I groan inwardly as Rigsby thunks a evidence box on the table. I hate looking through the little evidence bags while I try to ignore Jane's comments. What doesn't he get about "Jane, don't open the evidence bags"? What's the point of the bags if you just empty them on the table?

He leaps up from his nap and saunters over to the table, easily the first one there. He digs around and grins as he extracts a bag holding a mixed up Rubik's Cube.

"Jackpot."

"Jane" I instinctively say "Don't open-". Too late. He slits open the bag and begins playing with the cube, turning it so fast its practically a blur.

"Whatever." I grumble. I reach in and pull out a small notebook that looks like a diary. I sigh before opening it. The victim, the man whose stuff we were examining, was a doctor, meaning that his handwriting was probably illegible.

Beside me, Van Pelt pulled out a logbook. She looks in it for a few seconds then remarks "Can anyone tell me what language this is in?" She has a point. The only words I have made out so far are idiot and appointment. Cho pulls out a pile of clothes and begins to search the pockets.

I turn the page and after a moment make out the date January 35. This is going to take a while. I scrutinize the date and am about to turn the page when i hear the sound of metal clinking. It stops me cold.

I know that noise.

Part of me is saying "Get a hold of yourself, Reese." But that name reminds me of my past, too. Tommy only called me Reese when he was scared. And he was only scared when-

I turn around slowly and see Cho holding up a thick leather belt. He tosses it on the table and reaches for another evidence bag. I hear the metal clink as it hits the table and in my head I hear a voice that is definitely not mine. "More? You want more?" and just like that, I'm back in my past.

I manage to make it to my office before the flashback begins.

I'm twelve and a half. There are tears streaming down my face as I lay facedown on my bed. My back is beyond being on fire. It feels as if strips are being ripped off it. It feels wet and I know that there's a pool of blood. My cheek throbs and there's probably going to be a bruise. He stands above me growling. He's holding the belt. As it swings in his hand, I hear the metal buckle clink. It sends shivers down spine.

"I asked you, where the fuck are they?!" He shouts so loud I feel drops of spittle on my arm.

"I don't know!" I sob. "Please, let me help Tommy." Tommy is laying on the floor, the shattered remains of a beer bottle lying around his head. I don't know whether he passed out from the impact of the bottle against his head or when it hit the floor. Either way, there is blood dripping from the cut on his forehead and that can't mean anything good.

"You stole them, didn't you?" He shouts. "All I want is a fucking cigarette and my daughter stole them." He raises the belt. "I guess you want more. More it is." He bring the belt down on my back again and again until I sink into a blessed darkness where there is no pain.