Emily stumbled into her apartment in a daze. She showered and dressed quickly before checking the time. Ten forty two. She sighed, knowing it would be another night spent sleepless, her dreams being too haunted by memories to allow her to enter. Emily walked mindlessly around her apartment desperately searching for something, anything to distract her. She watched TV for a few minutes but soon became bored and switched it off as quickly as she'd switched it on. She continued to wander around, occasionally checking the time or attempting something. Time dragged on. Emily thought about sleeping but found herself far too restless the moment she even glanced at her bed. After another few minutes spent ambling about her home, Emily looked out of the window.

Flashback starts

Emily giggled and danced on the spot as her mother placed the final cushion. Laughing, Emily sat down on her window seat and kicked her legs triumphantly. Her mother smiled and brushed her cheek.

"Nearly dinnertime." Emily laughed harder at her mother's words and bounced in her seat. As her mother left the study, Emily could hear her chuckle to herself. Emily settled on the chair and looked out of the window. It was so busy. She watched, endlessly entertained by the hundreds of people rushing about. No one noticed her; no one looked at her and Emily laughed again. It was like she was invisible. She pressed her little hands on the window and continued to watch, entranced by what she saw.

Flashback ends

Emily stood up and grabbed her jacket. Inside was unbearable but outside could be better. She ran for a while, tracing streets and doubling back tirelessly. Her breaths soon quickened and her mind became blank. Blissfully blank. All she thought about was running, not her mother, not her father, not her house, not her tiny little brother. Emily didn't know she was crying until she felt the tears wet on her cheeks. She leaned against the wall and sighed heavily. After a while of pitying herself and her family, she dragged herself from the wall, and forced herself home and into bed.

.

Dark shadows hung beneath Emily's eyes, matching the inky blackness of her hair. Her night had consisted of tossing and turning aimlessly, trapped, in a nightmare that threatened to last longer than she would. She was a prisoner of her memories, a prisoner of her mind.

Emily tapped her fingers against the monitor impatiently, waiting for a green 'match' to appear and end the case. She continued to drum her fingers against the screen but her mind began to wander from her case. More painful memories hung at the edge of her fragmented mind playfully, teasing her mercilessly. At the idea of remembering more Emily shook her head hard. She'd had enough of her past, enough of her old life. A beep made her smile, something to distract her. Now the case was done, she would have reports to fill in and, for the first time, reports and filing seemed inviting. She had never been so pleased to see the colour green.

.

Mac and Stella sat in his office, quietly planning on how to break the news of Stella's pregnancy to the team. Adam already knew and Stella's bump was already drawing curious glances. When Emily knocked on his door, Mac felt confident, anticipation for the arrest warrant surging through him. Emily stood in front of him and folded her arms. Stella seemed unbothered by her hair which pleased Emily, so many people had been asking about it. Emily's expression was neutral as she laid the iPad onto Mac's desk. A smile of satisfaction pulled at the corners of Mac's mouth.

"I'll get the warrant. Go and find Don, he'll be pleased" Mac slid the iPad back towards Emily, the green 'match' still displaying what everyone had been certain of. Lyra had broken into Celia Brown's apartment.

.

Don drove slowly, his eyes focused on the road. Mac had ordered a quiet approach, hoping Lyra would 'come quietly'. Beside him, Danny rubbed his hands together. It was a cold day; with the wind having a ferocious bite in it that Danny felt was worse than any dog could have. Don pulled up quietly outside the home of Lyra Richardson and, as he and Danny exited the car, he felt a prickle on the back of his neck as though someone was watching him. Shaking it off, Don strode up to the door, gun in his belt, vest strapped tight. He knocked on the door and as he did, the door swung open. Don looked towards Danny before pulling out his gun and motioning for Danny to do the same. As Don moved closer to the doorframe, he noticed the lack of evidence to indicate a break-in. The pair started to move down the hall, hands tight on their guns, arms outstretched, and knuckles white. They continued down the hallway, making no noise, stealthy and silent until they reached the first room. Then the smell hit. Don recoiled from the door he had opened like it was red hot. It was unmistakeable. Dirt, blood, sweat, vomit and decomposition had grouped together to make what was possibly the worst smell ever. There was, without a doubt, a dead body in that room. Danny had been easing the door opposite open but turned when the smell crept its way over towards him. Pressing a finger to his lips, Don kept his hands on his gun. Danny knew what he meant. The killer might still be inside.

Don slowly began to ease the door open. "NYPD." His heart began to race as it always did when they apprehended a suspect. The door swung open, revealing an empty room, aside from simple lounge furniture. Danny followed Don into the room where their eyes were met with a horrific sight.

Lyra Richardson was hanging from her ceiling fan in her underwear. Her face was cut and mangled, her stomach torn open and the letters 'Sshh' painted in red on her ribs. There were two bullet holes in her chest and a long, thin stretch of white cradled her neck that hung sideways. Her lips were also cut and her eyes were shut tight as though she had avoided looking at anything. Danny and Don exchanged a glance, their faces in matching looks of horror as they slid their guns away.

Still in shock, Don began to reach for his radio to call it in when the sound of rustling made him stop and reach for his gun once more. They turned and were met with the sound of panting and pounding feet.

"Get the car!" Don barely had time to yell to Danny before throwing himself after the blond haired man who was furiously running away, tossing boxes and market stallsbehind him as though his life depended on it.

"This is Detective Flack," Don panted into his radio. "Suspect is a white male, approximately 5'8 with blond hair heading down East 84th street. Officer in pursuit. I repeat officer in pursuit."

The blond suspect continued to hurtle through alleyways and streets, taking twists and turns at every chance he got, doing all he could to evade and escape the detective on his tail. He was lucky, throwing stalls and people behind him, narrowly missing New Yorkers and cars, forcing Don to shove people out of the way, leap over fallen stalls and slide over the hoods of cars. But eventually, the man's luck ran out and he reached a dead end.

Don's heart slammed in his chest, his lungs burning for air. He stopped and leaned forward, gasping for oxygen. The suspect looked worse for wear; his blonde hair was plastered to his forehead, sweat running in rivers down his face, his breaths coming in short, wheezing gasps that reminded Don of an asthmatic. As the blond suspect turned to face Don, recognition burned with hatred in his eyes. Behind Don, a car pulled over with a screech and Danny leapt out. Both men had their guns drawn before the blond could even reach behind him to grasp what both Don and Danny knew would be the same gun that had been used to shoot Lyra Richardson and Casey White.

"Don't move." Don was grateful that Danny had spoken; he was focused on getting his breathing back to a steady pace.

Mr Stone glared at Danny and held his hands above his head as Don cuffed him and led him towards the car.

Danny smirked at Don's heavy breathing. "You wanna call it in?" His question earned him a disapproving scowl from both Mr Stone and Don.