"Victimology bothers me." Rossi turned at her statement, visibly surprised. They were on their way back from court, having fought their way out with the aid of the bailiff.

"Care to elaborate?"

She bit her lip and sighed. "A lot of the files we'll see, the caregivers for these children were...uh, not the most respectable people. These women he's attacking, they have decent jobs, they're good people, not the type you'd imagine would abuse children."

"Oh Emily, you know as well as I do all types of people hurt their children, and some are very good at appearing upstanding to the outside world."

She nodded. "Exactly, that's my point. I think we can use that to narrow down the search."

"You mean remove all the white-trash from the list." He glanced at her, and back to the road.

"I wouldn't necessarily put it that way, but something like that. We had to have brought back over a hundred files Rossi, and we can't be certain he's in there, especially considering victimology."

"You think we should pursue other leads," he said.

"Do we have any other leads to pursue?"

He seemed to consider that, and then swung the wheel around, turning away from the police station. Emily studied him. "Uh, Rossi?"

"It's noon, we'll grab lunch, and go over this again, yank something out."

She glanced at the road, and back at Rossi, then shrugged. She wasn't too enthusiastic about facing the throng of reporters at the station anyway.

They stopped at a local diner, grabbed food and iced tea, and then Rossi drove with a purpose Emily couldn't fathom. He took them straight to a lot with a dilapidated building, pulled around to the back in front of the a sign that said 'Employee Parking Only', and killed the engine.

"Charming spot for lunch," she said.

He smiled. "We're hidden here. No press, no gawkers. Take a minute to breathe, Emily."

She nodded. "And, here I thought I was covering so well."

"You're keeping it together enough to fool everyone outside the team, and considering last night, I think you're handling yourself admirably. Now eat something."

Feeling a little better than she had in days, Emily passed Rossi his container, and then opened hers. It was supposed to be turkey and swiss on wheat, and it probably was, but the smell of the fries that came with it distracted, and yanked her back in time. Her eyes became unfocused, her grip on the styrofoam box tightened, and she just froze, deep, uneven breaths coming from her mouth.

"Emily?" Rossi's voice. "Emily," he spoke more firmly, pulling her out of the memory. "What happened?"

She inhaled, and shook her head, closing the box, and reaching for her drink. Rossi's hand landed on top of hers and she turned to him. She felt jumpy and jittery now, the almost relaxed mood gone.

"Talk to me, don't bury it," he coaxed, softly.

"It's fine, it's nothing."

"You're as tense as a rubber band, and your pulse is racing. It wasn't nothing. Talk to me, Emily." His dark eyes were burning into hers, asking her to trust him.

Emily swallowed, and ran her tongue over her bottom lip. "The smell of the grease. When you spend days eating it, it permeates everything. When he got close to me, I could always smell it in his hair, sometimes on his skin. Sweat and grease."

Rossi squeezed her hand, and then opened his door, nodding her to do the same thing. He climbed out with his food in one hand, and drink in the other, walking around to the back of the car, and handing her the box while he pulled the back open. "We can get a little fresh air, while we eat."

She offered a tired smile, and a nod of appreciation. She felt like a headcase.

"So, what do we know about these women, besides that they have respectable, though not high-paying or powerful jobs, and that they're between 23-30?" He launched right into work, taking a bite of his pastrami on rye.

"Uh, well they're all single, not much for social lives, so probably pretty introverted." She sipped her tea, still not quite ready to open the box again. "They're the quiet girls, the ones who always did well in school, but never participated in clubs or sports. They're smart enough to do more, but because they're so shy, they stick with what's comfortable, even if it's way below their abilities. They'd be easily intimidated by a strange man in their bedrooms. But, they have their own homes, they're independent, not waiting for a husband. So they can take care of themselves and would be cautious, like any woman that lives alone."

Rossi took a drink. "So, he attacks women that have developed their own sense of security living alone, but would probably not fight back much. This doesn't sound like he's killing the woman who abused him."

"No...it could be that he's attacking weaker women because the stronger ones are too frightening for him. He can't dominate a woman like the one who abused him, but these women he could."

"He's searching out women he can dominate, but still, he reaps his violence on the animals, not the women?"

Barely paying attention, she opened the box, and took a bite of the sandwich. The grease smell dissipated through the air, and didn't yank her back. Now, if she could actually eat a french fry, she'd be really proud of herself. "Well, I think it's obvious that he's very conflicted. He's punishing her, but he can't truly punish her, not yet. Maybe, he's never admitted what she did to him, not even to himself. He's used to suppressing fears and anger, and it's hard to break that pattern."

"So you're thinking that he's still attacking the woman who abused him, but part of him is still afraid of her, so he goes for weaker women, and aims his violence at their pets instead of them," Rossi confirmed

"Maybe..." She paused thinking and chewing, before another thought struck her. "What if he sympathizes with her?"

"His abuser?"

"Or maybe even just the victims. He's abusing them like he was abused, what if that's why he can't hurt them, because he sees himself in them too?"

He nodded. "I can see that." Then he seemed to settle into watching her, that pleased with himself smile on his face.

"What?"

He gestured toward the hand she was eating with. "How're the french fries?"

Emily looked at her hand to find the object she'd been nibbling was not a piece of sandwich, but the stub of a golden french fry. She let out a breath and said simply, "Good."

They found her working in the warehouse, camo-green smock tied over her clothing, her long ash blonde hair tied in a loose ponytail. She was thin, her fingers slim and gnarled, her back already developing a permanent hunch, and her face was a map of creases. Sonja Carlsbad wasn't more than six years older than him, but her past had aged her at least an extra decade. Hell, his mother looked better, and she was twenty years older than this woman.

"Sonja Carlsbad?" Reid asked, showing his ID. Morgan followed suit.

She stopped marking packages, and looked at them, one hand on her twisted back. She snorted at their IDs, and turned back to the machine passing boxes to her and her colleague. "I did my time."

"We need to talk to you about your former foster children." He tried to keep his voice objective, but failed.

"You hate me, but you have no idea what it's like trying to deal with those kids." She glared at him.

"Why don't you tell us then?" Reid adopted his kind, perfect son expression.

"I got work. Sorry."

"Your boss okayed you taking a break," Morgan said.

She looked disgusted, but spoke quietly to her coworker, and walked with them out of the warehouse. They stood outside, in the shadow of the building, and Morgan resisted the urge to cross his arms over his chest.

"So, what the hell do you two want?"

"Tate and Trevor, do you remember them?"

"Sure, little Tate got me arrested. And Trevor was a fucking piece of work, I'll tell you."

"How so, ma'am?" Reid asked politely.

"I had a girl then too, Andrea, she was a sweetheart, but a little dumb. She was a few years younger than Trevor, and he was always looking at her. I knew what he had on his mind, and she was dumb and naive enough that she'd do it. I had to keep him away from her. She was too young to be doing that." Carlsbad, pulled a small bottle of water from her smock, and a bottle of tylenol, and swallowed two.

"What about Tate, he had the same marks as Trevor, but he was very young."

She glanced at them. "I caught him playing with himself one day while he was in the tub, I knew it was only a matter of time. Teach them while they're young."

Morgan resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Was either boy ever openly defiant with you?"

"Tate, never. He was a good boy. Trevor, every chance he got. He was a hateful child since the day I met him. Always yelling and threatening, even hit me once. I just got good at tying his ungrateful little ass down," she said.

"But, you said Tate got you arrested?" Reid asked, thoughtful frown on his face.

"Yes, but not because of anything he did. It was my fault, I wasn't careful enough. His burns got infected one day, could barely walk by mid-day, so the school nurse examined him, called DFS immediately. I should have cleaned the burns better."

"Thank you for your time," Morgan said, having had enough, and hearing all they needed to. Reid followed him as he marched to the SUV. That woman was a waste of oxygen. "We can cross Trevor off the list, but we should have Garcia run more background on Tate."

The genius nodded, and hopped in the car. He kept his eyes on Morgan as he put the car in drive, and backed out of the parking space. When they turned onto the highway Morgan had, had enough of Reid's staring. He glanced over. "What?"

"You're very tense, today."

"It takes an IQ of 174 to deduce that?"

Reid frowned. "Well no, but I figured you'd offer an excuse."

"An excuse? Why do I need an excuse?" He demanded.

"Because I can already tell your in denial about the real reason."

Morgan glanced at him, then back at the road, then back at Reid. "What the hell are you talking about, kid?"

"It's alright, Morgan. Denial is a very powerful defense mechanism. It's one of seven from the Freudian school actually, still used today by many psychoanalysts. In fact, I'd argue that it's one of the most common, certainly more so than say, reaction formation or sublimation. Though repression is another big one, especially when considering the modern Puritanical moral codes of today-"

"Reid," he cut him off. "I'm tense because I'm tired, and because that woman is an evil bitch, who deserved a life sentence for what she did to those kids."

The younger man sort of nodded. "Yeah, that might be part of it, but it's not the real reason."

He let out a disbelieving laugh. "Really, you want to tell me what that is?"

"You're worried about Emily."

"Yeah, like your not," he snorted.

"Sure, I am, but not in the same way as you," Reid said. He was perfectly calm and comfortable discussing this, and Morgan just wanted to bolt.

"What does that mean? What way?"

Reid kind of shrugged. "Well, she's with Rossi, that's enough for me. I know Emily wants us all to believe she's fine, and treat her as we always have, but that's unrealistic. It will be a while before she's really okay, but as long as she's with a team member, I have a certain peace of mind."

"And, how's that different from me?" Morgan asked, brows knit in doubt.

"You want to be the one beside her, making sure she's okay."

Morgan gaze shot toward the young man, to find Reid staring back at him, with a challenge on his face, a challenge to deny that. He didn't have time to consider it, his phone was ringing. He was hoping to see Emily's name on the screen, but he didn't. "What's up Hotch?"

"There's been an attack. The victim was beaten badly, I'll meet you at the crime scene, I already sent Rossi, JJ and Prentiss to the hospital."

"What? It's daytime, this guy only attacks at night."

Hotch's voice sounded tight, strained even. "This victim was also married, and had her eight year-old daughter home with her."

"We're on our way."


This chapter was a bit shorter than the others, but I kind of screwed up plotting the chapters. Hoping to get another part of the Grief series up this weekend during a packing break. My goal is to have those stories done before I move. I am not terribly optimistic.

Thank you for reading, and please review!