Agent Spencer Reid crept as quietly as possible through the abandoned building. He tried to keep his breath steady and low but he felt his heart racing and his palms sweating despite that. He squinted his eyes in the dark and looked back at the cryptic message in his hands.

Come alone or everyone will die.

He knew where to go. He alone had figured out the killer's den. While the others were checking the employment history and apartment of their new catch, Reid had stumbled upon the kill zone. Then the note had arrived, as freakishly as all the pieces had fallen together.

In his jacket pocket.

Reid had tried to remember bumping into someone. He tried to remember when he had last taken his jacket off, or where. He knew there was an arm bump or two, but by who? Regular employees of the FBI. A passerby on the street. It must have been him…

And every time the clues showed up, they did so in a very obvious place. He was toying with them. With him, anyways. It was Reid he had targeted, had singled out.

The first time, Reid had brought the clue forth, showed the others. It was very random, slipped into his bag. A check stub for an employment firm in South Dakota. When they tracked the employee down, they knew it wasn't their suspect, and the others assumed it was a diversion. But Reid knew their killer had worked there. Of the millions of people who had come and gone from that temp agency, he knew their killer was one of them.

Then Hotch got it. A seemingly random car accident, one that left his right arm in a cast for several weeks, followed by another message.

You were warned not to tell anyone. Speak again and I will break more than an arm next time.

And so came Reid's silence as he worked alone on the messages and with the team on the rest of the case. The killer didn't seem to mind the joint effort, only the exposure of his private messages.

In the distance Reid heard a scatter, like small rats running for cover. It brought him back to the moment, to the fear. "Hello?" he called out, his voice cracking and hoarse. "I'm here. Alone, like you asked." His fingers tightened around his gun.

Silence surrounded him, making the dark thicker and heavier somehow. He moved forward more, his eyes still adjusting, a far off light dimly leading the way.

The cases consumed him, reminding him of the fear that came with the killer. Each victim was killed differently, no m.o. to connect them. The differences were his m.o. And also what kept him from being labeled a serial killer for many kills, until the one connection was spotted.

The missing pinkie fingers.

Reid shivered, closing in on the light ahead. Drops of sweat beaded his forehead, dripping down his eyes and stinging them with salt.

Burned to a crisp, unable to even be identified, the first female seemed intact all the way down to her left pinkie. That was in Chicago.

The second victim, chopped into little pieces and dropped into the river, was never completely found. One of those unfound parts had been the left pinkie. That was in Maryland.

Victim number three, labeled a suicide at first, had slit her wrists in the bathtub and bled out. Her pinkie dismantled with the same blade, but missing. The investigators in charge had assumed it had gone down the pipes, not sure why she had cut it off to begin with. Her husband had even taken the pipes apart to find it but came up empty. That was in California.

All totally twenty three victims missing their left pinkie, and those were the ones they knew about. All from different states. Most were female, but 5 were males. They didn't seem to have anything in common. Their ages ranging from eighteen to Fifty-three. They were married, single, gay, straight, white, black, Mexican; every mix you can think of. All walks of life.

"Help me," a female voice broke his train of thought. "I'm back here."

"Are you alone?" Reid asked, moving towards her voice, gun readied.

"Yes."

"Are you okay?"

"I… I guess so. Considering."

"Right." Reid stepped into the light, moving the gun in front of him as he cleared the room. "I'm Agent Reid," he introduced himself, moving towards the young woman. She looked about twenty. She had long, dark hair and pale skin. There was blood splattered on her and her arms were tied behind her. She sat uncomfortably on her knees, looking up at him.

"Sara," she told him in response. She moved her head slightly to the left, motioning to her restraints. "Can you untie me, please?

"Do you know where he is?" Reid asked her, looking cautiously around. She shook her head. "When he's coming back? What he looks like? Anything?"

"Please," Sara whimpered. "Untie me, I'll tell you everything I know. Just get me out of here!"

"Right." Reid looked around one last time before holstering his weapon then kneeled beside her. "It's okay, Sara. I'm going to get you out of here." She turned slightly, making it easier for him to reach the ropes. Behind her he could see where her wrists were bound, the rope trailing down and around her ankles as well. They dug tightly into her ankles, blood caking up and over the rope. Her wrists were the same way. He began to untie her hands first, the rope loosening up as they came undone, falling away from her ankles where they weren't sticking to the blood. He noticed her pinkie still intact and worried this was a trap. His head whirled around again to check the room. "Are you sure he left?"

Sara nodded, squirming against the rope now as she tried to pull away from it. "Ow," she groaned, feeling the rope pull away from their tread in her ankles, taking some skin with it.

"Just hold still," Reid told her softly. He returned to his work on the ropes. Her hands removed, she quickly moved them in front of her, rubbing at them. He moved on to finish her ankles, taking much longer on that knot than he had on the top one. It was much tighter and he realized her wounds were much deeper on her ankles. They made the cuts on her hands look almost superficial.

Wham! Something hit Reid over the head and he felt himself blacking out, realizing too late his mistake. This had been a trap, just much more masterful than he had thought. He gave in to the darkness.

When Reid regained consciousness, he felt his head pounding and his hands and feet tied up. He opened his eyes to more darkness, taking in the room. He realized he had been moved, to a spot much like the last.

"Good Morning," he heard Sara say, if that was even her name.

"What do you want with me?" he asked dryly.

"Are you thirsty?" She asked instead, pushing a glace of orange juice against his lips. He turned away but she followed his mouth with it, pouring some inside. "It's just juice, I promise." He drank thirstily.

"And why would I believe anything you say?"

"So you still thought I was a man, huh?" She asked, ignoring him again.

He looked at her, his eyes warily adjusting to the dim light. "Most serial killers are men. Females tend to be… More emotional and usually more involved with their victims."

"And smarter. You forgot smarter," she added, smiling. "We tend not to get caught."

"Well, most smart serial killers tend not to get caught." He struggled to sit up, the rope digging into him painfully. "Well, they used to, anyways. Before forensics. Before today's technology. They all get caught these days. Eventually."

"Not me," she teased. "I've been so smart about it, hopping states. I haven't killed in the same state twice."

"Why the pinkie finger?" he asked. He flexed both of his to be sure they were still there and sighed with relief when they moved.

Sara shrugged. "Why not? Serial killers need something, or else no one would know."

"Exactly. You could have kept getting away with it! No one would have connected you to all those murders."

"I wanted them to know. To be afraid." She smiled.

"But why the pinkie?" he repeated, looking at her hands again as she wrung them.

"Symbolism. The ring finger is the most symbolic finger, the one that commits one person to another. The pinkie finger, well, it's useless, really. No one really uses it." She shrugged again.

"Are you going to take mine?"

Sara smiled, leaning close to Reid. He could smell her skin, like soft vanilla, her green eyes peering into his. "Why would I do that, Spencer? You're not useless."

Reid gulped, captivated by her gaze and scared for his life. "And they were?" he asked. Keep talking, Reid.

"Yes. They were all useless." She leaned in even closer, her body pressed against his. "You are so much more. Together we could get away with it forever."

"Together?"

She lifted her head from his shoulder, looking at him sweetly. "I did some research of my own, Spence. I know your statistics. I know if it wasn't for a job at the Bureau, you'd be doing the same thing I do."

"That's not true," he told her, remembering all the signs. She was right. He knew he fit all the stereotypes of the classic killers. He knew his mind was different, wasn't normal. He knew young enough that he had to turn those feelings into something positive, like hunting others like him, or he would go down the wrong path himself.

"You know it is. I can read your lies like a book." She kissed his cheek, running her hands softly along his arm. "I've studied you for years, Spence. Studied your studies." She giggled. "We're perfect for each other."

Her voice rang in his ears, softening him to her. Her touch was so soft, felt so right. "So the pinkies were for me?"

She kissed his cheek again, moving her lips around to his mouth, just out of reach. "It was all for you," she whispered, moving her mouth to his. She kissed him softly, her tongue parting his lips, and he obliged. He wanted to resist, needed to resist, but couldn't. He kissed her back. After a few seconds she pulled away, looking at him some more. "How else could I have gotten you here? How else could I have shown you how much you mean to me? How capable I was? How smart I was?"

"You are smart. You're brilliant, really. If it wasn't for those notes-"

"You'd have never found me," she finished. She leaned in and kissed him again, this time he didn't hesitate.

When she pulled away he breathed, "I'd have never found you." He leaned forward again, desiring her lips once more, and they kissed. As they sat and kissed she stretched her hands behind him, undoing the tight knots behind his back.

"Stay with me," she cooed as they fell away. Her eyes looked into his, filled with desire, passion, maybe even love.

It was all or nothing. She had done all of this for him. If he rejected her, if he left or killed her now, it would be over. Everything she had done had been for this moment. Spencer Reid knew then that she wouldn't kill him. She had never intended to kill him. She wanted a mate. She wanted him. The ball was in his court.

"You know I can't."

Her eyes watered and her head fell forward . She picked the knife up from where it lay beside her and Reid leaned back, rethinking everything he thought he knew in that moment. "Sara, it's not that I don't want to, but you've done so much damage. You could have chosen another path, like me."

"Like you? A cowardly path," she spat in his face now, raising the knife.

Reid's hands moved up defensively. "It's not cowardly. It's a lot easier to give in than resist."

Sara sighed. "You're right." She raised the knife again and Reid tackled her, throwing her on her back beneath him. She clenched the knife in her hand as she fought to bring it up again and he squeezed her wrist, bending it until she let go.

"I thought you didn't want to kill me?"

A look of confusion spread over Sara's face. "I don't."

Reid leaned back as it hit him. If he wouldn't stay with her, she would end her own life. "I won't let you hurt yourself."

"You've already hurt me," she spat, trying to turn away from him and go for the knife again.

Reid pinned her down harder, his face leaning into hers once more. "I'm sorry," he told her as he turned her over on her stomach. "I really am." He thought of the possibilities as he grabbed his handcuffs near them on the floor. In another life, if he had chosen another path... Reid pushed the thoughts away as he cuffed her and read her rights.