Understanding

Change is the constant, the signal for rebirth, the egg of the phoenix.

Christina Baldwin

***

VIII

'When are you due?' he asks me softly, so that no-one else can hear. I sigh inwardly. I hadn't really expected to last this long.

I reply in the same quiet voice. I want people finding out on my terms. 'I don't know. I haven't had an ultrasound yet.'

'How long have you known?' He concerned. That's all I ever seem to hear in their voices today.

'About three hours. Who else knows?'

'Just Garcia.'

I almost groan. Garcia has the best intentions. The biggest heart. But the slightest push, the tiniest bit of motivation, and she'll tell anyone anything if it's for the right reason.

I go to the conference table. Sit down. I may as well get this over with.

'Hey Emily…?' Reid starts. He sounds uncomfortable. I don't blame him. 'Alyson's IVF treatments. They stopped, around two months ago. What was the reason for that?' I know it has the reason in the file, but I think he just wants to hear it from me.

I'm quivering. Hotch and JJ have stopped looking through their own files to follow the conversation.

'The treatments were unsuccessful,' I say huskily. I'm holding back the tears. God I hate hormones. 'I didn't…because of work, but after Lee couldn't get pregnant…I started my own treatments two months ago.' A tear escapes. I brush it away. 'I don't know if I can bring up a child on my own.'

Morgan's behind me. 'You're not alone,' he says.

I wish I can believe that. I really do. I know they'll try and be there for me. That they will support me to the best of their abilities. But they cannot stop me from being alone.

Because they don't understand.

***

I don't accompany them when they return to the clinic. They have a list of people they want to talk to. People that fit the profile. People who know people who fit the profile. There were no significant correlations in the victims' files, but that doesn't mean anything. You don't have to be connected to someone to be watching them.

Garcia's re-running the searches. Adjusting parameters. Anything that might find another link between these victims.

I'm staring at case files, not seeing anything of any value. I honestly don't know what I can do to help. I feel useless.

'I might head back to my desk. Get some paperwork done.' I've got a big stack of files that I've been neglecting. Maybe this is a chance to get my mind off of things.

'You sure, sweetheart?'

I raise an eyebrow at her choice of epithet. 'Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure.'

I leave her to her business, and return to my desk. I sort through my inbox as the computer starts up. I really should have had these things done days ago. Reports and consults, mostly.

I play a bit of solitaire before I start. Strictly speaking, the FBI computers are supposed to be a no-fun zone, but Garcia did a bit of tech wizardry. The mind-numbing movement of cards is almost cathartic.

I check my emails. Official stuff, mostly. One email stands out. It's the address that stands out first – a random string of numbers and letters. The kind of thing our spam filters should have blocked. Of course, our technical analysts are far too busy examining criminal hard drives and tracing phone calls to ensure that spam filters are working at full capacity all the time.

"Agent Prentiss," the email begins. Not spam, I guess. "I thought perhaps you ought to see this. I'll be committing the same atrocities to you as I did to your lover." He makes the word lover sound dirty. As if it's something I should be ashamed of.

There's a link below. I make sure the sound is turned down, just in case. I don't hesitate as I click the link. I am beyond hesitation.

I recognize the scene. It's the alleyway behind Enrique's bar. There's a few seconds of dead stillness before the unsub enters the scene. And he's not alone.

It's in a fairly quiet area, Enrique's. Definitely not the place you'd usually expect to find a bar. He could have easily incapacitated her on the street and dragged her into the alley. Drugged her into silence. I'm trying damn hard to think about this objectively, but I know my knuckles are white as my fists clench.

He's beating her. Heavy hits, damaging blows. He doesn't stop at the beating. He's thrown her to the ground. He's violating her repeatedly, as if she was nothing.

She's not nothing.

When he's finished for the last time, he starts hitting her again. Going for the head shots this time. The video quality isn't high, but I feel as if I can see every drop of blood that he draws. The bane of my existence. She's not moving. Her life – her soul – has left her body. But it hasn't left my memories.

And I won't let it.

I close the internet browser, minimize my emails.

I stare at the screen dully. I've made a decision.

I'm not turning back.

I put my badge on my desk, followed by my phone.

I keep my gun with me.

Chances are, I'll need it.