"She's sleeping it off," Morgan reports wearily when he returns. Reid feels bad leaving him to take care of Jane on his own, but too many people would overwhelm her – and the last thing she probably remembered was just the two of them. "And by 'it' I mean she's sleeping off premature and reckless EMDR, a panic attack, and then a long stress-vomiting session. We're not gonna be able to get anything out of her for another twelve hours, at least."

"Hotch doesn't have twelve hours," Garcia frowns, her face twisting with worry. "If – if he's still alive then every minute counts. We can't just do nothing until she wakes up."

"Which is why we aren't doing nothing," Rossi cuts in. "Garcia, you're going to get us a face to face with Amina Vite."

"What?" Garcia blinks, startled. "What? I mean – what? I said that was a bad idea – you said that was a bad idea. I thought we agreed that tracking down Vine was a bad idea."

"That was before EMDR melted Jane's brain like vanilla ice cream," Rossi snapped – then he winced, and centered himself. "I'm sorry, Penelope, but we need information. We don't have anything we can work with."

"That's not entirely true – it doesn't have to come to that," Morgan pulled out his notepad, passing it to Reid. "This is a description of a man that Jane gave me. He's at the very least the Unsub who killed Gabriel and her father – and most likely the man who kidnapped and tortured her. The man who has Hotch."

"Well, at least something came from all that," Reid mutters, passing the pad to Rossi after he finished scanning it. "Other than a severe blow to Jane's mental health."

"Description or not, we still aren't going to be able to identify him on this alone," Blake pointed out with a grimace, looking over Rossi's shoulder. "Too much time has passed, and we don't have any suspects at all – don't even have a suspect pool."

"Yes, we do," Morgan chimed in again. "Jane said that Liber knew the Unsub – but not only that, but Arthur Ryden and Elizabeth Colemyer did too."

"I can pull together a list of known associates of all three, see what I can cross reference," Garcia offered, already getting to work. "I can narrow down by age, sex, ethnicity, and hair color and see what that gets me."

"Try placing focus on the college years," Rossi suggested. "We know that Liber, Colemyer, and Ryden all attended Brown at the same time, with both Ryden and Liber in their law program. Stands to reason that the unsub would've been the fourth member of that group – friendships of two women and a man typically had a fourth to balance things out."

"I'm sorry, but I'm still stuck on this concept of nicknames," Blake cut in, changing the subject with an unhappy frown. "If Jane was a surrogate for Elizabeth, then why wouldn't the Unsub call her Elizabeth? Or a derivative of that: Lizzie or Eliza or Beth or anything. Why Lotus?"

"The name Marisole was given to Jane by her mother," JJ offered. "I don't know how their naming habits went in the Ryden-Colemyer family, but in my family if one parent picks the first name the other parent chooses the middle name. Pretty common practice."

"So the name 'Lotus' wasn't Colemyer's choice – it was Ryden's," Morgan nodded. "But then why Lotus? And why would the Unsub call her that if it doesn't relate to Colemyer, but it relates to Ryden?"

A niggling feeling built in the back of Reid's head.

"Garcia, can you look up a Ryden family tree?" He spoke up, mind racing. "I know Arthur had a sister significantly older than him, Priscilla, but what else is there?"

"Our doctor's father was born Arthur Oak Ryden – seeing a vegetation theme – in Beaufort, West Virginia to a – " Garcia paused in her babble. "Okay, there we have it: to a Cyril Blaine and one Lotus Ryden. He was a deadbeat drunk who died just before Arthur was born, and she took back her maiden name when she gave birth to her only son – hence Arthur Ryden and not Arthur Blaine."

"When did she die?" Reid asked.

"She died when – oh dear, history repeating itself. She died when Arthur was 16, the same age Jane was when her family died. Looks to me like it – oh. Suicide. Slit her wrists and drowned in her own blood in a bathroom," Garcia bit her lip. "Oh, poor Arthur. Looks like he was the one who found her. He called 911 but it was too late."

"A bathroom, Garcia?" JJ tilted her head, blonde hair swinging. "Whose bathroom?"

"Well, it looks like our Granny Lotus was engaged to be married," Garcia continued to dig. "To Sheriff Elton McCrae Senior. It was his bathroom, no one was home at the time – Arthur was at school and the fiance at work. When Arthur couldn't find his mother at home after school, he went straight to the McCrae's."

"A young boy comes home to see his mother isn't there, and he beelines straight for his soon-to-be step-father's place?" Rossi summarized incredulously. "That doesn't sound quite right."

"How long after her engagement is she found dead?" Reid asks, the niggling feeling in the back of his head still building, still itching.

"Two weeks," Garcia answers after a moment – and then everything clicks.

"I think we're looking at this wrong," Reid declares, waiting until all eyes are on him before he continues. "We know that the Unsub, when he loses one object of his affection, moves right on to the next one – Elizabeth to Ada to Jane. He is adamant and obsessive when he still believes he has access and control to the object of his obsession, but when they elude him too far they become disposable."

Deep breath.

"What if Elizabeth Ryden wasn't his first victim? If she wasn't the origin of his obsession?"

"You're saying that Lotus Ryden – Jane's grandmother – was," Rossi catches up. "That the Unsub isn't tracking and stalking the Colemyers. That it was never about the Colemyer family. It was about the Ryden family – a family that Elizabeth Colemyer became a part of after getting involved with Arthur."

"Lotus because of Lotus Ryden, not the tattoo or the middle name," Blake exhales deeply, eyes gleaming with resigned satisfaction. "That's why it wasn't making sense. It wasn't a fantasy about Jane, it was a fantasy about her grandmother."

"Are we saying that Lotus Ryden killed herself to get away from the Unsub?" Morgan asked. "Or are we saying that the Unsub killed Lotus Ryden?"

"There's no way that we can tell for sure – not with what we know now," Reid shook his head. "But what we do know is that Elizabeth Colemyer had a long history of mental health issues. She had a history of self-harm – it's part of why they split. And based on the approximation on the ME report, the cutting would've gone back to before her college years."

"The Unsub and Arthur go to college – Arthur hits it off with this pretty girl: Arthur has something the Unsub does not," JJ paints the scene. "The Unsub notices that she's a cutter, and links her with Lotus Ryden – who also 'belonged' to Arthur – and the way that she killed herself. He becomes obsessed."

"The scarring could've become part of his pathology," Reid grimaces. "Probably did, in fact, based on Jane's … skin. Scarification would make her seem more like both her mother and grandmother – more accurate."

His mouth twisted around the word, feeling disgusting on his tongue and between his teeth.

"Jane said that the man who killed her family was her father's age," Rossi pushes them forward, crossing his arms. "That means that at the time of Lotus Ryden's death, he would've been an adolescent, just like Arthur. Adolescent offender, adolescent obsession. His infatuation with Elizabeth would've been that of a man, not of a boy, and with more time and close contact to fully develop it the core fantasy shifted from Lotus to Elizabeth."

"Until that day, when Elizabeth and Adaline were both dead," Morgan mirrored Rossi's stance, continuing his line of thinking. "Then he was faced with a Ryden girl as his only option – and he reverted back to his original desire."

"Ummm, guys?" Garcia spoke up, sounding very unsure of herself. "You said the Unsub attended college with Ryden, and is a known associate of Liber and Colemyer?"

"Yes …?" They all turned to face the Tech Analyst.

"And Jane said Arthur's age with a widow's peak, receding hairline, dark eyes and dark hair, and a square jaw?" " Garcia continued cautiously.

"Garcia, who do you have?" Reid cut in, burgeoning hope building behind his sternum.

"Well, I was looking into Elton McCrae Sr. – because he would probably know if someone was stalking his fiance, being Sheriff and all … and he's dead, but his son – " Garcia turned her screen to face them, an image pulled up for them to view. "Well –"

On the screen, a greasy, smug looking man with slicked back black hair looked down his nose at them.

"Elton McCrae Junior ... He's rich," Garcia continued in the echoing silence. "Stupid rich. He's a software engineer, early Silicon Valley money. Makes and sells companies like he's making muffins for a school bake sale. He's got money, and he's got means. And he attended Brown for three years before he dropped out as a junior, right before his bad attitude would've gotten him kicked out for repeated demerits and arrests."

After over a week of nothing, Reid felt a little bowled over.

"Garcia, freeze all of his accounts – locate his properties and send SWAT to each one," Rossi ordered, galvanized as he glared at McCrae's disgusting face. "Find this man, Garcia. Find him, and find where he's got Hotch."


A marshmallow hit him in the face.

"Aaron."

Hotch ignored it.

"Aaron. Aaron. Aaron!"

He cracked an eye open, glancing over at the irritating teenager that won't let him sleep.

"You're not asleep, you're blacked out," Mari complained, chucking another marshmallow at him – it bounced off his forehead. "And it's not healthy."

"Neither is satisfying the Unsub's sadism and need to elicit a response to the pain he inflicts," He shot back flatly, settling back down on the sandy beach, closing his eyes against the beating sun. "I'm here, and I'm staying here."

"But you've been here, like, a really long time," Mari needled him, chomping down on a 'mallow – garbling her voice slightly. "What if your team found you? Or what if there's a perfect opportunity for you to escape? Or what if there's food or water – you need food and water, Aaron. These marshmallows aren't real."

"And what if the Unsub's got me hooked up to an IV drip and is waiting for me to open my eyes before he carves them out of my face?" He snaps back. "I don't have a lot of good options here, Mari."

" … if you stay here much longer, you won't be able to go back," She tells him quietly, worry saturating her voice. The bag crinkles as her hands clench around it. "If you haven't been here too long already."

"... There's nothing I can do, Mari," Hotch sits up to face her, taking her hand. "I'm sorry, Mar – I am. But this is a no win scenario."

"You're giving up," She accused him, pulling her hand away with a frown. "You're not even gonna fight."

"This man has evaded capture for over fifteen years – longer, if I'm right about the connection to your father," Hotch sighed deeply. "He's been planning my abduction at least as long as the Replicator has been plotting his revenge on Strauss and Blake. I'm not going to be able to escape."

"Well fuck you, too," She spat, flicking sand at him and chucking the marshmallow bag to the side. "Nothing will come of nothing, isn't that what you're always telling Jane? That you have to do something – anything – because doing nothing is giving up. Is lying down and letting the world stomp over you? Letting them win."

"I'm not giving up," He protested. "My hands are tied."

"Sure, keep telling yourself that," Mari rolled her eyes. "You're a profiler, Aaron. Your hands could be literally tied – you still have your voice. You've been profiling this guy since you met Jane – you know he craves attention and validation. And you know that if you can get the upper hand, force him to make a mistake, then the BAU will be on his ass before he can say 'whoops'."

"And if he kills me?" Hotch raised a brow. "If I push him too far, and he kills me?"

"Then don't push him too far," Mari grimaced. "And if you die … then he'll have to dispose of you. And for Jane … he'll make it public – the team will be able to track that."

"I can't leave Jack –"

"If you don't stop him, the unsub will kill everyone in his way to Jane – everyone she cares about," Mari cut him off, lips twisting. "Anyone to remind him of you would be first to go – before he has his way with her. If you don't stop him, your son and your partner are dead."

Hotch sat up slowly, brushed off his hands. "You really know which buttons to press, don't you?" He sighs, pushing himself to his feet.

"Well, in case you've forgotten – I'm you," Mari snorts, reaching up for a hand. Hotch yanks her to her feet. "Of course I know how to get you going."

" … I might die."

"Yeah, you might," Mari smiles minutely – except now she's Jane, three scars down her cheek and a weariness in her shoulders. They're still holding hands – Jane's hands, with her calluses and blunt nails and the aged scar running through her palm. "And I may be just a figment of your subconscious, but you know I love you, right? You know that I love you more than I can ever say."

"This sure sounds narcissistic," He tries to joke, but it falls flat.

"Hey. I'm serious," She catches his eye. "You're a profiler, Rin, and there's no one on this Earth you've profiled more than me. You know me better than anyone – you know me better than you know yourself, better than I know myself. You know me."

"And?"

"You have a question, Aaron," She laughs – a clear bell that washes away the shadows. "And you know me better than anyone – you know what my answer will be."

"... Will you stay?" He asks – and immediately feels childish for it. "When I face him. When I go out there. Will you stay with me?"

Her smile is small, and she steps forward, winding her fingers around his lapels – pressing their bodies together, fitting them together like two halves of a whole.

"I will always be with you," She promises him. "Don't start doubting me now, Hotchner."

The kiss she gives him is as much a goodbye as it is a promise. It's a shade of a thing, a conjured memory, and an echo of a thousand times before. A thousand times that the woman he loved let her guard down, and just held him close.

It's over all too soon, and yet never happened at all.

He opens his eyes, and she's gone.

He steels himself, straightens his jacket. Squeezing his eyes shut tight, he jolts himself awake.


When Jane wakes alone, she knows that the team is onto something – or else Morgan, at the very least, would be hovering.

But he's not so they are – and she has the perfect opportunity to ask (scare) Anderson into bringing Jack in.

She has a lot of apologizing to do.

And when Jessica comes in, leading a morose Jack by the hand –

"Mom!"

She rushes to him, ignoring the way her body screams in protest and instead zeroing in on her wonderful son – scooping him up and cradling him close. She runs her fingers through his spun gold hair and hikes him higher when she feels his tears at her neck.

"I'm so sorry, Little Bear," She apologizes, murmuring into his hair because she remembers – in a half forgotten way – him calling her name, when she was too numb to give him the love he needed.

She apologizes, because his dad was gone and it was all her fault and she wasn't there.

"I'm so sorry, kiddo …"

"But you're gonna get him back?" Jack pleads, hopeful and sweet and oh so sincere in his belief – that just because his dad is gone, doesn't mean that his mom can't get him back.

It breaks her heart.

"I will do everything I can," Jane puts him down, cupping his cheeks. "I swear to you, Jack. I will do everything I can to get your dad back."

He throws his arms around her waist, face digging into the hollow of her stomach. She holds him right back.

"Jane, I don't know if this is important …" Jessica stepped forward, clearly reluctant to interrupt but finding it important. "But …"

She glanced down at Jack, still attached like a limpet to Jane's front, before lowering her voice and digging through her bag.

"I took Jack's phone so he wouldn't … well, so he wouldn't keep calling you," Jessica grimaced, offering said device to her. "I – Jack hasn't heard it."

There was a message.

She selected it, carefully pressed the play button – holding the mobile to her cheek.

" – leave a message at the tone."

Nothing for a short moment.

"I'm going to find your big sibling," A distorted man's voice sounded. "And then Lotus and I will be a real family. Without you."

And the message cuts out.


With Jack and Jessica back in protective custody, and the phone being shipped over to Garcia for analysis, Jane utilizes her moment of … being free of supervision to do something very, very stupid.

She wanders the halls for a couple minutes, bounding up and down stairs, poking her head in and out of offices and conference rooms. Eventually, she finds an unattended laptop – unlocked and logged onto wifi.

Perfect.

With quick, deliberate key strokes she pulls up Vine's old website – images of sketches and tattoos and swaths of skin in an artful array in front of her. She scrolls down …

With only a moment's hesitation, she triple clicks on a sketch of a lotus – a flower identical to the one on her back.

A text bar pops up, and she enters in her full name – the name she was born with. Then she closes the tabs, clears the history, and wipes off her fingerprints. Returns to the bullpen before anyone notices she's missing.

She promised Jack she would do everything she could to get Hotch back.

This was her doing 'everything'.


Hotch knew that waking would hurt.

The eternity he spent sheltered in his head, hunkering down, wasn't wasted. As it turns out, young Mari Ryden – hallucination or not – was a very effective sounding board. So Hotch had worked through the profile, refined it. Figured out that the Unsub was an impotent, vindictive paranoid narcissist who demonstrates sadistic and possessive behavior. That the Unsub viewed Jane – and years before, Elizabeth Colemyer– as not a person but an object, a possession. An achievement.

And, likely to him, Lotus Ryden was the same.

It was likely, also, that the Unsub viewed him as a version of Arthur Ryden. The Ryden patriarch was a direct obstacle for the Unsub, but the Unsub was unable to take out his revenge on Ryden before his death the way he wished to – long, and with a slow, excruciating application of pain.

Hotch knew that while the worst would be saved for when he was awake, the Unsub would be unable to resist cutting into Hotch while he was … unaware.

The vague, swirling-brain feeling associated with severe blood loss rang around his head, pinging off the inside of his skull even as he laid still. Dehydration only augmented it. The sting of cuts, precise scalpel slices along his back, was an unwelcome, unsurprising pain. He was shirtless, sprawled out on a cot on his stomach – and the blood on his back, trailing down his ribs, had long gone tacky.

His back felt hot, feverish. Probably the beginning of an infection building.

Fuck.

He peeled open his eyes slowly, carefully, and immediately wished he hadn't. The room was relatively dark, yes, but a single piercing sunbeam hit him square in the face and burned his retinas painfully after so long without exposure. With a groan, he tested his range of movement – his back hurt like a motherfucker, and he was bruised all over, but he wasn't bound or gagged.

A condition that posed its own concerns.

The Unsub had at least left him with his trousers, though he was stripped of his shoes and socks. With careful movements, he swung his feet around to the dirty floor – covered in a thick filament of dust. Hotch looked around the room, taking it all in.

It was a very nice prison, at least, for all that that meant for him. Everything was exceedingly plain. Plain concrete floor, plain furniture – a bed, a chair, and a side table – and a plain prison-style bathroom, with a tub and toilet and tap all in full view. The bed was large – a queen – and the sheets looked clean, though outdated and musty – and thanks to his back, bloody. Although, the presence of a bed over a cot was … grimm.

The unsub's impotence was meager comfort.

The only exit was a barred door, made of firm and rustless steel – unyielding and shining with polish. A new addition.

But there were aspects, other than the door, that weren't plain. Details that made the profiler in Hotch stand up to attention – looking deeper, looking closer. Because as precise and artificial this place was, there was a hint of … personalization. As if some one had resided here before him. Had been kept here before him.

A plastic spoon, twisted and folded to look like a rabbit, rested on the edge of the sink. Scratch marks on the sealing of the window – hairline, spiderweb impact fractures along the window pane. Rubber streaks where the feet of the chair were dragged across the concrete.

And … as he braced his hands against the edge of the bed to push himself up to standing –

The hand he had on the headboard, worn plain wood, felt something. Something that made him pause. An irregularity.

He looked over, running his fingers over the careful carving – done with a fingernail, over and over again over a very long period of time. Two letters.

IV.