Her fingers tap impatiently on the handle of her umbrella as she stands outside of the only townhouse on the rainy street - and probably in the entire immediate area - whose door is barricaded with a thick layer of cautionary police tape. The tape is a stupid part of protocol, really, because, in her experience, instead of discouraging people from poking around, it makes the building that much more  intriguing.

She had been exiled from the investigation of the crime scene. Not the brightest or the most reasonable decision - she would've kicked out the largest person in the room, the main culprit making the small space even smaller - but she also wasn't the misogynistic idiot in charge of this band of buffoons. Mulder had shut her up before she could argue the decision, sending her out with a guiding hand on the shoulder and whispered promise to deal with it later. His was scant comfort; it would have been much more reassuring had he volunteered to leave in her stead, but that is not in his nature.

An approaching stranger - a teenager, probably not older than sixteen or seventeen - is met with a suppressed roll of her eyes. That goddamn fluorescent tape.