He's seen her slap photo after photo on that board, face after face after face of people he didn't know until they all begin to blend together, not a single one having enough to distinguish it from the others for him to draw it up in his mind now. Although, he isn't sure if that's due to his memory or his state of mind, because right now, the last thing he can focus on is the face of some random criminal or witness from years gone by. All he can focus on is the one face that matters, the face that stole his heart, the face that put almost every photo on the board except this one. Her own. Kate.
Kate Beckett. The letters are tapped out in a stark black font that doesn't do anything to offer the revere that the name requires. He wonders idly - how many times has he said her name? Called it out from across the bullpen, tacked it on to the end of a teasing sentence, whispered it into her skin on long nights where all that mattered was him and her.
And now her name is slashed across her photo and stuck up on a whiteboard and the whole thing feels almost like it's violating her. Putting her up on the board that's been used for criminals and victims alike, lumping her in with them as if she's no different from any other person in this world, as if she isn't the most important in his.
He doesn't know where she is and he doesn't know how to find her and it's all too reminiscent of the time it was his daughter's photo on that board. Except this time, there is no fortunate Skype call, no CIA father to swoop in and save the day. And there is no Kate, no Kate to slave over leads and dig up what information she can. No Kate to bounce theories against and no Kate to get coffee for and no Kate to kiss at night.
No Kate.
It's a possibility that he can't bear to face.
(But for a split second, an errant thought enters his mind of whether she'd prefer to be buried with her engagement ring on her finger or around her neck, and he realises he doesn't know, and that if it comes to that, he won't have the chance to ask her.)
No, no, no. He has to stop. He has to keep it together. He's going to get her back, he swears it. He's going to hold her in his arms again and be subject to her icy glares again and he's going to marry her and they're going to have their happy ending because damn it if they don't deserve one by now, and that's a promise he's determined not to break.
He promises himself, and he promises her, sings the words out with his heart and hopes they somehow find their way to her.
But as he does, as he swears that he will get her back and get her back alive, her eyes are staring out at him from a photo on a board that has featured more images of the dead than the living.