The incident left the team shaken. With glum faces they drove back to the BAU building, with a silent Alaric in Morgan's car, and five entries for the morgue; Harry, Lewis, Greg, Alice, and Heidi.

The victim had died. A wayward bullet – Harry's, they guessed by trajectory – had hit the back of her skull, killing her before she had the chance to escape. Alice and Greg held their ground until the end. True to profile, they had turned on each other, with both in separate rooms when the police infiltrated, and, seeing their fates in prison, opened fire.

Spencer had suggested having Alaric sedated, but in absence of her lashing out or showing overt aggressiveness, it had been turned down. The girl, now in the back of the large SUV, had her knees close to her chest and the seatbelt chafing her neck, which turned an angry red with the amount of times she rubbed against her restraint.

The pair had no idea what to do next. Surely there was trauma involved, but with her immaturity, weighed with her intelligence, there was no telling how to treat it. Spencer wanted to coax her out of her self-imposed silence while Derek wanted to leave her be, allowing her time to register what had happened, and perhaps even come to peace with it herself.

He knew it would never happen, but Derek was a dreamer.

"Alaric, do you want some water?" Spencer asked. He was awful with social cues, and this situation was far from conventional, but a lot of time had passed since lunch and she hadn't had a drink since.

Alaric didn't move. She neither looked up nor twitched, which made the agents glance at each other.

"Alaric, you need some water," he tried again, taking it out of his satchel. Derek noticed the girl roll her eyes and shake her head, apparently exasperated. "Dehydration is dangerous; two thirds of the body is made up of water, and it's said you should drink-"

"Leave me alone, Spencer!" she barked; "My brothers are dead, don't you get that? Do you think I care about water right now? Every move I've made – coming to you, asking for help, leading you through this investigation – it got my brothers killed! And I have to live every day of my life knowing that if I was just a little smarter, they would be alive. I'm to blame for all of this. Me. So don't talk to me about water; I don't want to hear it."

With that, she flopped back down in silence, having exhausted what little energy she had left.

Spencer had no idea what to say. He looked at her, saw her eyes brimming with unshed tears, and all of the comforting words he could have said were suddenly at the forefront of his mind. But after her outburst, he was silent.

At the agency, Derek and Spencer tried to keep Alaric hidden. But a whole host of reporters and newsmen had streamed to the front of the building, finally with details of the murders, and hesitated not for the fact she was so young or so white in the face. Derek thrust at the ones that encroached on them and Spencer shielded her eyes, throwing a cover over her as they hurried to the agency, where she put on the ground and subsequently ran off into the building.

"Alaric-!" Spencer called after her, but in the confusion of hurrying agents trying to keep reporters at bay and the matter of paperwork, Derek told him to let her go.

"She won't run off. There are too many people outside for that. We'll look for her later, afterwards."

With a glum, heavy face, Spencer acquiesced. He allowed himself to be coaxed from the hallway, though not without lingering looks in the direction she had gone.

In the bullpen, JJ looked stressed and furious, what with the press outside and the other matter of her paperwork, and whatever dignity she could spare for the bereaved Alaric. The girl's face had been plastered on the news; they had apparently linked her with the murders, not that any of the FBI had made that bridge, and now it was being rumoured that she herself was a main component in them.

'Girl suspected of helping murderers in plot.'

'Young girl from recent search missions has been linked to homicides.'

'Alaric Truman, eleven, is rumoured to be the main component of serial killers' spree.'

It was awful. And it fell to JJ to sort the mess out, as it always did.

"Where is she?" Hotchner asked when he caught sight of the pair. His leg was bad, and he was listing to the side when he walked, but such was his determination that he had refused to go to the hospital, instead preferring to finish his work.

"She ran off – do you need to get that checked out?" Spencer asked with his water bottle in hand, pointing his finger towards his leg and furrowing his brow.

"What do you mean she 'ran off?'" he gave them both that unreadable stare; "We can't risk her trying to escape again. Not just because of the reporters, but because she's now more vulnerable than ever."

"Her brothers' deaths have probably pushed her over the edge. If she's not traumatised, she's furious at us for failing them," Prentiss agreed.

"She's angry, that's for sure," Spencer went to his desk. There, he discovered the half-read 'Poor Country My Fellow,' which had been left by Alaric some time before. His eyes went soft. "She blames herself for their deaths. She claims that by coming to us, she made a wrong move and set a course that, inevitably, led to them being killed."

Rossi and Prentiss spared a glance at each other. It was rare for them to feel worse for the perpetrators than for the innocent, deceased victim, but it seemed the Harry and Lewis' would play on their minds for a long time to come.

"We need to find her." Hotchner said.

"No need," Alaric had appeared at their side, being so small that no one had caught sight of her. She reached up to take Derek's hand, which squeezed hers comfortingly.

There was a visible relaxation in the team. JJ, who had been going through notes, stopped to give her a sad, tight smile, obviously uncomfortable.

"When do I get to make funeral arrangements?" she questioned the blonde.

"You don't have to worry about that. Once we've cleared everything up, we'll make all the preparations."

She gave a deep frown.

"You'll have a say in everything," she said; "As far as Garcia can tell, you have no relatives – at least, none still living. All of your parents' possessions have been transferred to you."

"Joy. An inheritance from two lunatics. What else could I ask for?" if her voice weren't so sardonic, it would have been funny.

There was a silence for a moment as each agent glanced at each other. Then, with a deep, angry sigh, Alaric muttered;

"When I'm adopted, where do I go?"