"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Hunter, happy birthday to you," my team sang to me, causing my cheeks to heat up. I always hated it when people sang "Happy Birthday" to me.

"Make a wish!" Garcia chirped from her seat next to Morgan.

"There's no candles to blow out, though," I held my arms up in a W-shape.

"Well…then…take a bite of the cake they gave you," Garcia suggested.

"If you insist," I grinned.

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to think of something. I wish…I wish that I could tell someone about David and me. It was likely not going to happen, but it was a worth a try. I opened my eyes and grabbed my fork to bite into the slice of cake our waiter had given me when someone—cough, cough, Garcia—let it slip that we were celebrating my birthday.

"Yay, it's official!" the tech analyst clapped her hands, initiating an embarrassing round of applause from the team. "You're thirty!"

"Don't remind me," I joked.

"Age is nothing but a number, McCarthy," Emily pointed at me from across the table.

My cheeks heated up again, only this time because all I could think of was David's hand, which had been on my bare thigh under the tablecloth for most of the dinner.

"Indeed, it is," I murmured before I took a sip of my Moscato.

I was wearing a little black dress and a pair of Louboutin pumps that Emily had forced me to buy when she took me on a shopping spree once. I curled my hair and let it hang over my right shoulder, as well as dipping into my oft-forgotten make-up box. I would be lying if I said I didn't put this amount of effort into my appearance for anyone but David.

Emily and Morgan had made a big deal about the seating arrangement that night. Well, to their credit, they thought they were being subtle, but when JJ almost sat to my right, they loudly started grunting and gesturing to the seat between the two of them. They thought they were doing me a big favor by letting David sit beside me, and they were—just not in the way they thought they might be.

"So, Miss Hunter," JJ leaned over the table. "Auld Dubliner after this?"

"It's a Monday—"

"Yeah, Mick," Morgan smirked at me. "You're thirty years-old now—you should have thirty regrets by the end of the night."

"Well, I regret inviting you to my birthday dinner, so I guess I'm down to twenty-nine already," I smirked back at him.

"Ooh, nice," Emily held up her hand for a high-five, which I gladly obliged.

"See, now that was cold," Morgan winced good-humoredly.

"Play nice, children," Hotch said from the other end of the table, where he sat next to Reid.

"What's the verdict, Miss Hunter?" JJ arched her blonde eyebrow at me.

"Ah, what the hell?" I shrugged. "Let's do it."

"'What the hell?' she said. 'Let's do it,' she said," Emily groaned, sitting down at her desk.

"'It's a Monday,' she also said," I pointed out. "I have Tylenol if you need it, my love."

"I'll take the whole bottle, please."

Grinning, I went to grab the medicine from my desk when a squeaky mail cart started rolling through the bullpen.

"So, how was the rest of your night?" Emily asked, smiling weakly.

"Oh, it was…" I searched for a word. I obviously couldn't tell her how David spent the night. "It was nice. I just went straight to bed."

"And overall you had a good time?"

"Ten outta ten," I splayed out my fingers in the air. "Thank you so much for coming."

"Well, when I found out Rossi was paying, I really couldn't say no."

I smirked and shook my head, hearing the squeaky mail cart come closer.

"SSA McCarthy?" the mail boy said, pulling out an envelope.

"Hi," I smiled and waved. And then he gave me said envelope.

"Will you do me a solid," Emily reached toward the mail boy before he walked off, "and grease those wheels?"

"U-Uh…" he glanced at me.

"Thank you, have a nice day," I smiled at him and quickly handed the Tylenol over to Emily.

"Who's sending mail to your desk?" Emily asked.

"It's weird. I don't recognize the return address," I furrowed my brow, analyzing the envelope.

"Where's it from?"

"Baltimore. I don't know anyone from Baltimore."

"There's no name on it?"

"It just says 'CD'."

"Maybe you shouldn't open it," Emily shook the bottle until two pills fell into the palm of her hand.

"Well, if someone sent it here, then it's been screened, right?" I shrugged. "It should be fine."

"Famous last words," Emily bounced her eyebrows, dry-swallowing the Tylenol.

Rolling my eyes, I opened up the envelope and pulled out a tacky thirtieth birthday card, like the kind your mother would purchase at a grocery store. I wondered if it may have been a card from a relative of mine who moved and I was never updated about it.

"No signs of anthrax so far," Emily peered over the partition between our desks.

"'Roses are red, pigs are dirty, your birthday has come, and now you are thirty'," I read the typed greeting from the card. "That's Robert Frost, isn't it?" I grinned at Emily as she capped the Tylenol bottle.

"What else does it say?" she asked me, not acknowledging my joke.

"Oh, there's just a…" my brow furrowed again.

"What is it?"

"It's signed with a heart…drawn in blue pen," I chewed on my lip.

"…And?" Emily asked.

"Someone sent flowers to my desk a couple months ago, right after Valentine's Day and there was a heart drawn on the tag in blue pen, just like this," I looked at her.

"You should have Garcia take a look at that envelope," Emily suggested.

"I will," I nodded.

"Hey, guys," JJ came out of the round table room and looked down at the two of us from the railing. "Grab Morgan and Reid. We've got a case."

Emily and I exchanged glances and I carefully put the envelope and card in the drawer the Tylenol had been in.

A close-up shot of a woman's eyes as she lay dying was on the screen in the round table room.

"Her name's Michelle Watson, a realtor murdered in Buffalo a week ago," JJ told us.

"Until yesterday they had nothing, no leads, and then they got this," Hotch stared at the screen.

"Buffalo PD received it from an unknown source yesterday," JJ clicked her remote.

"They able to trace it?" Emily asked as the video started.

"No, sent through an encrypted server from the Ukraine," Hotch told her.

"There's no sound," Morgan commented.

"Yeah, at first glance there doesn't seem to be a single frame to identify who shot it," Reid added.

I leaned my elbows on the table and watched the video of the unsub getting ready for the day. It was shot from his point of view and he clearly went through some pains to keep his face out of it, especially as he brushed his teeth.

"He even covered up the mirror," Reid finished, referring to the black trash bag that had been placed over the reflective surface.

"I've seen some crazy things sitting at this table, but that…why send that to the police?" Garcia asked.

"Well, maybe it's a taunt, to show the police how smart he is," I suggested.

"Catch me if you can," David caught my eye, staring for longer than he probably should have. Under his blazer, he was wearing a charcoal colored button-up with the top undone, just the way I liked it.

I ventured a tight-lipped smile back to him and then turned my head back to the screen, where our unsub had skipped ahead in time to show us his random act of kindness (before he fucking murdered a woman). He approached a middle-aged man and presumably his mother at their car. The man was packing something into the backseat and apparently dropped an item, which the unsub picked up for them.

"The two people in the video—they look directly at the unsub, but neither one seems to register that they're being filmed," Morgan said.

"I think it's probably a hidden camera," Reid said.

"Uh, the witnesses were able to give us enough for a sketch," JJ nodded to Emily next to me to start handing out the stack of sketches. "White male, early thirties, wearing glasses."

"That looks like an editing suite," Morgan said after the video skipped to another location, most likely in the unsub's apartment. There as a screen showing what looked like it could either be the start to a vintage porno or a home video—an old-fashioned-looking couple embracing passionately. This other video also appeared to have been shot through a pair of closet doors.

"So he not only films the murder, he edits it," David said, glancing back.

"Do we know what this is that's playing on the monitor?" Emily asked.

"Buffalo PD is concerned that it might be another filmed killing," Hotch told her.

"If it is, then we're not looking at just one murder, but two," I crossed my arms over my chest.

"Buffalo is underfunded, undermanned, and they need our help," Hotch said.

"Buffalo's a big gang town," Morgan raised his eyebrows.

"Murder in the last year alone was over 700 people," JJ added.

"Garcia, I need you to go through this frame-by-frame and put everything on disks," Hotch ordered.

"Yes, sir, I'm on it," Garcia stood from her seat and started to leave.

"Also, put together a go-bag," he continued. "If we get any more of these films, I want you on the ground taking point. Is that okay with you?"

I wondered if Garcia even had a go-bag.

"Yes, sir, excellent," she said from the doorway in a small voice that sounded like she found the very idea as far from 'excellent' as possible. "Okay."

"Fast forward to the end," Hotch told JJ, turning his head from the awkwardly retreating Penelope Garcia. "There's something I want everyone to see."

JJ clicked past the stabbing of Michelle Watson—that part we had already seen—and stopped at a part where the unsub had a red marker in his hand.

"He's writing something," I breathed, watching as he printed two words on a white wall.

'HELP ME'

"In order for the light to shine so brightly, the darkness must be present." –Francis Bacon

"A serial killer askin' for help. Well, that's a new one on me," Morgan mused, staring at his copy of the 'HELP ME' picture.

"Attempt at sarcasm?" David asked from one of the swivel seats.

"What if he's sincere?" Hotch asked.

"Then he's deeply ambivalent. He wants to stop, but like an alcoholic, he simply can't."

"When we see him driving, his point of view is elevated," I noticed, looking at one of the stills in my file. "He's probably driving a van or an SUV."

"And the film stops where it starts—at his home," Emily said. "So we could use the film to trace back, street by street, from the crime scene, right?"

"The film only lasts nine minutes," Reid pointed out. "And in this frame, he clearly looks at a clock," he held the photo out so most of us could see it, "and it's 9:22."

"And the autopsy says Michelle Watson's time of death was 4:30 in the afternoon. He edited out seven hours," I said.

"Garcia, look for unsolved murders of women in their early thirties who were stabbed, Buffalo and surrounding cities. Go back ten years," Hotch ordered.

"Wouldn't ViCAP have already picked up on that?" Morgan asked.

"Mm," Garcia grunted. "ViCAP only went web-based about a month ago, and Buffalo PD only recently uploaded the data."

"Michelle Watson's holding a day planner. They find that at the crime scene?" Morgan wondered as Garcia typed away.

"Yeah, that, her wallet, and all of her jewelry, including a three-karat diamond ring," Reid answered.

"So he's not financially-motivated," I nodded.

"First count," Garcia looked away from her screen, "I have twenty-two."

"…match Michelle's type—blonde, white, early thirties," Emily was saying to our point, a woman named Detective Henderson., as she and Hotch led her into our boardroom.

"The autopsy reports will help us determine which of these cases is connected," Hotch said on his way to the table in the room.

"I'll get 'em here right away," Henderson said to one of her officers in the room with us.

"We also need to take a look at the crime scenes, Detective Henderson," Hotch looked up at her.

"Of course," she replied.

"I'll stay and help Reid," David offered.

"McCarthy, you'll stay as well. I'll take Prentiss and Morgan," Hotch nodded.

I could feel David's eyes on the back of my head as Hotch left with Emily and Morgan. I gulped, not wanting to show any emotions about staying with him. Especially after Emily winked at me on her way out the door.

David slowly stepped past me, his arm grazing mine as he went to stand by Henderson. She was staring at the TV screen that was playing Michelle Watkins' death. I glanced over at the screen before I sat down across from Reid.

"Tell me," I heard Henderson start, "d'you think this is a one-off, or can I expect more films?"

"Not a one-off," David responded. "The filming of his kills makes him a sexual psychopath. We'll find more. Many more. Just like this one."

"'HELP ME' is in direct conflict with the psychology of a psychopath," David took the picture of the words off the board and turned to look at us, "and it's something I've never seen before."

"Psychopaths don't have the capacity to feel empathy towards others," Reid explained to Henderson.

"They can mimic it, but they can't feel it," David added, putting the picture down on the table.

"Then he didn't mean it?" Henderson asked.

"Or someone or something is showing him who he really is," I shrugged.

"Okay, friends, the video on this film is analog," Garcia said from behind her laptop. "It's since been digitized, but it is seriously degraded."

"Meaning what?" JJ asked.

"Meaning this kind of degradation only happens over at least a decade and thousands of repeated viewings."

"It's the only way he can get any release," David said.

"Then you're right. He's been doing this for ten years," Henderson looked at her.

"Uh, more like twenty," Garcia corrected. "The woman in this video—she's wearing a sweater I haven't seen since Flashdance."

I grinned, as did Detective Henderson.

"On the day of her death, the twenty-first," David looked down at the planner found at the most recent crime scene, "Michelle entered the name Robert at 4:00 PM."

"Yeah, we found no one connected to her with that name. And we think it's an alias," Henderson told him.

Reid hunched down over the planner. "Michelle's highly organized, she's precise, light of hand, s-so left handed," he murmured.

"How can you tell?" Henderson asked.

"Uh, the hardest point is where she starts, the lightest point is where she tails off," Reid elaborated. "In her case, she tails off to the right. It's weird…hmm…"

"What?" JJ asked.

"I'm not sure, but the number twenty-nine is circled twice in red ink and it tails off to the left. Whoever wrote that is right-handed."

JJ grabbed the remote on the table and turned on the hidden camera video, right where the unsub was writing 'HELP ME' on the wall."

"That person is right-handed and 'HELP ME' is written in red," JJ pointed out.

"The unsub wrote the circled twenty-nine," I bit my bottom lip.

"Guys," Garcia looked away from the calendar on the wall beside her. "Tomorrow's the twenty-ninth."

"Thanks," JJ turned off her cell phone as she came back into the boardroom. "Morgan thinks the unsub's glasses are the camera. You need to get a sketch of the unsub out to every camera shop in Buffalo."

"If he hunts within a comfort zone, then whichever of these camera shops he visits the most, that's the one he'll live closest to," David said to Henderson.

"All right, you heard the man," Henderson said to the officer in the room with us. He nodded, grabbed the stack of sketches, and left.

"Okay, Hotch also wants us to focus on victims found in controlled locations," JJ continued.

"Secure areas with little chance of witnesses," I said.

"And ones where he left the bodies where he killed them," David added, looking at me.

"Okay, based on that, June '98, Emily Flynn, found in her apartment, stabbed twenty-three times," Reid taped a picture of the woman in question onto the board.

"Hillary Habner, March 2000, found in her basement, stabbed eighteen times," I handed Reid another picture.

"Cindy Stagnal, April 2001, stabbed multiple times, found in her office," Henderson said.

"And May 1999, Vanessa Bright, twenty-nine, stabbed and found in her studio," JJ finished.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it appears as though we've found our timeline. It looks like our killer strikes almost exactly every twelve months," Reid said, putting all four of the pictures up.

"Oh my God," Henderson whispered sharply. "All these women, and he got away with it."

"I think we need to inform the media," JJ suggested. "Buffalo has a serial killer."

"There's no purse, no jewelry, nothing to ID her with," I noticed, lifting up the blanket that shrouded the body of the young black woman found in the alley the next day.

"Whereas with Michelle, he didn't care what he left behind," David said, staring down at me from the other side of the body. "He knew we couldn't connect her to him."

"Why did he cover her up and fold her arms across her chest?" Hotch asked from behind me.

"She can't be more than twenty-four," Henderson added. "That doesn't fit his victimology."

"Well, the chest wound matches that of Michelle Watson," Morgan pointed out as I covered her back up and stood.

"The way he's positioned her, the blanket, shows remorse," Hotch said.

"He probably knew her more intimately than the others," I took off my blue gloves and balled them up in my fast.

"That's somewhat of a leap," Henderson looked at me.

"Not when you consider this is the first time he dumped the body," David said.

"Unlike the others, he brought her body here and dumped it," I looked at him.

"Well," Henderson looked down at the victim, "someone will be missing her soon."

"Today's the twenty-ninth," Hotch said after an officer handed him a piece of paper. "He probably killed her last night. Whatever his plans are, he still has them." Hotch glanced down at the paper and handed it to David. "We're ready to give the profile."

"We've confirmed eleven kills over a ten-year period," David said to the group of officers we had amassed in the alleyway. "This makes twelve."

"All but one, blonde, white female, mid-to-late thirties," I added.

"This unsub has extreme obsessive-compulsive disorder. This woman doesn't fit his victimology," Hotch said. "He probably didn't target or even mean to kill her."

"Five camera shops in Buffalo were shown this sketch," Henderson held up the sketch in question. "The owner of Tarquinio's Camera Shop on Union Road recognized it. He knows him only as Vincent."

"He bought two 3-millimeter mini wireless cameras and had them retrofitted to his glasses," Morgan gestured to his face, as if he had his own pair of glasses on.

"He's well-versed in camera technology. He probably generates income from a related field," Hotch said.

"Stake out the shop, but keep a low profile," I said. "He walks in off the street, he politely waits his turn, he pays in cash."

"This is him," Hotch held up a security camera photo of the unsub in the store. "Black overcoat, black baseball cap. You'll get more from your sketch."

"Now, this last kill shows the most remorse. This guy's mobile, most likely in an SUV. Low-profile, mute in color," Morgan said.

"He's beginning to devolve. His OCD will get worse and he'll have a hard time hiding it. He will take bigger and bigger risks to achieve his ultimate goal," Hotch said.

"In Michelle Watson's day planner, he circled the number twenty-nine," I put my hands on my hips. "Today is the twenty-ninth, so we believe he may have something planned for today."

"He sent us this film as his way of reaching out. He may be ambivalent, but his OCD won't let him stop," Hotch told the police.

"Now, if he sees a heavy police presence and he's not done, he'll run," Morgan warned.

"The East Side is his comfort zone. This is where he lives," David chimed in.

"However random, anything out of the ordinary, please let us know," I said.

"Thank you very much," Hotch concluded, and everyone started to filter away. "Tell me again what the autopsy report said," he muttered to David.

"He seems to be killing once a year. And they were all, except for Michelle Watson, overkill," David told him. "He stabbed her just once."

"And hers was the only kill that he sent footage of to the police," Morgan said. "That's a definitive change."

"You're right. Call Reid and Prentiss. Tell them to go over the autopsy report again. We need to know why," Hotch looked at me.

"Can do," I nodded, pulling my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans and stepping out of the alley.

Victim number ten, Joyce Wolcott had been stabbed thirty-two times a mere two years before Michelle Watson had been killed. And unfortunately, there had been a witness, so-to-speak: her blind son, Stanley, who, as it happens, was born on April twenty-ninth.

With David at my elbow, I stepped forward along the walkway towards the house. A young boy in a striped shirt sat on the front steps, his hands tracing the braille pages of the book on his lap, his eyes gazing up into nothing.

"Well, hello there, handsome," I said in my friendliest tone. "We're looking for Stanley Wolcott. Think you can help us find him?"

"Who wants to know?" he asked.

"My name's Hunter McCarthy—"

"Hunter? No offense, but you sound like a girl," he replied.

"That's because I am," I sighed. Although, I did have to admit that I wasn't nearly as annoyed this time because he was a kid. "I like to think my parents knew I was going to be an FBI agent when they named me."

"You're in the FBI? Cool," Stanley raised his eyebrows.

"Cool is right," I grinned. "Hey, isn't today your birthday?"

Before Stanley could respond with more than just a smirk, a young woman with blonde hair came outside behind the kid.

"Can I help you?" she asked in an accusatory tone.

"FBI," David said. The two of us displayed our credentials to her. "I'm sorry to do this today of all days, but we need to talk to Stanley. It's urgent."

"Stanley's been with me for nine months now," Kate, the blonde woman, said after reluctantly allowing us into her home to ask a few questions. "The adoption papers came through last week." She looked over at the blind boy lovingly as he carried a box to a whole stack of other boxes. "So we're moving to California."

Stanley reached down to tap one of the boxes a few times before placing his new box on top of it with minor difficulty. I noticed that he kept making a clicking noise with his tongue on one side of his mouth.

"Uh, Stanley's been blind since birth," Kate told us. "His mom didn't want him to use a cane so he, um…" she trailed off as the clicking got louder.

"My way around life," Stanley grinned, stepping away from the boxes.

I couldn't help but feel the corners of my lips turn up. There was something about that kid that just made my heart warm.

"It's called, uh, echolocation. It's where the sound bounces off objects, kind of like a bat uses sonar," Kate explained.

"I'm the Batman," Stanley said proudly.

"Well, Batman," I walked over to him and crouched in front of him, "my good friend David here and I need to ask you some questions. Is that okay?"

Stanley clicked his tongue and raised both of his small hands to the edges of my hairline. He trailed his fingers down the sides of my face, resting briefly under my eyes. He started to frown and I felt pressure building on my chest.

"This is about my mom, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yeah, it is," I murmured. "I need to ask you—"

"Have you found him?" Stanley interrupted, his fingers continuing down my cheeks.

Tension filled the room. I didn't know quite what to say.

"I can feel a lie," Stanley told me as his fingers left my chin.

"We're looking for him, Stan," I said carefully. "And we could really use your help."

Stanley nodded, his eyes far above my head. I could see his Adam's apple bobbing.

"Now, what I'm asking you to do might not be easy," I continued, taking his hands in mine.

"Will it help you catch him?"

"It could."

"No, I'm not sure about this," Kate piped up from behind me.

I looked over my shoulder and saw her looking at David with wide eyes.

"It's okay," Stanley assured her. "I want to."

I turned back around and squeezed Stanley's hands. "Handsome and brave."

Stanley took a deep breath to prepare himself.

"Okay," I said softly. "Two years ago, on that night, you were playing in the snow with your mom."

"She said my lips were turning blue. She told me to go in and get warm. She said it was getting dark," Stanley told him.

"So then you came inside and you took off your gloves," I said. "You took off your jacket. And you started to get warm. But after a while, she didn't come back in."

"Mom? Mom?" he called out.

"Stanley, what do you hear?"

"The snow is so thick. It covers the house, the yard. Everything's so quiet."

"You call out for her, but she doesn't call back."

"Mom? Mom!" Stanley's brow furrowed. "N-Now I hear something."

"What do you hear?" I asked gently.

"I think I can hear my mom."

"Is she talking?"

Stanley shook his head. "Crying."

"Now what do you do?"

"Go outside."

"Stanley, we can stop doing this now if you want," I let him know, seeing his eyes glisten.

"No. It's okay. I-I can do this," he told me, squeezing my hands back. Then he clicked his tongue a few more times as he relived his search for his mother.

"You're doing great, handsome," I smiled, even though he couldn't see me. "I'm right here, okay?"

Stanley's face crumpled. "Mom?" He clicked more.

"Can you hear her?"

"No. I need to find her." Click-click-click. "Mom?"

"Stanley…"

"S-S-Someone's here. I-I can feel them. It's not my mom."

"That's enough," Kate suddenly said, having bitten her tongue for so long. She walked past me and grabbed Stanley's shoulders. "Enough. That's enough."

Stanley squeezed my hands one last time and then let go. I stood up and Kate stared at me as if I had just put Stanley through that for no reason.

"He saw me, didn't he?" Stanley asked as Kate stroked the back of his head.

"Yeah, Stan," I reached down and put one of my hands over his heart. "He did."

"…So, your friend shot him, the man defended himself, and you did nothing? You ran away and called 911?" Hotch was asking the handcuffed witness as David and I came over.

We had been alerted to a recent crime scene in the city that had ended with one man, possibly our Vincent, getting shot and the shooter getting stabbed in the chest.

"I'm done talkin', fed," the handcuffed man said in an annoyed voice. "I ain't saying nothin'. I want my lawyer."

"You'll get a lawyer. Answer my question," Hotch countered.

The man sighed. "He shot him. Once."

"Where?"

"In the stomach."

"What was he doing when you came across him?" I asked.

"Head down, walking real fast, like he was late for something," the man told me.

"So you jumped him?" David chimed in.

The man cocked his head to the side sheepishly.

"When he didn't give you what you wanted, what did he do?" I arched a brow.

"At first, nothing. He just started making this noise with his tongue," the man said.

"What kind of noise?" Hotch asked.

"Was it like this?" I asked, before clicking my tongue the way Stanley did. Hotch turned his furrowed brow to me.

"Yeah, like that. Exactly like that," the man nodded. "And he slammed Jay with a knife and turned and came after me."

"It's called echolocation," I told Hotch, who was still staring at me.

"The unsub's tenth victim—she left behind a blind son who uses echolocation to get around," David added.

"How would the killer know that?" Henderson asked incredulously.

"Because he saw the boy was blind the night he killed his mother," I shook my head.

"And I think that's why he didn't kill the boy," David theorized. "W-W-Wait a second—today's that kid's birthday. He's the event."

"Henderson, get units to meet us at 6518 Cantwell Drive right now," I ordered, turning on my heel to get back into the Suburban.

"He'll be okay," David said as I drove to Kate's house.

"You don't know that," I said, taking my right hand off the wheel to anxiously smooth down the top of one of my French braided pigtails.

"We're going to find Vincent," David reached over and squeezed my thigh. "And we're going to make sure Stanley is safe."

Instead of contesting what he said, I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. I took a deep breath in and out, then reached down and grabbed David's hand on my leg.

Before I parked the Suburban, the front door of the house was thrust open and Kate started running to meet David and me when we stepped out of the car.

"He's gone!" she cried as we approached the walkway. "He's gone! I thought he was in his room—he said he was tired!"

"When was the last time you checked on him?" I asked.

"Like, twenty minutes ago!" Kate put her hand on her forehead.

"Did you hear anything?" David questioned.

"I just don't understand! He would have had to pass me to get out!" Kate replied.

"Kate, think," I said in the calmest tone I could muster. "When you checked on Stan, he was asleep, right?"

"He was under the covers," she nodded once.

"You closed his door. You went to your room. You settled down," David said.

"I watched TV," she said, nodding more.

"Did you hear anything?" I echoed David's earlier question.

"I, um, I heard a car horn beep twice," she told us. "I looked out the window, though, I didn't see anything."

I turned to David. "He's gotta have twenty minutes on us," I muttered before jogging into the house.

My first instinct was to check Stanley's room. His bed was empty, his closet was empty, nothing was underneath his bed. Then, as David and Kate came to the doorway, I went to the open window and took another deep breath.

"There's blood here," I said, holding the curtain when David came in.

"Oh no, please…" Kate tearfully warbled.

"It's not Stan," David held his hand up to her. "We believe the man who took Stan was injured. It's his blood."

"We think his name is Vincent," I said as she fidgeted with her necklace.

"Vincent?" she repeated.

"You know him?" David asked.

"Stan knew him before he came to me."

"For how long?" I asked.

"For over a year. He was a registered helper in a mentoring program."

"Which one?" David said as I pulled out my phone to call Garcia.

"Oh, God," Kate covered her face with her hands. "Stan has belonged to so many programs. I can't remember where he met Vincent."

"Goddess of all things knowledge," answered Garcia.

I explained to her what Kate had told us about the unsub's occupation as the mother and David left the room. "I have a name. Vincent," I said, turning around to face the open window.

"I'm gonna need a surname, McLovely," the tech analyst responded.

"Dammit," I sighed. "She can't remember."

"Uh, can you at least cross-reference Vincent's name with all the mentor organizations in Buffalo?" I heard Emily ask.

"I think we'll get more from the video," Garcia said.

"We're running out of time," Emily pleaded.

"Come on, Garcia," I rubbed my forehead. "We need to find this kid before it's too late."

"Just trust me, 'kay? Give me a second…"

I heard Garcia typing and then I heard JJ's voice.

"Th-That's her. That's the woman from the film," the media liaison said.

"June fifth, 1983. Kim Rowlings was killed in her home. When police arrived, they found her son Vincent Rowlings. Oh, Garcia…" Emily cooed.

"Thank me when we've got an address," Garcia said under her breath.

"Vincent was found sitting with the body of his murdered mother. Police believe that he sat with her for more than twenty-four hours," Reid added.

"Ugh, he was only nine years old," JJ commented. "He filmed his mother's murder and hid the tape from the police all these years."

"Vincent Rowlings, 5605 ½ Pearl Street, East Side, Buffalo," Garcia reported.

"Tell Hotch we're en route. I love you," Emily's retreating voice said.

"The feeling is mutual, Garcia," I said before hanging up and going to find David and Kate in the living room.

David was trying to comfort the crying woman. I went over to him and pulled him aside to update him on what I just found out. Not long after, I received a conference call from Garcia.

"Hotch, you've got Rossi and McCarthy," she said.

"And we have Stan's foster mother, Kate, here," I added, putting the phone on speaker. "Stanley is missing and there's blood on the windowsill."

"Kate, did Vincent take Stan out?" Hotch asked. "Was there a favorite place they liked to go?"

"A park, playground…?" David offered.

"No. No. Like I said, I-I only allow him to see Stan under this roof, under my supervision. He's been coming around more since I told him we were moving away," Kate looked at me.

"Kate, when did you tell Vincent that?" Morgan asked over the line.

"Like, a week ago? Why?"

"…What?" Garcia asked, as if someone was staring at her.

"He killed Michelle Watson over a week ago," JJ said.

"That must be the stressor that triggered Vincent's behavior change," Reid pointed out.

"Kate, Vincent's drawn the number twenty-nine with a circle around it numerous times," Emily said while David looked around the living room of the house. "Today is the twenty-ninth. We believe the circle may represent a specific location. They would have talked about it, or he might even have taken him there before."

"Did Vincent talk to Stan about adventures that they could take? Places they could visit?" Hotch asked.

"What are Stanley's favorite things to do?" David asked.

"He-He-He just likes to make things, to build things," Kate walked over to a bookshelf covered in Lego-type creations. "Vincent used to help him."

"The construction sets?" I asked, coming closer.

"Yeah," she nodded.

And that's when I noticed one particularly large display on another shelf. I stepped over to the carnival attraction replica and moved it, looking over my shoulder at David.

"Ferris wheel," I said. "It's a circle."

"When did he build this?" David asked.

"Um, over the last couple of months. He's been in here every night," Kate told us.

"Garcia, check Buffalo and the surrounding areas for any theme parks, permanent or visiting," I said, exchanging glances with David.

"…Theme park just outside of Buffalo," Garcia replied.

"Ferris wheel?" Hotch asked.

"Um…yes!"

I hung up the phone and walked towards David. "Let's go."

Sirens blaring, David's and my Suburban led the way to the theme park. I held firmly onto the steering wheel while David held onto my knee. And when I parked the SUV, I flew out the front door with my bulletproof vest on and hurried into the park, pulling out my Glock.

"FBI!" I hollered. "Out of the way!"

Everyone stared as we ran through the park, making our way to the Ferris wheel, but I couldn't have cared less about it. All I wanted was to find Stanley and find him alive and safe.

The Ferris wheel had stopped mid-rotation and I looked around to see if I could find Stanley at all. There was a large knot in my throat and I couldn't swallow it down.

"He's up top!" David shouted, grabbing my shoulder with one hand, pointing with the other.

"Out of the way! Out of the way!" I hollered again, running through the crowd with a couple uniforms behind me. I went into the exit path to the ride engineer, an old man with a long ponytail and glasses. "I need you to get that kid at the top down and stop the wheel, right now!" I demanded. The old man hesitated. "NOW!"

The wheel started to move and I held up my gun, watching as Stanley's cart came to the bottom. Beside the kid was Vincent, slumped against the seat, blood trickling down from his body onto the metal. His lifeless hand was holding onto Stanley's and I felt the knot in my throat lessen as I realized he was probably dead.

"Okay, stop the wheel," I ordered once their cart had arrived at the landing deck. "Now open it," The old man scurried and opened the door to the cart, ducking out of my way as I came over, gun still pointed at Vincent. "Stanley, it's Hunter from the FBI. It's okay, sit tight," I tried to say as calmly as I could. "Stanley—"

"Wh-What's going on?" the boy stammered.

"It's me, Hunter," I said, checking Vincent's non-existent pulse before holstering my gun.

"Vincent, what's-what's going on?" Stanley asked.

"Listen to me, handsome," I said, unbuckling his seatbelt and trying to pry his hand out of Vincent's. "I need you to come with me. And I need you to let go of Vincent. Come on. Come with me. I'm getting you out of here." I grabbed both of Stanley's hands and helped him stand up. Then I picked him up, even though he was kind of heavy for me. I could feel his arms wrap around my neck as I carried him away. "It's gonna be okay, Stanley, I promise. You're okay."

"Vincent?" Stanley called out softly.

I felt my eyes welling up with every step I took, tightening my hold on the boy. As soon as I found an empty bench near the Ferris wheel entrance, I set the boy down and tried to hold back my tears.

"It's okay," I said, crouching in front of him. I glanced over and saw Kate running past Emily and Reid. "Here comes your mom."

"Oh, oh, honey!" Kate sat down on the bench and threw her arms around Stanley, who was trying just about as hard as I was not to cry, if not even harder.

I stood up and went to leave so they could have their moment together. But I didn't get too far.

"Hunter?"

I turned around and looked at the boy, my lips quivering. I crouched down in front of him once more. "What do you need, handsome?"

Stanley touched the side of my face again with his hands. "D-Did he kill my mom?"

I couldn't bring myself to answer. I reached up and touched his face. And when I stood up, I stroked a lock of his curly brown hair.

Kate looked at me and gave me a tearful smile, thanking me for helping her get Stanley back. I nodded and backed away, unsure how much longer I could hold back my tears as I watched Kate and Stanley hold each other.

And as I turned to see David staring at me from where he stood with Henderson, Morgan, Reid, and Emily, I felt my eyes water even more. I took a deep breath and kept trying to keep my shit together. I walked towards the group and David reached out to grab my shoulder. It was all I could do not to fall into his arms.

"No matter how dark the moment, love and hope are always possible." –George Chakiris

I sat at my desk in the dimly-lit bullpen. Most of the team had gone home, but I had chosen to stay behind and work on reports. Truth be told, I was happy when they left, as I had a lot on my mind and I was getting tired of everyone staring at me.

The entire jet ride back to Virginia, I sat curled up on the couch, listening to music, trying to ignore Emily's eyes. Morgan had asked me if I wanted to get a drink with him at the bar once we stepped onto the tarmac, but I turned him down. Garcia had stepped into her office as soon as we returned and came back with a small stack of chocolate chip cookies wrapped in a napkin, wordlessly leaving them on my desk.

I leaned back in my chair, having completely forgotten about the card from the stranger in my bottom desk drawer at this point. I cracked all of my knuckles and heaved a great sigh. Just when I had thought all the staring was over, I looked up at David's office and saw him standing at the window, drinking his post-case decaf. I tried to give him the best smile I was capable of making at this point and sat back up straight.

Deciding I needed my own decaf, I got out of my rolling chair and ambled slowly over to the coffee machine to get the last of the pot David had brewed when we came back. I grabbed the mug I had stored in the cupboard above and poured myself the coffee.

"Are you okay?"

I turned around and saw that David had come up behind me when I wasn't paying attention. I glanced around the bullpen to see if anyone was nearby. Hotch was in his office, but his blinds were shut, light poking out between them.

"Yeah," I said, turning back around to put cream and sugar in the mug.

"Hunter," David leaned his back against the counter and tried to catch my eye. "We saved Stanley. You saved Stanley. Vincent is dead. It's all over."

"That's not…" I sighed and closed my eyes for a few seconds. I looked over my shoulder at him and whispered, "Do you remember what I said to you last month, when we were in Boston? About certain things weighing on me?"

David nodded slowly.

"I…I can't keep doing this," I said, feeling my eyes well up yet again. "I have to get it off my chest to-to someone. Or I feel like I might burst."

With a careful look around the bullpen, David reached out and grabbed one of my hands. "Go home, bella. And give Prentiss a call."

"Really?" I breathed. "A-Are you sure?"

David kissed my hand. "I'm sure."

"I love you," I whispered, squeezing his hand.