Developments and Their Implications

"I can believe things that are true and things that aren't true and I can believe things where nobody knows if they're true or not."

~Neil Gaiman.

24 Hours Later. FBI Evidence Locker. Quantico, Virginia.

Adelaide Macaraeg rubbed her forehead in a mixture of fatigue, frustration, and confusion. "Wait, so you're telling me that you don't think Reid's the bomber, but it's still possibly one of the BAU?"

Jack Dawson looked away for a moment, his lips pressed into a thin line. He still wasn't sure that he should've let Mac in the loop, but it was too late to back out now. "Honestly, I don't think any of them are involved. But I don't have the luxury of anything less than absolute certainty, and I won't be responsible for sending that young man to his death by letting him walk around with a group of people that might contain the person who wanted to harm him the most."

"You have a helluva way of expressing concern," Mac informed him dryly.

"I'm not saying it was the best option—I'm just saying it was the only one I had at the time." Jack returned to the evidence before him. Everything looked like a lost cause—water-logged books and charred bits of paper and plastic. Half the stuff was completely unrecognizable. He continued, in a slightly distracted air, "However, as the investigation has progressed….there are certain aspects that don't look like a frame so much as simply damning evidence."

Mac gave a hum of understanding. She quietly pointed out, "But you don't want to believe it."

"If I'd needed a career where my own wants and opinions were given precedence, I would've become a prima donna."

His companion gave a wry snort. The image of dour-faced Dawson giving arias while bedecked in glistening jewels and opera gloves was certainly an amusing one.

"A few years ago, Benjamin Fuller went off the grid, in terms of finances," he easily switched gears. Mac's head was ducked as she sorted through a box of evidence, but he could tell that she was listening intently. "It's as if he knew what would happen. Like he was preparing, and making it difficult for us to tie him to anything, later on."

"Makes sense. A plan like this could take years to fully execute."

"Here's the most interesting part—John Curtis was still alive when Fuller started lining things up."

Now Mac stopped and fully turned to him. Her wolf eyes were wide.

Jack continued, "Curtis was adept at stalking the BAU—he was able to get Derek Morgan's finger prints, he knew Spencer Reid's routine in regards to his communication with Maeve, and his technological capabilities were amazing. He may be gone now, but his insider information and his skill set might have been passed on."

"That's a lot to entrust to someone else," Mac pointed out. "And what little I know of John Curtis' case, he seemed like the lone ranger type."

"There was at least one instance where he used a proxy," he informed her. "And it ended favorably for Curtis. He wouldn't have any reason not to use that method again."

"Don't mess with a winning formula," Mac cited the familiar refrain. Then she frowned, "Except Curtis has been cold and buried for two years now. The plan would've had to have been already in motion at the time of his death. So why wait so long?"

"Whoever his partner was—whoever the real UNSUB is—must've been unsure of whether or not they wanted to proceed." Dawson shrugged. "Or maybe they were less adept as Curtis was—they needed more time to get everything done, now that the true mastermind was out of the equation."

Mac glanced back at the evidence strewn across the tables. "Curtis was smart. And careful. He wouldn't have exactly sent a gilded invitation proclaiming 'you are cordially invited to attack the Federal Bureau of Investigation'. And he certainly wouldn't have kept a record of any contact or communication between him and his partner."

"He was also a narcissist with a god complex," Dawson reminded her, turning his attention back to the evidence as well. "He didn't expect to get caught—and he would've kept something to remind him of his success. A prize. A trophy. Some kind of visual reminder, perhaps something only he would understand."

"Which may or may not have been burned to a crisp," she intoned flatly, dropping an evidence bag back into the box as if to emphasize her point.

Dawson gave a frustrated sigh—one which informed her that he was well aware of such a possibility, and somewhat tired of having every move second-guessed.

Mac got the hint and quietly returned to sorting through items. After a pause, she spoke again, "Fuller was a pretty smart cookie, too. He kept those journals—and even had a backup set, which apparently his co-conspirator didn't know about. He doesn't seem the type to keep trophies, but he would keep something, as a form of insurance."

"Lewis and Masterson haven't found the name of the woman in Fuller's journals yet," Dawson reminded her. "He doesn't want us to know who she is—or the doctor, for that matter. Which again, is another reason that I have my suspicions about Reid's supposed involvement—why keep the identities of the other two a secret, but blatantly refer to Reid by his name? It doesn't make sense."

"If I may be so blunt," Mac was implying as if she were asking permission, but Dawson had the distinct feeling that she was going to say what she wanted, whether he granted her permission or not. "I think we're wasting our time here. Our answer isn't going to be in Curtis' ashes—it's going to be in Fuller's collection."

He made a small noise of agreement, although he was reluctant to do so. And despite her protests of futility, Macaraeg continued sifting through the rows of evidence bags, giving each a quick, critical appraisal before returning it to the appropriate box.

"Whoa, whoa…." Mac stopped, straightening her spine as she held up an evidence bag. From somewhere within the depths of her overcoat, she pulled out a pair of latex gloves. Dawson considered asking her if she always carried them with her, but something told him that he already knew the answer.

She donned the gloves and opened the seal on the plastic bag. It was the charred remains of a book—hardback, with a dust jacket melted onto its surface. She held it closer to her face, squinting at something on the back of the book.

"This is gonna sound weird, but I think I recognize this woman."

She held the book up for Dawson, who by now was right beside her.

He understood why she knew it sounded weird—because you could only see about a third of the woman's face clearly. Half the photo was burned away, the remaining pieces were warped by heat and water. At one point, it was a standard photograph of the book's author, with a blurb of a biography, which had long been lost to the flame.

Mac continued, "Those newspapers from Fuller's house—the ones in the big stack, that Agent Eden wanted us to look at—I'm pretty sure I saw this woman's face in a photograph in one of those."

She gingerly turned the book in her gloved hands, inspecting the spine before opening the book. A few pages later, she found what she needed—in bold type, the name of the book's author. "Dr. Maura Morrow."

"That name sounds familiar," Dawson admitted, slipping his phone out of his back pocket.

"Yeah," Mac agreed. She returned the book to its plastic bag as Dawson punched in a few words on his phone.

"Dr. Maura Morrow," he read aloud from the search results that had appeared on his phone. "Renowned linguist, hand-writing analyst—"

"Shit."

"Who apparently also consulted on the Amerithrax case."

"Double shit."

Dawson's grim expression echoed her sentiment. "We'll take the book and pack up the rest."

They worked quickly, the possibility of this new development sending a fresh rush of energy to their veins. It wasn't until Mac had turned off the light and they'd shut the door to the evidence locker behind then that Jack Dawson quietly intoned, "And you thought this was a waste of time."

She merely rolled her eyes, giving a self-deprecating smile at his teasing. She easily changed the subject. "Now we need to see if there's any further connection between Curtis, Fuller, and Dr. Maura Morrow."

She stopped walking, her eyes wide with sudden clarity.

Dawson stopped as well, turning back to look at her.

"Doctor. Shit." She motioned towards the evidence lab, where Masterson and Lewis were still working on the journals. "We just assumed that Fuller's references to the doctor were about Reid. What if they're really about this woman?"

Jack's pace doubled, and Mac's legs easily caught up to him.

They breezed through the main lab, and Mac returned Wells' badge with a smile, keeping the half-burned book tucked safely under her arm. Then she led Jack back to the long metal table where the newspapers had been set aside.

A new set of latex gloves for each of them, and they began their task of sorting through the papers.

As Mac had pointed out earlier, the oldest papers were about the Twin Towers. Then their focus shifted to the Amerithrax case. However, the last ones weren't nearly as clear-cut.

"See?" Mac held up a page, which contained an article about Maura Morrow's latest book. "I thought Fuller kept these because there's a brief mention of Morrow's work on the Amerithrax case. I thought he was just saving anything that referred to the case, no matter how insignificant it seemed. But look."

She shifted to the next newspaper. Again, another article about Dr. Morrow, with only a passing mention of the Amerithrax case.

"Maybe his focus wasn't on the case at that point. Maybe it was on Morrow." Dawson realized. He looked at the picture accompanying the article, then glanced back at the book in its plastic bag, which Mac had set on the table as well—yes, it was definitely the same woman. Her features were so striking, it was easy to see why her face had stayed with Mac.

"C'mon." She turned on her heel, scooping up the book again and heading to the room where Jeff and Roe were still wading through the journals.

"What's up?" Jeff was instantly aware of the odd energy in Mac's frame. Rowena sat up, too, her hazel eyes darting from Mac to Jack and back again.

His boss dropped the book onto the table with a satisfying thud. "I think we may have just found our mysterious she—and our doctor, all rolled into one."

Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.

Aaron Hotchner rubbed his tired eyes, trying to make them work properly again. They were becoming blurry and unfocused on the tablet in front of him, and had recently become prone to drifting slightly upwards—across the coffee table, Emily Prentiss was leaning forward as she read through reports on her phone, and the cut of her shirt gave a lovely view. Distracting, but certainly lovely.

He tried not to remember a hotel room in Nairobi, where he'd explored that particular region of her body with his tongue and teeth. Tried, failed miserably, and really wasn't too upset with his failing.

She'd started picking at her nails again. Whether it was from previous stress or simply from the nature of this particular case, he wasn't sure. Probably a mix of the two.

Aside from the occasional scratching of Dave's pen as he jotted down notes in his ever-present notepad or the demure clink of tea mugs on a tables and countertops, silence reigned as everyone delved into the list of cases—Garcia, in her technical prowess, had created a large shared folder and they'd all devised a system of tackling the cases, reading through and deleting the ones that didn't fit from the folder. Everyone had developed their own systems for determining a case's merit, and there were more discarded cases than there were possible ones, but the running tab of potential cases was already looking ominous. Rossi, true to his nature, had complained about not having physical hard copies, but he'd taken up his tablet with relatively little fuss—a trust testament to how determined he was to set Reid free.

Hotch's cellphone buzzed, and he glanced at the caller ID.

Jessica. Most likely calling so that Jack could wish him a goodnight before she tucked him into bed. Also her subtle way of reminding Hotch that he needed to get home. Not that he blamed her—she was Jack's aunt, not his surrogate mother, and although she protested that she didn't mind keeping him, Aaron tried not to rely too heavily on her assistance, because she certainly hadn't signed up for this.

None of them had, really. No one had planned on Haley's murder, and there wasn't a clear set of instructions on how to rebuild after such a devastating tragedy—because the truth was, there was so much that couldn't be rebuilt, not between just the three of them.

He answered the phone and made his way into the hall outside of Penelope's apartment.

"Hey," he spoke softly, almost regretfully. He knew Jessica would never outright mention that he'd promised to be back before bedtime, but only because she knew that she didn't have to.

"Hey there, Dad," she sing-songed. "We're calling to say goodnight."

There was a slight shuffling as Jack took the phone. "Hey, Dad."

"Hey, Bud. I'm sorry I'm not back yet, but I'm leaving soon—I'll come in and kiss you goodnight as soon as I get home, but you'll probably be asleep."

"It's no big deal." When did his son become so nonchalant, so grown-up sounding?

"You're never not a big deal to me." Jack had used a simple, common phrase, but Aaron didn't miss the opportunity to reiterate the truth. He'd leave no room for doubt in his son's mind that he was loved—a gift his own father had never given.

"Goodnight, Dad. Love you," was his only response.

"I love you too, Jack. Sweet dreams."

Aaron returned to the apartment. It was relatively early, considering the usual types of hours they pulled on cases, especially one like this, but everyone looked completely beat.

"I'm going home," he announced. "It's been a long day, and unfortunately, Reid isn't going anywhere tonight—I suggest we all call it a night and start early tomorrow morning with fresh eyes."

"Where are you two bunking for the night?" Rossi turned to Blake and Prentiss. "I have plenty of spare rooms."

"I'm crashing here," Emily admitted, tilting her head towards Penelope.

"Yeah, and no way are you gonna steal my chance to snuggle up with my honey bun," the blonde informed him.

"Mmh, now that is a lovely mental image," Derek Morgan sat back with a wicked grin. Emily's long legs easily reached out to give his foot a playful shove.

"I'll take you up on the offer," Blake turned back to Rossi. "I really hadn't even thought about where I'd be staying—my main concern was getting here as quickly as possible."

Rossi nodded in understanding. He scooped up his notepad and his tablet, tucking them under his arm—he might be going home, but he wasn't done for the night, not yet. Blake followed suit, and they exchanged a small smile of understanding. She sensed a strong drink and several more hours of pouring over cases and batting around possible theories in her near future, and she had to admit, it didn't sound like a bad deal.

Everyone packed up their things, made their goodbyes, and went their separate ways. In the end, it was just Penelope and Emily, curled up on the couch.

"I think it's time to exchange the tea for something a little stronger," Emily announced, easily maneuvering around Penelope's kitchen as if it hadn't been over a year since she'd last been in the apartment. "What's your poison for the night, my dear?"

"Nothing for me. I don't want to mix my pain meds with alcohol," Penelope admitted, re-positioning herself so that her injured ankle was now elevated on a couch pillow.

"Well, I don't want to drink alone," Emily informed her, moving back into the living room to help her friend. "It would feel like I was tempting you or something."

The blonde laughed, "I'm a big girl, Em. You can drink a beer in front of me, I'll survive."

"Nah." She plopped down in an armchair, her long legs easily dominating the space around her. "To be honest, I've spent way too many nights drowning my problems, recently."

"What problems?"

"Ah," Emily gave a curt shake of her head, as if willing the thought away. "Just stuff at work. It can feel…overwhelming. I mean, I love it—it just can be a lot to love, sometimes."

Her friend made a small noise of understanding. Then Emily changed the subject, her dark eyes studying Penelope's face with clinical concern as she gently asked, "How about you? How are you feeling?"

"I'll heal," Penelope forced a smile.

"I wasn't talking about the ankle."

"I wasn't either."

Emily took a moment to quietly observe her friend. Then she stated, "It's not easy, being hurt in the middle of something like that. It makes you feel…vulnerable. Even more fragile."

Of course, if anyone could write the book on being injured in the line of duty, Emily Prentiss was the prime candidate.

"That isn't what gets me," Penelope admitted, looking down at her hands. "I mean, yeah, I've been shot, I've done the whole white-light thing, but this was the first time that I really, really had to fight for my survival—at least consciously, ya know?"

Emily gave a hum of understanding.

"And I did it—I knew I could, but now, I really know that I can, and that's…great." Now Penelope's hands gave a helpless flop, "But…when I was up there, crawling around the floor, I…there was a man. He was—I think he'd been crushed by the bookcase. I tried to help him, but he was already—he was dead."

"That's not your fault," Emily softly reminded her.

"I know that." Penelope blinked back tears. "But that doesn't stop me from seeing his face, over and over again. And then…then I think about all the cries and screams I heard, right after the explosion and I think—I think, maybe…."

"Maybe what?" Emily prompted, leaning forward. Her tone lost its quiet softness. "Maybe you should have dragged your injured body into the middle of the blast site in some twisted and ill-fated attempt to rescue someone else, so you could be dragging two bodies through the hallway—which you wouldn't be physically able to do, in your condition, at which point you would both die?"

Penelope looked up at her friend, shocked by the bluntness of her words.

Now the brunette became gentle again, reaching out to give her friend's shoulder a reassuring rub. "Garcia, you were dying. Every second that you stayed up there, you were one second closer to your own death. You were brave and you were smart and you did what was necessary to survive. You can't think of it any other way. The alternatives would eat you alive, if you did. Trust me."

Penelope nodded, sniffling back more tears—the alternatives were already eating her alive.

"You survived. This man tried to kill you, and you didn't let him. And now, you're going to catch him. You're going to see him brought to justice—for you, for all those people you couldn't save. It won't bring them back, but it will make it easier to sleep at night. I promise you."

"And what if it doesn't?" Penelope was almost too afraid to ask the question—she wasn't sure that she wanted to hear the answer.

Emily offered a small smile. "It has to. You really don't have any other choice."

Once again, Penelope Garcia was reminded of how tough her friend was. Emily's determination was never far below the surface, but sometimes Penelope forgot just how strong her will could be—mind over matter, thy name is Emily Prentiss.

"You're the best therapist I've ever had," the blonde admitted with one last sniffle.

Emily gave a dry laugh. "Given my experience with the headshrinkers, I wouldn't take that as much of a compliment."

She was on her feet again, finding a box of tissues to hand to her friend, who delicately tried to ebb the flow of mascara off her cheeks.

"Seriously, though, have you talked to anyone else about this?" Emily asked gently. Penelope shook her head. Emily ventured her next question, "So is that why you and Morgan are at odds?"

"What?"

"Aw, c'mon. He barely baby-girled you all day. The poor man was walking on eggshells and you were trying to avoid noticing him at all."

Penelope cringed at the observation, "No, it's not like that—we're just….we're trying a new phase in our friendship."

"A new phase?" Emily balked at the term.

"Speaking of new phases, let's talk about you and Hotch."

"Me and Hotch?" Oh, Emily Prentiss did a beautiful job of sounding utterly confused, but the redness around her ears was a sure sign that she was fully aware of the implication.

"Yeah. Let's talk about why whenever Morgan started grilling you about Hotch, you looked over at Rossi, who pretended to be defending himself—but why would he need to defend himself, unless he knew something that Morgan and I didn't?"

"This is preposterous." Emily was on her feet again, but she wasn't sure where to go. She was flustered, and Penelope saw it.

"How did you ever survive as an undercover agent, Emily? You are like the world's worst liar."

"I am not!"

"Oh my god, I can read you like book—a children's book, one with bright colors and easy words. No effort at all."

"Why does everyone assume that something is going on with me and Hotch?" Emily gave a frustrated growl. "We've never—the entire time we worked together, there wasn't so much as a sideways glance, from either of us. And yet everyone has it crammed in their heads that we are involved in some kind of-of-of…clandestine fling. It's irritating as hell."

Despite her friend's obvious fury, Penelope was laughing. "No one thinks that! We just…we all think that the two of you would be very happy together, and so…we always hope."

"But why? Why would you think that?" Emily was truly confused.

"Because Hotch is a good guy. A great guy. He's my white knight with a heart of gold, I adore him. And you're one of the sweetest, bravest, funniest, most wonderful people I know. There are pieces of you that would fit very well with pieces of him."

Damn Emily's mind for thinking: Oh, hon, you have no idea just how well we fit…

"And, I think," Penelope took a slightly uneasy breath, as if she wasn't sure that she should say it. "You've both been…through things that would help quieten the ghosts in each other's heads."

Emily blinked in surprise. It wasn't untrue—they'd both been through some dark times, both lived past the brink of death—but she'd never really thought about how that had given each of them a unique ability to empathize with the other.

However, she just gave a soft, warm smile and patted her friend's shoulder again, "You are such a sweet, hopeless romantic."

"I've got a secret for you, Emmy-lou," Penelope leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. "So are you. And more importantly, so is Hotch."

Emily merely shook her head, moving back to the kitchen, "Nice deflection there, Garcia. Completely avoided discussing your current phase with Derek Morgan."

"Oh, that's right, walk away. Pretend like I'm not one thousand percent right about you and Aaron Hotchner—"

"Oooh, another swerve away from the real topic at hand. Jesus, you should've been a politician."

"And you should be Emily Hotchner."

Now Emily lost it—she laughed so hard that she actually snorted. Penelope's high-pitched giggle joined in as well, and they grinned at each other from across the apartment.

"I love you," Emily admitted. "You are annoying and insufferable and way over the line sometimes, but god, I love you."

"You needed the distraction," Penelope informed her. "Everyone's been so wound up, you all look as if you're going to shatter into a billion pieces at any second. Pestering you about your love life is a good way to reduce tension."

"I'm sure David Rossi would wholeheartedly agree with you," Emily sighed, retrieving a glass of water. "You want some more tea?"

"Nah, I'm good."

The tall brunette made her way back into the living room again.

"We are your family and we love you and we want you to be happy—this is how we show it." Penelope reached out to pat Emily's knee as she settled back into her chair. "That's how families work."

"You'd know about that much better than I would, so I guess I'll have to take your word for it."

Yes, Emily had spent the first years of life with a normal nuclear family, and yes, both of her parents were still alive, albeit separated, but unlike Penelope, she'd never really known the childhood definition of family, aside from the infrequent but adoring attentions of her grandfather. Penelope might have lost her parents at a relatively young age, but at least during that time, she'd truly felt as if they were her parents—she knew that she loved them, and they had loved her. The time between them had been short, but the gift of that shared time had lasted forever.

"Hey," Penelope spoke gently, waiting until Emily looked at her again. "You have us. We are your family."

Emily gave a wobbly smile.

A cellphone twittered, and they both looked around.

Emily found hers on the coffee table, beneath a pile of papers. "It was mine. Will texted to say that JJ's doing better. No more seizures, so they're thinking she might get moved out of ICU by tomorrow afternoon."

"Does that mean you'll get to see her?" Penelope knew that Will had refused to let Emily see his wife—he'd been afraid that Emily's arrival would bring up too many questions, and he didn't think that JJ was ready to deal with the stress of knowing what was going on with Spencer.

"Maybe. Hopefully." Emily set her phone down again. "Speaking of people I need to see, I think I'm gonna take a cab and go see how Declan's doing."

She did that every time she was in—a quick drive by Declan's current house, a quick and distant glance through the window to see how he was growing, if he'd learned to smile again, if he looked even more like his father as he grew older.

Penelope motioned to the key rack by her door. "Take my car. Goodness knows I won't be driving for a while, and poor Esther needs the exercise."

"You are the only person I know who refers to their car as if it's their pet dog," Emily drolly informed her.

"Just one of the many reasons you love me."

"You betta' believe it, dollface," Emily gave her best Humphrey Bogart impression, which was actually quite horrible. But it made Penelope laugh, and that was the point. However, the brunette quickly sobered, "You gonna be alright, on your own?"

She motioned to the splint on her friend's ankle.

"Oh, yeah. I'm a brave, strong girl, remember?"

"Being brave and strong doesn't mean that you never need help."

"Advice you should heed, Chief Prentiss."

Emily rolled her eyes and opened the door. "Whatever, Mom. I'll be back soon."

"Take your time," Penelope was wearing a feline smile, full of knowing. "Take all the time you need."

Shit, Emily thought as she locked the door and started down the hall. She knows.

A Few Hours Earlier. The District Times Editorial Offices. Washington, D.C.

Johnny Adams watched the screen with a look of furrowed concentration. The security guard was slowly rewinding the feed from the camera that had been blocked during Linnea's exit—now they were in the section of footage from before the black-out had occurred, trying to see which car was Linnea's.

"Wait—I think that's her," Johnny stepped forward slightly, moving closer to the screen. The guard stopped the footage.

"Yep. Looks like it," he agreed. He rewound a few more seconds, and Linnea walked awkwardly backwards, to a light-colored Prius.

Of course Miss Save-the-World Charles drove a Prius (Mr. Adams conveniently forgot that he, too, sported around in one as well).

"OK, now let's fast-forward and see if the car's still there after the blackout," Johnny commanded.

The black-out lasted for a long time. Eventually, whatever was placed over the camera came loose, slowly slipping down the lens. Whenever a clear shot of the garage emerged, the Prius was gone.

The guard, still unsure as to what exactly was going on, had gotten wise enough to note the two different time stamps between Linnea's exit and the end of the camera's black-out. He switched to the feeds of the parking garage's two exits. "OK, so…looking for a light colored Prius…."

They each took a screen and studied it as the footage slowly moved forward.

Finally, the Prius appeared—the time stamp was almost two hours after she'd entered the parking garage.

"Could that be your girl?" The guard asked. The figure in the car was blurry, but it was pale and feminine.

"I don't think…I'm not sure," Johnny admitted. "But there's something—I don't think it's her. Her…hair. There's something off there, I think."

The figure's hair appeared to be dark, close to Linnea's shade, but the hairline….

The guard figured it out first, "That's a hat. Like a cap, a ski cap or something. The hair underneath could be any color."

"That's not Linnie's style at all," Johnny said, half to himself. In all the years that he'd known her, she'd always worn her hair down, in long waves—a detail he hadn't really noticed until now. It took less than a second to make his decision, "How long do you keep these?"

"Usually about 72 hours. Sometimes less."

"Don't tape over anything from yesterday yet. It may prove valuable."

"Is something going on that I should know about?" The guard had been curious, but it wasn't until now that he finally voiced his concern.

"Honestly, I'm not sure." Johnny glanced at his watch. "I have to go make some phone calls. I'll be in touch with you soon."

He headed back to his office. The first person he was going to call was Karl Miramontz—last he'd heard, the man had an FBI contact who was looking into Linnea's whereabouts. He just hoped they hadn't waited too long to realize that something was wrong.

The Strauss House. Vienna, Virginia.

Dora Carrington wasn't sure why she'd agreed to Jordan's invitation to come inside and have a cup of tea. The simple answer would've been that she was tired and needed a way to unwind after the stress of the day. The complicated and more truthful answer was that she was a flaming masochist.

There had only been a few times that Carrington had ever visited the house while Erin Strauss was alive—usually to drop off or pick up something work-related—and never had she been installed in the large living room with its overstuffed furniture and antique brick-a-brack, all overlooking a manicured backyard with overflowing flowerbeds and a small pool. From her few memories of the place, nothing had been changed since Erin's death. It felt strange, being in Erin's home and knowing that Erin physically wasn't here anymore, while every fiber of the house still retained her presence.

A willful haunting, that was what Jordan had created here—or had allowed to happen, since she didn't do anything to actually create the atmosphere, so much as she'd simply left everything as it had been.

From her spot on the couch, Carrington could see Jordan moving around the kitchen, making their cups of tea. Her cellphone rang, and she scooped it off the countertop to see who was calling.

"It's Karl," Jordan announced, slightly surprised. They'd just left him, less than an hour ago—the meeting itself had been pretty pointless, as neither had anything new to share, but at least they'd met in person and had gotten a better reading on each other.

"I doubt it's good news," Carrington commented. She'd been less than enthusiastic the entire meeting.

Jordan ignored her and answered anyways.

Karl didn't waste time, "So John Adams just called—apparently, he has security footage of Linnea leaving the building, but not driving her car out of the parking garage. He thinks someone else moved her car, later on."

"Well if they moved her car, where is she?" Jordan knew he didn't know, and the question felt like lead in her gut. She switched gears, "I've gotta let Agent Rossi know. Maybe he can look at the tapes and find something—"

"Do it, and do it quick. That whole car-swap thing happened over 24 hours ago by now."

"I'm on it." Jordan hung up.

"What's happened?" Carrington asked. Now her tone was laced with concern.

Jordan relayed the news as she moved back into the living room, gingerly carrying the two mugs of tea and setting them on the worn wooden coffee table.

However, Carrington shook her head at the idea of calling Rossi. "You shouldn't be getting them involved. You should tell the people actually running the investigation. The entire BAU is already in enough trouble as it is—"

"I can't just call up Jack Dawson and tell him all this shit—he'll wonder why I waited so long to contact him, why I'm so involved—"

"Then let him wonder, Jordan. It doesn't matter what the man thinks—so long as he gets his team looking for Linnea. This isn't about you—it's about her."

The reproach in Carrington's tone was unmistakable.

"I know it's not about me—I'm not trying to make it about me," Jordan countered. Her voice was soft, but the look in her eyes was hard. She still hadn't taken a seat, instead opting to keep the coffee table between them like a battlement. "But I have to consider the fact that Dawson might not be as concerned as I am, or as Rossi is. We don't have time to convince him."

Carrington gave a frustrated sigh, turning away, "You just keep digging yourself in deeper."

"And is that such a bad thing?" Jordan demanded.

"Yes, it is," Carrington returned forcefully, her blue eyes snapping onto Jordan's green ones with angry intensity. "Because every step you take, you drag another person further down with you. This isn't a game, Jordan—people's lives are at risk, people's careers could be ruined by the things you're asking them to do—"

"I'm not asking anyone to put their life or their career on the line," Jordan looked completely bewildered at the thought.

"That's just it." The fight suddenly left Carrington's veins, just as quickly as it'd come, leaving her feeling tired and wobbly-boned. Jordan really had no idea, and the realization of her blissful ignorance was heartbreaking. "You don't have to ask. People just…do it. For you. Because…because you're you."

"That doesn't even make sense," Jordan spat. Carrington might have lost the will to fight, but she certainly hadn't. "You can't lay the blame for everyone else's actions at my feet. We all have a choice—"

"Not when it comes to you," Carrington said quickly. "You play the repentant child or the damsel in distress, you bat those big green eyes and anyone who's mad at you instantly regrets it, and anyone who loves you would do anything to make you happy again—"

"I'm not a fucking siren, Carrington—"

"No, because a siren knows what it is, and you can't even see who you really are and what you really do to people." The brunette was on her feet now, moving to gather her things. "I shouldn't have agreed to help you. I shouldn't have gotten involved—"

"Then why did you?" Jordan didn't move, but her voice easily followed Carrington into the hallway.

Carrington stopped and turned around. Her tired and longsuffering expression chided: You stupid, stupid girl.

She flatly added, "I've told you a dozen times. You just never listened."

With that, she left. Left the house, left whatever web she'd stepped into, left whatever feelings she'd harbored for the women who'd inhabited that house, left behind her last link to the things that had tethered her to this place in this life.

She couldn't say that it felt liberating, but it didn't hurt as much as she'd expected it to—and that was a victory in itself, she supposed.

"Oh, I am very weary, Though tears no longer flow; My eyes are tired of weeping, My heart is sick of woe."
~Anne Bronte.