𝖑𝖔𝖑𝖆

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.

taglist: @goldenlinguistics1114 @sammy4sstuff @sweet-t33a @boiiitskhloe @violent-cupids @hiddentattooodyssey @lavendercoldfoam

Greenwich, Connecticut — 4:33 PM

The Fitzwilliam estate sits behind wrought-iron gates and a quarter-mile of private drive, all rolling lawn and old-growth oaks. The main house is Georgian brick, three stories, with black shutters and a portico that could swallow a car. It looks like the kind of place where ambassadors retire and debutantes have their coming-out parties. Reid stands in the master bedroom, hands in his coat pockets, watching a forensic tech work a small floor safe in the back of the closet. The room is elegant; A four-poster bed, antique armoire, a watercolor of the English countryside above the fireplace. No signs of struggle. No signs of a second life at all. Morgan leans against the doorframe. "Anything?"

"Combination lock. Seven digits." The tech glances up. "Could be a date. Phone number. Could take a while." Hotch's voice carries from the hallway. "Prentiss, check the study for any ledgers or appointment books. Rossi, the guest wing. Look for anything that suggests long-term occupancy."

Reid's phone buzzes. He pulls it out.

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

He reads it twice. Types his reply, then puts the phone away.

Morgan raises an eyebrow. "Everything okay?"

"Fine." He smiles, then pulls himself from the safe and crosses the wide, echoing hallway to the study. The room is paneled in dark walnut, floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with leather-bound volumes — history, law, a complete set of Burke's Peerage. A mahogany desk sits at the far end, neat and organized, and Prentiss is bent over it, flipping through a leather-bound ledger. She looks up as he enters. "Anything?"

"Seven-digit safe. They're working on it." Spencer moves closer, eyes scanning the spines. "What about this?"

"Appointment calendar. Two years' worth." Emily turns the ledger toward him, tapping a page. "Every other Thursday, marked in pencil. No location noted, but the dates line up with Naomi Evans's schedule and Julia Williams's." He leans in. The handwriting is clean, precise. 3:15 beside each date. A time, not an address. "Anything else?" Prentiss flips further back. "Same pattern going back four years. And—" She pulls out a slim leather journal from under the ledger. "This was locked in the bottom drawer. Personal diary."

Spencer takes it carefully, opening to a page near the middle. The handwriting shifts, it’s looser, the pages are marked, as if he wrote with a lot more force this time. A single passage catches his eye.

She asked about my wife. I told her the truth, that I love Eleanor. She smiled and said she understood. They always understand, in the beginning.

He reads it again. Then the next entry.

I bought the ring today. Not for Eleanor. For the next one. I'll leave it beside her so everyone knows she was loved.

Reid pulls out his phone, the diary still open in his other hand. He hits Garcia's contact.

She picks up on the first ring. "Oh, look who it is! The boy genius, emerging from the Connecticut wilderness to grace me with a phone call."

"Garcia. I need you to run something."

"You always need me to run something. The question is whether you deserve my help, given that you have been ghosting me on a very important matter."

Spencer frowns. "What matter?"

"The matter of a certain woman who has been occupying your text thread at frankly ungodly hours. I have sources, Spencer. I have logs. You think I don't notice when my favorite genius starts sending paragraphs at 3 AM to a mysterious number?"

Emily looks up from the ledger, one eyebrow raised.

Spencer’s ears go red. "That's— that's not relevant to the case, Garcia."

"Oh, it's extremely relevant to the case, because it tells me you have feelings and you're not sharing them with the team therapist like a well-adjusted adult."

"Garcia."

"I'm just saying! She's pretty. She's smart. She texts you about knitting and literature and you go all soft-eyed—"

"We are not having this conversation."

"You're having it right now, baby genius. You called me."

Reid pinches the bridge of his nose. Prentiss hides a smile behind the ledger. He sighs, a sound that carries the weight of the last three days. "Garcia. I'll tell you about it later. I promise."

There's a pause on the other end. When she speaks again, the teasing edge has softened into something gentler. "Fine. I'm holding you to that. Now, what did you actually call about?"

He glances at the diary in his hand. The pages are worn, the ink sepia-dark in the low study light. "I need you to cross-reference the name Theodore Fitzwilliam, Sixth Earl of Whitmore, against any property records, shell companies, or aliases tied to the hotels on our map. The Langham, the Pierre, the St. Regis, the Ritz-Carlton, the Greenwich Hotel."

"Already on it, sweet pea. The second Hotch sent me the warrant, I started digging. Give me ten minutes and I'll have more than you wanted to know."

"And Garcia—" Spencer hesitates. "The diary. It reads like a confession. He wrote about buying a ring. About leaving it beside the body so 'everyone knew she was loved.'" Silence. Then, quietly: "I'll fast-track the property search. You focus on that book."

He hangs up. Emily watches him with an unreadable expression. "A confession?"

"Of sorts." Spencer sets the diary on the desk, open to the entry he was reading. "He doesn't name names. But he describes the ritual." Prentiss reads the passage. Her jaw tightens immediately. "We need to get this to Hotch. Now."

"I want to photograph every page first," Spencer says, already pulling his phone out. "Evidence chain. If something happens to the original on the way to Quantico—" Emily nods. "Smart. I'll keep an eye on the door."

He lays the diary flat on the desk and works through it methodically. Page by page. The first entries are mundane — meeting times, expenses, a note about a tailor in Savile Row. But as he moves deeper, the tone shifts. The handwriting tightens.

March 12. She wore red. I told her it reminded me of the roses at Whitmore Hall. She laughed. I knew then it would be soon.

April 3. The ring is heavier than I expected. I practice holding it in my palm. Eleanor asked what I was thinking about. I told her: us. It wasn't a lie.

He photographs each spread. The leather creaks as the pages are turned. Some entries are crossed out, rewritten. He edited himself, Reid realizes. He chose his words carefully even in private. When Spencer reaches the last written page, he pauses.

June 9. I saw her today. The one from the Pierre, the girl with the soft hair and the sad eyes. She was buying fruit at a market in SoHo. She didn't see me. I stood across the street for ten minutes, watching her weigh oranges in her hands. She looked happy. I wanted to tell her she shouldn't be.

Spencer’s blood goes cold. The girl with the soft hair and the sad eyes.

You.

He closes the diary. The leather creaks softly in his lean hands. Forty-seven photographs, timestamped and saved. The last image sits in his camera roll — the girl with the soft hair and the sad eyes — and he forces himself to hold it together.

"We really need to get this to Hotch." Spencer’s voice comes out even. "And we need to warn her."

Prentiss is already moving. "I'll find him. You call her." She's out the study door before he can argue. He doesn’t. He pulls up your contact and press call before he can overthink it.

It rings once. Twice. Thrice.

Pick up.

Four rings.

Please pick up.

A click. Her voice, uncertain: "Hello?"

He breathes out your name in relief and doesn’t waste his time, he doesn’t soften it. He doesn’t ease in. "Theodore Fitzwilliam kept a diary. In it, he describes watching you in SoHo. Buying fruit. He stood across the street and watched you for ten minutes." Silence on the line. You can hear your own breathing. "I need you to listen to me carefully. He's been observing you outside of bookings. That escalates his risk profile significantly. I'm going to arrange protective detsail—"

"I don't want protective detail." Your voice is quiet but steady. "I told you that already."

"He wrote about you. By description, but clearly enough that I knew it was you the moment I read it. He says you looked happy. He says he wanted to tell you that you shouldn't be."

The words hang in the air. You exhale, slow and deliberate.

"Where are you right now?" he asks.

"Home. On my couch. There's a half-finished sweater next to me."

"Good. Stay there. Don't open the door for anyone you don't know. I'm coming to you."

He hangs up before you can argue. Emily is already at the study door, phone in hand. "Hotch is authorizing protection. I'll coordinate with Martinez."

Spencer’s already moving past her, the diary tucked under his arm, heart hammering a rhythm he refuses to name. He’s halfway to the front door when he stops, phone already in hand. He pulls up Garcia's contact and hits call as he strides across the marble foyer.

"Miss me already?" she answers.

"Garcia. I need you to pull up the exterior cameras for her building in Manhattan. Traffic cams, building security, anything with a line of sight on her front door and fire escape."

"You're spying on your crush? Spencer, that's—"

"She's in danger. Fitzwilliam wrote about watching her in SoHo. I'm en route to her apartment now, but I need eyes on her location until I get there."

The playfulness drops from her voice. "Address?"

You give it to her. Keys click in the background.

"Pulling up now... got a street-level cam on the corner. Give me sixty seconds to find the building's internal system."

He pushes through the front door of the estate, past the forensic van, toward the sedan parked in the drive. Prentiss calls something after him and he waves without even turning.

"Building lobby cam is online," Garcia says. "No unusual activity. Elevator bank is clear. Her floor corridor is quiet."

"Keep watching. Call me if anything changes."

"Already locked in, baby genius. Go."

Spencer ends the call with Garcia and slides into the sedan, engine already turning over before the door's fully shut. The estate gates opens ahead of him, slow as molasses, and he’s through them before they're halfway there.

The drive to Manhattan is a blur of highway and tunnel, brake lights and merging traffic. The GPS clocks forty-two minutes. He makes it in thirty-one. He pulls up outside your building, a modest pre-war walk-up in a quiet stretch of Tribeca. The street is calm. A delivery truck idles at the corner. A woman walks her dog past the front steps. Nothing unusual. Spencer kills the engine and is out of the car before it's fully stopped. The lobby door is unlocked. He takes the stairs two at a time, heart pounding a rhythm he refuses to name. Third floor. Your door is at the end of the hall, painted a faded blue, a small welcome mat with a cat on it.

He knock. Two sharp raps.

"Hey. It's Reid." He stands in the dim hallway, hand half-raised to knock again.

The thought is strange and warm and terrifying all at once. You hear his breathing through the wood, quick, like he ran the stairs. You hadn't expected him to actually come. A text, maybe. A call. A police cruiser parked outside your building.

Not him. Not standing in your hallway in person.

The door doesn't open. The seconds stretch. Then he hears it, soft footsteps, a pause, and the click of a lock.

The door swings open.

You stand in the frame, barefoot, wearing an oversized cardigan over shorts. Your hair is pulled back loosely, a few strands falling across your face. You looks tired, like you’be been holding it together by a thread. For a moment, neither of you speaks.

"He wrote about me?" you ask quietly. "Yeah." Spencer keeps his voice low. "He did." You step back, holding the door open. "Come in."

He does. The apartment feels smaller with him in it — not in a bad way, just different. He stops in the center of the living room, hands at his sides, looking at your books, your tea, your half-finished sweater like he's trying to memorize the space. "How did you get here so fast?"

"I drove." He just stands there, hands at his sides. "Garcia is monitoring the cameras on your building. No unusual activity so far. But I wanted to be here." You cross your arms, looking at him with an expression he can't quite read. "You didn't have to come all the way out here just to babysit me."

"I know." He meets your eyes. "I came anyway.".

The words sit between you. You look away first, at the sweater on the couch, the soft grey and cream yarn. "Do you want tea? I was about to make a fresh pot."

You push off from the door and pad into the kitchen, filling the kettle without asking if he actually wants tea. He didn't say no. That's close enough. The kitchen is small, and you can feel him behind you, standing awkwardly in the living room, not quite sure where to land. You pull down two mugs, drop a bag of green tea in each, and wait for the water to boil. Behind you, the apartment is quiet. You hear him shift his weight. Then a soft sound, something like fabric being lifted. You glance over your shoulder.

He's holding the sweater. The one you finished this afternoon. It's draped over his hands, navy and maroon, soft in the low light. He's not looking at you. He's looking at the sweater, then at the couch, then back at the sweater. Measuring. He says your name, his voice is careful. "This is—" He holds it up. It's long. The sleeves would fall past your fingertips if you tried to wear it. "It's too big for you." The kettle clicks off. Steam rises. You keep your back to him, hands on the counter. "I know," you say quietly. You turn from the kettle, the mugs of steaming tea forgotten on the counter.

"It's for you. If you want it."

The words hang in the air between you. He's still holding the sweater, hands loose around the shoulders, like he's afraid to crease it. His expression shifts, something unreadable crossing his features before he schools it back to neutral. "For me?" His voice comes out slightly higher than usual. He clears his throat. "I mean, you made this. Today. While I was in Greenwich."

"I didn't plan it." You wrap your arms around yourself. "I just started knitting and didn't stop until it was done. And then I realized who I'd made it for." He looks down at the sweater in his hands. The soft maroon stripes. The navy panels. The careful seams. When he looks back up, there's something raw in his eyes, quickly hidden.

"I—" He stops. Starts again. "No one's ever made me anything before." The words land somewhere deep in your chest. You don't know what to say to that, so you say nothing. Just cross the room, take the sweater gently from his hands, and hold it up against his shoulders.

"It'll fit," you say quietly. "I measured it, at least I tried to, in my own way.” He goes very still. The words tumble out of you in a rush, like water breaking through a dam.

"I'm sorry if that's a lot. I just— I made it, I wasn't really thinking, I guess you were just in my mind and I don't want you to think anything wrong of me. I know a man like you would never want to be seen with such a dirty woman like I am and I—"

He says your name quietly, but it cuts through the spiral. You stop, mouth open, heart hammering. He's still holding the sweater, one hand pressed to the navy-colored yarn like he's grounding himself in it. "Stop." His voice is soft, but firm. "Just— stop for a second."

You press your lips together. Your eyes sting.

He takes a step closer. Then another. He's close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his irises, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. "I'm going to say something," he says carefully, "and I need you to hear it. Not deflect. Not apologize. Just hear it." You nod, barely.

"You're not dirty." He says it like it's a fact, like he's citing a theorem. "You're a woman who did what she had to do to survive. And you're kind, and you're smart, and you text me at 3 AM about Clarice Lispector, and you made me a sweater." He pauses. "A man like me would be really lucky to be seen with you."

The tears spill over. You don't try to stop them. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. The tears keep coming, but quieter now. You sniff, once, and meet his eyes. "Try it on. Please."

He looks down at the sweater in his hands, then back at you. For a moment you think he might argue — deflect, minimize, do something academic and distancing. Instead, he shrugs off his coat and pulls the sweater over his head. It settles over his shoulders like it was made for him. Which it was. The maroon stripes catch the light. The sleeves end just past his wrists. The hem falls clean at his hips. He looks down at himself, runs a hand along the sleeve. When he looks up, his expression is open in a way you haven't seen before.

"It fits."

You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. "Yeah. It does." He stands there in your apartment, wearing something you made, and neither of you speaks. The tea cools on the counter. The city hums outside your window. The sweater looks right on him. Natural. Like it belongs. He touches the collar. "The stitch pattern, is this seed stitch?"

You blink, dumbfounded. "You know knitting?"

"I know a lot of things." A small, almost-shy smile. "I read a book on textile manufacturing once. Seed stitch, stockinette, ribbing. I know the theory."

"Keep it. I made it for you."

The words settle between you. He looks down at the sweater again, runs his palm along the sleeve like he's still processing the reality of it. When he looks up, something in his expression has shifted, something softer, less guarded.

"I will." His voice is quiet. "I'll wear it." The silence stretches for a bit. The kettle's long gone cold but neither of you moves toward the kitchen. "This is—" He starts, stops, tries again. "I don't have a lot of people who do things for me. Not like this. Not without wanting something in return." You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "I don't want anything from you, Spencer. I just—" You glance at the sweater, at him, at the floor. "I wanted you to be warm." He's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is rough at the edges. "I am." His hand traces the sleeve again, slow, like he's memorizing the texture. He opens his mouth to say something, but he’s interrupted.

A knock at the door.

You both freeze. Your eyes meet his. That knock isn't anyone checking in. It isn't a delivery. Every instinct you've honed in this city prickles at the back of your neck. Reid holds up a hand, signaling you to stay still. He moves silently toward the door, steps light, and peers through the peephole. His body goes rigid.

He turns to you, face pale, and mouths three words: Don't. Open. The door.

Then the knocking comes again. And a voice — low, English, smooth as polished wood.

"I know you're in there. I saw the light. I just want to talk."

Theodore Fitzwilliam.

You step around Spencer before he can stop you, pressing yourself against the door. Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "Who is it?" A pause. Then that voice again, warm, polite, familiar from a dozen hotel rooms.

"It's Edward. From the Pierre. I hope I'm not interrupting, I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd take a chance. I know it's irregular." Edward. Not Theodore. Not the Earl of Whitmore. A false name, smooth as silk. You feel Spencer’s hand close gently around your wrist, pulling you back from the door. He shakes his head, eyes urgent. Outside, Fitzwilliam waits. You hear him shift his weight, the soft creak of the floorboards. "Hey?" His voice is still pleasant, still patient. "Are you going to let me in?"

"I don't take clients in my house." Your voice carries through the wood, steady, calm. "I thought you knew that." He pauses. You can almost hear him considering his response. "You're right. Of course. I apologize— I overstepped." A warm, self-deprecating chuckle. "I suppose I just wanted to see you. It's been a while." You don't answer. You turn your head, slow, and meet Spencer’s eyes. Your face asks the question your voice can't: What do we do?

His jaw is tight. He holds up a finger — wait — then pulls out his phone, thumbs moving fast. A second later, yours buzzes in your pocket. You don't reach for it. Can't risk the sound.

Another knock. Softer this time. Almost tender.

"I know you're scared. I know the FBI has been asking questions. But I'm not here to hurt you. I just want to explain." His voice is gentle. Kind. The same voice that asked about your day, that poured your wine, that told you about his boat and his wife. The voice of a man who left rings beside dead women. You take a breath. Reid's hand is still on your wrist, warm and steady. "What do you want to explain?" you call through the door.

A pause. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. Almost vulnerable.

"Everything. The woman they found at the Langham, Naomi innit? I knew her. I cared about her. And then she was gone, and I couldn't—" A shaky exhale. "I couldn't save her. And now the FBI thinks I had something to do with it. With her death. With the other girl. They're tearing my home apart looking for proof of something I didn't do." He's good. You'll give him that. He sounds like a man on the edge of breaking. "I didn't know where else to go. You were always kind to me. You listened. You never judged. I thought—" A pause. "I thought maybe you'd be the one person who'd hear me out." Across the room, Spencer’s phone buzzes silently in his hand. He glances down, then holds it up for you to see.

Garcia (4:51 PM): Motion detected on your floor. Someone's in the stairwell. Two figures. I can't get a visual but they're not moving like cops.

Your blood runs cold. He's not alone.

Your eyes catch Spencer’s. You don't break the gaze. You lift your chin, just slightly, toward his phone. Call them. He understands immediately. He steps back, fingers moving over the screen, keeping his movements low and quiet.

You turn back to the door. Breathe. Find the voice you used in a hundred hotel rooms, the warm, professional, slightly distracted one. "I hear you, Edward." You soften your tone, let it tremble just a little. "I do. I can't imagine what this has been like for you."

"Then let me in." His voice is almost pleading now. "Please. Just — ten minutes. I'll tell you everything, and then I'll go. You'll never see me again." You glance at Spencer. He's on the phone now, speaking in near-silent murmurs, his free hand pressed flat against the wall. Still on hold. Still waiting. You need more time. "Ten minutes," you repeat, stalling. "Edward, you show up at my door unannounced, you want me to let you into my home, and you think ten minutes is going to make this right?"

A pause. Then, softer, almost hurt: "I thought you understood me." Something in his voice has shifted. The warmth is still there, but underneath it, a cold thread, thin as wire.

"I did understand you, Edward." Your voice softens, almost tender. "That's why this hurts." Silence. You press your ear close to the wood, listening for movement. A long, slow exhale on the other side.

"You always knew what to say." His voice is quiet now, almost sad. "I admired that about you. The way you could hold a room without raising your voice. The way you made a man feel like he was the only person in the world." He pauses. The floorboards creak as he shifts his weight. "That's why I came tonight. Not to hurt you, but to give you a chance." His tone hardens, just a fraction. "You've been talking to the FBI. I know you have. And I know you've told them things. But I also know you haven't told them everything."

Your blood goes cold. Beside you, Spencer’s fingers fly across his phone screen. He holds it up: Backup en route. 5 minutes.

Five minutes. You look at the door. At the man on the other side. At the man wearing your sweater, standing in your living room, trying to save your life. "Tell me what you think I haven't told them," you say, buying time. You catch Reid's eye and tilt your head toward the door. A single motion. He understands. He moves silently, his shoes barely whispering on the hardwood, and positions himself beside the frame, back pressed to the wall. His hand rests near his hip, where you know there's a holster. He meets your gaze. Steady. Ready.

You turn back to the door.

"Tell me what you think I haven't told them, Edward." Your voice is soft, curious. The voice you used for clients who wanted to feel heard. A long pause. When he speaks, his voice is lower. Something raw beneath the polish. "I think you haven't told them about the last time we met. The corner suite. The way you looked at me when I told you that I loved my wife." Your stomach drops. "You remember that night, don't you? You asked me why I cheated on her. And I told you— I told you the truth. That I loved Eleanor, and that was all. You smiled and said you understood.”

Spencer’s eyes are on you, sharp and questioning. You don't have an answer. You turn your head, slow, and meet his eyes. You lift your chin toward the door, then raise your eyebrows — a question you don't dare speak out loud.

Do you want me to open it?

His eyes widen. He shakes his head once, sharp and definitive. No. Then he holds up his phone. The screen glows in the dim apartment:

Garcia (4:53 PM): Backup is 10 minutes out. DO NOT ENGAGE.

You give him the smallest nod. Message received. You turn back to the door, heart pounding, and find your voice again. "Edward." Soft. Almost gentle. "I remember that night. I remember everything." A pause. You hear him breathe.

"Then you know I'm not a violent man." His voice is earnest, almost pleading. "I never raised a hand to you. I never raised my voice. I treated you with kindness. With respect."

"You did." Your throat tightens. "You were always gentle with me."

"I still am." A pause. "That's why I came tonight. To give you a choice. You can keep talking to the FBI, and I'll be forced to do something neither of us wants. Or you can open this door, and we can figure out a way forward together." The floorboards creak in the stairwell. Coming closer.

You straighten your spine, pulling your shoulders back. The fear is still there, coiled in your chest, but you push it down into the space you've always kept for that purpose. "You said you wanted to explain, Edward." Your voice is steady. "So explain." Another pause. You hear him breathe, slow and deliberate.

"I wanted to tell you about Naomi." His voice is quieter now. "The real story. Not what the FBI thinks."

"Then tell me."

"The night she died, I was with her." A long exhale. "I was in the hotel room. We argued. She wanted me to leave Eleanor. She said she'd go to the press, expose everything if I didn't. I told her I needed time." His voice cracks. "I left. And the next morning, she was dead."

Behind you, Reid's phone buzzes. He glances at it, then holds it up: Backup arriving. 30 seconds.

"Someone killed her after I left," Fitzwilliam continues. "Someone who knew about us. Someone who wanted to make it look like me." The stairwell creaks again. Closer now. You tense, listening past his voice to the sound of footsteps, more than one set, moving slow and deliberate. "I think it's the same person who killed Julia Williams. And I think—" He pauses. "I think they're coming for you next." Through the door, you hear it. A sound behind him — a muffled thud, a sharp intake of breath. Then Fitzwilliam's voice, suddenly strained:

"Run."

You press your eye to the cold metal of the peephole. The fisheye lens distorts the hallway, but you can see enough. Fitzwilliam is on his knees, hands raised. Behind him, two men in dark jackets have him pinned. One holds a gun to the back of his head. The other is already turning toward your door. Fitzwilliam's eyes meet yours through the peephole. There's no fear in them. No pleading.

He smiles.

Then the man beside him raises a fist and knocks, not the polite knock from before, but something harder. Official.

"FBI. Open up."

You pull back from the peephole, heart slamming against your ribs. Fitzwilliam smiled. He smiled at you through the door while a gun was pressed to his head. None of this is right. You grab Spencer’s arm and yank him toward the back of the apartment. "Fire escape," you hiss. "Now." He doesn't argue. Doesn't ask. He's moving with you, one hand going to his holster, the other catching the fire escape latch before you've even reached it. The window screeches open, cold air flooding in.

Behind you, the knocking turns to pounding. A voice, harder now: "Open the door! This is your last warning!" You swing a leg over the sill. The fire escape is old iron, bolted to the brick, three flights down to the alley. Below, a dumpster. A stray cat scattering. No backup in sight. Reid follows, landing light beside you, pulling the window shut behind him. The metal grate rattles as you both descend, footsteps clanging in the dark.

Above, you hear the door splinter open.

You're halfway down the second flight when Spencer’s phone is already at his ear, pressed tight, his other hand guiding you by the elbow past a railing that groans under your weight. "Morgan. It's Reid." His voice is low, urgent, barely carrying over the wind. "We're on the fire escape. Men at the door, they claimed to be FBI. They broke it down. Fitzwilliam was with them. He was on his knees, they had a gun to his head, but he smiled at herthrough the peephole. Something's wrong." He pauses, boots hitting the next platform. You're both moving fast, the metal trembling with every step. "I need you to check if any of our people were dispatched to her address in the last five minutes, even though I don’t think there were. If not, we have hostiles in her apartment wearing federal badges."

Another pause. Morgan's voice, tinny through the speaker.

"Stay on the line. I'll ask someone to check now."

You hit the ground. The alley is narrow, dark, reeking of wet cardboard and garbage. A single streetlamp flickers at the far end. You look up, your apartment window is dark, but you can see movement behind the glass, shadows passing back and forth. Spencer grabs your hand. "This way. We need to put distance between us and that building." You're both at the bottom of the fire escape, your sneakers hitting gravel. He tugs you forward, but you plant your feet. "Spencer." Your voice is low, urgent. "Do you have a weapon?" He stops. His hand drifts to his hip, there’s a shape beneath his jacket, barely visible in the dim alley light. "Standard issue. Fifteen rounds." He pauses. "I'm a better profiler than I am a shot." You don't know if that's modesty or accuracy. You don't have time to figure it out.

Above you, a window slams open. A voice, sharp and commanding: "They took the fire escape! Go! Cut them off at the alley mouth!"

Spencer’s hand finds yours again. "This way." He pulls you past the dumpster, past an overflowing recycling bin, toward a gap between two buildings so narrow you have to turn sideways to fit. Brick scrapes your shoulder. The smell of wet concrete and diesel fills your lungs. Behind you, boots hit the fire escape. You push through the gap and emerge onto a side street, quiet and dark.

"He smiled at me like he'd planned this." You hear your own voice, thin and distant. "Like he knew. Like he wanted me to see it."

Spencer looks at you, and for a moment, the mask slips, not the composed FBI agent, but the profiler, processing. Piecing together the fragments. "Fitzwilliam on his knees," he says slowly. "Controlled. Not afraid. He wanted you to witness his capture." His eyes find yours in the dim streetlight. "And then men claiming to be FBI arrive to pick you up. Men who knew exactly when to knock." He's connecting dots you hadn't even seen. "It was a trap. He led them here." His jaw tightens. "The question is whose trap, and who those men really belong to."

His phone vibrates. He glances down.

Morgan (4:57 PM): No units dispatched to your location. Those aren't our people. Get clear and stay dark. We're coming to you.

“He won’t escape, will he?” Your voice cracks on the last word. You hate it, you hate how small you sound, how exposed. But you can't help it. The image of Fitzwilliam's smile, the way his eyes found yours through the peephole like he knew you'd be watching, it’s carved into the back of your skull. "Please, Spencer." You realize you're still holding his sleeve, your knuckles white against the wool. "Tell me he won't. Tell me he doesn't just walk away from this." He looks at you. The streetlight catches the side of his face, the hollows under his cheekbones. "I can't promise you he won't slip through something," he says quietly. "He's wealthy. Connected. He has resources most people can't imagine." His hand covers yours, briefly, on his sleeve. "But I can promise you this. I won't stop. None of us will. We have a diary. We have a pattern. We have him on camera at the Langham. And now we know he's working with people who are willing to impersonate federal agents." A pause. "That's not a man who's going to walk away.” His phone vibrates again. He glances down.

Morgan (5:01 PM): One block east. Blue sedan. Moving to you now.

You let go of his sleeve. The wool slips through your fingers, and you take a step back, giving him room. "Okay." Your voice is steadier now. "You know what you're doing. I'll follow your lead." He blinks, like he wasn't expecting that. Something flickers across his face — surprise, maybe, or gratitude — before he masks it. He gives you a single nod, then turns, scanning the street with quick, efficient movements. "Morgan's one block east. We move fast, stay close to the buildings, keep to the shadows." He points toward a narrow gap between a laundromat and a bodega. "Through there. Comes out on Broome. He'll be waiting." He looks back at you, and for a moment, he's not Dr. Spencer Reid, genius profiler. He's just a man in a sweater you knitted, standing in a dark street, trying to keep you alive. "Stay behind me. If I tell you to run, you run. Don't look back. Don't wait for me." He holds your gaze, waiting for your answer.

You ask, quietly: "What's the plan after we meet him? What happens next?"

His focus doesn't waver. He's already mapping routes in that mind of his, already three moves ahead.

"Morgan's driving. We get in, we don't stop moving until we're at a secure location. Hotch will have already started coordinating a safe house by now." A pause. "Then we figure out what Fitzwilliam actually wants. Because that display at your door—" He shakes his head. "That was a performance. He wanted to be seen. Wanted you to see him taken. There's a reason for that." He glances down the alley, then back at you. "We'll regroup, debrief, and compare what we know with what Fitzwilliam's diary says. Somewhere along the way, he made a mistake. Left a clue. We find it, we find him."

A car engine rounds the corner, low and steady. Headlights sweep the opposite wall, the blue sedan. Morgan.

"Ready?" Spencer asks. You nod once. "Ready." He moves, and you follow. The blue sedan pulls up to the curb, and the back door swings open before it's fully stopped. Morgan's face appears in the front seat, sharp, alert, scanning the street behind you.

"Get in. Now."

You slide into the back, Spencer’s right behind you, the door slamming shut before either of you has fully settled. Morgan's already pulling away, tires gripping asphalt, the sedan eating up the street. "Anyone on your tail?" His eyes flick to the rearview, checking. "Not yet," Spencer says. "But they know we went out the fire escape. They'll be sweeping the block." Morgan mutters something under his breath, takes a hard left, then another. The streets blur past, the dark storefronts, a bodega with its neon sign buzzing, a man walking his dog who doesn't even glance up. Normal. The world going on like you didn't just watch a man smile while a gun was pressed to his skull.

Morgan's phone is mounted on the dash. It buzzes.

Hotch (5:03 PM): Safe house secured. Sending coordinates. Prentiss and Rossi are en route.

Morgan glances at the message, then at you in the rearview. "You okay back there?" The question hangs in the air. You're not sure how to answer it. You say it to the back of Morgan's head, but your voice is hollow. "He smiled at me through the door, Morgan. Like it was a game." His eyes find you in the rearview. The easy confidence he usually carries is gone, replaced by something harder. He takes a turn, slow and deliberate, before answering. "A man like that, he's been playing games his whole life. Born into money, titled, never told no." His knuckles flex on the wheel. "He's not used to people slipping through his fingers. That smile? That was him telling you he's not worried. That he's got moves you haven't seen yet."

"He had a gun to his head," you say. "And he smiled."

"Because he knew those men. Because he arranged it." Morgan's jaw tightens. "The question is whether they're his private security, his family's connections, or something else entirely."

Spencer shifts beside you. The sweater brushes your arm. "Something else," he says quietly. "If they were his men, he wouldn't have needed the FBI cover story. He would've just taken her. The fact that they pretended to be federal agents means someone is trying to control the narrative. Make it look official." Morgan's phone buzzes again. Hotch's coordinates flash on the screen. "Then we figure out who they are from somewhere safe." He glances back at you. "You still with us?" You look down at your hands. They're trembling, fine, shallow tremors you can't seem to stop. You wrap your arms around yourself, press them into your ribs like that might steady them. It doesn't. Morgan waits. The car hums beneath you, streetlights sliding across the interior in amber streaks. "I'm here," you manage. It comes out smaller than you meant.

The sedan slows as Morgan takes another turn, pulling into a narrow street lined with brick buildings. Warehouses, maybe. Loading docks. Not the kind of place anyone would look twice at. He pulls into a bay between two buildings, kills the engine. The sudden silence is thick. Through the windshield, you see a steel door set into the brick, a single light above it buzzing faintly. "Safe house," Morgan says, unbuckling. "Prentiss and Rossi are already inside. Hotch is on his way." He turns to look at you, full face now, no rearview. "You walk in there, you're not alone. You got the whole team behind you."

Spencer opens his door, cold air flooding in. He waits, looking back at you. You nod. The motion feels mechanical, but it's enough. You unbuckle, push the door open, and step out into the cold night air. The steel door in front of you is plain, unmarked, designed to be overlooked. Spencer falls into step beside you as Morgan leads the way, knocking twice, then once, then twice again. The door swings open.

Emily is on the other side. She takes you in with a quick, professional sweep, checking for blood, for injuries, for the thousand tiny signs of trauma she's been trained to read. "You okay?" she asks. Not pressing. Just offering the question, leaving room for whatever answer you have. You step inside. The safe house is sparse, there’s concrete floors, a couple of worn couches, a small kitchen with a fluorescent light humming overhead. Rossi is at the counter, a cup of coffee in his hand. He gives you a nod, silent, acknowledging. The door clicks shut behind you. Bolted. Locked.

For the first time in what feels like hours, you can breathe. You find a corner. A concrete wall, a worn armchair that's seen better decades. You sink into it, and the moment your body stops moving, something in your chest gives way. Your hands are still shaking. You press them flat against your thighs, feel the denim beneath your palms, try to anchor yourself to something real. The fluorescent light hums overhead. Someone's moving in the kitchen, Rossi, pouring a second cup. Morgan's voice, low, on the phone in the next room. You don't cry. You're not sure you have the energy for it. You just sit, staring at the crack in the opposite wall, letting the silence settle around you like dust. A soft sound. Spencer lowers himself onto the arm of the chair beside you. Not crowding. Just present. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't tell you it's going to be okay, doesn't offer hollow reassurance. He just sits there, the wool of the sweater brushing your shoulder, a quiet anchor in the room. The minutes pass. The hum of the light. The distant murmur of voices. Your breathing, slowly, unevenly, finding its rhythm again. You turn your head. He's still there, a silhouette against the pale wall, the sweater hanging loose on his frame. "Tell me something," you say. Your voice is rough, like you haven't used it in hours. "Anything. Distract me."

He blinks. For a second, he looks caught off guard, like he wasn't expecting to be asked for anything, let alone conversation. Then his brow furrows, the way it does when he's sorting through the endless catalogue of his mind. "Did you know," he starts, slowly, "that the average person has about 60,000 thoughts per day? And that approximately 80% of them are negative, or at least repetitive. It's a cognitive bias called the negativity bias — we're wired to dwell on threats and unpleasant experiences because, evolutionarily, our survival depended on it." He pauses. Glances at you, like he's checking if this is working. "But there's also research suggesting that novelty can interrupt that cycle. New information, new stimuli, it forces your brain to redirect resources away from the rumination loop." Another pause. "That's why I'm telling you this. It's not just random trivia, it’s also my coping mechanism."

Some seconds of silence stretch.

"I mean, it is also random trivia. But it serves a purpose." You smile, getting more comfortable in the chair. “Keep going, I liked it.”

A flicker of something crosses his face. Encouragement, maybe. Relief that he's helping. "Alright." He shifts slightly on the armrest, getting comfortable. "Do you know why we associate knitting with grandmothers and cozy fireplaces when it was originally a strictly male profession? In sixteenth-century Europe, knitting guilds were exclusively male. Women weren't allowed to join. The first knitting machine was invented in 1589 by William Lee, an English clergyman, and he tried to get Queen Elizabeth I to grant him a patent. She refused, she said the machine would take work away from the poor." You glance down at your hands. They've stopped shaking, you realize. Somewhere between his voice and the trivia, the tremors faded. "She told him," Spencer continues, "to 'consider what the invention would do to the poor.' Lee moved to France, died in obscurity. His machine eventually became the framework for the modern textile industry." He pauses. "So, in a way, your sweater is the descendant of a failed Elizabethan patent and a profession that once excluded you." He says it with a faint, almost shy curve at the corner of his mouth. Like he's offering you a gift, wrapped in facts and history and the careful architecture of his mind.

Your fingers find the loose thread before you're fully aware of what you're doing. A small thing, barely visible — a strand of maroon wool working itself free near the cuff. You smooth it down, press it flat against his arm, and the gesture feels more intimate than it should. He goes quiet. You don't look up at him, but you feel the shift in his posture, the way he stills, like he's afraid to move and break whatever this is. "It's a good sweater," he says, after a moment. His voice is softer now. Less lecture, more... something else. "The tension is consistent. Even stitches. You clearly know what you're doing." You huff a breath, almost a laugh. "I've been knitting since I was twelve. First thing I ever made was a scarf that was somehow both too short and too wide. I wore it anyway for three winters."

"Because you made it."

You look up at him. "Because I made it." He holds your gaze. The fluorescent light hums. Somewhere in the other room, Morgan's voice rises and falls on the phone. But here, in this corner, time feels like it's slowed. Spencer clears his throat. "I've never had anything like that. Something someone made for me." He sighs. "Thank you. I don't think I said it properly earlier."

You look away.

The corner of the room suddenly becomes very interesting, the crack in the plaster, the way the light catches the dust motes floating in the air. Anything but his face, the earnestness in his voice, the way he said thank you like it cost him something. The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, but full. Laden with something neither of you has a name for.

Rossi's voice cuts through, low and unhurried from the kitchenette: "Hotch is five minutes out. They found fibers in Fitzwilliam's car matching the rug from Naomi’s apartment."

The words land like stones in still water. Reality seeping back in. Emily appears at the edge of your vision, leaning against the doorframe. She looks at you, then at Spencer, then back at you. There's something knowing in her expression, but she doesn't comment. "There's food, if you want it," she says. "Nothing fancy. Rossi makes a mean grilled cheese." You shake your head before the offer's fully left her mouth. "I'm not hungry." Prentiss doesn't push. She just gives a small nod, the way someone does when they understand that insistence would only make it worse. She disappears back into the kitchen area, and you hear the low murmur of her voice joining Rossi's.

The corner holds you. The armchair holds you. You pull your knees up, wrap your arms around them, and stare at the crack in the wall. Spencer hasn't moved. He's still there, on the arm of the chair, a quiet presence at the edge of your vision. He doesn't fill the silence with more facts, more distractions. He just is.

Minutes pass. The lock on the door clicks. Hotch steps in, coat collar turned up against the cold, a manila folder tucked under his arm. He takes in the room with a single sweep: Rossi at the counter, Prentiss by the window, Morgan emerging from the back room, and you, curled in the corner with Reid at your side.

He doesn't comment. Just sets the folder on the table and flips it open. "We've got a positive ID on the men who posed as FBI. Off-duty NYPD. Paid detail, routed through a shell corporation." He looks up. "One of them lawyered up within the hour. The other gave us a name: Julian Fitzwilliam. Theodore's younger brother."

You're still in the corner, arms wrapped around your knees, but something in your chest hardens. You look up at Hotch, at the folder open on the table, at the evidence spread out like a hand of cards. "His brother." Your voice comes out stronger than you expected. "That means there's a connection. A paper trail. Accounts, properties, alibis." You pause. "You need to catch him. Please. Don't let him slip away through his family's money and his title and his smile. Don't let him become another unsolved case that gets filed away and forgotten." Hotch holds your gaze. There's no pity in his expression, no soft reassurance. Just a calm, measured assessment.

"We have a team executing a warrant on the Greenwich estate as we speak. Another at Fitzwilliam's city residence. We're tracking his known associates, freezing accounts linked to the shell corporation, and cross-referencing every property under the Fitzwilliam family trust." He flips a page in the folder. "If he's still in the country, we'll find him within the next twelve hours."

"And if he's not?"

Hotch's jaw tightens. "Then we make sure there's nowhere left for him to run."

You push yourself upright, just slightly, enough to see the folder from where you sit. The edge of it catches the light, pages spilling out.

"What else did the diary say about me?"

Hotch's expression doesn't change, but there's a beat of hesitation. A fraction of a second where he weighs something. Then he reaches into the folder and pulls out a photocopied page, slides it across the table toward you. You don't move to take it. It lies there, face-up, the handwriting elegant and measured. Looping cursive, the ink pressed deep into the paper.

She watches everything. That's what makes her dangerous. Most of them don't see the details, my cufflinks, the crest, the way I hold my glass. But she does. She sees me the way no one has in years.

I find myself wanting to be seen by her.

I find myself wanting her to see all of it.

The script continues, but the next line has been redacted. Thick black marker, a rectangle of ink.

She's going to be the last one.

The room is very quiet.

Spencer's voice, low: "That was on the page after the description of Naomi’s murder." Your hand moves before you tell it to. Reaches out. Slides the photocopy across the table until it's right in front of you.

She's going to be the last one.

You read it again. The words don't change. They sit there, elegant and damning, in that looping cursive. "The last one." Your voice is barely a whisper. "He meant me." You look up at Hotch. "Who redacted that line?"

"The bureau's legal team," he says. "The line after it contained specific details about the method, they sealed it to prevent copycats and preserve the integrity of the investigation."

"But you read it."

A pause. "Yes."

"So you know how he planned to do it."

Hotch holds your gaze. "I do."

He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't need to. The weight of what he's not saying fills the room like smoke. Morgan shifts by the door. "Hey." His voice is careful, measured. "You're in the safest place you can be right now. We've got eyes on every port, every airport, every car registered to the Fitzwilliam family. He's not getting to you."

You look back down at the page. At the redacted block. At your name, implied but never written, sitting in the white space between his words.

The last one.

You let the words sit. They hang in the air like smoke, curling around the edges of the room, settling into your chest.

The last one.

You look up from the page. "What do I do now?" It's not a rhetorical question. You're not asking for reassurance or comfort. You're asking because you need a direction, a task, something to move toward other than sitting in a corner waiting for a man with a family crest to find you. Hotch studies you for a moment. Whatever he sees, it makes him reach into the folder again, pulling out a smaller photograph. He slides it across the table. It's a man. Late twenties, maybe. Dark hair, sharp features, a suit that costs more than your rent. Standing on a dock somewhere, sunlight catching the water behind him. He's laughing at something off-camera, carefree and unguarded.

"Julian Fitzwilliam," Hotch says. "Theodore's younger brother. He's the one who hired the off-duty officers. We picked him up an hour ago at JFK with a one-way ticket to Zurich." Rossi sets down his coffee. "He's not talking. Got a lawyer from his father's firm on speed dial. But he's scared. You can see it in the booking footage."

"He's your way in," you say. Not a question.

Hotch nods. "We need to flip him. Get him to turn on his brother before Theodore's lawyers bury us in injunctions and jurisdictional appeals." You sit back. The armchair creaks beneath you. "You're telling me this for a reason. What is it?" Hotch doesn't look away. That's the thing about him, he never flinches, never deflects. When he speaks, it's measured, each word chosen with care. "Julian Fitzwilliam lawyered up before we even finished reading him his rights. He's not going to talk to us." A pause. "But he might talk to you."

The room tightens. Rossi sets down his coffee. Morgan straightens by the door.

"Let me be clear," Hotch continues. "I'm not asking you to do anything dangerous. You'd be in an interview room at federal plaza, with agents on the other side of the glass. But Julian is twenty-four years old. He's scared. He's in over his head. And according to his phone records, he spent the last three days trying to contact Theodore, all calls unanswered." Prentiss speaks from the window. "He's a disposable asset. His brother left him holding the bag. If there's anyone who might understand what that feels like, it's you."

The words land. You think of Naomi, of Julia. Of all the women who trusted men who promised them something more. Of a twenty-four-year-old kid on a dock in Zurich, laughing, not knowing he'd be left behind the same way. "I'll do it. Let me talk to him." The words come out before you can second-guess them. Before the fear can catch up and clamp around your throat. You say them, and they hang in the air, and somehow they feel true.

Hotch doesn't react. Not visibly. But there's a shift in the room. Rossi picks up his coffee again, Morgan's shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. Prentiss gives you a look that might be respect.

"Alright," Hotch says. "We'll have you at federal plaza by eight tomorrow morning. You'll be in an observation room first, watch the interview through the glass, get a feel for him. If it feels right, you go in."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then you don't. No pressure. No obligation." He closes the folder. "You're not an agent. You're a witness. A civilian. You have every right to say no at any point." He says it like he means it. Like he wants you to know that this isn't an order, isn't a manipulation. Just an offer, laid out plain.

Morgan clears his throat. "There's a bed in the back room. Nothing fancy, but it's clean. You should get some rest before tomorrow." You don't feel tired. But your bones ache with a weariness that has nothing to do with sleep.

"Thank you." You hold Hotch's gaze. "I'll be ready." He gives a single nod. No further ceremony. He's already pulling out his phone, probably coordinating with the team at federal plaza, setting the pieces in motion. Morgan gestures toward the back room. "C'mon. I'll show you where you're crashing."

The room is small, a twin bed with a thin mattress, a nightstand with a lamp, a window that looks out onto a brick wall. Basic, but safe. Morgan lingers in the doorway.

"Door locks from the inside. Reid's gonna be on the couch right outside. If you need anything—"

"I know."

He holds your gaze for a second, then nods and pulls the door shut. The lock clicks into place. You sit on the edge of the bed. The sheets smell like detergent, nothing else. Clean. Anonymous. You lie back, still fully dressed, and stare at the ceiling.

Morning comes faster than you expect. Gray light filters through the window. A soft knock at the door. "Good morning." Spencer's voice, low. "Hotch is here. We leave in twenty." You sit up. Your neck is stiff from sleeping in a weird position, but something in your chest feels different. Steadier. You open the door. He’s is there, wearing the sweater. He hands you a coffee.

"Black. One sugar." You take it. Your fingers brush his.

Federal plaza is a forty-minute drive. You spend it watching the city wake up, the coffee warming your hands, knowing that in a few hours, you'll be sitting across from a man who might help you catch the one who wants you dead.

"Tell me about Julian. What do I need to know before I go in?"

Reid's quiet for a moment, organizing his thoughts. The car hums beneath you, streetlights fading into the gray morning.

"Julian Fitzwilliam, twenty-four. Second son, which in aristocratic families means he inherited nothing and answers to everyone. His father is Lord Alistair Fitzwilliam, Ninth Earl of Whitmore. Julian's been described by staff as 'nervous,' 'eager to please,' and 'easily led.'" Reid glances at you. "He graduated from Oxford with a degree in art history, spent the last two years managing the family's London properties. No criminal record. No history of violence."

"Sounds like the perfect patsy."

"Exactly." Spencer's fingers tap against his thigh. "Phone records show Theodore called him seven times in the week before Celeste's murder. Each call under three minutes. We think he was giving instructions. Julian made the arrangements, the off-duty officers, the cover story, the car." A pause. "But he's not the one who killed anyone."

"So he knows he's expendable."

"He's starting to figure it out." He looks at you. "That's why he might talk to you. You're evidence that his brother is a killer. You're proof that Julian backed the wrong horse."

"How do I get him to trust me?"

Spencer considers this longer than your other questions. His fingers tap a syncopated rhythm against his thigh as the car hums through midtown traffic. "Trust is about perceived common ground. Shared vulnerability." He turns toward you. "Julian has been surrounded by people who have power over him his entire life. His father. His brother. The family lawyers now. He's never been the one in control."

"So I give him control."

"Not exactly. You make him feel like he has it." Reid's brow furrows. "The difference is subtle but important. You're not going to manipulate him. He's been manipulated enough. You're going to be the first person in this entire process who treats him like a person making a choice, not a loose end to be tied up." The car slows. Federal plaza rises ahead, gray and imposing. "He wants to be seen," Spencer says quietly. "The same way you did. The same way Naomi did. That's what Theodore offered both of you, the illusion of being truly seen." A pause. "Be real with him. That's how you get him to trust you."

Morgan pulls up to the secure entrance. The glass doors reflect the overcast sky. You take a breath. The air is cold and tastes like exhaust and wet concrete. You step out of the car. The building rises in front of you — glass and steel, federal insignia above the doors. People in suits walk past with the brisk efficiency of people who belong here. You don't. But you're here anyway. Morgan leads the way through security. Badge, metal detector, guard who nods at him like they've done this a hundred times. Spencer stays close, a step behind you, the weight of his presence steadying. The elevator hums as it rises. Fourth floor. The hallway is beige and fluorescent, lined with doors that all look the same. Morgan stops at one, buzzes in.

The observation room is small. A one-way mirror. A table with two chairs on the other side. A microphone and speakers on this side, turned low. And on the other side of the glass, already seated, is Julian Fitzwilliam. He looks younger than his photograph. Dark hair disheveled, shirt wrinkled, no jacket. He's sitting with his hands on the table, fingers laced together, staring at them like they might hold answers. He's not crying, but his shoulders are tight, coiled, like a man waiting for a blow.

Morgan glances at you. "You want to watch for a bit?" You don't take your eyes off Julian through the glass. "What has he been told about me?" Morgan glances at Hotch, who's entered quietly behind you. He answers. "Nothing. We've kept your name out of the interviews, out of the paperwork he's seen. As far as Julian knows, you're a witness who spoke to his brother at the Pierre. He doesn't know about Naomi’s diary entry. He doesn't know you're the last one on Theodore's list."

"Good." The word comes out firmer than you expected."He's been sitting alone for about forty minutes," Prentiss adds from the corner. "We brought him in at 6 AM, read him his rights, left him with water. No interrogation yet. He's been alternating between staring at his hands and checking the door." You watch him through the glass. He picks at his cuticle now, a nervous, repetitive motion. He looks up at the door again. Swallows. "His lawyer arrived ten minutes ago," Hotch says. "They've been in consultation. The lawyer's name is Lucy White, corporate defense, high-end. She's already filed a motion to suppress the JFK arrest."

"He's not going to talk with her here."

"No. But she'll step out if he asks her to."

The room is quiet. Everyone's looking at you.

"I want to go in. Just me and him."

Hotch's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "His lawyer is in there. She's not going to leave just because you ask."

"Then don't ask." You turn to face him. "Tell her she can watch from here. That she'll have a direct line to the room. That nothing I say is confidential. But Julian and I talk alone." Hotch holds your gaze for a long moment. Then he nods once, pulling out his phone. A minute passes. Two. Through the glass, you watch Lucy stand, lean down to say something to Julian, he nods without looking up, and then she's gone, the door clicking shut behind her. Julian is alone now. Hotch looks at you. "The microphone will be on. If you need us to intervene, just say the word 'break.'" He pauses. "Take your time. There's no rush." The door to the interview room is down the hall. Gray metal. A small window with wire mesh. You can see Julian through it, still staring at his hands.

Morgan steps aside. Reid meets your eyes, gives a small, almost imperceptible nod. The hallway stretches ahead. The door waits. The metal handle is cold under your palm. You turn it, and the door swings open with a soft click. Julian looks up. He's younger than you expected up close. Twenty-four, but he looks eighteen—dark circles under his eyes, a tremor in his hands that he's trying to hide by gripping the edge of the table. His shirt is expensive but rumpled, the top button undone, tie missing. You step inside. The door closes behind you with a quiet thud. He doesn't speak. Just watches you cross the room, pull out the chair across from him, sit down. The table is laminate wood, scarred with the ghosts of countless interviews. You set your hands flat on it, palms down.

You introduce yourself, telling him your name.

He blinks. "I know." His voice is rough, unused. "They told me you were coming."

"Did they tell you why?"

A second passes. He shakes his head. Just once, small. You let the silence sit. Let him fill it if he wants to. The clock on the wall ticks. Somewhere beyond the glass, you know they're watching. But here, in this room, it's just the two of you.

"I'm not here to trick you, Julian."

He holds your gaze for a moment, then drops it back to his hands. A muscle in his jaw works. "That's what they all say." His voice is flat. "The agents. The lawyers. My father." He looks up. "Everyone says they're not trying to trick me. Then they ask me to sign something, or say something, or admit to something I didn't do."

"I'm not asking you to sign anything. I'm not recording this." You gesture at the glass. "They are, on the other side. But I'm not."

He stares at you. There's something raw in his expression, not exactly suspicion. More like confusion. Like he's trying to fit you into a category and can't.

"Then why are you here?"

It's the question you've been waiting for. The one that matters. You could tell him about Naomi. About the diary, the redacted line, the smile through the peephole. You could make him afraid of his brother, could use that fear to turn him. But Spencer's voice echoes in your head: Be real with him.

"Because I want to understand," you say. "How someone ends up in a room like this, waiting for a brother who isn't coming to get him out." You rest your hands on the table. The laminate is cool and scarred beneath your palms. "Your brother killed someone I knew." Julian's face does something complicated. The color drains, then rushes back. His hands stop fidgeting and go still, flat against the table like he's trying to ground himself the same way you are.

"Who?" The word comes out barely above a whisper.

"Naomi Evans." You watch him. "She was my friend." He closes his eyes. Just for a second. When he opens them, there's something wet at the edges, but he blinks it away. "I didn't know," he says. "I swear to God, I didn't know he was going to—" He cuts himself off, jaw tightening.

"But you knew something." He doesn't answer. His eyes drop to the table, to his hands, to anywhere but you. "Julian." You keep your voice even. "You hired the men who came to my apartment. You booked the car. You made the calls. You knew something."

A long silence. The clock ticks.

"He said he was being followed," Julian finally says, voice cracking. "He said someone was trying to extort him. That he needed protection, needed people he could trust. He said—" A shaky breath. "He said if I didn't help him, I'd be next." Your voice comes out quieter than you expected, but it holds. "Can you tell me everything?" You pause, swallowing. "Believe me, I'm just as scared as you are. I'm not an officer. I'm not FBI." A breath. "I'm just like the girls your brother killed. I'm an escort too."

Julian's eyes widen. Just a fraction, but it's there, the crack in his composure. He looks at you differently now, not as an interrogator or a victim or a pawn, but as someone real. Someone sitting across from him in a beige room, hands flat on a scarred table, admitting something that could ruin her.

He stares at you for a long moment. Then he laughs, it's a short, hollow sound, more exhale than humor. "He told me you were trying to trap him. That you were working with the police to fabricate evidence." Julian shakes his head. "He said you were dangerous. Calculating. That you'd say anything to put him away."

"I'm sure he did."

"He said you seduced him. That you were obsessed." Julian's voice drops. "But you're just... you're just a person."

"I'm just a person," you echo. "And I'm scared, Julian. I'm scared of what your brother is going to do next. I'm scared that if we don't stop him, someone else is going to die." You hold his gaze. "Help me stop him. Please." You smile softly at him, encouraging. "What did he promise you in return for your help?" Julian's fingers curl against the table. He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he looks past you, at the blank wall, at the ceiling, anywhere but your face.

"He said he'd make Father see me." The words come out thin. "I'm the second son. The spare. Everything goes to Theodore, the title, the estate, the respect. I've spent my whole life in his shadow, and Theodore knew it. He told me if I helped him handle this 'problem,' he'd put in a good word with Father. That I'd get a seat on the family trust. That I'd finally matter." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I'm twenty-four years old, and I still let my big brother promise me pocket change like I'm a child." He looks at you then, really looks at you. His eyes are wet, but he's not crying. Not yet. "What did he promise you?" Julian asks. "The night you met him. What did he offer?"

"Nothing." The word lands flat between you. "I was just work to him." Julian blinks. Like that answer didn't compute. "He talked to me for an hour at the bar," you continue. "Ordered me a drink I didn't ask for. Asked about my life, my dreams, my favorite books. Made me feel like I was the most fascinating person in the room." A pause. "And then he tipped me and left. Like I was a transaction he'd completed." Julian's hands have gone still on the table. "I spent weeks thinking about him," you say. "Wondering if I'd said something wrong. If I'd missed a signal, a chance. I thought I'd failed." You meet his eyes. "But he was just gathering information. Building a profile. Deciding if I was worth killing."

The word hangs in the air. Killing. You've said it out loud now, in this room, to this man.

"I'm sorry." Julian's voice cracks on the word. "I didn't know. I didn't—" He stops, presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. When he looks up, there's something new in his expression. Not fear. Not guilt. Something closer to resolve.

"He has a property. Upstate. A hunting lodge under a different name, not Fitzwilliam. Something else. He told me once that if he ever needed to disappear, that's where he'd go."

"Can you give me the address?"

Julian hesitates. His eyes flick to the mirror, then back to you. He's weighing something — loyalty, fear, self-preservation.

"If I give it to you, I need protection. Real protection. Not just a phone number and a promise." His voice is steadier now, like he's finally found something solid to hold onto. "My family will disown me for this. My father will—" He stops. Swallows. "I'll have nothing."

You hold his gaze. "You'll have your freedom. And you'll have the truth."

He stares at you for a long moment. Then he reaches into his pocket — slow, so the agents on the other side of the glass don't misinterpret it. He pulls out a pen, grabs a napkin from the table, leftover from the water they gave him, and writes something down. Slides it across to you.

Grey Birch Lodge, 147 Hollow Road, Kerhonkson, NY

"The name it's under is Watson," he says quietly. "Jonathan Watson. He bought it five years ago with cash from a trust our grandmother left him. No paper trail back to Fitzwilliam." He looks at you. "He'll have a plan. A way out. He's been preparing for this his whole life."

The napkin sits between you, ink bleeding slightly into the paper. An address. A name. A thread to pull. Your fingers rest on the napkin, the ink still wet at the edges. But you don't take it yet. Instead, you look at him, really look, past the rumpled shirt and the dark circles, past the fear and the guilt. "Is there anything else you haven't told me?" you ask. "And I don't mean about the case." A pause. "Anything you want to tell me. Even if it's small. Even if it doesn't matter." You hold his gaze. "I'll listen."

Julian's mouth parts slightly. He wasn't expecting that. He blinks, once, twice, and for a moment he looks so young it hurts. He looks down at his hands. When he speaks, his voice is different. Softer. "I used to paint." He almost laughs. "Haven't said that out loud in years. I studied art history at Oxford because it was the only thing my father approved of that I actually liked. But I used to paint. Landscapes, mostly. There was this spot near the estate, a cluster of old oaks by a creek. I'd go there and paint the light through the leaves." He traces a scar in the laminate with his thumb. "I haven't painted in two years. Theodore told me it was a waste of time. That I needed to focus on something useful." He looks up at you. "I don't even know why I'm telling you that."

"Because you needed someone to hear it."

He holds your gaze for a long moment. Then he nods, just once, and wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"You should paint again, Julian. When this is over."

Julian's breath catches. He looks at you like you've said something in a language he thought was lost. "You really mean that."

"I do." You slide the napkin into your pocket, the address safe against your thigh. "You're not just the spare son. You're not just your brother's errand boy. You're someone who sees light through oak leaves." A pause. "Don't let him take that from you too."

He doesn't answer. But his jaw works, and his hands uncurl, and when he meets your eyes again, there's something less broken in them.

The door opens behind you. Lucy White steps in, sharp-eyed, a notebook in hand. She looks at Julian, then at you, then back at him. "We're done here," she says. It's not a question.

Julian looks at you. "Will I see you again?"

You stand, the napkin pressing against your leg. "I hope so. On the other side of this."

You walk out. The door clicks shut behind you, and the hallway is empty except for Spencer, leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets. He looks at you, questions in his eyes. The door clicks shut behind you. The hallway is quiet, fluorescent lights humming overhead. You lean against the wall beside him, and let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding. Your shoulders drop. Your hands, still pressed against your thighs, finally stop trembling. He doesn't say anything. He just stands there, shoulder near yours, presence steady. The sweater you made him is soft gray in the harsh light, and you notice he's not wearing his FBI jacket over it. Like he wanted it visible.

A door opens further down the hall. Hotch emerges, phone in hand, already moving. "We've got the address. Morgan's pulling up satellite imagery now. If Sterling's there, we'll have eyes on the lodge within the hour." He stops, looks at you. "You did good in there."

The words settle somewhere in your chest. Warm.

Hotch's phone buzzes. He glances at it. "Rossi's coordinating with the state police. We're moving." He looks between you and Reid. "You two alright?"

You push off the wall, steadying yourself. "Is there somewhere safe I can wait?"

Hotch considers you for a moment. "There's a safe room in the basement of this building. Bulletproof glass, reinforced door, direct line to the front desk. No one gets in without clearance from me or Morgan."

"Good. That's where I'll be."

Reid shifts beside you. "I'll—"

"No." You turn to face him. "You need to go. You're the one who can look at that satellite imagery and know what you're seeing. You're the one who can profile the lodge, figure out where he'd hide, how he'd run." A pause. "I'll be fine in a concrete box with a phone. Go do your job."

He looks at you like he wants to argue. But something in your expression must convince him, because he gives a small, reluctant nod.

"Keep your phone on you."

"I will."

Morgan appears at the end of the hall, jacket on, keys in hand. "Hotch. We leave in ten."

Hotch nods, then gestures for you to follow. "This way. I'll get you settled."

The safe room is exactly what he described, small, gray, and impenetrable. A chair, a desk, a phone, a monitor showing the hallway feed. You sit down, and the door closes with a heavy hydraulic hiss. The lock engages.

You're alone. Safe. For now.

The phone on the desk blinks. A direct line to the team's channel. You can hear the crackle of movement, orders being given, a car engine starting. Then Spencer's voice, low: "ETA to Kerhonkson is ninety minutes. I'll check in when we arrive."

The line clicks. Silence settles around you like a blanket. You sink into the chair. It's standard government-issueunforgiving, molded plastic, definitely not designed for comfort. You don't mind. Sleep isn't coming anyway. You close your eyes.

The room is silent. No humming, no distant voices, just the thick quiet of concrete and reinforced steel. You try to focus on the sound of your own breathing. In. Out. The rise and fall of your chest. But the silence has edges. Every creak of the building, every distant footstep from the hallway beyond the door, your brain snags on them, trying to place them, trying to decide if they're threats.

He smiled at me through the door.

You push the thought away. Breathe in. Breathe out. You're in a concrete box with a phone. They're going to find him.

You try to picture the lodge. Satellite images. A roof in the trees. Spencer's voice, low, feeding coordinates to Morgan. You try to imagine them moving through the woods, approaching the door, weapons drawn.

What if he's not there?

You open your eyes. The room hasn't changed. Gray walls. Gray desk. Phone blinking silently. You could call. Ask for an update. Or you could sit here, alone with your thoughts, and wait.

Ninety minutes later. Kerhonkson, NY.

The sedan winds through narrow roads lined with bare trees. Winter branches claw at a gray sky. Morgan drives, eyes fixed ahead. Spencer’s in the passenger seat, satellite images spread across his lap, the address burned into his memory. "Grey Birch Lodge," He says, mostly to himself. "Thirteen acres. He could have multiple exits, a vehicle cache, supplies for a extended stay."

"We'll find him." Morgan's voice is steady. "He's not expecting us."

They're not doing the typical approach. No sirens, no lights. Two unmarked cars, state police staged a mile down the road. Rossi and Prentiss are in the second vehicle behind.

The trees thin. A dirt road branches off the main route, a rusted sign half-hidden by overgrowth: PRIVATE ROAD — NO TRESPASSING.

Morgan kills the headlights. They roll forward in near-darkness. The lodge emerges through the trees. Two stories, stone and timber, smoke curling from a chimney. A black SUV parked out front.

"He's here."

They stop a quarter mile out. The quartet moves through the woods on foot, spread in a loose formation, breath fogging in the cold. The snow crunches under they’re shoes, but they’re careful, measured. Prentiss signals from the left flank. Rear door, she signs. No movement from inside. They take position. Morgan counts down on his fingers.

Three. Two. One.

The door goes down.

The man inside is not dressed for escape. He's sitting by the fire, a crystal glass in hand, a book open on his lap. He looks up as we flood the room, he’s calm, almost amused.

Theodore Fitzwilliam.

He sets down his glass. "I was wondering when you'd find this place."

Morgan reads him his rights. Spencer watches his face. No fear. No surprise. Just the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. The same smile you described. The one that says he planned this.

But as the cuffs click shut, Spencer notices something else. A flicker. A crack in the porcelain. He didn't plan for Julian to talk. He didn't plan for her.

He pulls out his phone. Types a message.

Reid (6:14 PM): We have him. He's in custody. You're safe.

He hits send and follows the rest of the team out into the snow.

The phone buzzes against the desk. You grab it before the screen fully lights up. You read it twice. Three times. The words don't change. You set the phone down, press your palms flat against the cool metal desk, and breathe. A real breath this time, a deep, full breath, the one that reaches the bottom of your lungs.

The door hisses open a few minutes later. Emily stands in the frame, coat dusted with melting snow. "Figured you'd want to see him brought in." She gestures down the hall. "They're pulling up now."

The holding cells are in the basement. You watch through reinforced glass as Theodore Fitzwilliam is processed — fingerprints, mugshots, the cold machinery of justice grinding into motion. He looks smaller than you remember. Diminished by the fluorescent lights and the orange jumpsuit. He doesn't look up. Doesn't scan the observation window. He knows you're watching. He just doesn't care anymore.

You don't move from the glass.

They lead him down the corridor, two guards, one on each arm. Fitzwilliam walks with his head high, that same measured stride you remember from the bar, from the doorway of your apartment. He passes the observation window without turning his head. Without slowing. You watch his back recede. The orange fabric of the jumpsuit disappears around a corner. A door clangs shut. The lock engages.

He's in a cage.

You let out a breath. Your reflection stares back at you from the glass, you’re pale, hollow-eyed, but still standing.

Prentiss appears at your side. She doesn't say anything. Just stands there, arms crossed, watching the empty corridor with you. After a long moment, she speaks. "Rossi's already talking to the DA. With Julian's testimony, the physical evidence from the lodge, and the diary, they're looking at multiple counts of first-degree murder. He's not getting out."

You nod. Your throat is tight.

"He wanted me to be afraid," you say quietly. "He wanted me to know he was coming for me. That's why he showed up at my door."

Emily is quiet. Then: "He wanted you to be afraid. But you're still here." She lets that sit. Then she pushes off the wall. "Reid's upstairs. He asked me to tell you he's in the break room if you want to see him."

You turn from the glass.

The break room is at the end of the hall, it’s small, fluorescent, smelling of old — and bad — coffee and microwaved leftovers. You push the door open.

Spencer is sitting at a table, elbows on the surface, a cup of untouched tea cooling in front of him. He's leaning forward like he's still reading something, but the table is empty. Just his hands, his breath, the silence of a man who's been running all day and has finally stopped. He looks up when you enter. His eyes find yours, and something in his posture shifts, he relaxes, like a knot pulled loose. "Hey," he says. Quiet.

You cross the room. The chair scrapes against the linoleum as you sit down across from him.

"Hey."

Neither of you speaks for a moment. The tea steams faintly between you. Somewhere in the building, a phone rings and goes unanswered.

He looks at you. "Are you okay?"

It's such a simple question. Such an impossible one. But he asks it like he really wants to know the answer, not just the polite version. "I think so." You hold his gaze. "I think I will be."

He nods slowly, like he's testing the words. "That's—that's good. That's really good."

The way the words leave his mouth, soft, careful, like it actually matters to him, makes something settle in your chest. "You should drink your tea," you say, nodding at the cup.

He looks down at it, almost surprised. "Oh. Right." He picks it up, takes a sip, and makes a face. "It's cold."

A laugh escapes you. It's small, rusty from disuse, but real. "Of course it is. You've been sitting there staring at it for—" You glance at the clock on the wall. "Probably an hour."

"Forty-three minutes, actually." A faint flush rises to his cheeks. "But I was thinking."

"About what?"

He sets the cup down. His fingers trace the rim. "About what you said. In your texts. About writing." He looks up. "Have you ever thought about actually starting? The novel, I mean."

The question catches you off guard. You've told yourself that story so many times — someday, when things are settled, when I have time, when I'm safe — that it's become a kind of lullaby. A dream you hold close but never examine too closely, afraid it might dissolve.

"I have a folder," you say. "Full of notes. First chapters I never finish." You trace a scratch on the tabletop. "I get about twenty pages in, and I start second-guessing everything. The voice isn't right. The pacing is off. Who am I to write a novel anyway?" You look up. "So I start something new. Convince myself this time will be different."

He is quiet for a moment. Then he says, "That sounds like fear, not lack of ability."

You blink. "What?"

"Statistically, most first drafts are abandoned because of self-doubt, not because the writer lacks skill." He says it matter-of-factly, but his voice is gentle. "The fact that you keep starting means you have something to say. You just haven't trusted yourself to say it yet." The fluorescent hum fills the space between you. "What would you write about," he asks, "if you weren't afraid?"

The question lands somewhere deep. You think about the stories you've carried: the girls in foster care, the women you've known in this city, the ones who disappeared into men's lives and were never seen again. Naomi. Julia. The ones who didn't get caught.

"About people who get overlooked," you say slowly. "Women who exist in the margins. Who survive anyway."

He looks at you like you've just handed him something precious.

"That's the first time I've said that out loud."

Spencer's expression softens. He doesn't look away. "It's a good thing to say."

Your throat tightens. You look down at your hands on the table. "I've been carrying it for so long. The idea of it. Like a—a stone in my pocket. I don't even remember when I started. It's just always been there."

"Maybe it's time to take it out of your pocket."

You look up. His eyes are earnest, brown and warm in the flat fluorescent light. "What if I fail?"

"Then you fail." He says it simply. "And you start again. That's how it works." A pause. "I've had papers rejected. Theories I spent months on, dismantled in peer review. It doesn't mean I stop."

The comparison makes you smile. "It's a little different. Your work saves lives."

"So could yours." He says it without hesitation. "Stories save lives. You told me you read Le Guin and Butler and Plath. Didn't they save yours?"

You open your mouth. Close it.

Yes. Yes, they did.

Reid looks at you, and for a moment he doesn't speak. Then a small, quiet smile touches his mouth.

"When this is all over, will you read the first thing I write?"

"Yes." He says it like it's obvious. Like there was never any other answer. "I'd like that."

You feel something warm spread through your chest. You look down at the table, at your hands, at the cold tea between you. "Okay," you say. "Then I'll write it." The words hang in the air. A promise. A thread pulling you forward into something new.

Emily appears in the doorway. She knocks twice on the frame, a soft courtesy. "There's a car waiting to take you home whenever you're ready. And I've put in a request for a protective detail for the next few days. Just in case."

You nod. "Thank you."

She looks between you and Reid, a hint of something knowing in her expression. "Take your time. Car's not going anywhere." She disappears. The door swings shut.

The room feels smaller than it did a minute ago. Or maybe it's just that the quiet is deeper now, weighted with the shape of what comes next.

"Walk me out?" Spencer stands. Pushes his chair in. "Yeah. Of course."

You walk side by side down the corridor, past the holding cells, past the bullpen where agents are still typing reports and making calls. A few of them glance up as you pass, not with suspicion, but with recognition. You're the one who helped. The one who sat in the room with Julian. The one who sent them to Kerhonkson.

Morgan is by the elevator, coffee in hand. He gives you a nod as you approach. "Get some rest, doll face. You've earned it."

"Thanks, Morgan."

The elevator doors open. You step inside. Spencer follows. The doors close, and you're alone with him in the small, humming space. The numbers tick down.

"What happens now?" you ask. "For me, I mean. Do I need to testify?"

"Eventually. There'll be a trial. But the DA will walk you through it. You'll have a victim advocate assigned to you." He pauses. "And I'll be there. If you want."

The elevator reaches the lobby. The doors slide open. Outside, through the glass doors, you can see the street. Streetlights. A car idling at the curb. The world going on like none of this happened. You stop at the glass doors. The city glows beyond them, cold and indifferent, but you don't step through yet. You turn to face him. "I'll miss you, you know." Your voice comes out softer than you meant it to. "You're an amazing friend, and person overall, I mean."

A beat. You let out a breath.

"Thank you. For everything."

Spencer stands there in the fluorescent lobby light, hands at his sides, looking at you like he's trying to memorize the moment. His jaw works for a second, like he's testing words and discarding them. "You're welcome," he says finally. Quiet. Earnest. "And for what it's worth, I'll miss you too."

The words settle between you. Simple. Real.

He clears his throat. "I have your number. So I can send you updates. About the case. And also to check in. If you want."

"I'd like that."

You let the silence be felt for a second. A car horn sounds somewhere out on the street.

He shifts his weight. "Get some rest.”

"You too, Spencer."

His name on your tongue feels different now. Familiar. Like something you're allowed to keep.

You push through the glass doors. The cold hits you immediately, sharp and clean, a slap of winter air that clears your lungs. You pull your coat tighter and step onto the sidewalk. The city spreads out before you: taxis gliding past, a couple laughing on the corner, steam rising from a grate. Normal life, humming along.

The car is idling at the curb. Black sedan, government plates. The driver nods as you approach and opens the rear door. You look back once. Through the glass, Spencer is still standing there, hands in his pockets, watching you go. He raises a hand, a small wave, tentative.

You raise yours.

Then you get in the car. The door shuts with a solid thunk. The heater hums. The driver pulls away from the curb, and the FBI field office shrinks in the side mirror until it's just another building in a block of buildings.

The drive to Tribeca takes twenty minutes. You watch the city pass — the lit windows, the bridges, the river glimpsed between buildings. Your apartment building appears. The driver pulls up.

"Need me to walk you up, ma'am?"

"No. I'm okay."

You climb the stairs to your floor. The hallway is quiet. Your door is still sealed with yellow crime scene tape, but Prentiss told you they'd cleared it. You duck under the tape, fit the key in the lock, and step inside.

Everything is exactly as you left it. The book facedown on the armchair. The half-empty mug on the counter. The city lights through the window. Your apartment. Your space. Your life, waiting for you to step back into it.

You stand in the middle of your apartment for a long moment, coat still on, keys in your hand.

Then you set the keys down. You shrug off your coat. You walk to the small desk by the window, the one piled with library books and half-empty notebooks, and you sit. The laptop is cold. You flip it open. The screen glows to life. You open a blank document. The cursor blinks at you. Steady. Patient. Waiting. Your fingers hover over the keys. The city hums beyond the glass. A siren wails somewhere, fades.

You think about Naomi. About Julia. About the girls who never got to tell their own stories. You think about what you said in the break room. Women who exist in the margins. Who survive anyway.

You start typing.

There are things we don't tell the men who pay for our time.

The sentence stares back at you. Honest. Unflinching. You read it again. It's not perfect. It might not even be good. But it's yours.

You keep going.

The words come haltingly at first, then faster, like water finding its current. The cursor races across the screen, sentences stacking, paragraphs taking shape. A woman appears on the page — not you, not exactly, but someone who carries the same weight. Someone who knows what it's like to be seen without being known.

The city darkens outside. Your fingers keep moving.

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