Prologue
"Nobody ever did, nor ever will, escape the consequences of his choices." ~Alfred A. Montapert
Taking a deep breath to steel herself, Erin Strauss opened the door to the conference room, observing the quiet darkness for a moment before flipping the light switch. The fluorescent tubes flickered slightly before fully turning on.
They were all still there—the glossy black and white photos of the BAU Team, organized and taped to the clear dry-erase board just like any other case, just like any other victims. Her chest tightened at the sight. The photos were candids, shots of them walking and driving and talking on the phone; they were so painfully unaware of the fact that they were being watched, so absorbed with the simple details of their lives, so seemingly safe. This was the part that she hated the most—the cruel calculation of the UNSUBs, the obliviousness of the victims, the sheer injustice of it all.
She moved closer to the board, her eyes searching for something that might have been missed—a clue, a spark, an answer of any kind. She hated field work, but her mind had always been well-suited for analysis and pattern-mapping, though she'd chosen the route of bureaucracy and power. Her first job with the FBI had been as an analyst, a data consultant with a desk, and she'd actually enjoyed the challenge of stringing together seemingly unrelated bits of data and intel into a working pattern. But she'd always been an ambitious soul (that came from her father, she knew, because he'd always pushed her, had always wanted her to be the best, do the best, achieve the best) and after a few years, she'd realized that the only way to go further up was to become an agent. So she'd shipped herself off to Quantico and busted her ass in training. A few months later, she was back with a gun and a badge and a better understanding of the inner workings of the Bureau than most newly-minted agents, and it had served her well. She'd practically fallen back into her former position as an analyst, but this time, she held more value—as a female agent with two degrees and an analytical background, she'd been the poster-girl for equality in the workforce. Later on, when she went back to college and earned two more degrees in Behavioral Psychology, the higher-ups had nearly fallen over themselves in their rush to promote her. It had been a well-crafted move on her part, and though she knew the things that others whispered behind her back (she only got here because she's a woman, she has no real skill, no real training, sure she's got the education, but she doesn't have the experience), she didn't really care. There might be some truth in it (sometimes she was certain her rise had been accelerated by the fact that the Bureau needed to look progressive and fair), but dammit, shouldn't she be credited for using that to her advantage?
Of course, none of that mattered now. Slights and grudges and old resentments meant nothing when compared to the fear creeping up the back of her throat, threatening to choke her with its intensity. Regardless of how they felt about her, these people were her responsibility, and the thought of them being hunted made her pulse quicken and her mouth dry in the most unpleasant of ways. Though the director had been quite clear in his instructions to her—that the Replicator case would be marked inactive and the team called off the search—she knew that they hadn't stopped looking, and she wouldn't either. She may not possess Dr. Reid's eidetic memory or Blake's encyclopedic knowledge or Hotch's intuitive ability to think like an UNSUB, but regardless of her current title, she was first and foremost an analyst, and gods dammit, she could use those skills to at least feel like she was helping.
Her hand moved absentmindedly to the pendant around her neck, which she toyed with as her grey eyes methodically scanned each photo. Another wave of unease rippled through her when she reached Agent Rossi's photos—Dave, her David, looking just past the camera, walking across the street, holding a to-go coffee. The last thought struck her—when on earth had he become hers?
She sensed someone approaching long before she could actually hear the soft, steady pulse of footsteps on the carpet. She turned to the sound, slightly relieved to see that it was Aaron Hotchner.
"Everything OK?" His brow was arched in its usual quizzical expression, but his tone was soft, lined with the slightest hint of care. After many years of working together, he had learned how hard these cases were for her; he knew that the thought of any soul in peril upset her, and that feeling was intensified when the souls in question belonged to people whom she cared about (even if she'd rather drop dead than admit such a thing).
"I was just dropping these off," she held up a small stack of reports.
Of course, that didn't explain why she was in the conference room and not in Hotch's office, but he was gracious enough not to point that out.
"They're all smart people, Erin," his dark eyes bored into her light ones, trying to telepath the true meaning behind his words. "They know how to protect themselves."
(It's alright; it's going to be alright. Your children are safe. I'll keep them and guard them because they're mine, too.)
She nodded in understanding, moving back to the doorway, offering the papers to him, which he took without even inspecting.
"There haven't been any more leads?" Her voice was hopeful, but the fear was still in her eyes. She wanted to catch this creep, but at the same time, she didn't want the team getting any closer to him, for fear of what might happen when they did.
"You'd be the first to know if there were," Aaron slipped back into his usual, no-nonsense persona. His section chief now knew that it was just that—a persona—because she'd seen him laughing at JJ's wedding, dancing with his son and cracking jokes with the rest of the team. Briefly, her mind wandered to the thought that he would probably be a fun person to get drunk. Too bad she couldn't do that sort of thing anymore. As hilarious as it might be, getting Aaron Hotchner to dance on a table in a shady Mexican restaurant probably wasn't worth ten months of continuous sobriety. (Probably. Perhaps. Maybe. Not 100% certain. There's still a chance that it would be completely worth it.)
"It's late," his quiet voice brought her back from her musings.
She nodded again, "I'm on my way out. I just wanted to get these to you so that you could look at them first thing tomorrow morning."
He gave a small nod, looking down at the papers for the first time. With one last look over her shoulder at those ominous boards covered in the faces of her co-workers, Erin turned the lights out again. Her eyes lingered on the space where David Rossi's face was, even though she couldn't see the photos any more. This action did not go unnoticed by Aaron, who was smart enough not to mention it aloud.
"How much do you think he knows?" Her voice was soft, her eyes still locked onto the darkness. She clarified, "About the team. Do you think…do you think he knows about their private lives, about things from their past?"
Aaron took a moment to truly contemplate the question, and he wondered why she was asking such a thing—though the way she was looking at Rossi's section, he could venture a pretty good guess. As usual, he chose the path of brutal honesty, "I don't know, but I would suspect that he does. He knows our routines, our personal habits, our favorite restaurants, what type of cars we drive….his level of planning suggests that he's been following our team for quite some time, so at this point, there's no telling what he's dug up on each of us."
Erin gave a tired sigh, the lines in her face suddenly becoming more haggard and pronounced. Her voice was incredibly small, smaller than he'd ever heard it before, "That's what I was afraid of, Agent Hotchner."
*Author's Note: For some reason, Criminal Minds canon seems to label Erin Strauss as a "purely administrative" individual. However, research has made me 92% positive that in order to be promoted to Section Chief, she would have to have started out as a Special Agent and moved up through the ranks. Which means at some point, she would have had some kind of field experience (although Aaron mentions several seasons earlier that she doesn't.…perhaps he simply means field experience with the BAU or violent crimes, which means she could totally have experience in other areas, such as white collar, public corruption, etc, etc). So I decided to make Erin an analyst—this would explain her lack of field experience, because analysts are actually "support" positions and usually stay in the office. But analysts are not always agents, so at some point, she would have had to transition from analyst to agent. Just FYI.*