"Oh. Hey," Reid looked up, startled by her presence and sucking in a breath. "I—I didn't know anyone else was still here."

"I'm the only one," Prentiss said, pulling up a chair beside her coworker and placing a medium coffee in front of him. "It's double sugar."

She waited until he took the cup and began to sip before she spoke again. "Have you had any breakthroughs in the last couple of hours?"

"It doesn't make sense," he mused, setting the Styrofoam cup back down on the table. "The victimology doesn't fit any possible serial motive…but if it was personal, why would there be such remorse?"

"What made you think it was Morgan's old girlfriend?"

He shot her a Don't go there look, but the corners of his mouth flinched as he basked in thought. "The circumstances all point to her, and I just—she gives me a bad feeling."

"Are you sure that's not just because—"

"I'm positive," he cut her off. "It's the timing, the situation—it's all off."

She paused, trying to find a way to word it without offending him. "Morgan doesn't seem to think so." He swallowed, the muscles in his jaw tightening. "Do any of the gang members you and Morgan talked to know her?"

His face relaxed, and he turned to look at her. "We didn't even ask." He checked his watch. "We—we could go now. I know where Junior lives."

"Reid, are you sure?" Prentiss glanced at the evidence board. "It started to rain a little while ago, the weather report said the storm might get really bad. Maybe we should wait—find Hotch, or talk to Morgan."

"No," Reid said flatly. "Morgan's already upset that I brought it up. The least I can do is keep him out of it until I know for sure."

He stood, grabbing his suit jacket and an umbrella. "Are you coming?"

Prentiss looked behind her, out the window and at the sheets of rain. "Who else is going to carry your coffee?"

The black Suburban raced through the city streets, the traffic light due to the hazardous weather. Exchanging their coats for the trademark FBI windbreakers, Prentiss and Reid ran up the nearly hazardous steps to Junior's apartment. Reid tore open the screen door, still tinted pink with Loco's blood, and banged on the inner wood with his entire forearm.

"Who's there?" a low voice called.

"It—it's Spencer Reid!"

"Who?" another voice pressed.

"FBI!" Prentiss shouted. "Open the door!"

Reluctantly, the wood parted an inch or two, enough for Loco's eyeball to become visible. "French fry?" The door opened a bit wider. "Where's Derek?"

"I need to ask you something."

He glanced at the street behind them, the torrential rain running through the street gutter like a miniature Amazon. "Now?"

"Did any of the victims know Cherise Tyler?"

He squinted. "'Reese? Yeah, everyone knows her. Why?"

Reid's eyes widened. Prentiss looked at him openmouthed, but said nothing. "Do you know where we can find her?"

"Right now?" he asked skeptically. "What the hell's going on?"

"We—we have to find her, and talk to her, right now."

"She runs an outreach center on the east side," Loco mused, his voice serious. "I know where it is."

"We can call Garcia and get directions," Prentiss offered.

Reid shook his head, stepping back and holding the screen door open. "We don't know the city. It'll take too long."

Loco stepped out the door. "Hey, baby. Wassup?"

Prentiss scoffed. "Don't even."

"Loco, this is Agent Prentiss," Reid said, gesturing to his coworker as he hastily returned to the SUV.

"Ooh," Loco flashed a toothy grin as she held the front passenger door open. "Agent."

"An FBI agent already kicked your ass once," Reid admonished, "don't make the second one a woman on top of it."

"Whatever," the thin man spat, closing the door behind him. "Go up to the light and make a left." Reid nodded, then stepped on it. "Whatchu say your name was again, French fry?"

"Spencer Reid."

"Doctor Spencer Reid," Prentiss corrected.

Loco raised his eyebrows, impressed. "Aight, Doc, take this street 'till it runs out."