Hey, folks, it's me again. Hopefully, you'll find this story more tasteful than my other ones. I actually like this one, I think.
This is dedicated to my best, soon-to-be-firefighting friend, "Mara." Remember, Mara, friendship is like peeing your pants: everyone can see it, but only you get the warm feeling it brings.
I hope I've brightened your day!
Prologue: Take a Chance, Make a Change
"Some of us are so self-reliant that we won't ask for help from our family members or close friends. You can't do it all, all the time, by yourself."—Yasmeen Abdur-Rahman
"Are you coming with us to JJ's birthday party this weekend?" Dulcea asked Callia.
"I can't. I promised Freya I'd go to the zoo with her," Callia picked up a set of keys and got ready to go to her house, formerly known as Maggie's house. "Thanks for loaning me the house, by the way."
"Hey, I gave you the house. It was your idea for it to double as a homeless shelter."
Callia kissed Dulcea on the cheek. "Well, thank you anyway."
"Have fun," Dulcea waved them goodbye. As she let her arm drop, she turned and came across an odd look on Varda's face. "How can I help?" she asked, trying to drag a chair directly in front of the girl.
Varda rolled her eyes and put both hands on Dulcea's hands, forcing her to drop the chair. "Hotch says he wants to see you."
"What about?" Dulcea asked.
Varda shrugged, not meeting Dulcea's eyes. "I don't know."
Dulcea noticed Varda's eyes were red. "I don't mean about Hotch, silly goose. I meant you. Why are you crying?"
Varda sniffed, not trying to hide her watery eyes any longer. "I don't know when my birthday is, or who my father is."
Dulcea straightened. She knew this pain only too well. "I'll go talk to Hotch, see if I can manipulate him like I can almost everyone else."
Varda nodded gratefully. "Thank you," she said, looking back at her work. When Dulcea left, Reid came over and put a gentle hand on Varda's back.
"Why did you choose me?" Hotch asked when Dulcea came in. "Last time you went back, you went to a group of people."
"I know," Dulcea admitted. "You weren't alone, though. You had to protect Sean, so I had to protect you."
Hotch frowned. "But there are thousands, millions, perhaps even a billion children being abused or living in substandard conditions. Why don't you focus your efforts on them?"
"Because I took one look at you and I knew you were going to be in my family one day. If you were going to welcome me into the Hotchner household, I had to be welcoming to you in return," Dulcea said. "I'm competitive that way."
Hotch looked at her for a few minutes. "So you're not really a sweetheart; you just have to out-nice everyone else."
"Yup," Dulcea nodded. "Me in a nutshell." Then she looked pensive. "I really am sentimentally sensitive, though, to a fault. My daddy always said that was my problem."
"Horatio?" Hotch asked.
Dulcea shook her head. "No, I mean my birth dad, William Reid."
"What did he do to you?" Hotch asked immediately.
"Nothing," Dulcea frowned. "He died when I was, like, eight. I thought my birth mom died too, but she went insane after Bill died and I didn't see her again until three years ago. Callia raised me, like you raised Sean."
"Callia has a daughter," Hotch said, brow furrowed.
"Yeah," Dulcea looked at him. "It's up to her to tell you that story if she wants to."
"A couple of cases back, you said your mother's name was Catarina Reid, correct?" Hotch asked, hands at his computer.
"Yeah," Dulcea nodded absently.
A couple of taps later, Hotch asked, "Was her maiden name Catarina Logan?"
"Yeah," Dulcea was paying attention now, leaning forward toward Hotch's computer.
Hotch turned his computer toward her so she could see. "Did you know she has brother?"
Dulcea sucked in a breath and leaned back. "I have an uncle," she whispered in disbelief.
Hotch nodded. "If you want time off, I have vacation time left over."
Dulcea looked at him apologetically, "Oh, no, I couldn't ask you to do that."
"Dulcea, you're not the only one who wants some answers from this Michael Logan," Hotch picked up the phone to call Agent Strauss.
Dulcea nodded and sat back down. "Before I go, sir, could you look up some things about Varda? She mentioned wanting to go back to her roots too."
10 months ago:
Dear Magenta,
I don't know why I still call you "Dear." You're anything but dear. You're not even alive, so I don't know why I'm bashing you around. Actually, I do. See, Maggie Dodson just died, but I already gave her house to Callia and Freya. I can't really stay in the house of a dead friend, so I'm staying with Hotch since he insisted. I don't think Hayley's very happy with that, but she knows me. She was so shocked when she heard Hotch call me "Dulcea." She was one of the kids in New York, except back then she was known as "Leah." She was born taking care of a family of 11 because of her alcoholic mother. She came to us with an addiction to prescription pills and alcohol, using crystal meth every day. We tried to help her, but she wouldn't quit her drugs and left us. I think she's still snorting in secret, but I don't know. I know her life sucked, but that doesn't mean that I like her any more. She only lets me stay out of charity and doesn't freak out when I sing and disappear right in front of her out of some misguided idea that she owes me and this is her way of paying me back. Hotch told me this job requires focus, dedication, and a strong stomach. I can focus if I want to, I always pledge my dedication to things I feel strongly about, but I'm air-sick, car-sick, water-sick, and everything else-sick. I don't think I have a strong stomach. I told him that, but he said that I watched McCarty die and I haven't acted too weird about it. Well, of course I wouldn't act all weird about it! McCarty died a hero's death, which is what I think all police officers are after, and I didn't know McCarty that well, so I wouldn't be able to really grieve for him. I think what he meant by strong stomach is the ability to see death, feel death, and not be sick. Of course I won't be sick! It wouldn't be the first time I've seen a dead body. He says that a body may be mutilated beyond description, but I don't care. As long as it isn't mummified or decaying, I can definitely handle it. So I guess I do have a strong stomach. Still, I don't think I feel strongly enough about this job to be dedicated to it. I've always wanted to form strong friendships with living people and help the needy. I never imagined helping this corrupt justice system, and it is corrupt. I don't mind giving sick pedophiles and rapists and that kinda people to the justice system, but I wish I could help people who can still be helped, like a therapist or a social worker or a nurse. But not heroically homicidal nurse like Phillip Dowd. Well, Looking forward to another year in which I will frantically scramble to find you to jot my desperation and frustration down after something bad happens but won't succeed because I have chronic Messy-Room Syndrome,
Pearl Dawn Dulcea Love Dulcibella Sayen Rush (gosh, it feels nice to write Rush).