Months passed. Three long months, filled with hurt and longing, but also with the smallest bit of healing and rebuilding. They were settling to an Emily-less routine. Garcia no longer paused at her picture each morning, no longer allowed a small sigh to escape her lips as she brushed the cheek, forever immortalized on paper. JJ had picked up Emily's duty of bringing coffee on Mondays, something she'd started in order to combat the general sense of dread and loathing they associated with that day. The awkward bit came on that first Monday when they walked into the conference room and realized that none of them had bothered to brew a cup in the kitchen because they were waiting for Emily to waltz in, balancing two trays on top of each other. The other awkward bit came when JJ spent the next week subtly figuring out what her colleagues drank so that they would have coffee the next Monday. And then they'd all offered an embarrassed chuckle when every single one of them came in on Monday with two trays full of coffee, passed them out, and discovered that not a single person had gotten anyone else's order right. JJ, in her usual unflappable efficiency, had taken everyone's order then and there, except for Reid's who said he didn't know what Emily brought him, but that he liked it. JJ eventually extracted that it was coffee with almost a cup of sugar liberally added.

With Emily gone, Hotch had needed to adjust the partnering assignments. More often than not, either he or JJ stayed behind, as an uneven number of agents in the field didn't work. Strauss was urging him to replace Emily, even going so far as to offer up the names of some promising cadets, but Hotch had resisted. It was too soon to replace her. They needed to regain their own footing before they could bring someone new onto the team. Strauss agreed, at least for the time being, unless they stopped closing cases in a timely manner, in which case she would assign someone herself. She needn't have worried; the team's reputation for solving impossible cases grew rapidly as they threw themselves into the work, finding that looking at the gruesome photos and hearing the horrifying details of someone else's death stopped them from picturing Emily with a table leg sticking out of her stomach, blood pooling beneath her.

Hotch had stopped calling her. It was a reflex at first, after getting a call from JJ in the middle of the night he'd always pressed number 3 on his speed dial and called Emily, rousing her from sleep and listening to her mutter the normal expletives about the hour, the case, and the asshole of an Unsub that was going to feel her wrath for getting her out of bed this early. He'd done this a few times after she'd died, hung up with JJ and pressed that button only to hear the robotic voice in his ear telling him that number was no longer in service. It had been over a month since he'd done that, which he figured was some kind of progress. Jack had stopped asking too, maybe sensing that something was off with the story Hotch had told him about Emily being on vacation. He hadn't heard Jack's voice asking him if she was having fun, if she missed him, or when she was coming back. What he had heard was Jack's bedtime prayer two weeks ago when, out of the blue, he ended with normal "God bless" with "And God bless Emily, even though she's on vacation. And if you want to tell her that it's time to come home, I think that would be okay, because I really want to make pancakes and Daddy doesn't do it right. Amen."

Hotch hadn't been able to leave it like that. He'd sat on Jack's bed and looked down at his son. "Do you miss Emily?"

Jack had nodded. "She's the best."

Hotch had left it at that, fearing that he would end up giving something away about Emily's death that would leave Jack reeling. So instead of saying anything else, he'd leaned down to kiss Jack's forehead but when he'd tried to pull away, Jack had locked his little arms around Hotch's neck. "I really miss her, daddy," he'd whispered in Hotch's ear.

"Me too buddy. Me too."

Morgan, for his part, had stopped calling Anna. After she'd stormed out of the office the day of the funeral, he'd been told multiple times by his team members that verbally attacking a woman's recently deceased sister was not the way to win her over. That was the gist of it anyway. Garcia was especially upset, having been the only one whose call Anna had accepted that night. She'd recounted the conversation in the conference room the next day.

"She's listed Emily's apartment and is going back home. She wants to get the shelter up and running as soon as possible. She says thanks for everything you guys did to help Emily and plan the funeral and that she wishes you the best."

"Then why won't she answer my calls? Or any of our calls?" Morgan asked, rubbing his bruised cheek. She'd landed a good punch.

"I didn't ask her that," Garcia said coldly. "Unlike you all, I get that this is hurting her and I didn't feel the need to go after her for how she's choosing to cope with the situation."

"I didn't go after her," Morgan insisted.

"Please. You guys were too busy being mad at Emily yesterday to see that behind the composure she was falling apart. What she needed was friends and none of us gave her that, myself included."

"So we're just supposed to stop being mad about what Emily did to us?"

"Oh my God, Derek, that's my point," Garcia wailed. "This isn't about us. This is about Emily, our friend, our teammate who gave her life trying to save ours. I don't like what she did any more than you do, but are we just going to be mad about it forever? Because correct me if I'm wrong, but I think that would make it hard to get over the fact that she's not here." Tears slid out of her eyes and down her cheeks. "If we can't stop being mad, we're never going to get over this."

Reid broke the silence that followed. "I'm not mad about what Emily did. I'm mad that she's not here to talk to me about it." The statement sent a jolt of clarity around the room; the knowledge that the anger and betrayal they were feeling wasn't entirely due to Emily's deceit but was in part caused by the circumstances of her brutal death and her ensuing absence.

"Can't you see how Anna felt yesterday?" Garcia asked quietly. "She wanted someone in her corner, hers and Emily's. And none of us would give her that. So now she's gone. And I can't say I blame her." She collapsed into a chair as though exhausted and wiped her eyes with the tips of her fingers. "Sorry. That was my tirade for the day."

It turned out to be the only tirade they'd needed. The next month following Anna's departure had been quiet and about as routine as you can get in the BAU and Morgan had started to make peace with the fact that he'd royally screwed up and lost both Prentiss women within days of each other. Or at least, that was what he'd told himself. At least until one morning when he'd walked into the bullpen and seen Anna's face flash on the news. He'd asked Anderson to turn it up and his initial alarm had subsided when he'd realized she wasn't in danger. He'd watched intently as the anchor delivered her story.

"Second Chance, the transitional housing facility that was destroyed in a fire last month has reopened in record time," she reported perkily. "Under the watchful eye of Executive Director Anna Prentiss, the facility was re-designed to increase the number of families it can house at one time." The screen started flashing pictures of the newly build structure which had already been sprawling before it burned down and was now even larger. The photos of the exterior gave way to segments of a guided tour that was being led by Anna, who was explaining her vision for the newer, better Second Chance.

"Everyone deserves a second chance," she concluded, looking straight at the camera. "We're here to give it to them."

The television flashed back to the news room and Morgan walked to his desk. He shuffled the papers in front of him but couldn't take his mind off Anna, who had apparently already moved back home, almost two hours away. It hit Morgan harder than it should have, her leaving. It hadn't been far when they were together but now it seemed like it was a distance that would be impossible to cross. Those thoughts were shoved out of his head when his phone buzzed, signaling a text from JJ summoning him to the conference room. He sighed and pushed his chair back, thinking to himself that the only good thing to come of this was that things might finally get back to normal.

Normal brought them to a kidnapping case two months after that news report. Three months since Emily had died. Three months after Anna left. A sixteen year old girl and her mother were missing; her father had been found shot to death in their home. Police had discovered her six year-old brother, two year-old sister, and three month-old sister bound and gagged in a closet in the basement. They weren't hurt but they weren't talking. The FBI had been called in immediately and Hotch's team was assigned to the case. The police had found footprints outside the teenager's bedroom window, which was unlocked but closed. Other than that, there wasn't anything useful at the scene.

The children were being kept at FBI headquarters but the interviews were going nowhere. They'd opted to keep the children together because the six year old boy had thrown a tantrum to end all tantrums when the paramedics had taken his sister ten feet away from him to look her over. He was proving to be fiercely protective, which was great, but he wasn't talking. They needed a description of the Unsub, or at least an account of what had happened. Neighbors hadn't heard gunshots and the ME had confirmed that the wounds were inflicted at close range, probably while the man slept. This meant the Unsub was controlled and prepared; he'd used a silencer and been able to sneak into the house without waking anyone up. It also suggested he was physically strong, as he would have had to carry both the mother and the sister out of the house; there were no drag marks, nor any footprints that were their size.

What was throwing them off was that the Unsub had taken both mother and daughter. The crime scene was too neat to have been an impulsive act, which meant the Unsub had planned this and knew who his targets were. But a preferential offender wouldn't vary the ages of his victims so widely, and a ton of different theories had been thrown around the conference room. This was why they needed to talk to the younger children, to see what they saw and remembered about the way the Unsub acted, spoke, and conducted himself. Did he go after the mother first and take the daughter to keep her quiet? Was he after the daughter and the mother was collateral damage? Without knowing what happened in the house, there was a very slim chance of cracking this case.

The FBI's interviewer had gotten nowhere. The young boy had become defensive the minute she'd walked in the door and refused to say a word. A child advocate from social services was brought in to stay with the kids but had been unsuccessful at getting them to talk to her. They were in a room that had been designed as a waiting room for families of victims who were either waiting to be questioned or waiting to hear the news of whether their loved one was dead or alive. It contained a couch, a television, and a small coffee table. There was a tiny refrigerator in one corner with a microwave on top of it, as well as a sink and a cabinet of cups. The child advocate had unearthed a playpen that had been hastily set up in a corner where the baby was currently sleeping. The advocate had, at first, exercised her right to stay in the room with the children at all times but even she, after some pointed glares from the boy, had decided it might be better to step out and watch from the other side of the observation window.

Hotch and the team surveyed the children through the window as well, trying to decide how to delicately question them, at least the boy, without sending them into an emotional tailspin. Not for the first time, Hotch knew they were all wishing Emily was there; she'd always had a special way with kids, especially child victims. Yes, they were all experts in human behavior and interviewing but it took a special kind of person to walk the fine line between deftly guiding the mind of the child to get the desired information and relentlessly bombarding them with questions.

Hotch glanced at his watch and shook his head; they were running out of time. He walked to Garcia's office and knocked once before entering.

"Garcia, I want you to get and trace a cell phone number for me." He gave her the name and she balked.

"Sir, are you serious?"

Hotch nodded once. "Now, Garcia. I need it now."

With a few taps on the keys Garcia had it. "Hang on, that can't be right..." she frowned and pressed more buttons on the keyboard. "Hotch..." she gestured toward the screen and he leaned forward, instantly seeing what had her so riled up.

"Thanks Garcia," he said over his shoulder as he walked out of the room.

Garcia continued staring at her computer screen in disbelief. She didn't know how this could be right, how this could possibly be accurate. But her babies had never been wrong before.

She relished the loud pops of the bullets as they left her gun. Focusing on the target in front of her, she landed six head shots in rapid succession. She hadn't lost her touch, that was for sure. When she paused to reload, she heard Hotch's voice behind her and she jumped.

"Nice aim."

She whirled around and stared at him with what she was sure was a dumbfounded look on her face. "What are you doing here?"

"Bringing you back, I hope," he said cryptically. He explained the rough details of the case and emphasized the standstill they were facing. "We need to reach those kids and none of us can do it."

"What makes you think I can?" she asked, reloading her weapon.

"That's what you do," Hotch cocked his head. "You're good with kids. You have a way with them, with people in general but with kids especially. They open up to you."

She sighed. "The team is not going to be happy about this."

"The team will understand why I've done what I've done. And they'll understand what you've done too."

"I'm not sure about that. I left, Hotch. Without even looking back once."

"So come back and make it right. You can't do this by yourself and you don't have to."

She took a deep breath. "Okay." She nodded. "Okay, I'll do it. But don't be surprised if I don't get a very enthusiastic welcoming party."

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there."

They got there a little over an hour later, after she'd showered and washed the sweat and gunpowder residue off of herself. While she checked in at the desk, Hotch went ahead, retracing his steps back down to the waiting room where he found the team where he'd left them.

"Where'd you go?" Rossi asked, raising his eyebrows.

"I've brought in a child interview expert," Hotch told them. "We need someone that can get through to these kids fast."

"Isn't that what we're here for?" Morgan asked. Outside "experts" always screwed things up. They were there for the glory and nothing more.

"Morgan, we're running out of time. At this point, I'll accept the help of whoever can get results and I hope you'll do the same."

"Told you there wouldn't be an enthusiastic welcoming party," a voice said from the doorway. Heads whirled and hearts sped up as they recognized the dark head of hair that was there, the face partially hidden in the shadows. Reid's mouth was the first to a name.

"Emily?"