Chapter Twenty-One

There was a button, once. Penelope had mentioned it, he was certain. It was set to count down a minute and, each time it was pushed, the minute would reset. It was some online website, Penelope had said that millions of people pushed this button, that they only had one push and once it was used up, that was it. All they could do was sit, and wait, and watch other people use their pushes, while the clock continued to count down, reset, and count down again.

That was how he felt right now. Watching the clock, each time it hit the twelve, Hotch felt the minute start all over again. He just didn't know how many of those minutes Emily had left, or which would be her last. He hadn't asked Penelope what happened when the clock finally reached zero. Nobody had spoken for a while, but even when they did, he hardly heard them. All he could hear was the ticking of that damned clock. Tick, tock. Counting down Emily's life, to the second.

Her picture was up on their evidence board. Hotch hated that. They all did. JJ sat with her back to it, unable to look. Reid kept glancing at it, and Hotch knew he was thinking about the last time Emily's face was up there. Last time, they had lost her. Reid had lost her for good, or so Hotch had let him believe. The kid had never really forgiven them for that, Hotch thought, and truthfully he couldn't blame him. If someone had let him believe she was dead, for seven months, he didn't think he'd ever be able to let that go. The accusation and anger had died away, but the truth had never been the same ever since. Now, watching Reid's eyes flicker from the page he was staring at, to the picture of Emily, the same one from her I.D badge, Hotch felt the air growing thin around him. Tick, tock.

"It's getting dark," Morgan told them, though he needn't have. They could all see. The windows were growing dim, the light fading faster than they had ever noticed was possible. The glow of streetlights began to illuminate the glass.

The body of their witness had been found several hours before. A black man, bald, just as Allison had said. Well built, healthy, dressed for a run. He had been found about half a mile from the dumpsite. Blunt force trauma to the head.

"Allison wanted us to think he was our unsub," JJ muttered, indicating the picture that sat on the table, of their latest victim. His name was Layton Cole. He was only twenty-four years old. "He set it all up perfectly."

"Not quite," Rossi interrupted her, "There were holes in his story. Emily figured something out. Otherwise, why take her?"

"She's a federal agent," Morgan was pacing back and forth, anxious to be useful, "He knows he's not getting out of this."

"He might have made a run for it," JJ pointed out.

"If he has, Emily's already dead." Hotch practically spat at them. Again, the silence. Again, the tick, tock. Hotch, sick of it, charged across the room and tore the clock from the wall. The batteries clattered onto the table as he ripped them out and, finally, the ticking had stopped. His breathing was heavy, and his team were staring at him. Embarassed and angry with himself, Hotch stood up, pushing back his hair, which he knew had been displaced both by the late hour and his outburst. His blazer had been long discarded, his shirt sleeves unbuttoned and pushed up to his elbows. Regardless, he felt hot beneath their gazes.

"Excuse me," He muttered, and for the second time that day, he had to take himself away from his team.

The air outside was cold, harsh, even, against his skin, but Hotch welcomed it. It was sobering. The atmosphere in that room, the pressure he felt, the fear. It was too much, too familiar. Hotch couldn't help but feel likehe had been here before, with Haley. The helplessness was too much, an unwelcome feeling that made him sick to his stomach. Leaning against the brick wall of the police station, Hotch didn't know whether he wanted to scream or sleep. His mind had been working so hard that he was mentally exhausted but physically he felt he could run a marathon. He would, immediately, without question, enthusiasically, if he thought it would help him find Emily. Instead, he was stuck here, with no leads and, currently, no hope. And, most painfully, no Emily.

As he stood there, and contemplated over his incapacity to do anything, he felt the presence of another person. Looking up from the floor, he caught sight of a woman nearby. She was looking at him, but in the dark, Hotch couldn't make out her face and for half of a heartbeat, his breath stopped in his chest. Then she spoke, and his heart dropped again.

"I was wondering, can you help me?" She asked, in a voice that shook. For a moment, Hotch could set his own suffering aside. He straightened up and took a step towards her.

"Of course," He said, "Are you alright?"

"I, uh, are you a police officer?"

"I'm FBI," He reached for his badge, remembered his jacket was inside, and gestured to the police station, "We should really talk inside. It's warmer, I can get you a drink."

She stepped back at his suggestion, shaking her head. "I can't," Her voice was quiet now, anxiety in every syllable. "I shouldn't, I-"

"Please," Hotch tried to reassure her, "Whatever it is, we can help."

Reluctantly, the girl stepped towards him, into the light. She looked like she had been crying and she was writing her hands in front of her. Her fingernails were picked and bleeding and it hurt to see that, it only reminded him of her. Leading her inside, Hotch led the girl to a seat and walked towards the coffee station. JJ, having noticed this, joined him a moment later.

"Who's she?" She asked, softly. He shrugged, as he stirred the coffee.

"I don't know. She asked for help."

"Anything to do with Emily?"

"I don't know." He repeatedly, helplessly. They wandered over together and Hotch sat beside her, handing her the cup. In the light, he couild see her better. Her face, though red from crying, was youthful. Early 20s, he assessed, easily. Her hair was recently washed, her clothes clean and stylish. So not a runaway.

"Thanks," The blonde said, taking the cup from him. She didn't lift it to her lips. "I can help you," she mumbled, "The man, your investigation."

Hotch met JJ's eyes. He shouldn't be the one having this conversation, he kenw. He had a conflict of interest. He hated it, but they were the facts.

"I'll just go and get another agent who can speak to you with Agent Jareau, here," He said, attempting to stand, but the girls hand was suddenly wrapped around his wrist.

"If I don't say it now, I never will," Her eyes were wide and scared and, fearful of her silence, Hotch sat back down. The hand around his wrist did not let up. "I saw him. Must have been two years ago, now. My little girl, Martha, I'd taken her to the woods. We were hiking. She likes to find butterflies, so we take pictures. She was gone from my sight for barely a moment. Felt like I blinked and she was gone. I screamed her name for so long. I ran around those woods thinking my baby was gone forever. He had her," She nodded to the picture of Allison, one of many that had been posted up and around town, as well as sent to the local and statewide media stations. "He was holding her like a baby when I found them. She was six at the time. Too big to be held like that. I begged him to let her go and he looked at me. He was crying. He looked so confused, I thought he must be crazy. He let her go. He just sat there and cried, crying about someone called Tyla. His daughter, I figured. He seemed so broken. We aren't from here, we're from a couple of towns over. I never reported it, I felt too bad for the guy. But it was him. I know it was him."

She was crying by the end of her story. JJ had taken the seat beside her and was holding her hand, reassuringly.

"And Martha? She's-?" JJ prompted.

"At home. With my mom." The blonde, whose name Hotch still didn't know, replied. "She's fine. But all of those other little girls. If I'd reported it, they'd still be alive, right?" She looked at Hotch, eyes imploring. He didn't know if she wanted reassurance or confirmation of her guilt. "Right?"

"That doesn't matter now," Hotch told her, truthfully. "There's nothing we can do to help them, we can only give the families closure. But he has someone else now, a woman. Do you think you could help us? Tell us where you found him with Martha?"

"I've triangulated his comfort zone according to Miss Lynd's story," Reid was saying, not five minutes later. The triangle on the board was made out of red tape. It was big, but it was something.

"Let's go."

Even in her disoriented state, Emily knew that it was now or never. It was cold now, as well as wet, and she was shivering. Disoriented as she was, she knew that if she stood any chance at all, it was to make a move now, before Allison came back for her. The darkness was all encompassing, but she could feel that evening had come by the chill that licked at her skin. She was dizzy and injured and bound and if Allison came back before she could get away, Emily knew she didn't stand a chance. The binding around her hands and wrists was holding tight, digging into cuts that had already scraped their way into her skin, but her feet had become loose at some point. It was an effort, it took a long time and it hurt to twist them in such unnatural ways, but eventually, she freed one ankle and, quickly afterwards, the other. Shoving herself to her feet, Emily cringed away from the pain in her shoulder where the knife wound was. Her head rushed with blood, blind spots apppearing like fireworks behind her eyelids. Emily gave herself a moment, leaning against the cold wall, and breathed deeply.

Then she looked one way, the way Allison had gone, and the other. It made logical sense to move away from where Allison had gone. It seemed lighter this way anyway, didn't it? Or was that wishful thinking?

Either way, her feet began to move. Her badge and gun were still gone, but Emily wasn't about to stick around and start looking for them. It was too dark, too wet, too cold. Her hands were already bloodied and sore from the rope and the fear that Allison would return at any moment was mounting.

Emily walked, sloshing through the water, trying and failing to be quiet, until her shoes and socks were soaked through and her toes were frozen in her shoes. But it seemed to be getting lighter, she was sure?

The moon beckoned, as Emily used her hands to feel around a corner, and the tunnel opened up in a wide mouth, yawning up at the nights sky. Emily began to climb, and found the ground growing steeper as she made her way up. Her hands slipped, rope tearing, and she hissed at the pain that was like a thousand little papercuts on the skin between each of her fingers but she made it. Crawling out of the mouth of the huge pipe, Emily let herself collapse onto the grass. She couldn't stop, she knew, but she a moment.

Just one moment of air.

I'm so sorry I made you wait for this. I'm trying to get back into it, I promise not to abandon it! It will be finished.

Wash yer feckin hands in the meantime.

Steph x