Leah's Point of View
He asked me all the basics; my full name, age, height and weight; whether or not I dye my hair (I do not); my occupation. I explained to him that I was an artist and an aspiring writer; he seemed mildly surprised. Do I look like the office type, I wonder? Or perhaps I look a little too 'out there' to a writer... if a not-quite-published-yet one.
"I mostly paint landscapes," I told him, cheeks flushing a little when he asked me what my job(s) entailed. He nodded, making a note in that file of his. His fingers were long, and he wrote in a quick, messy scrawl. "But sometimes I work on commission, so I paint whatever the client wants me to."
"We may need a list of those clients, later," he told me calmly, "But not right now." I nodded. "What was the last thing you painted?" He asked this question as if he were interested, instead of the emotionless questioning he'd been doing before.
"A modern representation of human failures in sepia tones for a man who lives on the East side of Quantico," I said, and his brow creased a little as though he was trying to imagine what such a painting would look like, "He owns a gallery and heard about my work from a past client of mine. She recommended me when she heard he was planning a new piece."
"Did he like it?"
I frowned. "I never got to show it to him. I was on my way to his gallery when....." I froze, memories flooding into my mind like a flood of water from a broken dam. "Oh." I choked out the word. Mind reeling, I closed my eyes, pushing my lids together tightly.
"Leah?" I could hear him, but didn't respond to his probing of, "What's wrong? Are you alright?"
The answer, of course, was no. I was not alright! Everything was going wrong. I had to get that painting to Mr. Jensen! And I had no clue where it was... where he'd put it. I'd spend a week on that canvas, and it was all for nothing. Why me? Why had he chosen me? An artist from Nokesville, who moved to Quantico in hope of recognition; a college drop-out; an average twenty-something with big dreams that have very little hope of success; me.
I distantly felt a sob rack through my body. It hurt the stitches like hell, but I barely took notice. I felt like I was dreaming; maybe this all isn't real, I thought, maybe he didn't do those things to me!
And maybe I was a purple unicorn from Venus with a pie crust on my head. Of course it happened. Another sob shook me, and I heard voices in the distance. Dr. Reid's voice, asking me questions. But I couldn't see him anymore. Everything was black, too dark, though my eyes were open. He touched my arm and I flinched.
"Please," I begged as he ran his rough hands over my arms slowly, "Please stop. I'll do anything. I won't tell anyone! Please, please l-let me go. I won't tell anyone what happened. Not a soul. I promise." A light came on as he pulled a cord above my head; I closed my eyes to avoid it, but it burned through my lids. After days of darkness, the light hurt my eyes.
"Shh," he whispered, stroking my cheek with the back of his hand. "Shh. It's alright." I sobbed bitterly, shaking my head, pulling away from his touch. "Ah, ah, ah," he said, taking my chin in his hand and turning my face towards him.
I opened my eyes and was met with his; they were a beautiful light blue, but cold and uninviting. It was the first time I had seen him, but I knew his face in a moment as though I had known it forever. "Please," I breathed, and he laughed.
"I'm sorry, my precious," he said, stroking my cheek again. Still holding my chin so I had to look into his eyes, he ran other hand down my neck slowly, leaving goose-bumps where he touched. These were not goose-bumps of pleasure, but of impending pain. His hand trailed lower, and I whimpered as he touched my breasts through the cotton shirt I was wearing, unwelcomed; had I been expecting him to ask first?
"Stop," I said, eyes begging his, "Don't." His eyes lit up at the word, as if it meant something to him. He let go of me, and I tucked my chin to my chest, watching him carefully. His eyes were still cold, but they were distant, as though he were daydreaming.
He walked around the chair I was tied to, pulling out a knife. I whimpered again. What was he going to do to me? I shivered with anticipation as the cold metal pressed against my wrist, but he didn't hurt me; he cut the rough ropes that held my hands behind my back.
I was so shocked, that for a moment, I didn't move at all. Then I brought my hands in front of me and rubbed my wrists, noticing how they were not as rope-burned as I had thought. I must not have struggled much, but I couldn't remember.
"A-are you letting me go?" I asked in a voice that waivered with fake confidence. He laughed, and I shivered again.
"Get up." Shakily, I stood; my footing unsure with the rocking of the boat. He walked around the chair in front of me, his eyes roaming over me like I was a piece of meat. I felt utterly exposed, even fully dressed; though I wouldn't be for long. He came over to me with the knife and slowly began to pop the buttons of my blouse with it. I stood there, stock still, too scared to do more than breathe.
Morgan's Point of View
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Peterson," Emily said, patting his dark-skinned hand comfortingly, "It's such a horrible thing to lose your wife like this, and I know this must be very difficult, so thank you very much for helping us out." She was laying it on a little thick, I thought, but Mr. Peterson seemed the buy into it.
"Please, call me Rajan," he insisted with a slight accent, probably Middle Eastern of some kind. "I don't know if my answers to your questions will be of much help, but I will try."
"That's all we can ask," she replied, putting her hands back into her own lap.
"Is there any reason you think that your wife might have been targeted? Did she have any enemies that you know of?" I asked, trying not to sound like the 'bed cop', because I really hate that routine. Rajan shook his head.
"No, none at all; everyone loved Alex. She was the kindest human I ever met. We were soul mates." Emily put on her sympathetic face, and I nodded gravely.
"She hadn't gotten in any fights recently?"
"Never, she was completely anti-violence. I don't think she has ever raised her voice before."
"Do you recognise these women?" Emily began putting photographs of the other victims on the coffee table in front of him. Each of the women had a very similar look; some could have been mistaken for sisters, they were so alike. And they were all beautiful, by any standards.
"I haven't seen them before," whispered Rajan as he shook his head slowly. He looked up at me, wide-eyed. "Did what happened to Alex happen to them, too?" Emily patted his hand again.
"We're trying to stop this," she said, "We want to get justice for you and the other families. What do you remember about the day your wife went missing? Where was she going?"
"She just went for a walk to the grocery store. We were out of milk." His hands shook, and he clutched them together in his lap uneasily. "I called the police when she wasn't home after an hour. I even went looking for her myself."
"What was she wearing? How did she have her hair done?" I prompted. Some UNSUBs pick their victims based on appearance. This one obviously had a thing for white brunettes, but their clothing could have had an impact.
"She had her jacket on, it was black. And jeans, I think. And she was wearing a scarf that my niece made her," he said fondly, his hands' shaking slowing; "It was red. Sashi knitted it herself." He paused, looking from Emily to me and back to Emily. "Did her appearance... how did he pick her?"
"We don't know that yet," Emily said while collecting the photos and slipping them back into the file on her lap. "But when we catch him— and we will— I promise, you'll know what happened, and he'll pay for what he did to Alex."
"Thank you." I nodded and stood up. Emily followed my example.
"Thank you, Rajan," she said, shaking his hand and stepping around the chair I had been sitting in. "Bye."
We left the Petersons' home and got into the car. "Poor guy," she muttered as she did up her seatbelt, "Losing your soul mate at twenty-six."
I nodded. "Hopefully we'll stop this guy before another man does." I did up my own seatbelt and started the car. "Call Reid, will you? Maybe he got something more useful from number five."
Something inside my stomach flinched at the words I had used. 'Number five'? When had victims become numbers? I didn't even know 'number five's name; only that she was alive and Reid had something to do with that. I used to learn each name, each date, and each person. It was hard to be objective, doing that, so I guess I unconsciously stopped thinking about them as people, and more like a name on a list, or a number in the case. I didn't like that. Emily treated them like people. Even Hotch and Rossi didn't use numbers.
Emily was staring at me. "What?" I snapped, a little louder than I planned on being. She looked slightly confused.
"Aren't you going to drive?" We were still parked in the driveway, idling.
"Sorry," I mumbled, and pulled off the gravel driveway and onto the asphalt road, "Lost my train of thought. We can't all be geniuses." In silence, we started the drive back.
Spencer's Point of View
"What happened? Is she okay? Why is she not—?" The nurse glared at me, looking at me with dark brown eyes that did not look friendly. Her mousy hair was pulled up into a tight bun at the base of her neck. She has a little mole on her very pale cheek. Her nose was a little too wide for her face, her cheekbones a little too high.
"She fainted," she muttered disdainfully, "We had to sedate her." I fiddled with the papers in my hands, shifting from foot to foot.
"I'll be back," I told her, and she rolled her eyes. I got the impression that she was not a very nice person. I left the hallway, or rather, trotted further down it, to the waiting room. From there I exited from the nearest door to get outside, and found myself in a parking lot. I pulled out my cell phone and turned it on.
"Hotch, she fainted," were the first words out of my mouth. They were squeaky, and sounded almost panicked, even to my own ears.
"Did you get anything from her before she did?" He, on the other hand, sounded professional and business-like, as always. Not the least bit concerned, though he might be. Who knows, with him? He wears a very convincing mask sometimes.
"She mentioned being in the hold of a ship, and it being dark," I said, "But that's about it." I heard Hotch sigh with dissatisfaction, and I felt a twinge in my stomach. I always feel bad when I let Hotch down. I should have censored what I said around her more, been nicer and gotten her to open up to me, but I hadn't.
"Stay with her and see if you can get more out of her once she wakes up. But don't pressure her, and try to be kind. She's been through a lot, Reid. Don't forget that." I nodded numbly.
"Yes." I hung up and went back to wait in her room for her to wake again.