Alexandria, Virginia
five months ago


Emily opened the door to rapturous greetings and upthrust arms from the three women on her doorstep. She returned their cries of "Hey!" and reached out to embrace them all at once. "Oh my God, you guys!" she said, grinning from ear to ear. It did her soul good to see them, because these were her girls. Her college friends, the women who'd known her not yet fully formed, her Yale posse. Germany, Nora and Kate. Her girls. The three of them were on a road trip together, driving south to Miami to attend a wedding. Germany lived in Buffalo, Nora in New York and Kate in Burlington, Vermont, so they'd met in Manhattan and headed down big old I-95. When she'd gotten Germany's call two weeks before asking if they could stop for the night at Emily's house, she'd been delighted. She hadn't seen any of them in two years, although phone calls were regularly exchanged.

"Oh my God, Emily, this house," Kate said, pulling back and looking up at the Gothic arch of the front door.

"Well, come on in," Emily said, holding the door and bustling all three of them and their overnight bags into the foyer. "Just leave your bags there, you guys must be hungry."

"I wanna see this place first," Kate said.

Germany smacked her. "Are you crazy? I wanna see the husband first! Where is he?" she said. "I have not forgiven you for eloping, missy."

"You could have come to Mom's big-ass party," Emily said.

Nora rolled her eyes. "Your Mom's parties aren't for bad seeds like us."

"It just sucks that you're the last one to get married and we weren't there," Germany went on, pooching out her lower lip.

"I know," Emily said, genuinely sad about that. She'd thought of her girls in that atrium room at the Bellagio when she'd stepped up to marry Spencer and wished they could be there. She'd called all three of them on the off chance they could get away on a moment's notice, but none of them could. "All right, if you want to see The Husband, I'll get him. You guys go in the kitchen, I got out some wine, so crack it open and get started. I'll be right back." They bustled off, exclaiming over the house, while Emily went into the library. In the corner was a spiral wrought-iron staircase that led to the gabled room directly above which she and Spencer used for an office.

He was at his desk scribbling madly, but he looked up when she came in. "I thought I heard some people being murdered downstairs," he said.

"Ha ha. The girls want to meet The Husband."

"Is that how I'm to be addressed for the duration of the evening?"

"You'll be lucky if they stick to that and don't start calling you BrainBoy or StudMuffin."

"Given the choice, I think The Husband will do just fine." He got up. "Do I look all right? Am I presentable? I know this is your favorite shirt," he said, pointing to the wine-red button-down. Over it was a dark gray vest, his watch-chain twinkling against it.

She smiled. "You look gorgeous. Are you sticking around for dinner?"

"I think I'll just let you guys catch up," he said, smirking. "I'm going over to Morgan's. A few of his gym buddies want to play poker. He thinks they need to be taken down a peg so I'm the ringer."

They went downstairs. The girls had already emptied one bottle of wine into four glasses and were chattering about the Viking stove and the quartz countertops. All of them straightened up and fell silent when Emily came in. "Okay. Here he is," she said. "Guys, this is my husband, Spencer Reid." Suddenly, she found herself getting a little choked up to be introducing him to her friends. These women were part of her soul, in a way that only happened when you were young and in college and forming your own families while you reshaped yourself. It hadn't felt right that they'd never met the man who was the most important person in her life now. "Spencer, this is Germany, Nora and Kate."

He stepped up and shook each of their hands, smiling his borderline-strained 'oh god new people' smile. "Nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about all of you."

"Well, we haven't heard nearly enough about you," Kate said, winking at him.

"Especially since you denied us bridesmaid duties by whisking Emily off for a whirlwind wedding," Germany said, her tone scolding.

"I don't know what she's told you, but that was entirely Emily's idea."

"It's nice to meet you, Spencer," Nora said, with a genuine smile. "But we do have to make sure you're good enough for our girl, here."

"He's good enough," Emily said, exasperated. "Shouldn't that be my call?"

"We'll just see," she replied, archly.

"Don't you have to get to Morgan's?" Emily said, looking beseechingly up at him.

"Uh…yeah. Sorry to run off, but I'm expected somewhere," he said. "I'll be back before midnight. I'm sure you four will still be up," he said, glancing at Emily. "You can give me the third degree then, okay?"

Germany raised a glass toward him. "Film at eleven. Excellent."

He leaned down toward her. "Don't get too blasted," he murmured.

"Don't be too rough on the gym buddies."

He kissed her quickly, then headed past the island to the back door, grabbing his coat off its peg as he left, waving to the girls.

They watched him go, then as one swiveled their heads back over to Emily to stare at her. "What?" Emily said.

"I thought you said you'd married some nerdy genius guy," Germany said.

"That's what I thought, too!" Kate exclaimed.

Emily picked up her glass of wine and joined them around the island. "I did marry a nerdy genius guy. That was him."

Nora snorted. "Well, I must have missed something, because apparently nerds are now available in 'sexy.'"

"Hear hear," Germany said.

Emily grinned and clinked glasses with them, privately agreeing.

Somewhere in Texas
Saturday, 3:00 pm – 20 hours missing


She was hollow inside. Cold and dead and hollow.

Her throat was raw and her back was killing her. Everything was killing her.

Everything is killing me.

The cot was floating, her clothes rasped her skin like they were made of sandpaper. Those weren't her feet on the floor. Everything was echoing from a great distance across the impassable canyon of a single word.

Dead.

Her husband, her lover, her partner. Gone. Taken.

Harmon. Harmon had killed him. Why? Harmon wasn't a killer. Except now he was. He'd killed Elle. He'd broken the seal on his long-suppressed desires. He'd done it once, why not do it again? And why kidnap her? To act out more of his fantasies that he'd previously only experienced vicariously. Not just to kill. To hurt. To manipulate. Manipulate her into what? She was afraid to speculate.

Why had he taken her and not Spencer? He'd clearly meant to get her, she'd taken the Taser hit. Was it because she was smaller, and he could get her away from the house more easily? Or was it just because, like any other sexual sadist, he had urges to inflict pain and horror upon a woman? Was it convenience, or did he need to take her?

Did he kill the man I love out of necessity, or so he could watch my face when he told me, and see my pain? Did he do it to enable him to get away clean, or did he do it to make me suffer?

He's a mastermind. He has a plan for me. He has free rein. He can make me suffer. He's doing a damn good job so far.

She couldn't think. All she could see was that photo. Spencer's slack face, the blood, the horrible gaping wound on his neck, that neck she'd loved to kiss…

Don't think about it. You can't think about it now. Keep it together.

I can't think about anything else.

You're still alive. You have to go on, for him. He'd want you to fight, to get through this.

I can't do it. There's nothing left. And if I do get through this, then what? Then I have to face life without him. Going home to that house, the home he built for us before he knew that's what he was doing, that home where he is in every corner and every piece of woodwork and every inch of flooring. Going to work, waiting for him to jump in with a statistic that never comes, going to bed, the bed so cold, waiting for him to get in and warm it up, being cold forever.

But it'll be life. You still have it. It's yours, don't let go. You can make it. You can have your life, even now.

Some part of her knew that was true, but right now she didn't care. It was too raw, too fresh, and all she could see was what she'd lost. She wanted to lie down and drift away into the gray haze before her eyes, escape someplace where she'd never heard those words and seen that photo, someplace where she wouldn't have to know that he was gone and that he would never know what he had meant to her because she'd never been able to really tell him.

Not like this. It wasn't supposed to end like this.

You weren't supposed to marry a man like him, either. You were supposed to marry a lawyer or a mid-level FBI bureaucrat, not a man ten years younger than you who wears mismatched socks. You were supposed to marry someone safe and have kids and take pictures of them with you when you got on the jet and come home to your colonial house in Arlington or Silver Spring or Frederick and have them run to greet you, and your husband was supposed to wear a suit and carry a briefcase and work nine to five and play golf on weekends. There was supposed to be a dog and birthday parties with balloon animals and minivans and vacations to Aspen or Palm Beach.

I know that life. I see that life. That life I was supposed to have, that the world told me I ought to want, in one permutation or another.

Thank God I fell in love with Spencer instead.

She let out a weak sob, pressing a wadded-up paper towel to her face.

You had two years. It's not what you hoped for, but it's more than a lot of people get. Instead of a lifetime of golf and minivans, you had two years of observatories and crazy pastiche houses and a closet full of thrift-store cardigans. You had two years of random factoids and anything-goes sex and a schizophrenic mother-in-law and three a.m. chess games on the floor in the library.

I want more. Please, God. I know we don't talk much these days but please, send me back in time. Let me take it back. Give me more than two years, it's not enough, it's never enough, there was so much we hadn't done yet. I was planning to take him to Italy next summer. He was planning to go to his high-school reunion and I was going to wear my slinkiest dress so he could show me off in front of all the bullies who used to make his life hell. I was planning to wake up with him every day for the rest of my life, oh Jesus I don't think I can do this.

She rocked slightly, sitting there on the edge of the cot, back and forth.

Come on, Em. Pull it together. That wasn't her voice. It was his.

She wasn't even surprised to hear it in her head. She'd heard it there often enough before, usually when she was doing something inadvisable, she'd hear him spouting statistics and telling her she was being reckless. If ever she needed his rationality it was now.

I'm trying but I feel like I'm breaking into a million pieces.

You can do it, baby.

You never call me that.

It doesn't matter. Listen to what I'm telling you, sweetheart.

You never call me that, either. Mostly you just call me Emily. Except when you call me Lola.

Emily is your name. I'm not much for using endearments.

Maybe I'd like it if you did. Just once in awhile.

Quit avoiding. Pay attention. Think clearly.

I can't. Give me an hour or so to wallow, okay?

You don't have an hour. Every minute is a minute Harmon's out there deciding what to do with you. You have to focus on him, on getting out. I'm gone but you're not. If you live, then something of me lives, too.

Oh, God. My beautiful genius. I can't think about never seeing you again. I love you so damn much.

Shh. I love you, too. But you know, death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for awhile.

I cannot believe you're giving me Princess Bride quotes right now. I need help.

You have all the help you need. You were always the strong one, Emily.

I'm tired. I'm tired of being the strong one. Let me be weak for a little while before I have to be strong enough to go on alone. I'll do it. You know I will. I'll get up and I'll get out of here and I'll bury you and I'll go home and pick up the pieces and remember to breathe and cook meals and work on cases and eventually I won't have to force myself to do any of it. But I'm not there yet. Right now I'm weak and I'm broken and part of me wishes Harmon would just kill me too and it scares me that I wish that, even a little bit.

It's okay if you're weak right now, Em. Being strong doesn't mean never being weak. You taught me that, you know.

Okay. Okay. I can do this.

That's my Lola. Just imagine we're in the office at home, talking out a case like we do. So come on. Talk to me. What do we know about Harmon?

He's a manipulator. He needs the control to feel powerful. He uses that power to live out his fantasies, the ones he doesn't dare carry out himself.

Right. So who's he controlling now?

Me. And through me, the team. But this is also his last chance. He knows now that we know his name, we know what he did, we know about Nathan and Elle and everything else. He knows that he's finished. This is his last shot.

What does that tell us?

That he'll make this count. Whatever he'd been building up to, whatever his ultimate fantasy of manipulation was, he has to do it now or never. He's never acted on his own desires before. He's always done it vicariously through others. So now that he has me – he can do whatever he likes to me. Everything he's ever fantasized about doing.

Exactly.

He…he could torture me. Rape me. Beat me. God knows what he's been imagining all these years, and now he has the chance to do it himself. Spencer, I'm scared.

I know you are. I'm here with you.

You're not, you'll never be here again.

I'm here no matter what. Don't think about what he might do to you. Think about what he wants, what he needs. Use it to your advantage.

Okay. Okay. What's his endgame, then? How would he want this to end for me? What's the ultimate victory for a man who manipulates others, how would he…oh.

Yes, Emily. You got it.

Oh my God.

There it is.

I know why he killed you. He wants me to kill myself. He's going to try and get me to do it. What could be more powerful than to make someone take her own life?

So how will he do it? What steps will he take to bring you to that point?

The first he already did.

What next?

He'll try and break me down. He can have his fun with me and make me wish for death. Oh Jesus.

He's going to hurt you. But everything he does and says will help you turn the tables on him, as long as you can stand it, you have to think about the profile. What does it tell you about him, and how can you use it to save yourself?

I can take it.

And now you know something else.

Yes. I know how to win. Thanks for the help.

You know I'm not really here, right? I'm just another part of you.

I know. And you always will be. You were the one, Spencer.

See there? You're dealing with it already.

What?

You said 'you were.' Past tense.

. . .

Emily?

. . .

Emily!

Yeah. I'm here. Now that I've got this figured out, can I just lie here and cry until he comes back in? It'll help things along if he sees me do that anyway.

Okay. Just don't ever forget that everything has to be under your control. Don't slip up and start believing what you're showing him. You have to put your real feelings in that little box you have and lock it away for later. You're giving him a performance.

I won't forget. I just – I'm never going to see you again and I don't know what to do with that. I told you a few days ago that I couldn't imagine my life without you. I still can't.

You'll see me again someday.

You're an atheist, Spencer, you don't believe that.

No, but you do, and that's what matters right now.

Stay with me?

I'll always love you, Emily. I'll never leave you.

Emily let her head fall back, the tears running down her face.

Liar.


Dallas, Texas
Saturday, 3:30 pm – 20.5 hours missing


The shock had worn off, and everyone's brain was coming back online. Hotch, Rossi and Gideon were at the conference table. The phone had been ringing off the hook since the news broadcast, and they had to put eyes to every tip that came in. JJ and Garcia were going through screengrabs. Morgan had gone to observe Nathan Harris some more. Reid stayed in front of the monitor, hunched forward, never taking his eyes off Emily's image on the screen. She was still sitting on the edge of the cot, knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them, making herself as small as possible. A defensive pose. His hands itched to touch her, his arms ached to hold her, he had the urge to shout loud enough that she'd be able to hear him wherever she was. I'm not dead, Emily, I'm coming to find you, I swear.

JJ slid her chair over to him. "How is she?"

"She seems – calmer. It's like she's thinking."

"Or trying not to," JJ said. "I can't imagine what she's going through right now. Well, I can. I don't want to."

Emily's head came up, her brow furrowed slightly. Reid tensed and leaned forward a little more. She cocked her head and let her legs unfold, feet back down on the floor. "She's figured something out," Reid said, a grim smile coming to his lips.

"What?"

"I don't know."

"Reid," Hotch said. He turned around. "We need to tell you about Nathan."

"Hotch, I can't leave her."

JJ patted his arm. "I'll stay with her, Spence."

He looked from the monitor to JJ's face and back again. What if something happens? One second could be important. He sighed. "Okay." He got up and joined the group.

"I've spoken to Nathan," Gideon said. Reid was only half-listening. He couldn't stop looking over Hotch's shoulder to the monitor.

Hotch interrupted Gideon with a raised hand, took hold of Reid's arm and gently but firmly moved him, swapping their positions so Reid's back was to the monitors. He said nothing, just nodded to Gideon to continue. Reid forced himself to refocus. JJ's watching. It's okay. He fixed his eyes on Gideon. You wanna stare at her on a monitor, or do you want to get her back, genius? Pay attention. "You spoke to Nathan," he said.

Gideon nodded. "This is more complex than we thought."

"In what way?"

"He's fixated on you, Spencer."

Reid frowned. "He's what?"

"He's in love with you, or he thinks he is. It's probably more accurate to say he's in love with what you represent. What you are that he wishes he could be."

"But he fantasized about killing women. Sexual preference in sadists is pretty clear. And the men he's killed don't represent sex objects, they're surrogates for himself."

"I know. He confirmed that when he described his first kill. I don't quite understand it, either. He still fantasizes about killing women, but he also fantasizes about sex with men. It started with one particular man."

Reid sighed. This just got creepier and creepier. "In his struggle to reconcile his homicidal thoughts with his conscience he's displaced his sexual feelings onto men. It's an attempt to blunt the urges."

Rossi nodded. "In his mind, if he can take the sexual attraction away from women, he won't want to kill them anymore."

Gideon went on. "Harmon started out as a substitute for you, Reid, but it quickly became more. He played Nathan, using emotional manipulation to gain control over his feelings."

Reid nodded. "Validation, acceptance and reinforcement."

"Also, Nathan told me that Harmon knew everything about you, for months. It wouldn't have taken him long to see that Nathan's idealization of you was going to be his biggest obstacle, so he started doing research. Partly to know enough about you to deal with Nathan's fixation, but also because he himself would have become fixated on the person standing between him and perfect control of Nathan."

Reid scrubbed his hand over his face. "This is crazy."

"It's speculation, is what it is," Hotch said. "Let's not forget that whatever else he hopes to accomplish, Harmon's first and fundamental motive here is to serve his need to control and manipulate. Everything else is secondary. The fact is that Harmon has Emily and he's clearly got something in mind for her. He's going to a lot of trouble to keep her somewhere secure and manipulate her emotions. Why? What's his endgame here?"

Reid's thoughts were racing. "He has to know this is it for him. We've been inside his house, we've got Nathan, we know his name and what he's done. He didn't bother to wear gloves when he attacked us, he knows we know who he is. This would normally be the time we'd start looking for suicide by cop, but – I don't know, that isn't his style."

"But it is his last shot," Rossi said. "And it's his first chance to interact with an actual victim. He's not the Rasputin anymore, pulling other people's strings, he's the one with a weapon in his hand. He's living out those displaced fantasies in the flesh now. It could be like explosive decompression. Whatever he's been fantasizing about doing but hasn't yet dared try, the ultimate achievement. It's now or never."

Reid frowned. "He needs me alive so I can know what's going to happen to Emily." The answer, so obvious now, came to him. "Oh, God," he said, seeing the same realization on the faces of his colleagues.

Hotch exhaled. "He wants her to kill herself, and for you to know that she did it and why."

Gideon shook his head. "To manipulate a strong, emotionally healthy woman into suicide," he said, marveling at the idea. "It's the Holy Grail. It's his Everest. And he'll do it to the wife of the man who's stood in his way all these months. It's like a planetary alignment, a perfect storm for him."

"That's why he convinced her he'd killed you," Hotch said.

"He hasn't given her any water or food, either," Reid said. "He'll try to weaken her physically."

"Reid, I think you should go back to the hotel," Gideon said.

"Why?"

"You know why. He's off the leash. He can do whatever he wants to her. What if he drugs her? What if he tortures her? You shouldn't watch this."

Reid's mouth hung open. "Are you kidding me? I'm not leaving, no matter what he does. I don't care how hard it is for me to watch, I am not leaving her alone with him."

"She doesn't know you're there," Gideon said.

I think I'm getting why your marriage failed, Jason, Reid thought but did not say. "Emily knows I'm always with her. Even if she can't see me, even if she thinks I'm dead. I don't care what happens, I'll be there for her. And she will never kill herself. He can do whatever he likes to her but she won't do it."

"Are you sure?" Gideon asked, gently.

"I know my wife, Gideon. She won't do it. She'll do whatever she has to do to survive and see Harmon arrested. If he thinks killing me would have made her want to die, he's got it backwards. If anything it'll make her want to live more."

"You sound pretty sure about that," Rossi said.

"I'm absolutely sure."

"Then I hope we find her soon, because if she won't break down, he'll just try harder."

No one had a response to that. "I'm going back to her," Reid said. The others nodded, so he stepped away and resumed his place in front of the monitor. Emily was lying on the cot now, it looked like she might be dozing. Reid set his jaw and shut his eyes, doing his best to block out images of all the horrible things Harmon could do to Emily, things he'd have to watch.

Compartmentalize, Spencer. I've seen you do it.

I'm not as good at it as you are, Em.

You do all right. Anyway, I can take it. You know I can.

I don't want you to take anything. I want you to be here with me, safe, where I can see you and hear your voice and know that when I go to bed tonight you'll be there and I'll be able to hear your breathing, because by now I need it to fall asleep.

Put on your big-boy shorts and deal with it. Quit feeling sorry for yourself and find me.