Hello there! It's been a long, long, long time since I've written anything for this fandom, but thankfully I've caught up on all the seasons (thanks, Netflix!) and felt it was time to check in on a rather well-liked universe. Let me know what you think!

Obviously, I only own anything and anyone related to Campbell, VA.

The figure swaying gently on the ancient swing set was a surprise. The long mass of hair, naturally somewhat unruly, was done no favors this night as she approached cautiously. "Reid?"

No response. Long legs slowly propelled the young man forward; his hands, better suited to a pianist, gripped the rusting chains of the old swing as though for dear life.

"Reid." She settled into the swing next to him, keeping herself in time with the agent. "We heard about your mom," she added, almost in a whisper. "I'm…not entirely sure what to say. Except…"

"What am I doing here?"

She stopped swinging. "Yeah. I mean, you're always welcome here, as family should be, but…" Her words faded as a melancholy smile fluttered across his face, and she could swear that a mirthless chuckle escaped from those lips of his. "Something funny?"

He paused a moment, his features schooling themselves as he searched for the right words. "Family. Such a broad term, isn't it?"

"Reid. You and I both know there's all kinds of families. And I'm not talking about divorce and remarriage either."

"I know. And I appreciate that. Really, I do," he added quickly, noticing her intense stare. "It's just…I needed someplace quiet for a while."

She understood. "The sympathy gets overwhelming, after a while." He nodded. "Well, unless you like catching your death of cold out here, I suggest we find another venue. I have the feeling there's more on your mind than just family tonight." She blew hot breath against her hands, rubbing them together in an attempt to keep them warm. "The best options are the office, or a private room at the Stackhouse. They'll stay open for us, if we want, and I can vouch that the coffee's better when Joe makes it. Or, at least, that's what Ollie tells me."

The faint smile brightened a touch. "I could use some coffee."

"Let's go."

The last customers of the night were just cashing out, and Cameron Stackhouse waved as they left. Okay, Joe, he said, his weathered hands talking for him, finally we can start cleaning up.

Good day, though, his brother said as he started towards the front door. Just as he laid his hands on the door the blue light flashed above, signaling another customer. We're closed, the big man said, moving in front of the glass.

Joe, please. We just need some coffee. And a hot chocolate.

Joseph Stackhouse's trademark grin appeared, showing all of his teeth. Of course! Come in, come in. Lock the door behind you, Chase, or Cam will wring my neck. He quickly ushered the two young customers towards the counter, where they pulled up the Stackhouse's trademark red barstools and sat. Dr. Reid, it's been a while. How are things?

Not good. My mom's sick.

Chase gasped as she saw the beefy proprietor envelop her friend's lanky frame into a giant bear hug. She was even more surprised at how long Reid consented to being held in this manner, given his dislike of touching people he was not close with. Joe, he needs to breathe, she said finally, catching the older man's eye.

Joe released Reid from his grip, settling for patting him on the shoulder and waving him to his seat. Coffee and hot chocolate, just the way you like. I remember. If Cam comes out, tell him to head home. I'll be along after a while.

"You must really be in a state," Chase said once Joe went to fetch their drinks. "It's not many that you let touch you, let alone hug you."

The guarded half-smile was back. "Three minutes. My mother didn't know who I was for three minutes."

"Jesus."

"And I know…I know there are treatments out there, some that can stave off the progression of the disease, but eventually…" He paused, as though steeling himself. "…eventually, she won't know who I am at all. And there's nothing I can do to help her. I can't…make this better."

Chase let out her own low, bitter chuckle. "I don't…I don't even have words. Three languages, parts of five more, and I absolutely have no words to help you. Everyone I've ever had has gone quickly. And violently." She sighed. "If someone was threatening your mom…if they were blowing her up or shooting her or something, this I could empathize with. Of all the nights for the guys to be on a trip right now."

"Speaking of, where are they?"

"Texas. Decided to make a 'guys trip' of driving down there to spring Petr from jail."

"Was he on assignment?"

"Mm-hm. Four months. Josh owes him big on this one."

"I didn't think he took domestic assignments, unless you asked him personally?"

"Kinda."

"Kind of?"

"Well, you heard Petr joined the firm, as did Landon and Eamon?"

Reid shook his head, his eyes wide with surprise. "Really?"

"I know." Their drinks arrived, and Chase noticed Reid was warming his hands against the oversized cup that once used to house her hot chocolate. The flavor of coffee had never come out of it, and it was now kept for the many occasions when the young profiler visited for a hand of cards or a weekend spent with the members of the Parker Lawrence investigative firm. "It's why we changed the firm's name. Wasn't just the three of us anymore. Plus, we have reserves."

"Wow."

"It helps. Petr still does our prison recons. Eamon has proved to be pretty capable in the field, and Landon…well, I'm surprised your Director hasn't tried to poach him. I know we've gotten a lot of work from Josh lately, which accounts for us not seeing much of you professionally."

"Yeah. It's been rough."

"Understatement of the year. We heard about Emily. Just around the time you got off on that Senate hearing, Brian Parker paid us a visit." Chase's scowl could have been seen from low Earth orbit. "I about shot him, right over there, in that booth." She pointed to a red leather seat in a booth along the back wall, nestled in an alcove of sorts.

"Why didn't you?"

"You're condoning me shooting someone? Wow, my friend, you really are rattled tonight."

"I'm not condoning anything. Eidetic memory, remember? The Silver Spring case, just after Hotch and you were arrested for supposedly conspiring to poison those diplomats. Kyle needed a translator, and some idiot called his brother Brian. As I recall, he was not pleasant."

Chase chuffed a little. "Yeah, Brian's a dick. Still is. He got himself a nice position clerking for that asshat Cramer, the lead on the panel investigating you guys. I think he thought he could hand over a few more notches in the jerk's belt by implicating us in something. Problem is, Brian didn't realize that about ninety percent of the alphabet soup organizations hire us for various things. Cramer himself has hired us for certain intelligence gathering jobs, though always through third- and fourth-parties."

"He didn't realize that by implicating you, he'd be outing at least two-thirds, if not more, of the people that make up D.C's 'who's who'."

"Yep." The peppermint in her hot chocolate was tempered with the foam remnants of the whipped topping Joe always piled on top. It tasted like her childhood in a cup. "Proof positive that family is, in my opinion, a thing you should choose. God might not make mistakes, but damn if you don't question his reasoning sometimes."

Reid's head fixed itself over his coffee cup, and Chase could hear the wheels turning inside of that brilliant mind of his. "You don't agree?"

"I think that the two of us are the last people to judge, really."

"How so?"

"Chase, you were raised by almost everyone except your parents. I raised myself while taking care of a mentally ill mother."

"And look how we turned out." The woman raised her cup in a sort of mock salute before taking a long draw off it.

"You don't wonder, sometimes?"

"About what?"

"About how things might have been, if things had been different?"

"Do you?"

Reid began to fiddle with the long red stirrer, one of thousands the Stackhouses kept in their restaurant. "The chances are good that, in time, I'll begin to forget too. The 'long goodbye' will start, and when I'm gone, who will remember me?"

Chase turned in her seat, staring at the same booth in the alcove she'd pointed out earlier. "Chase?" Reid ventured cautiously, noting the intensity of her stare.

"People always remember, Reid. Always. You know what I remember about my father?"

Reid shook his head, his gaze transfixed on her. She knew he was looking for tells. "Tell me."

"I remember a man sitting at that table," Chase began, pointing at a small two-seat table near the booth in question. "I remember hearing him laugh, saying out loud to a deaf audience that he liked our little town, and that he might stay awhile. I remember he said it to my father, because he'd figured out that Dad was the authority in this town."

"What made this man so special, Chase?" Reid asked. "What does he have to do with your father?"

Chase sighed, laying a twenty on the counter for Joe to collect. "Finish your coffee, Reid. We're going for a walk."

The night had turned chilly, and both the agent and the investigator could see their breath come out in wisps as they walked. Should have brought a warmer coat, Reid thought. The pair walked through to the center of town, into a little square nestled between several large buildings belonging to the Campbell Institute for the Deaf. They reached a simple wooden bench with a picture inlaid into its back; a photograph of a young woman, bright brown eyes, black ringlets, and a Latin complexion that was as warm as her smile. Beneath it was an inscription.

"In memory of Michelle Zapata," Reid read aloud. "You are loved and not forgotten."

"Michelle was nineteen when she died," Chase began. "She was our first murder here in Campbell."

"The first one?"

"Yeah. Campbell's not that old, really. My grandfather built the school for my grandmother, who had wanted to go to college as a young woman but couldn't get into Galludet. I can't remember why now. They envisioned a place where the deaf could come and live, to learn, to be a majority instead of a minority. But they were open-minded as well; they accepted hearing people where others like them did not. I often wonder what they'd say if they could see the place now."

Reid's gaze flitted around the square. The masonry on the buildings was new; the sidewalks freshly laid, give or take a few months. "It's gotten bigger."

Chase nodded. "It has. The Institute in Michelle's time was about the size it was during the Lavinia murders. It's been a few years, and we've added extensively to both the campus and the curriculums offered."

"Still, she was the first?"

Dark hair shook as the woman grounded herself. "She was found here, dead, her throat cut. She'd been raped, probably multiple times, and she'd been bound. I saw the photos in the old file back when I worked for the college proper."

"How old were you?" Reid asked.

"Seven. I didn't see the body, though, to answer your next question. What I did see was Michelle's mother, Bonnie, wandering through the Stackhouse two days later. Mom and Dad always took me for Sunday breakfast, and she came looking for my father. My little girl is gone, she'd said. He killed her, I know he did. The investigator's hands moved as she talked, making signs for words remembered from so long ago.

"Bonnie knew her daughter's killer?"

Hands wiggled a little, indecisively. "Apparently, Michelle had gone out on a date with some man her mother only saw through the window. She remembered he didn't sign, though. Michelle lip read well, and it wasn't unheard of for her to date hearing men."

A slight scowl worked its way across Reid's face. "What did the police say?"

Now it was Chase's turn to frown. "You remember what I said about the sheriff's department for this county?"

"You said that the sheriff wasn't interested in investigating crimes in Campbell."

She nodded. "When I was fourteen, a couple teenagers thought starting fires was a fun idea. People woke up to burnt-out cars, trash cans aflame, you name it. Ben did everything he could to get the sheriff's department to investigate, but old dickhead Collier kept blowing him off. Claimed that it was nothing more than 'stray ashes' or 'still-lit cigarettes' that was causing the problem, and that it was a matter for the fire department. It wasn't until the Seaver's garage caught fire from a burning pile of trash those kids set that the asshole decided it was a matter worth looking into."

"The Seaver's were hearing people?"

"The parent's and oldest boy were. The twins were deaf; severely hard-of-hearing, actually. I remember they were some of the first kids to get cochlear implants. Susan hated hers, but Molly liked it."

"Still, murder? You'd think that would be important enough to look into…"

Chase shook her head sadly, strands of her black hair tousling in the light breeze. "I can't remember anyone coming to look into it. I think the time of the fires was the first I ever saw a real badge. In Campbell, the campus security began looking into complaints. And before you argue," she added, sensing the comment about to exit the profiler's mouth, "I know campus security has badges too. They couldn't arrest anyone though, not at that time. All they could do was hit lawbreakers with a heavy fine, and provide documentation in case complainants wanted to file a lawsuit."

"Wow." Reid grew unnervingly quiet. "Was there any proof?"

"I'd say a corpse lying in public with her throat cut is pretty indicative of murder, Spencer."

"No, I mean…" The genius's words faltered. "Any sign of the weapon? Fingerprints? It would have been too early for DNA, being in the…mid-80's?"

Chase sat down on the memorial bench, patting the space next to her. Reid sat, looking at her expectantly. "Well, this would have been 1986, so…no DNA, no fingerprints. The report said they dusted, but they couldn't find any other than her own. Remember, you're talking some now-outdated methods of evidence collection – no microscopic fibers or anything like that. Plus, he probably wore gloves. I remember it being chilly enough that Mom made me wear a coat to breakfast that Sunday morning."

"So the unsub would have had prior knowledge of evidence collection."

A short puff of air escaped Chase's nose as she shrugged. "Today, I'd see the unsub as a career criminal; knowing how to erase him or herself from the scene. But that's the beauty of hindsight. I know more now than I did at seven, and the world's changed a lot in the arena of law enforcement. I remember my father questioning if it could have been a cop, or someone close enough to know the evidence collection process. Hell, it could have been a criminal justice student that killed her. I just remember Bonnie in tears, her hands getting jumbled as she spoke…kind of like when hearing people stammer, or stutter when they get flustered."

"The poor woman." Reid's heart was breaking.

"Yeah. Her husband and son had died in a car wreck a few months before. Losing Michelle…it broke her." Chase swiped away a tear, and sniffed a bit.

"What about the man? The one at the table next to yours?"

A throat cleared, and Chase spoke. "People saw him, strolling through campus and the town like he owned the place. I remember that day. My father's fax machine worked overtime for weeks. People were on edge. Students were traveling in groups; I remember seeing less and less people in the shops and the Stackhouse. Murder's bad enough; imagine if you can't hear your attacker coming."

Reid tried. "A blitz attack would be child's play."

"Right. Hence the safety in numbers strategy. Hard for one killer to blitz three or four people at once. I mean, they're deaf, not helpless." Chase drew in a long breath. "That Sunday, the man sat at that table, and I got this…this feeling... that something wasn't right about him." She looked hard at Reid. "I couldn't tell you why I felt that way. Maybe I'll never know. But I remember him looking at me a moment, and he smiled, the way a wolf smiles at a victim sheep in cartoons. Then he stood up, turned, looked at my father, and said, 'Pretty girl. Nice place here. I think I might stay a while. There's a lot to like about a town where no one can hear you scream."

The profiler shivered. "He was confessing."

"My father saw it that way. The man left, and the look on Dad's face…" Chase shuddered. "It'd put you in mind of Hotch when some arrogant unsub has just threatened anyone on the team…or worse, Jack."

Reid's eyes lit with fire Chase seldom saw. "Chase, the man…he wasn't just confessing! He was leveling a threat towards you! Or…or any other girl in town!"

"I know." The air was silent a moment. "Now imagine that there's nothing you can do to stop him. The law won't investigate. The forces you have can't arrest him. There's no solid evidence, and even his confession won't hold up in court. But the threat…" She stopped, exhaling a deep breath slowly.

"The threat is real. Imminently real."

Chase nodded. Reid looked at his friend, seeing the proud, clever, courageous woman whose company he enjoyed become a small, scared child for the briefest of moments. It was a hard combination to juxtapose, even in the higher echelons of his brilliant mind. "My God…"

"Thought you didn't believe in God." The scared little girl was gone; a mirthful, mischievous smirk replacing the look of fear.

"Figure of speech. Besides, you don't either. Not really."

"Touché." She shivered, and Reid briefly wondered if it was solely due to the falling temperature. "My father was the president of the college then."

"The man in charge. I remember."

Chase nodded. "Everyone was looking to him for an answer, and then that happened. Not everyone in that room was profoundly deaf, but damn near everyone could read lips and body language." A long silence followed, and then she stood up. "Come on, she said. "There's one more place we need to visit."

Curious, Reid followed, leaving the ghosts of the little square behind.

The pair stopped at a neat two-story house on a quiet street. Only the streetlights flickered on through the dark of night; the remaining inhabitants of the thoroughfare having long since reached the land of dreams. As Chase unlocked the brown picket gate and motioned Reid to follow, he stopped. "What are you doing?" he hissed.

"Going in. What does it look like?" She shrugged. "Come on."

"Are you out of your mind? We can't just go in!" The profiler's voice was little more than a fierce whisper. "It's trespassing, for a start. Breaking and entering, at minimum!"

The sound of laughter startled Reid. He gaped as his friend howled in sheer mirth to the four winds. "Oh, Reid," she squeaked, unable to control her merriment.

"Oh, Reid nothing." He stood outside the gate, arms crossed.

"Number one, I have a key. Number two, I know the owner. Number three, I'm always welcome here. So are you, even if you don't realize it yet." The sound of metal jingling caught Reid's ear. He saw the light from the nearby streetlamp catch onto the object in question.

"You know the owner?"

"So do you. This is Kyle's place." Chase smiled. "He and Beth bought it about a year ago. That apartment of his couldn't fit them and the baby. It was just sitting vacant, and it needed sold. Plus, his dad lives next door." She pointed to an elegant Victorian-style house just over to the left. "Beth likes to stay with John when Kyle's working out on a case. Or, in this case, taking a working vacation."

"But…why here? I mean, why this house? How does it fit into your story?"

The sound of a door opening silenced Reid. "Reid, you're a world-class profiler. You also have an eidetic memory. Do you remember how I met the Parker's in the first place?"

Reid bit his lip, concentrating. He templed his long fingers in thought. "You were his next door neighbor. Then, that means this was your house!"

"For the first eight years of my life. Now, come on, it's getting cold."

The young man stepped into a small entry, noticing the staircase off to the right. A built-in bench sat to the left, creating a mudroom of sorts. He could see the railing that cordoned off an open hallway toward what Reid presumed were the bedroom areas. Beyond the mudroom, he saw linoleum glinting under the faint light of a small nightlight, and a kitchen chair leg stood sentry whilst hiding in the shadows. Chase ascended the staircase, turning to the right and sitting down on the floor. Her knees were tucked up under her chin. "Come on up," she invited, and he joined her. Reid noted that his back was flush against a door, likely one that led to a linen closet.

"Why are we here?" he asked.

"Can you see the bench?"

Reid craned his head. "Not at this angle."

"Switch me."

The pair shuffled spaces, and once Reid was settled he found he could see not only the bench, but the white door to the left of it. "Where does that lead?" he asked. "The white door?"

"Basement. When we lived here, my dad kept it as kind of a private space for him. I'd been down there a few times with him, to get things for trips or whatnot. I knew he kept my grandfather's rifle down there, high on a special rack so I couldn't reach."

The wheels in Reid's head began to turn. "He took it out that night, didn't he?"

Another breath exhaled slowly from Chase's chest. "Dad knew who had killed Michelle Zapata. The same man had just threatened not only the young women of this town but his own seven-year old daughter. There was no help from the law, or what passed for it in this county. And there was no tangible proof. Just his gut, and before you start, Dr. Reid, I'll have you know even you have gone on gut instinct a few times. Don't bother to lie."

Reid kept quiet.

"That night, I heard the door slam. I remember lying awake all night. About two, maybe three in the morning, I heard the door shut. I crept out to where you're sitting now. The angle of the bench allows you to see down, but someone down there can't really see up. I saw my Dad taking off his boots. They were caked with mud – something Dad never let happen. I mean, ever. Sitting next to him was my grandfather's rifle. I remember the smell – like something burning, like a sparkler after it's fizzled out."

"He…he killed him? The man, the man from the Stackhouse…he didn't…" The realization was hitting Reid hard. "Chase…"

"I'll never be able to prove it. A seven-year old's memories, taken out of context?"

"But, the body…there had to be a body…" Reid's eyes were wild, desperate to reconcile what he'd just learned.

"Reid. Breathe." Once she was satisfied the profiler was on the way to normal, she continued. "You and I both know the Sable Woods are pretty vast. The Brennan House is just on the edge of it, and I'm sure you remember how isolated that is."

"Too isolated." A chill ran up his spine, thinking of that case that had allowed them to make acquaintance.

"Those bones could be anywhere."

"But…how do you know? How do you know your father killed that man?"

Chase shrugged. "Same way you knew your team, especially Hotch, would find you in the Georgia woods all those years ago. Plus, the next day we met up with Bonnie Zapata at the Stackhouse. Dad told her that 'that man wouldn't be hurting another person, ever again.' Her hands moved as she spoke, signing the last part. "He made sure everyone in the place saw him. After that, people slowly began to return to normal. And he was right – no one ever saw that man again. And until Ben's death years later, there wasn't another recorded murder in Campbell that I know of. Thankfully, Dad didn't live to see that happen. He an Mom died about ten months after that man disappeared."

Reid took a minute to let that sink in. "I don't understand."

Chase looked at him as though he'd said Martians were landing in her office. "What's to understand? My father, to my best knowledge, killed a man. He did it to save my life, to save the lives of others, and to avenge a young woman who had been discarded by her murderer and by the so-called 'authorities.'"

"Yeah, but…how does this relate to my mother?" He sighed. "How does it relate to remembering me, when or even if that day comes I can't remember for myself?"

The young woman chuckled. "Reid. Reid, Reid. Spencer." A soft pat warmed his shoulder. "I told you one of the biggest secrets in this town. I remember my father because he loved me. Enough, apparently, to kill a man. You asked me who would remember you, should that time come. Look around you. What do you see?" A finger pointed to the window just slightly below them, over the built-in bench.

"John Parker's house. Kyle's house. Your old house." The light started to come on in Reid's head. "Your family."

Chase nodded. "You have two godsons that adore you, if Garcia and JJ are to be believed. You have a brother and three sisters that would, and have, moved mountains for you, even if they all came from different mothers. You have not one, not two, but, if the rumors are to be believed, three parental figures that are extremely proud of you, not counting your mom. And I haven't even gotten to the extended gaggle of crazy cousins and an uncle in a little town less than an hour south of where you call home. Do you honestly think we would let anyone forget you? Any of us?"

"No." It was getting harder for Reid to stem the tears that threatened to fall from his eyes. "No. You wouldn't."

"I mean, the stories we already tell…" Chase stopped as Reid pulled her into a hug. "Uh, Reid? You okay? I mean, you're hugging me. You don't hug."

"Shut up." The hug lasted a good two minutes. "Thank you for reminding me."

"You're welcome, Spencer." Chase smiled. "Now, what say we get you settled in my guest room? I have a feeling you're not going home tonight."

Reid checked his watch. "No, definitely not. I'll have to call Hotch tomorrow, take the day."

"That, my friend, sounds like an excellent idea. And while you're at it, invite the rest of them for dinner tomorrow night? Seems I need to meet this Dr. Lewis of yours…"

"Absolu—wait, what?"

Chase just smiled.