotel, but the timing it’s the same.

Spencer Reid (4:01 PM): Can you describe him? Anything specific. Build. Accent. Distinguishing features.

You close your eyes. The Pierre. The corner suite. The way he'd pour you a glass of wine and ask about your day like he actually cared.

You (4:03 PM): tall. broad shoulders but not heavy. english accent, upper class, like private school english. blue eyes. and he had a habit of touching his wedding ring when he talked about his wife.

You (4:04 PM): i never saw him angry. never even raised his voice. he was gentle.

You stare at the word. Gentle. The same word someone probably used to describe Naomi’s killer at a dinner party. Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, then move.

You (4:06 PM): do you think it could be him? the same man?

You (4:06 PM): i need to know.

The three dots appear instantly, then vanish. A full minute passes. You watch the cursor blink. When the reply comes, it's measured, careful in a way that feels practiced.

Spencer Reid (4:08 PM): The pattern fits. Same frequency. Same hotel tier. Same demographic, older, wealthy, English. We're running the Fitzwilliam crest through English peerage records now, but if this man also uses that crest...

Spencer Reid (4:09 PM): It could be him. But we need more than a description to be certain.

Spencer Reid (4:10 PM): I need you to think carefully. Did he ever mention his name? A nickname? Anything at all?

You search your memory. The corner suite. The wine. The way he'd ask about your day. But names were currency in your world, real ones were guarded, traded only when trust was earned. He'd been careful. You realize that now. You pause, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Something stirs in the back of your memory. A moment, small, almost forgotten. You're in the corner suite. He's pouring whiskey, talking about a sailing trip. His phone buzzes on the nightstand. He glances at it, smiles, a real smile, not the polite one, and mutters, almost to himself: "She calls me Teddy. No one else does."

He'd said it with such fondness you'd felt a small pang of something. Envy, maybe. That his wife loved him that much. You type slowly.

You (4:12 PM): teddy. his wife calls him teddy. he mentioned it once, said it like it meant something to him.

You (4:12 PM): i don't know if that helps. but it's the only name i ever heard.

The dots appear. Disappear. Then a long stretch of silence. Two minutes. Three. You're about to put the phone down when it buzzes again.

Spencer Reid (4:16 PM): Theodore Fitzwilliam. Sixth Earl of Whitmore. His wife's nickname for him, according to a 2003 Tatler profile, is Teddy.

You stare at the screen.

Spencer Reid (4:17 PM): You just gave us our suspect.

The phone is in your hands. The name hangs in the air between you and the screen: Theodore Fitzwilliam.

Your thumbs move before you decide they will.

You (4:19 PM): god, i let him touch me.

You (4:19 PM): every time. he'd pour the wine and ask about my day and i'd let him put his hands on me because he was gentle and he never made me feel like i was just

You stop. Delete the last line. Start again.

You (4:20 PM): i let him into the bed with me. for months. and now i find out he might have killed naomi. might have killed julia.

You (4:20 PM): what does that say about me?

You send it before you can think better of it. Your chest feels tight. The sweater is still on the arm of the couch, soft and grey and warm, and you want to throw it across the room. You want to hold it to your face. Three dots appear. Pause. Then:

Spencer Reid (4:22 PM): It says you were doing your job. It says he was good at hiding who he really was.

Spencer Reid (4:23 PM): It doesn't say anything about you. It says everything about him.

You stare at the words. Your eyes sting. You blink hard, once, twice, and look away. You read his message once. Twice. Your throat loosens, just a little.

You (4:24 PM): do you have enough to arrest him?

The dots appear quickly this time.

Spencer Reid (4:25 PM): Not yet. The tire tracks and the map are strong circumstantial evidence. The obituaries connect him to a pattern. But we don't have physical evidence tying him to the crime scenes yet. No DNA. No witnesses placing him at either hotel on the nights of the murders.

Spencer Reid (4:26 PM): We're pulling financial records now. If he paid for those suites with a card under his name, or if we can place him in the city on those dates, we can build a case.

Spencer Reid (4:27 PM): The warrant for the Greenwich property came through. Forensics is going through the house room by room. If there's something there, we'll find it.

You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. His name is Theodore Fitzwilliam. He's an earl. He kills women in hotel rooms and leaves wedding rings beside their bodies. And somewhere in Connecticut, FBI agents are tracking through his house like ants through a sugar bowl. Your eyes drift back to the sweater.. Your hand moves before you tell it to. The sweater is soft in your grasp, cashmere blend. You run your thumb along the seam you finished, the one that would fall at the shoulder of someone tall. Someone lanky. Someone with clever hands and an eidetic memory and kind hazel eyes. You fold it carefully. Once. Twice. Smooth the collar. It sits on your coffee table like an accusation. You could finish it. Sew the buttons on. Block it properly. Let it become a thing that exists in the world, finished and usable and his.

Or you could stuff it in the bottom of your closet and never look at it again.

Your phone glows. Another message from Spencer.

Spencer Reid (4:32 PM): Forensics found a hidden safe in the master bedroom closet at the Greenwich property. They're cracking it now.

Spencer Reid (4:32 PM): I'll keep you updated.

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