Spencer had gotten home late at night. It had been a rough case for the whole team, and Spencer was particularly tired. Today was the anniversary of Maeve's death. It was especially tough on Spencer, as the victims were dark haired women, killed by their stalker. The rest of the team had noticed something was up, and being the amazing profilers that they were, already knew as soon as they got on the jet that it was going to be a long and laborious case. They had managed to save the sixth victim,Claire Hooper, but there was no hope for the five other victims, who were dumped meaninglessly on roadsides in various different states.
He checked he had locked his door for around the eighth time, and sat down on his slightly old and dusty couch. He reached over the worn-out arm of the couch and grabbed the first book he could see. 'Tales and Mystery of Imagination', by Edgar Allan Poe. It was one of his many favourites, and he couldn't help but think of Maeve whenever he read it.
Maeve. He missed her. Although they did talk for a long time, they only saw each other in person once, and he missed her. He truly did miss her. The way she brightened up his day when they had their conversations over the phone, and the letters he received in the mail. They never failed to make him smile. The first letter she had ever sent Spencer was tucked into the front cover of the book. Ever since her death he hadn't moved the letter from that position. It remained fixated there, and in Spencer's mind, always would.
He began to open the book, and immediately knew something was wrong. The letter. It wasn't there. He hadn't recalled moving the letter, nor did he recall moving the book in the last six months. He began to panic. The letter was one of the only things he had left of Maeve, his favourite thing. Apart from 'The Narrative of John Smith', the exact copy she had given him the night they were mean't to meet up. He had given her the exact same book, but the copy she gave him was special.
The book contained a handwritten quote by Thomas Merton: 'Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life in ourselves alone; we find it with another.' Maeve had written it into the book for Spencer.
Spencer frantically searched around his apartment for the letter, but he couldn't find it. He was already exhausted from this case, and now this. Drained, annoyed and beat, Spencer decided to call it a night, and carry on searching for the letter in the morning. There was no point getting worked up when he was already in a vulnerable state.
He made his way into his bedroom, when he saw something on his bed. The letter. The thing he had thought he had lost. Automatically, he knew that it was Maeve, trying to tell him something, but he couldn't tell what it was. It didn't matter though. What truly mattered was that he had his letter back, and that was all that he cared about.