Beca wakes up to the soft weight of a head on her chest. After a moment of confusion, she identifies the wavy mess of red hair as Chloe, and the memory of the night comes flooding back.

It should feel weird, having a near-stranger (whom she's also happened to make out with a couple of times) draped intimately across her body, but it doesn't.

It feels… right.

Glancing at the clock, Beca sees that they still have another hour or so before they have to get up and settles back into her pillow, absently running her fingers through Chloe's hair.

She is so fucked.

They have a quiet morning—gentle smiles and soft touches over cereal, because Beca's still a little jumpy—but the station is anything but serene when they arrive.

"What the hell is going on?" Beca mutters as they push through the door.

"Detective Mitchell," someone calls, and Beca turns to see Jessica, a receptionist, motioning her over to the front desk. "Lieutenant Posen wants to see you two in her office," Jessica says, smiling.

(She's always smiling. Beca finds it a little unnerving.)

"Okay, thanks," Beca says over her shoulder as she turns in the direction of Aubrey's office. They pass clumps of people chatting, looking on phones or computer screens, one particularly large group of uniformed officers watching the television in the little lounge alcove, which is set to the local news.

Bewildered, Beca knocks on Aubrey's door, poking her head inside. "You wanted to see us?" she says, seeing that Jesse is already in the room, seated across from Aubrey.

"Yes, come in," Aubrey says hurriedly. "We have a situation."

"I can see that," Beca comments as she seats herself beside Jesse. "Care to fill me in?"

Aubrey hands Beca and Chloe each a piece of printed paper. Glancing down, Beca sees that it's a letter. When she sees the signature, she can't help the sharp intake of breath that escapes her.

"This was sent to the Atlanta Journal-Constitution," Aubrey says. "It was printed in this morning's paper."

Beca looks down at the paper and scans the print; the body of the letter is succinct, just a few lines, followed by what appears to be a poem.

This is the killer of the King family Madeline Childress and Karen Albright.

Another person has died because the police can not catch me. I am to good. I am sorry it has come to this but the monster in side of me can not be stopped. Watch out Barden.

Oh! Death to Karen

What is this that I can see

The monster taking over me

Better stay out of my way

The monster has come out to play

I will gag you so you can't talk

Tie your legs so you can't walk

If you see me coming you should run

The monster wants another one

-The Barden Strangler

"Jesus Christ," Beca mutters, putting down the letter.

"I'm sure you can imagine that people are not happy," Aubrey says, her mouth in a firm line. "We're being criticized left and right."

"People have no idea how an investigation works," Jesse grumbles.

"The public wants to feel like tangible action is being taken, something they feel like they can contribute to," Chloe says.

"So what do we do?" Beca asks.

Chloe thinks for a moment, biting her lip. Then she announces, "A tip line."

"A tip line," Aubrey repeats, her expression thoughtful, working the idea over in her head.

"People can call twenty-four hours a day with any information they have. We could do a press conference to announce it," Chloe explains. "It also puts pressure on the UNSUB, because he'll know people are watching."

"That's a good idea," Jesse agrees, leaning his elbows on his knees and nodding.

"Who's gonna go through all the tips?" Beca asks, not terribly excited by the idea of spending hours combing through probably useless tips about people's weird neighbors.

"We can pull a couple officers for a couple hours every day to help," Aubrey offers.

"Okay," Beca says, and Chloe beams at her.

"Operation Barden's Most Wanted is a go!" Chloe cheers, high-fiving Jesse.

Beca just rolls her eyes.

Leave it to Aubrey to have the press here in three hours, Beca muses, surveying the crowd of people wielding cameras, microphones, and notepads, packed into the large classroom-style space used for the morning lineups. A podium, topped with various microphones, has been carried in and set up at the front.

"I don't have to talk, so I?" Beca hisses to Chloe, who seems very calm about all of the commotion.

Chloe places a hand on Beca's arm and squeezes. "Aubrey'll do the talking, don't worry."

Speaking of Aubrey, Beca thinks as the door to the room opens and Aubrey, looking sleek and professional in a black suit and heels, strides purposefully to the podium.

"Good morning," Aubrey says, even though it's nearly one o'clock. "Earlier today, a letter was printed in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, purportedly from the person who murdered the King family, Madeline Childress, and, most recently, Karen Albright. These murders were brutal, tragic, and senseless, and the Barden Police Department is doing everything in its power to find the killer. We are working with the FBI and we are trying to use every resource available to us.

"What we realized is that there is one resource we have not utilized"—Aubrey looks up, into the cameras for a moment—"you, the public. Which is why we are setting up a tip line that anyone can call at any hour of the day with any information that might lead to the capture of this killer. Please call 1-800-374-3847 if you have any information. Thank you." She smiles, pausing for the cameras, and then leaves the podium with a nod.

"Nice job," Chloe says with a smile as Aubrey approaches them.

"Hopefully it'll distract the critics from trying to cut our funding," Aubrey mumbles, aware of the people in the room.

Beca rolls her eyes, but she does agree. Although she's not looking forward to picking through all of the tips that are sure to flood in.

"One hundred and thirty-six tips!" Beca exclaims when she opens her email the next morning. "How the fuck do one hundred and thirty-six people honestly think they have valuable information?"

"What do they say?" Jesse asks around a fast-food breakfast sandwich.

"Um," Beca says, scrolling. "Well, this one is from a woman who was out walking her dog and some guy 'looked at her funny.'" She tips her head back and groans. "This was a terrible idea."

"Hey!" Chloe says. "This was my idea, and it's a great one, mind you."

"Then you come over here and read all of these tips," Beca grumbles, although it's hard for her words to carry any sort of weight against the person she'd slept curled around—again.

"I'll take a third, you take a third, and Jesse can do a third," Chloe says around the pen cap in her mouth as she scribbles something on a notepad.

"One hundred and thirty-six isn't divisible by three," Beca complains, forwarding the email to Chloe and Jesse as Jesse's phone rings.

"'ello?" he mumbles into the phone, still chewing. "Wha?" He swallows, coughing. "No, it's fine. We'll be right there. Bye."

He hangs up the phone and looks up with an odd look on his face. Beca's stomach drops, expecting the worst.

"Another one?" Chloe asks quietly.

"No," Jesse replies, wrapping up the rest of his sandwich. "Well, not really."

"What do you mean, not really?" Beca asks, stuffing her things into her bag, trying to calm her heart with the knowledge that no one is dead.

Jesse shrugs. "Dispatch said some lady found a letter from 'Barden Strangler'"—he holds his fingers up in air quotes—"saying that he was waiting in her house to kill her but then he left."

"Like, he got bored?" Beca wonders aloud, and Jesse shrugs again.

"Well," Chloe says as Jesse unlocks his car, "now we know he's actually staking out victims. If this is the guy and not some stupid kids playing a very insensitive prank."

Jesse pauses before putting the key in the ignition. "Would it be bad if we went through the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru?" he asks.

Beca hesitates. It's not like anyone's dead… she reasons with herself.

"Nah."

Fifteen minutes and three coffees later, Beca, Jesse, and Chloe approach the front door of a white ranch-style house with a heavy metal knocker on the door.

(There's also a doorbell, which Beca rings.)

An older woman with short brown hair and horn-rimmed glasses opens the door. "Hello," she says nervously, stepping aside to let them in. "I'm Alice Stevens."

The first thing that Beca notices about Alice's house is that there are owls everywhere—owl figurines littered throughout the living room, owl-printed pillows on the couch, paintings of owls on the walls.

The second is that it kind of smells like cat pee.

No wonder the killer left, Beca can't help but think.

"I'm Agent Chloe Beale, and this is Detective Beca Mitchell and Detective Jesse Swanson," Chloe says, extending her hand for Alice to shake.
"Thank you for coming," Alice says, gesturing with her hand for the group to follow her into the kitchen. They all sit around her little kitchen table, in the center of which lies a piece of notebook paper with a sloppy script scribbled across it.

"Why don't you tell us what happened, from the beginning?" Chloe asks, flipping to a clean page on her notepad.

"Well," Alice says, her voice raspy like that of a smoker's, "I came home earlier this morning from the hospital. My daughter just had a baby last night, and I stayed over with her. It was all rather sudden; she wasn't due for another two weeks. This was on the table when I got home." She points to the paper.

Beca digs into her bags for a latex glove and a clear evidence bag, carefully sliding the note inside to protect any fingerprints it may contain. Once secured, she leans over it to read.

Oh, Alice Why Didn't You Appear

T'was the perfect plan of deviant pleasure so bold on a sunny day

Cool, dry with inner fear and rapture

The monster had come out to play

Oh, Alice, why didn't you appear

In that small world of longing, fear, rapture, and desperation, the game we play

The monster is in its cave but it will not stay

Oh, Alice, why didn't you appear

You got lucky this time.

-The Barden Strangler

"One of the windows in the basement was broken," Alice tells them. "I think that's how he got in."

"Did you notice anything missing?" Chloe asks.

"No, I don't think so," Alice says.

"And do you have any idea if this paper came from here?"

Alice nods. "It's probably out of this notebook." She stands and picks up a notebook from the kitchen counter, handing it to Chloe. Beca bags that, too. "I use it to write grocery lists and the like."

"Do you live alone?" Jesse asks, looking at the family photos that lines the wall.

"I do now. My husband passed away last year," Alice follows his line of sight with a small smile.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Jesse says, and Alice thanks him.

"Have you noticed anyone hanging around your house, watching you? Or has anyone you don't know come to your door lately?" Chloe presses.

Alice thinks for a moment and then shakes her head. "Sorry, no."

"Is there someone you can stay with for a few days?" Beca asks, worrying that the killer might come back to finish the deed.

"I can go to my daughter's," Alice says. "She'll probably want help with the baby, anyway."

"Perfect," Chloe says with an easy smile. "Thank you so much for your time."

Jesse fishes something out of his pocket. "Here's my card. Don't hesitate to call if you need anything."

"Thank you," Alice says, her face solemn. "I really hope you catch this guy soon."

"I hope so, too," Chloe says.

By the end of the day, all Beca wants to do is take a shower, put on her pajamas, and watch television while reading through the unread tips. And maybe order takeout. (She hasn't had takeout in, like, a week. It feels wrong.)

It's a wonderful plan, and Beca's trying to decide between Chinese and pizza when Chloe says, "Let's go out!"

"Out?" Beca repeats, kicking her shoes haphazardly onto the mat by the entrance to her apartment.

"Yes, out," Chloe says, looking amused. "You know, like somewhere that's not here."

"What's wrong with here?" Beca asks, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Nothing," Chloe says, tongue peeking out to run over her bottom lip quickly. (Beca thinks it quite unfair.) "But we just go to work and then come home. I want to go out."

Chloe's eyes are doing the puppy-dog thing she always does when she's trying to get Beca to share half her bagel or let her choose the radio station, and Beca finds her resolve quickly crumbling. "But I don't want to," she whines, fully aware that she sounds like s six-year-old.

"Please?" Chloe says, batting her eyelashes, and Beca's gone.

"Fine," she grumbles, biting back a smile at Chloe's excited squeal.

"I'm picking out your outfit!" Chloe announces, grabbing Beca's wrist and half-dragging her to the bedroom.

"I did not agree to that!"

Forty-five minutes and many complaints later, Beca, dressed in a flowy top, heels, and jeans (she'd drawn the line at anything involving skirts or dresses), follows Chloe into a little hole-in-the-wall bar. It's dimly lit and a bit sparse on patrons, but Beca hadn't felt like paying for a cab to downtown Atlanta.

(They took a cab for two reasons: One, Beca really didn't feel like trying to find parking. Two, Chloe insisted that they were going to get—and she quotes—"hammered." It makes Beca nervous.)

Chloe, wearing a dress so tight it might as well be painted on, immediately orders them each a tequila shot with salt and lime as Beca looks on warily.

(The last time Beca had tequila shots was a night out with Jesse about a year ago, and she still doesn't know what happened to her bra.)

"Come here," Chloe says, smirking in a way that makes Beca nervous. Gently, Chloe brushes Beca's hair to one side, exposing her neck. Her face looms closer, and Beca's eyes flutter shut, heart pounding.

The feeling of Chloe's tongue dragging up her neck, slowly and teasingly, makes her jump a bit, breath hitching. When Chloe pulls away, a rush of cool air hits Beca's neck before a tickling sensation. Opening her eyes, Beca sees Chloe sprinkling salt along the curve of her neck, biting her lip before grinning at Beca mischievously.

Satisfied, Chloe returns the salt to the bar top. She picks up one of the lime wedges. "Here," she says, holding it up to Beca's mouth. Beca takes it between her teeth without saying anything, because she's pretty sure the only sound that would come out would not be in English.

Chloe ducks her head back into Beca's personal space, licking away the salt in one smooth motion, and Beca can't stop the small whimper that escapes.

Chloe raises the shot to her mouth, tipping it back and slamming the glass back onto the bar. Beca watches the way her throat bobs with the swallow, transfixed.

Lips descend on Beca's own, wrapping around the time and tugging it away from her teeth. Beca releases it, allowing Chloe to take it. She licks her lips, tasting lime.

"Whew," Chloe breathes, sucking hard on the lime before dropping it into the empty shot glass. "That was fun."

For you, maybe, Beca thinks, feeling her neck heat, her mind involuntarily replaying the feeling of Chloe's tongue against her skin.

She needs to be drunk. Like, yesterday.

"Your turn," Chloe says, smiling in a way that is too angelic for a person who just rendered Beca temporarily paralyzed with her tongue.

Summoning her courage, Beca takes the salt and leans in to lick a path up Chloe's neck, the tastes of salty sweat and sweet perfume lingering on her tongue as she carefully sprinkles the salt onto Chloe's skin. Chloe tips her head to the side, eyes watching Beca carefully. She picks up a lime wedge and puts it between her teeth. She should look at least a little bit ridiculous, but Beca can't find a single fault.

"Here we go," Beca says, mostly to herself, as she picks up the shot, careful to hold it steady as she licks the salt off of Chloe's neck.

Then she knocks it back, hissing at the liquid burning down her throat. (She'd forgotten how much she hates tequila.) Quickly, Beca takes the lime from Chloe's mouth, lips brushing just the barest hint. Her lips are tingling, and Beca isn't sure if it's from the alcohol or the contact.

"That was fun," Chloe says, and Beca can't help but notice that the side of her neck is still glistening. It makes her stomach flip.

She's pretty sure this girl is going to be the death of her.

Beca's drunk.

She's drunker than she's ever been in a very long time. (See: Tequila incident 2014.)

Maybe it's the stress; maybe it's the cheap liquor. Maybe it's the way Chloe, equally as drunk, is smiling at her.

They sit at the bar, downing drinks like frat boys and laughing at things that aren't funny until Chloe's hand wanders up Beca's thigh, fingertips gently dragging along the inside.

Beca immediately stops talking, too inebriated to form words while Chloe's hand is creeping up her leg—Chloe, locks of hair escaped from her bun framing her face, which is flushed from the humid air of the bar and the liquor, who is smirking at her like she knows exactly what she's doing to Beca.

It's almost embarrassing, how much Beca's body reacts to the gentle pressure of a single hand. But she's too drunk to care and she wants Chloe.

"Let's get out of here," Beca breathes, words slightly slurred. She briefly considers the bathroom, but she really wants Chloe naked and, well—they've been interrupted before.

"Okay," Chloe says brightly, sliding off of the barstool. Her dress rides up a bit, exposing creamy thighs, and Beca's breath catches.

The ride home is gonna suck.

Beca's totally adding "walking up three flights of stairs in heels while-shit-faced drunk" to her list of greatest accomplishments. She's never been so grateful to hear her apartment door slam shut behind her.

They'd managed to keep things pretty PG-13 in the cab ride back, but as soon as the door shuts Beca presses Chloe against it without hesitation, pressing their mouths together with need.

Chloe makes a surprised sound into Beca's mouth but grips her hips tightly, kissing her back with fervor, tongue raking across Beca's teeth in a way that makes her knees feel weak.

Beca grabs at Chloe's waist, growling in frustration when she realizes that the dress doesn't allow access to her skin.

Chloe's wandering hands slip just under the material of Beca's shirt, fingers splaying out over her lower back, making her shiver.

"Off," Beca gasps, and Chloe complies, flinging it somewhere over her shoulder. Her mouth descends down Beca's neck, lavishing the newly exposed skin with open-mouthed kisses and soft bites, stopping to suck particularly hard on her collarbone.

"Fuck," Beca gasps, stumbling a little in her heels. She tugs at the material of Chloe's dress, but she's too distracted by the sensations to be very effective.

"How about we take this…?" Chloe doesn't finish her sentence, instead gesturing with her head in the direction of the bedroom.

"Yes," Beca says, nodding emphatically. (It makes the room spin a little bit.)

Chloe pushes off the door and gently guides Beca backwards down the hall—but alcohol, heels, and a decorative rug don't mix very well, and Beca stumbles, falling flat onto her butt.

It would be funny if she weren't so desperate to get into her bedroom, and Beca yanks off her heels, scrambling back to her feet. However, Chloe is still wearing her heels and Beca finds herself face-to-face with Chloe's chin.

God, she is never wearing heels again.

With a laugh, Chloe toes off her shoes, and Beca wastes no time in dragging her into the bedroom and shoving her down on the bed. She tugs at the tight fabric, urging it up over Chloe's hips, faltering at the sight of lacy black panties, mouth going dry.

Impatient, Chloe yanks the dress over her head, revealing a matching black bra, the lingerie sharply contrasting with her pale skin.

Beca wastes no time in running her hands all over Chloe's body—up her legs, over her annoyingly toned abdomen, over the swells of her breasts. Chloe throws her head back, her breath coming in short pants, making Beca's head swim with desire.

There's just one tiny, tiny problem.

Beca really has to pee.

She tries to ignore it, she does—but she's drunk and it's hard enough to just focus on Chloe, spread nearly naked in front of her.

Beca hates her life sometime.

"I have to pee," she blurts, eloquence obviously out the window. "I'll be right back."

"No," Chloe whines, tugging at the button of Beca's jeans.

It takes every ounce of Beca's willpower to pull away. "Just… one sec..." she says, hurrying to the bathroom as best she can without falling over.

Beca nearly kills herself trying to pull her very-tight jeans down, but she reemerges triumphantly a few minutes later, feeling like she might explode if Chloe doesn't touch her now.

"Okay, I'm—" The ready dies on her tongue.

Because Chloe is passed out, asleep, red hair that has long since escaped its bun splayed against the blanket. And she's not just asleep—she's asleep and snoring.

Goddammit.

Beca's never drinking tequila again.

A/N: The poems here are heavily based on/partially copied from poems by Dennis Rader, which are so fucking bizarre I can't even try to imitate it. Well, I did try, but for the full experience you should read the actual poems.