Season 3, Episode 4.5

'Dependency'

Quantico, Virginia

'We are all broken; that's how the light gets in.' –Earnest Hemmingway

'Her name was Alicia Sharp, 26; went missing three weeks ago when she went to the grocery store. Three days later, she was found in the basement of an empty house; her head and limbs had been separated from her body. Autopsy revealed that she'd been brutally beaten before being dismembered, no sign of sexual assault.'

JJ's voice was grave and sombre as she explained the young woman's death. The woman's picture was on the projector screen; she had dark brown hair and sea green eyes, and tan skin. She was smiling. The picture next to this was of bloody masses that differed in size and shape, and could only barely be made out as dismembered limbs.

'Then last week', continued JJ, clicking the slide to a middle-aged brunette with brown eyes, 'Sandra Clemens, 43, went missing after leaving her weekly therapy session. Three days later, she was found in the basement of an empty house, but she'd been stabbed repeatedly in the face. But, according to the autopsy, she'd also been beaten before being murdered, and there was no sign of sexual assault.'

'Work of a serial killer?' asked Morgan to no one in particular. 'There seems to be a signature. Torture them for three days, and then kill them?'

'But serial killers rarely change victimology or MO', argued Reid. 'If this is a serial killer, he's done both. Alicia Sharp was in graduate school; Sandra Clemens was a business woman with a husband and two children; they look nothing alike, one was dismembered and the other was hanged. We don't have an established MO to look for.'

'But we have what looks like a signature', Morgan replied. 'It's like half a serial killer.'

'"Half a serial killer?"' repeated Prentiss sceptically. 'I didn't know they came in fractions.'

'Apparently they do', said Hotch, serious as ever. 'JJ, go with Reid to interview Sharp's family; when you get back, start working on victimology and MO. Morgan, you go check out the basements where they were found. Prentiss and I can talk to Sandra Clemens' family and go to that crime scene.'

Everyone nodded and left the room, bringing their files with them. JJ almost immediately paired up with Spencer.

'Tough case, huh?' JJ asked him.

'I think they're all tough cases', responded Spencer thoughtfully. 'They're not always this messy, but I think there's always something tough about solving them.'

'They're definitely tough for the families', said JJ.

'That part never changes', Spencer agreed seriously.

They rode the elevator down in silence, and then got out to get into one of the vehicles. Reid drove; JJ sat in the passenger seat reviewing the file.

'So, other than the possible signature, is there anything you can think of that these women both had in common?'

'I've been thinking about that', said Reid flatly, 'but I can't think of anything. They were different ages, not very physically similar; almost everything's different as far as I can tell. I mean, I guess he has somewhat of a type, but that limits the pool to brunette women; it doesn't help much.'

'Hmm', murmured JJ. She reviewed the case files carefully, finding nothing, learning nothing.

They arrived at Alicia Sharp's home after several minutes. They walked up the brick pathway, feeling as though they were intruding upon the family's grief, as they always did. Reid knocked on the door hesitantly.

It was opened by a middle-aged woman with blonde hair and blue eyes, which were swollen and red from crying. 'Can I help you?' she asked them, her voice brittle.

'Alona Sharp?' asked Reid tentatively, 'I'm Dr Spencer Reid, and this is Jennifer Jareau, we're from the FBI; we were wondering if we could ask you some questions about Alicia, if that's okay.'

Mrs Sharp eyed them suspiciously, but let them in. The house interior almost screamed 'Alicia Sharp!' as it had pictures of her everywhere. Here she was smiling with her friends as they held up an enormous volleyball trophy; there she grinned with her school principle as she held her high school diploma. In every picture she smiled, but in several of them there was something not quite right. Some of her smiles seemed forced, as though she was really feeling anything but cheerful.

'Mrs Sharp', began JJ, 'we'd like you to tell us everything you can about your daughter; what she was like, what she liked to do, everything you can think of about her. Okay?'

The woman looked at them blankly, but slowly nodded.

'She loved volleyball; she was the best player on the team. She loved everyone; I don't think she ever had an enemy. She was smart, she was popular; she was in the top five percent of her class when she graduated high school.'

'Do you know of any enemies she may have had?' asked JJ.

'No; she loved everyone.'

'Did you ever notice anything out of place in the weeks leading up to her death?' JJ continued. 'Any strange cars that shouldn't have been there; any strange people who suddenly began walking past your house every day?'

'No, I can't remember anything unusual. The day—the day before she went missing wasn't any different, either.'

'Ms Sharp?' asked Spencer suddenly, barely letting the woman finish her sentence. 'Did Alicia ever suffer from any stress or anxiety disorders, or frequent nightmares?'

Mrs Sharp stared at him. 'Yes. How did you know? Is that important?'

'It's just a question.'

'Well, yes, she developed General Anxiety Disorder after—after her father died. She began to worry about everything: what she was going to eat, what she was going to wear, if she was going to get through the day safely. I always just told her that everything was going to be fine, I...'

'Ms Sharp?' prompted Spencer, unaware of her discomfort.

'On the day she went missing', she whispered, 'right before she left for school, she told me she was feeling really worried about something; she didn't know what it was. I—I told her that nothing was wrong, and that everything would be okay, and that she was worrying about nothing.' Tears had begun to spill onto her cheeks. She took out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

'Umm...' asked Reid awkwardly, 'was the stress disorder ever addressed?'

'She started therapy sessions with Doctor Siegen about a few months ago.'

'Okay, thank you for your help, Mrs Sharp; I'm sorry for your loss', said Spencer hurriedly, standing up and moving to the door. JJ followed him, frowning. 'If you think of anything else, could you just contact us?'

Mrs Sharp nodded looking surprised but relieved that it was over already. She watched Reid open the door quickly.

'Dr Reid?'

Spencer looked back at her. 'Yeah?'

'Find out who did this', she said quietly. 'Please.'

'We'll find him, Mrs Sharp', JJ promised. 'Thanks again for all your help.'

The door closed with a snap. Reid walked briskly down the brick path; JJ had to hurry to keep up with him. He got in the driver's seat, his expression blank.

'Spence?' asked JJ. He didn't answer.

'Spence! You okay?'

'Sandra Clemens went missing after a therapy session for chronic stress. Both in therapy for chronic stress; here's our connection. JJ, call Garcia, I want her to research Sandra Clemens' therapist and Doctor Siegen, and then a list of all their other patients.'

JJ nodded, taking out her mobile phone and dialling Garcia.

'Welcome to the mystical land of Genius; how may I grant your deepest desires?'

'Garcia, you have Reid and me on the phone; we need you to research something.'

'Ask and you shall receive, my friend.'

'A woman, Sandra Clemens, she was in therapy for chronic stress; we need you to find out everything about her therapist and this other doctor, Doctor Siegen. Then could you get us a list of all their patients?'

'Does Justin Bieber sing like a lady?'

'Thanks, Garcia', closed JJ before hanging up. 'She's on it.'

'Great', said Reid, rather detached.

He drove them back to the BAU, silent all the way there, thinking about chronic stress disorders. General Anxiety Disorder. Panic Disorder. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Post-traumatic Stress Disorder...

They had one possible connection, which narrowed the pool of the next possible victims to anyone with a stress condition. Not too large of a pool. He grimaced on the inside.

When they arrived at the BAU, they began working on the victimology and MO, as Hotch had asked. Even for experienced FBI Agents, the crime scene photos were sickening.

'Look at Sandra Clemens', said Reid, 'there's not an inch of her skin that's not bruised. The UnSub must have had reasonable strength.'

'And then on Alicia Sharp', said JJ, 'Her arm was cut off between the elbow and the wrist; the wrist is sticking out at the wrong angle. The UnSub obviously snapped it pretty hard.'

Spencer shook his head. 'Who'd do something like this?'

'There're lots of sickos out there...'

Spencer nodded and continued taping photos on the board. The MOs were so particular, they were almost personal. There was so much blood, and the torture so cruel; indicative of rage, yet calculated and organized enough to bring the victims to a place where they wouldn't be found for a few days. The UnSub was definitely a sadist.

'There's something else', said JJ. 'How'd he get them into the basements? Their cars weren't found at the places they were last seen, or at the houses where they were found. What did cars did they drive?'

'Alicia Sharp drove a grey Mazda 3 and Sandra Clemens drove a red Prius', answered Spencer automatically. He'd memorized them.

'Great', said JJ. 'Now, where are they?'

'I have no idea.'

For a moment they both stood there, looking at the photos with blank expressions. Then Hotch, Emily, and Morgan walked in, looking disgruntled.

'How's it coming?' asked Hotch.

'Fine; have you heard anything about their cars?' asked Reid quickly.

'No, we were just wondering about that', supplied Morgan. 'No one's seen them since they went missing.'

Reid closed his mouth tightly, forming a firm, thin line. Those cars had to be somewhere.

'I'll call Garcia', said JJ. 'She'll be able to get licence plate numbers, at least.'

'And she should have the details on Sandra Clemens' therapist and Doctor Siegen', added Reid.

JJ dialled, and Garcia answered in a matter of milliseconds. 'Once upon a time, a wise black man called a beautiful genius "baby girl."'

'Garcia, you have all of us on the phone; do you have anything for us?' JJ asked her.

'Oh, my dear friend, when have I not? Doctor Alan Siegen, 61, born in Albuquerque, New Mexico, married to a Lucile Siegen, doctorate in Psychology, has been a therapist at Marsohn Mental Health Services and Therapy for nineteen years now, planning to retire next year, clean record.'

'And Sandra Clemens' therapist?' asked Reid eagerly.

'Same person. And, yes, I'm sending a list of their patients and everyone else in their office right...now.'

'Thanks, Garcia, and could you also get us the licence plate numbers of the victims' cars?'

'Wait one moment, amigo...Okay, Alicia Sharp, grey Mazda 3, LIV2LUV; Sandra Clemens, red Prius, 25A9L01.'

'Thanks; and then the security tapes from the grocery store and Marsohn Therapy parking lots?'

'Will do, Brain Boy.'

Reid frowned, but then shook his head slightly. That was Garcia.

'We need to talk to Doctor Siegen', said Hotch. His voice was, as usual, devoid of emotion. 'Reid, come with me to his office. Morgan and Prentiss, you work on victimology and MO and investigate anything else that turns up while Reid and I are gone. JJ, I think you have a Press Conference to attend; make sure put everyone on the lookout for Sharp's and Clemens' cars.'

Reid followed Hotchner out at a brisk pace in order to keep up with him. As they left, he saw a tall girl with dark brown hair tied up in a bun arguing with one of the Bureau members. He caught a snippet of their quarrel.

'...You don't understand; I need to see him.' Her voice was steady and did not shake, but there was an element of subtle anger.

'I'm sorry, ma'am; we can't investigate anything without evidence.'

'But to find evidence, I need help.'

'Sorry, ma'am. Bureau policy.'

The girl pursed her lips in frustration. 'Fine', she told him curtly. As she turned, she faced Reid and he looked into her eyes, which were bright hazel yet seemed to mask a storm inside. They narrowed, and then she turned away, leaving at a surprisingly fast pace. Reid couldn't help wondering what kind of evidence she needed, and whom she was so desperate to see.

The Therapists Office was a rather low building, having only one story, but was very long and very wide with many large windows that let the light in. The walls were a light beige colour, potted plants were everywhere; there was a pleasant seating area with thin, sophisticated-looking chairs with square, glass tables, which were very small and wouldn't be of much use, other than to set upon it a coffee and handbag. There was a thin, wiry looking woman behind a desk, looking at a computer through horn-rimmed glasses. Her mouth formed a very thin, very pale line, and Reid got the distinct feeling that she wasn't one to cross.

'Excuse me', said Hotch steadily. 'I'm SSA Aaron Hotchner, and this is Doctor Spencer Reid, we're from the FBI; we need to speak with Doctor Alan Siegen.'

'Do you have an appointment?'

Hotch and Reid stared at her. 'Ma'am, we're from the FBI. We need to speak with him immediately.'

The woman, whose name tag said, 'Margaret,' looked up at them angrily. 'He's in his office', she said curtly. 'His next appointment's in half an hour, so be snappy.'

'Thank you', Hotch said flatly. He and Reid walked down the right hallway to a door with a gold plate that read, 'Dr Alan Siegen,' with the number 1307.

Hotch knocked on the door firmly. 'Doctor Siegen!'

The door opened, revealing a kindly man with grey hair and glasses, looking rather younger than 61. He smiled good-naturedly as he said, 'Good day, sir. I'm sorry; do you have an appointment?'

'Doctor Siegen, I'm SSA Aaron Hotchner and this is Doctor Spencer Reid; we're from the FBI. We need to ask you a few questions about two of your patients.'

'This is about Sandra and Alicia, isn't it?' he asked sadly, his smile fading. 'I suppose you should come in, then.'

He stepped aside and let them in. His office was small, but felt cheery; there were photographs of laughing people on his desk, there was a bookshelf against the wall; it was as one might imagine a therapist's office, with an element of home. There were two chairs in the corner next to the window: one for the healer, and one for the afflicted.

Siegen pulled the chair from behind his desk next to the other two, so that they could all sit down properly. When they were all seated, he looked out the window. Although upon meeting him, he'd looked rather younger than his years, one could now clearly see how tired he looked, the sad lines in his face, the way his eyes seemed rather dead and empty.

'Doctor Siegen', Hotch asked him, 'was there anyone who may have wanted to hurt Alicia and Sandra?'

'Not that I can think of', he answered, looking back at them. 'I mean, obviously there were those whom they disliked and who disliked them, but no one who ever expressed wishes to hurt them in any way...'

'Was there any reason why anyone would want them dead?'

Siegen shook his head.

'Doctor Siegen', asked Reid tentatively, 'were Alicia and Sandra improving, or getting worse, or what?'

'That's between a patient and their doctor.'

'Sir', Hotch reminded him sharply, 'two women are dead.'

Siegen looked at him sadly. 'I don't think their families knew, but...they were getting worse. Alicia started to have thoughts of suicide and Sandra was falling into depression. As far as I know, I'm the only one they told.'

Reid frowned slightly. 'And when exactly did they express these feelings to you?'

'Sandra told me about a month and Alicia about three weeks before they died.'

'Thank you, Doctor Siegen', Hotchner concluded the questioning. 'If you think of anything that might help us more, please: contact us.'

Hotch and Reid left Doctor Siegen where he sat. Even as they approached the door, it opened and in walked a young man, rather short and skinny, with pale skin and black hair and glasses that were nearly slipping off the end of his nose. He carried a small notepad with a thin, black pen, and had a rather nervous and twitchy demeanour.

'Doctor Siegen? I—I'm sorry, I didn't know you had an appointment—'

'No, Sam, it's quite alright', Siegen assured him good-naturedly. 'They were just leaving, unless I'm mistaken—'

'Thank you, Doctor Siegen', interjected Hotch, thanking him again. He pushed past the young man through the doorway, and Reid followed, looking behind his shoulder. The young man was sitting down in one of the chairs, beginning to speak. He closed the door, not wanting to intrude.

'What do we do now?' he asked Hotch.

'We go back to the BAU', Hotch replied, 'and hope Garcia has something for us.'

Garcia's face appeared on the screen in the Briefing Room. She was wearing a bright pink dress, with a bright yellow sunflower in her hair and a sparkly, beaded necklace.

'So', she told them, 'I was able to pull up the security tapes for the parking lots where the victims were abducted, and you won't like what you see.'

Another tab popped up on the screen featuring the parking lot of a grocery store. A girl with brown hair by a grey Mazda 3 was putting bags of groceries into her car. After a couple of seconds, a man came onto the screen, his arms full of bags. He dropped his bags as he passed the girl, and she immediately bent down to help him. As she lowered, his hands moved with incredible speed as he pulled out a gun and forced her up against the car. The team watched, helpless, as he coerced her into the passenger seat and he jumped into the driver's seat, and drove away.

'And here is Sandra Clemens' abduction...' continued Garcia, as they watched the same happen to a middle-aged brunette, although this time, the man walked seemed to fall at Sandra Clemens' feet. She bent down to help him up, bending down to her imminent death.

'He wore some kind of hooded sweater every time; that's convenient.' Emily shook her head, frustrated.

'At least I was able to get an approximate height on this guy', said Penelope, trying for a tone of optimism but failing epically. 'He's about 5'10.'

'Thank you, Garcia', Hotch said quietly. The screen went black. 'I think it's time to release a profile.'

They left the briefing room to assemble the rest of their agents together. Reid watched them gather around his team with different expressions: tiredness, disgust, anticipation, slight boredom, yet all shared the same look of determination. Hotch began the presentation of the profile.

'The man you're looking for is a white male in his late twenties to forties. He is an organized killer: he lures his victims by appealing to their sense of empathy, in this case, the desire to help someone in need, and abducts them. He doesn't choose his victims at random; he comes prepared to kill with a ploy and a murder weapon; he most likely either followed his victims to where he abducted them, or he studied their daily routines.'

'He's most likely living out a particular fantasy', continued Spencer, 'and these women were surrogates for a different woman in his life. He isn't able to hurt her, so he lashes out against other women who look or behave like that one woman. Because both victims are brunettes with chronic stress issues, we can assume that the actual target is the same.'

'This man is confidant', added Morgan. 'He's not someone you'd normally expect to be a killer. But he recently suffered a tragedy, possibly involving a brunette woman, like a mother, wife, or sister. Since then, he's become a bit absent minded; he lapses into short periods of anger and/or depression, but then suddenly snaps out of it for a few days. There may be times when no one knows exactly where he is, but people don't think about it much.'

'He may inject himself into the investigation', Emily mentioned. 'He'll be keeping up with the news and media. If he's caught, he may behave calmly, and will respond relatively well to a direct interview.'

'That's all for now', said Hotch steadily. 'Thank you.'

The agents and detectives dispersed, leaving the team alone. 'You all should go home and get some sleep. Unless he's devolving, he shouldn't abduct any women for a few days, and when he does, I need you all at your best.'

Everyone nodded and followed each other out, like a silent, weary flock of FBI agents. They got out to their cars, and drove home, and they were not disturbed until the morning when they returned to work.

Spencer Reid drove back to the BAU thinking about the letter he'd sent his mother yesterday evening. 'Dear Mom: we're working a pretty nasty case right now. One victim was dismembered; the other was hanged. They're beaten and tortured for three days before the UnSub does away with them. I hope that you're okay, that they're treating you well...'

He missed her very much, more than he was willing to admit to anyone, but the nature of his job prevented him from visiting her very often. It made him slightly angry that his fractured schizophrenic of a mother who wouldn't remember to eat without the proper medication had been a better parent than his father had been.

Pouring the coffee at the BAU, he remembered what his mother said when he'd brought her there: 'That's why you're so skinny, you know. Too much coffee.' He smiled slightly as he swallowed, long used to its bitter taste.

'Hey kid', said Morgan, smiling as he approached him. 'Ready for Day Two?'

'Not if Day Two means Body Three', muttered Reid.

'It won't, unless he's devolving', Morgan tried to assure him. 'Even then, he'll get sloppier; it'll make catching him easier.'

'Do you want more victims, Morgan?' asked Emily, joining the conversation. She was frowning as she poured some coffee for herself.

'Of course I don't want more victims', Morgan backtracked. 'I was just pointing out that—'

'I know, I know', she said, smiling slightly. 'I was teasing you.'

'Right', he muttered. Reid knew why Morgan was so uncomfortable with the concept of asking for more victims: when he'd first joined the BAU, he asked for more victims, and got one the next day, and felt awful.

'Any of you know what we're doing next?' Emily asked.

'No; we're still waiting for Hotch', answered Spencer, taking another swallow of the nasty coffee.

'We don't have to wait anymore; he and JJ are here', said Morgan.

'Into the Briefing Room, everyone', muttered Hotch as he and JJ brushed past. Morgan, Emily, and Reid followed the two of them up the stairs and into the Briefing Room.

'We need to choose our next course of action', said Hotch. 'We need to find more information concerning our UnSub, or we may not find him before he abducts another woman.'

'Yeah, I've been thinking about that', interjected Reid. 'The man we saw on the video tapes wasn't incredibly tall or muscular; while he was torturing them, he must have had some way of controlling them other than his gun.'

'The autopsy would have detected a sedative', Hotch reminded him.

'Mm, not necessarily', Reid insisted. 'There's one extremely little-known but effective drug called Fessumine, from the Latin word fessvm, or weak; it's virtually untraceable. He could have coerced his victims into taking it or given it to them while they were unconscious. If they'd been given Fessumine, they wouldn't really be sedated; their muscles would just feel extremely heavy and they'd be unable to defend themselves; they'd still feel all the pain.'

'How easy is it to get your hands on it?' Morgan asked sceptically.

'Incredibly difficult', Spencer answered him. 'You could only get it if you had some access to a scientific lab or mental hospital; it's sometimes given to highly delusional patients who tend to thrash around, so that they don't hurt themselves or others. Because some people have found this despicable, it's been banned in several states, including Maine, Wisconsin, Arizona, South Dakota, North and South Carolina, Montana—'

'Thank you, Reid', interrupted Hotch, subtly telling him to shut up.

'But we would have heard about a mass break in at a lab where large amounts of Fessumine were stolen', said JJ.

'The UnSub wouldn't have needed large amounts', Reid argued. 'One milligram would have been enough to control a victim for three days, easy.'

'Is Virginia one of the states that still use it?' Hotch asked him.

'Yeah.'

'So we're looking for someone of slighter build who has at least some access to Fessumine. Narrows down the profile a bit, huh?' Morgan asked, trying for optimism.

Suddenly, they heard a rapping on the door, and JJ opened the door to Agent Anderson.

'Yes?' asked Hotch.

'Agent Hotchner', said Anderson, looking a bit afraid. 'There's a woman here demanding to see you, her name's Braell; she's been crying for like five minutes.'

Hotch sighed and his jaw locked tightly. 'Bring her in.'

Anderson left and returned with a black-haired woman on the verge of hysterics. She was nearly as thin as Spencer's mother; her grey eyes were wet with tears. She clutched a lank handkerchief tightly.

'What's your name?' Hotch asked her.

'Katherine Braell, sir', she answered, trying to keep her voice steady as her body was racked with sobs. 'It's my daughter Amelia, sir. She left yesterday and she didn't come back.'

'I'm sorry, Ms Braell', Hotch told her, apparently trying to make his voice sound at least a bit gentle, 'but we can't do anything about that. Put in a missing persons report; we can't help you.'

'You don't understand!' She wailed. 'She came here yesterday afternoon because she had information for you, but she was brushed away, so she had to get the evidence herself. I was on my mobile phone with her, and then it just went silent. She never came back; I went to the place where she said she'd gone and all I found was her mobile on the ground; she's gone!'

'Ms Braell', asked Reid tentatively, 'do you know what kind of information she had?'

'It was about the more recent cases', she said throatily. 'Something about brunettes who were dismembered and stabbed—'

'That's the one we're working on right now', Reid interrupted.

Katherine Braell looked at him. Her grey eyes looked like broken glass. 'She said something about the victims' cars and the identity of the perpetrator, but I don't remember; she was talking too quickly for me to entirely understand. She always does when she's talking about murder cases.'

'What's her name again?' asked Morgan.

'Amelia', she replied. 'Amelia Braell.'

'Ms Braell', Hotch asked her, 'where was Amelia when your phone went silent?'

'Erm...a therapists' office, I think. "Marsohn Mental Health Services" or something of the sort.'

'JJ, call Garcia. Anderson, please escort Ms Braell out.'

They followed Hotch's orders: Anderson took the weeping woman by the arm and led her away; JJ dialled the phone. After a moment, her face popped up on the screen: today, she was wearing a low cut, purple and green dress with her hair in two buns on the side of her head, sparkly butterfly pins in each.

'Garcia', asked Emily, 'we need you to research a name—Amelia Braell?'

'On it.'

Reid turned around, looking at the pictures taped to the board. He really didn't want to add the photograph of a third victim.

'Amelia Alexandra Braell', read Garcia. 'Born fourteenth of January in Cambridge, UK, twenty-three years old. Reid, looks like we've got another genius on the line; she graduated Cambridge University at age nineteen with a degree in Psychological and Behavioural Sciences and had also taken classes in History, Classics, and Philosophy. She has an IQ of 178.'

'Wow', muttered Emily.

'Erm...' continued Garcia, surfing through Braell's file. 'Never became an actual officer, but she was often contacted by Detective Inspector Mason to help London's Criminal Investigation Department.'

'When did she come here?' asked Hotchner.

'Six months ago, in February.'

'Does it say why?' Hotch asked her.

'No, the files are sealed; I could try to hack in, but it might take a while. I'm sending her picture to you...now.'

Reid thought about the weeping woman. 'She came here yesterday afternoon because she had information for you, but she was brushed away.'

He remembered someone like that.

'Let me guess', he said quietly, 'dark brown hair, hazel-ish eyes, really pale.'

'So, now you're a boy genius and you've got eyes at the back of your head?' Garcia said, slightly snappy.

Spencer turned around, his heart sinking at the face staring back at him. Just yesterday, he'd seen her in the BAU, the one arguing with the agent about needing to see Hotch. She had had information for them. She had needed to speak to them.

Now she was missing, and hers might be the next bloody body they had to tape up on the board.

'No, no', he stuttered to Garcia, flustered. 'Yesterday, when Hotch and I were going to interview Siegen, I saw her, she was arguing with Agent Fuller about needing to see Hotch. She seemed pretty frustrated.'

'Now we know why...' said Emily, shaking her head.

'But, guys, she went to the therapists' office where Siegen works; she obviously knew something about Siegen or another staff member.'

'We need to have another talk with Siegen', Hotch declared. 'JJ, take care of the press and send out awareness for Braell. Reid, you're with me.'

Reid followed Hotch out, but couldn't help thinking that the last time he'd done this, he'd allowed a young girl's life to fall into greater danger than it already was.