Some dialogue in this chapter is taken from Criminal Minds episode 08x20 Alchemy.

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SUNDAY, APRIL 28, 2013 | SUSSEX COUNTY SHERIFF'S OFFICE
The momentum for this case was not unsimilar to molasses. The heat and fervor of new information fed their profile, moved them to immediate, rushing action. But when that heat waned, when nothing fresh came their way, they felt like they were doing nothing better than sitting, wading, waiting.

Sheriff Reiner's impatience was mounting. Aaron saw it in the way his hand tightened on his belt, the way he huffed a breath and dipped his head in poorly hidden exasperation. No group of people were greater than their leader; this impatience dripped from the sheriff, soaked into the walls of this old building, into the blood of his deputies, cooling them. The rose-colored glasses were starting to come off; the esteem that the FBI held in their eyes was waning.

It was a false understanding that the FBI could come in, overrun a case, and solve it just a few days. Sometimes the reporters didn't receive excitable news or positive updates. It was rare for such a thing to be the case with crimes like these. It was unfortunate, but the way these crimes were put to rest was if another was committed. Now that they knew what they were looking for.

Aaron's unit was keeping to their tasks—guarding the tip lines, divvying up suspects into various lists, combing through records and histories, perfecting media stratagems along with Sheriff Reiner and the PI officer, theorizing.

So much digging, so much effort to leave no stone unturned. It was arduous work.

It was almost two o'clock, though, when Penelope called Aaron's phone and there was no viscous molasses to wade through, but a rushing waterfall.

As soon as Aaron picked up, Penelope started without any flourish. "Sir, there's been an abduction!"

Aaron hailed the team and Sheriff Reiner. "You're on speaker, Garcia, go ahead," he said once everyone was gathered.

"I've been keeping tabs on any missing people that match our victimology, and we got a hit a few towns over, in Roxbury Township?"

"That's right out of our county, just out of our jurisdiction in Morris County," Sheriff Reiner said.

"Well, not ours, Sheriff. This was just opened up minutes ago, sir, minutes! Marion Knowles, 27, and he's blonde. He's been missing presumably since last night."

Aaron bridled. "Last ni—why was the report only just filed?"

"Okay, so, story time according to his roommate? When she returned from her night shift this morning and didn't see Marion's car, she figured that maybe he went to the gym and straight to work, as he does that sometimes. Took a nap, then texted Marion before noon to see if he could get something at the store near his workplace, he never texted back, she finds this abnormal, yada yada yada. She decides to call him during his lunch break, he doesn't pick up, she uses a Find Me app, sees that his phone is located in the Worthington State Forest. She called it in after contacting his job and finding out that he never came in that morning. They issued an APB for his car and just found it minutes ago in Roxbury, abandoned on a side road, engine cool. It looks like he was changing a tire."

This was it. A new abduction and they might be hours behind on this.

"What was his last known activity?"

There was some clacking as Penelope searched his activity. "Ho dear. Um, last it looks as though he signed into his local gym last night at 7:45ish, sir."

"Alright, Sheriff Reiner, we're going to look into this, see if it's connected. Garcia, contact that police department that opened the report and inform them that we need to get our feet in there—"

"Already done, sir. They're expecting someone to get to the scene of his abduction and a ranger at the Worthington State Forest is expecting someone as well. When he was given coordinates, he sent a team out there to check."

"Worthington State Forest is in Warren County." Spencer's unrushed, softened voice pushed past his turned back. He was standing in front of his map, eyes skittering over it. "The unsub is going to great lengths to evade a forensic footprint, spreading out the crime between so many different jurisdictions."

"Mm," Derek hummed. "This makes our jobs that much more difficult. Our suspect pool just became that much larger, even among rangers, volunteers, and groundskeepers spanning this far."

Aaron huffed in exasperation and began delegating. "Dave, you and I will go to the abduction site. Morgan, you and Blake head to the gym, interview staff and see about any surveillance inside and outside the establishment and try to determine exactly when he left. Reid—that geographic profile has more data for you to work with. JJ, get into contact with the head ranger at Worthington and head over there."

"Am I to begin the steps to organize a search party?" Jennifer asked.

Aaron didn't even have to think about it. "Absolutely. Even though there's little evidence to prove that anything might come from a search party at this moment, as the unsub's tendency is to hold his victim in captivity for an extended period of time, doing this might entice the unsub and draw him out if he's reckless enough. He was already unwise enough to abduct someone while the case is so hot, while people are more wary, while there's a federal presence. This must have been guided by a compulsion and not by a calmly thought-out predilection.

"Let's move forward with that immediately. Contact Search and Rescue in Mahwah and get them to help organize the search and have a few of them be in plain clothes. We're point on this, though."

Jennifer nodded.

"The goal is to have locals show up to the search party. Sheriff Reiner, have your PI Officer contact news media and various outlets immediately to ask for local volunteers. I want people inundated with this. Reid, when you're done with the geographic profile, meet up with JJ so you can help with organizing the search party."

"Garcia, I'm going to work you: call local PD in the jurisdictions where our four suspects we narrowed down from yesterday live and have them taken in for questioning. We need to establish their alibi. Dave and I will follow up after we look at the abduction site. And I want a statewide Silver Alert issued for Marion immediately, Garcia. Work on getting that using every media outlet possible as well as variable-message signs on roadways to alert motorists and give out our tip line. Lastly, look at Marion's activity in the past couple of days, look through his social media if he has any, and emails and texts. Again, we need to establish his patterns."

"Yes, sir."

"Garcia," Spencer began, "could you give me the exact location of where Marion lives, where his workplace is, his local gym, and the coordinates of where his phone and where his car were found? The unsub's comfort zone may have almost doubled in square mileage, depending on where in Worthington his phone was found."

"Yeesh. Okay, yes." Penelope provided that information, and he began pinning them all to the map.

Spencer pulled back, alarmed. "Hotch. The phone is awfully close to the Delaware River. Less than 500 feet from the New Jersey border."

"Oh." Alex blinked, perking up and pulling away from the table she'd been leaning against. "Might he have dumped Marion's body in the river and dropped the phone by mistake?"

Aaron let out a sigh. "We'd never find his body, then."

"If he was dumped last night and he wasn't weighed down, that'd be quite a few miles to cover," David suggested, chagrined.

"Damn it," Derek hissed.

"Alright. We're going to need to have a team start searching downriver and work their way up. We have to consider this possibility, even if it's not our unsub's MO. Exposing his burial site opened up this possibility." He then turned to Spencer. "Reid, where do you think his body might be, if, for example, he was killed and dumped not long after he was abducted? Let's say he's abducted around 9:30 after leaving the gym."

"Mm." Spencer looked up in thought. "The Delaware River current runs approximately two miles per hour, so if he were abducted around then, immediately killed, and taken to this area where his phone was found"—he then murmured to himself—"I-80, local road, then footspeed . . ." He looked at Aaron and pursed his lips. "I'd say about 32 miles downstream."

"What's the furthest he might go without factoring those things in? Where would that put us?"

"I wouldn't put it past 37 miles. That'd put his body at around—" Spencer's index finger skimmed atop the map. "Hm. A little before Frenchtown."

"Jeez," Sheriff Reiner mumbled, running his hand into his hair.

"Unfortunately, it's a possibility that we have to consider," Aaron reasoned. "Garcia, you still there?"

"Awaiting additional instructions, sir."

"Contact local PD at Frenchtown immediately. Get things into motion for them to get a search party at the Delaware River and start searching upstream. We're going to concentrate up here in case this was just meant to throw us off. Everybody clear on what we're doing?" Aaron asked.

"We're good."

"Let's head off, then."


WORTHINGTON STATE FOREST
Marion Knowles—a slight man with a youthful face and blond hair that he kept in a pony-tail—had his name and his face blasted on digital billboards, on phones in automated alerts, in breaking news reports, and across social media.

As Spencer noted, Marion's phone had been found just beyond a local road, not far from the river's edge.

Many local volunteers came to assist with searching through Worthington State Forest. By half after four, a large group of volunteers was generated. Spencer had arrived just moments ago and met up with Jennifer and other local officers. A select few officers and searchmen from the NJSAR were in plain clothes to fit in with the crowd of people.

"Please come this way to sign into the volunteer sign-in sheet first." Jennifer's loud voice came through the swelling din.

Spencer, too, spoke above the crowd. "Please have your IDs out and ready for the volunteer sign-in. As soon as you've signed in, move towards the staging area, and officers will instruct you on search procedure. Every search group should have one whistle."

"We'll be assigning you grid locations. If you find anything, anything of significance, do not disturb the scene until a member of law enforcement arrives. Take a picture of the area. If any of you knows about alcoves, gorges, gullies, ravines, or the like, please see that officer over there." Jennifer pointed to an assisting officer.

Spencer glanced at the faces of each individual person against their pictures in the driver's licenses or their identification cards to make sure that they matched up. Later, Penelope would be digging into most of these people's lives.


ROXBURY TOWNSHIP
Aaron and David pulled up to the scene of where Marion's car was abandoned. They introduced themselves to the two officers who were on the scene, as well as the CSU, headed by Sasha Everton; they were wrapping up evidence-gathering.

"Tell us what you know," Aaron said as soon as he put his sunglasses away and he and David stood by the abandoned car. He reached his hand to take the pair of gloves offered to him.

"Well, I can tell you I don't know much," said the chief officer. "We got a couple of footprints—the vic's and the perp's." He pointed to the footprints. The partial set of one was visible and obvious. The other, however, was large and indistinct. They took it that the latter belonged to the unsub.

"Any tire prints?"

"No."

"Was the car locked or unlocked when you found it?"

"It was locked," Sasha answered from her truck. "Didn't find the keys. We had to jimmy it open."

"Hm." Aaron reached into the car and turned on the hazard lights. "Hazards are still working, so the car battery hasn't drained. Considering that it was nightfall by the time Noah was changing his tire, his hazard lights had likely been turned on."

"Hm. A blinking hazard light would have eventually alerted someone, and even if it hadn't, it would have eventually drained the battery," David observed. "The unsub turned it off."

"Pretty sure of that, yeah." Aaron ticked his eyebrows.

David turned to the officer. "How did you find the car?"

"It's gonna sound kinda weird but did you see those traffic cones at the end of the street when you came in?"

"Mm-hmm?"

"They were on either end of the street, blocking all traffic. One of my officers found it strange. She called in to check for any construction going on, and it's not a residential street where people were sanctioned to have a block party or anything, so she decided to check it out. Found the car there."

David looked troubled. "Something as simple and innocuous as lines of traffic cones would deter motorists from entering the street. Pretty much confirms the theory about the unsub using a sign on the bathroom door at the rest stop for Noah's abduction."

"Mm. He's intelligent, prepared, and organized. The cones gave him ample time to get away with his crime. Made sure no one would come through here."

"Then again . . ." David tilted his head. "It better preserved the crime scene."

"It did, but CSI Everton said there wasn't much to find anyway. I don't doubt that had it been a residential street, the unsub would have done something like left a note or something on the inside of the car requesting not to have the car towed under the assumption that the car owner would return to retrieve the car."

"Hmm."

"Is he intelligent, though?" Aaron then rebutted against his own and David's theory, looking around at the car, something pricking in the back of his mind. "There's been news about the bodies found in the forest. If he were paying attention, if he were really trying to evade us, he would have laid low instead of going out his way to obtain a new victim."

"Mm." David gave a single nod. "I dunno, then. Maybe he's panicking. If Marion's body is in the Delaware River, he may have been answering to a compulsion to kill him and then dump him in a place that's at the very least connected to the forest. That emotional tie."

Aaron popped the trunk and peered in. "Maybe. Hm. But if he's panicking, then why do something as thought out as placing the cones on either end of the street? Also, if he's panicking . . . if he were panicking and fulfilling a need, where's Marion's tire?"

David, along with the chief officer, peered in. "Hmm?"

"The tire." Aaron pointed. "Marion was clearly changing a damaged tire. Where is it?"

"Huh," David murmured. Marion's car was still on the jack, a spare donut was resting on the side of the car, but his faulty tire was nowhere to be found.

"We found that curious, too!" Sasha said over her shoulder as she finished assisting her photographer with his equipment into her vehicle. She walked over to the two of them.

"There's still remnants of a plan here, but I can't see what it might be," Aaron admitted. "Why would he take it? What purpose would that serve?"

"He may have taken it because it has something evidentiary, I'd wager," Sasha said upon reaching them. "Could be his blood, or something else significant. You can see here that this is basically where the perpetrator dragged Marion's body just a little before he must have picked him up." Below her sweeping, extended hand they could see kicked up, bunched up mud. "Once you guys are done, we're taking the car in for evidencing to better gauge this."

"Isolate the road. Make sure it's inaccessible through a simple means with the cones . . ." Aaron craned his neck. "We have to find out if anyone passed through this road before it was cut off. Someone has to have seen something."

"Mm. And, again, we need to figure out if Marion was a victim of opportunity or if he had been stalked," David finished. "Maybe he's in no river at all."

"I got a chance to talk to the kid yesterday about everything goin' on," Derek said without taking his eyes off the road.

He and Alex were between getting additional information about Marion and going to the gym.

"Oh?"

"He didn't share anything specific, but—you know. I just let him know that we're here to listen and help. I thought he'd talk to JJ. They're close like that. Or they were." Saying the words stung him just a little. He had been there for Spencer years ago to help him during his sobriety. "I mean, I helped him a few years back. I'd . . . like to think that he can still trust me as a sounding board."

"A few years back . . ." Alex parroted. "You helped Spencer . . ." Understanding alighted her face. "You help him with his addiction."

Derek's jaws clenched, feeling like he'd disclosed something that he shouldn't.

"I wish he realized how loved he is." It was said as a weighty sigh.

"Mm."

"What has he told you?"

Derek remained silent. He didn't know Alex well enough to lay bare Spencer's turmoil. He knew that the two had some affinity for each other, yes, but it wasn't like the situation years ago when Spencer approached him about the nightmares he was suffering due to the traumas of their work. He broke Spencer's trust then and had brushed his friend's upset under a veneer of wanting to have a more seasoned agent guide him.

He had later come to regret the action but was glad that Spencer had neither held it against him, nor brought it up again, and had continued to use him as a confidant, as he had come to trust he could do in the previous years. It had afforded Derek the opportunity to approach him about it years later and apologize about it on his own terms, a thing for which Spencer thanked him. So, yes, he kept things between him and Spencer strictly as such—between the two of them.

He made that mistake once with someone he knew Spencer viewed as a father figure. He wouldn't make it again with Alex.

Alex slipped her eyes toward Derek. He was maintaining Spencer's privacy. Derek seemed good at privacy, and even better at exposition when the situation called for it. The Buford case—wherein Derek had to revisit horrors from a few years ago and from a lifetime ago—had made her see him in a different light. It was a commendable and noble thing for him to keep Spencer's life private. If that were the case, then, she might give him the baton, and if only for the sake of bettering Spencer's situation. She wasn't selfish.

"Derek, what he's divulged to me—"

"No offense, Blake, but when Reid wants to talk to me, he will. If he tells you something in private, I have no right to make it my business."

"It's not like you're prying, Morgan. The onus is on me. If he never does come to you—or anyone of us—and continues to suffer?" Her tone was urgent. "Derek, he adores you. You know that. Anyone can see it plain as day. He doesn't want to disappoint you, or anyone for that matter, but I feel like especially you. If you're the key ingredient in the salve that can help him, wouldn't you want to provide it? Some people—people like Spencer—are unable to reach forward when they need that help and they just suffer or are just under so much duress by the time they do that it's nearly too late. You may not be the sounding board he's using right now, but in my conversation with him on Friday night, he's not opposed to my going outside of the trust we've built to use other resources to help him."

"So. You boil me down to a resource, hmm?" It was said without offense, and Derek gave a little smirk.

"M'yeah, something I'd keep in my repertoire," Alex responded glibly with an equitable grin. "Honestly, though. I don't care what Spencer's approach is—if it's pushing me to the side and using you as his sounding board. But he isn't, so I'm left with no choice. I just want him to heal."

"You and me both." Derek's hand tightened on the steering wheel. He sighed. It was in Spencer's best interest. He would know this. And Derek would be selective with what he said.

He sighed. "Okay, then, Alex. Lay it on me. Let's see what we can do for the kid together."

"Hey, Garcia," Spencer began.

"My precious," Penelope responded, gleeful. "What can I do you for, boy wonder?"

"I was curious about the suspect in the bar. Anything on him yet?"

"Boo, nothing on that, you. I had Kevin look over it and he wasn't able to get anything out of the video, either. I'm making a last-ditch effort and have sent it to the digital techies to take a stab at it, but they're a little backed up so it might take a couple of days."

"Got it—thank you. It might be a dead lead anyway."

"Eh, well we never know until we know, y'know?"

He chuckled. "Yep." He paused. "Oh, oh, yeah."

"M'yes?" she drawled.

"I'm going to be sending you a huge list of names. Would you be able to dig more into these people's histories?"

"Of course, you! But, you know, I'm terribly backed up. Might get Kevin to assist."

"Sounds good. Whatever works."

"Hey, Reid?"

"Yes?"

"Spencer?"

"Mm?"

"My dearest dove." She paused. "My sweetest treasure."

Spencer puffed out a laugh. "Yes, Penelope?"

"How are you feeling, my love?" The question was asked gently, a toe dipping into frigid water.

"I'm—"

"Don't say Okay, because I'll know you're lying! I demand the truth from you. We don't lie to each other, the two of us."

Spencer smiled, as if the action could reach Penelope. "We don't, no."

"So, you're not good."

A sigh. "I'm trying to be."

"When you all come back home, you, Spencer, are getting the biggest and the longest hug session from me. I just might have to give you a cuddle session. I know you love my hugs. But you've never gotten my cuddles. I'll shower you with that oxytocin stuff."

Spencer chuckled, and that warmth that she exuded was felt on his end. "Mm. Thank you, Garcia. I do happen to love your hugs. Although—I dunno—um, I haven't had your oatmeal cookies in a while, either."

"Oh—you—wow. Going for the direct approach, there, huh? Are you itching for my special vegan oatmeal cookies?"

"I am, in fact."

"Ooh," she sang. "Cooking and baking for my loves is on the tippy-top of my list of greatest joys. Consider it done! I'll even make it without the raisins."

Spencer's stomach pinched and he felt his glands sting at the thought of putting one of those moist cookies in his mouth and savoring their rich, sweet flavor. He didn't think he could wait to hop back on the plane.

Anything from Penelope, really, just surrounded him with comfort.


SUSSEX COUNTY SHERIFF'S OFFICE
The day passed in a blur of activity. Spencer and Jennifer had wrapped things up with the search and rescue team. Jennifer told Spencer to head back to the station without her; there were a few more things that she needed to handle so that tomorrow things could run as well as it had today. The search had, of course, not yielded any results, and they hadn't expected that it would. Even so, there would be an additional search party conducted tomorrow starting from the morning, both at Worthington, and at Stokes. There was going to be a separate search party in Stokes State Forest as well, just in case.

Aaron was with the sheriff, and the two were out front, releasing additional information regarding Marion Knowles' abduction to the media outlets for the news this evening. He implored anyone that may have interacted with him, anyone that was in that area yesterday evening where he was abducted, to come forward with whatever information they might have to share. He also entreated locals to assist in the search and rescue, which was continuing tomorrow, and would expand to parts of Stokes State Forest.

Jennifer and Derek would each be overseeing the search and rescue efforts tomorrow, which would operate from the hours of nine to twelve, and then again from one to five, in both forests.

Spencer—who was standing in front of his map but staring through it, tapping a capped coffee cup in repeated intervals against his chin—was accompanied by David, the only other person in the conference room.

It had been silent between the two of them, which David didn't mind. He watched as his colleague stared at the map with eyes that were lidded and unfocused, tapping tapping tapping that cup. He didn't look troubled or lost. Just distracted. This was his moment. So, he cut through the silence.

"You haven't been sleeping much, have you?"

Spencer, without taking his eyes off the board, murmured, "I can't. There's too much work to do."

"I'm not talking just about this case, kiddo. Come on, take a seat. Just take a breath, will you?"

Spencer turned from the board to David, who was seated at the table. He pulled a chair and sat in it without a sound.

David gave him an incisive sweep. The purples of his eyes, which had dulled in the years he'd come to know Spencer, had gotten more pronounced over the past few months; his hair was untamed, and he was sporting the shadow of a young beard; the clothes he wore, while modish, were unpressed, the tie crooked, a button hanging by a mere thread. He wasn't taking care of himself.

"Did I ever tell you about my Uncle Sal?"

Spencer perked, tilting his head. "No."

"Good old Uncle Sal; he liked to fix up old cars."

Spencer's brows raised in curiosity, and with the next words from David, his stomach sank.

"When my Aunt Rosie died, he bought a 1947 Buick." David then tilted his head and made a dubious expression and continued. "Well, it was a piece of junk, really, but he was obsessed with it." His fingers, which were curled around a mug, tapped and clinked. "He'd work on it day and night, forgetting to eat, until"—He spread his hands as if putting something on display—"it was a thing of beauty."

Spencer gave a soft smile, for David's expression was of what he could surmise was fondness.

"Then, one day, it got stolen. When the cops found it, it had been completely vandalized. Uncle Sal was devastated. Never recovered. He died about a year later."

Wriggling in his seat and swallowing with a keen understanding of why David felt a need to share this parabolic experience, Spencer said the only thing he felt was the correct thing to say. "I'm . . . sorry about your uncle."

David's mouth straightened and gave Spencer a grave stare. "I'm sorry about Maeve."

Spencer couldn't respond, but looked away instead, gaze falling downward.

"So how long has it been now—four months?"

Spencer corrected him, voice croaking out. "Three months and eleven days—almost to the hour."

Jeez, this kid. "That's why you're not sleeping. This can't go on with you counting every hour."

Try minutes and seconds. Spencer swallowed with difficulty as his eyes fluttered. "I . . . I realize that the socially acceptable amount of time to grieve is coming to an end, and—"

David sighed. He's not getting it. "No, no, kid. That's not what I mean. You grieve as long as you need, but you need to talk to someone, not keep things within. Catharsis is a real thing. And you need to grieve healthily."

Jennifer's implorations, Alex's open invitation, and Derek's warm insistence—these came back to Spencer in that moment. Everyone kept telling him that he needed to talk to them. He felt that he was finally at the cusp of this. Alex had asked for his permission to speak with everyone on how best to help him. He was getting the sense of the care they had for him, and he appreciated that gesture. He hadn't been able to bring himself to say Yes, but he wasn't going to tell her No, either. He just wanted to be over this pain.

The last time he bore his emotions to them was just hours before Maeve was murdered, begging for them to help him, and then sitting at the sidelines as they discussed the merging of his life and Maeve's. It was surreal, and he felt uncomfortable, exposed, and agitated, which had led to his outburst, wherein he began pacing and rubbing his thigh. He was sure that if he'd been wearing his old corduroy pants, he would have fallen into old habits.

At that time, Aaron had suggested that he speak with one of them in privacy, which had given him a sense of safety. He knew that Alex would only reveal pertinent information from the conversation with the team later, but he was fine with that, as it was the point. That knowledge gave him that modicum of emotional distance and therefore a clarity in what he expressed to her.

What was worse, he dreaded that all the manifestations of his grief were going to lead to a discussion about his productivity. He just knew that he was on the cusp of it and feared any moment he would spend alone with Aaron.

How much longer would it be until Aaron proverbially shook him and told him to move on? When Haley had died, Aaron doubled down on his productivity. He, on the other hand, was in an endless, tumbling cycle. He had almost contaminated a crime scene. He still hadn't approached Aaron about it, and it was only a matter of time before he would have to. He preferred to be ahead of such an occurrence.

"I feel like . . . there are two types of people in this world, Rossi." He felt unable to look David in the eye as he fumbled at his words. "The ones that get over their grief and move on."

He swallowed, knowing that he was not that type of person. He didn't know how people could carry on. He didn't know how Aaron—who had known Haley since they were in high school—did it. He merely knew Maeve for a total sum of 100.5 days, and the agony was crippling.

"And the ones—the ones that descend into some sort of . . . endless misery."

David shook his head. He thought back on those he had lost, both recent and in the past: thought back on the little one he had known for mere hours before he died. He couldn't wait to meet his child when his wife had been pregnant those nine months, let the little one know how loved it would be. When he was born, he had mere minutes with him.

It was this that Spencer had experienced—an ephemerality with Maeve.

David knew that same pain. He knew about that transient loss that manifested into something deeper. Over the months and years, though, the sting of memories didn't quite hurt him as much. "I know how you feel. Give it time."

Spencer let out an irritated puff, frustrated with the makeup of his brain. The desperation to have this hollowed out of him was blinding. "How much time? I thought by coming to work every day and helping other people, the pain would lessen, but it hasn't."

David shook his head. "No, kid. No. Compartmentalization works only so long. You see how it's been affecting you when some cases hit too close to home. Don't be like Uncle Sal."

Spencer's eyes glazed. He had to blink a few times to clear something not unlike a shadow that stood at his periphery. His shoulders sagged.

Whatever had just weighed Spencer down, David felt it, too. He shook his head, ready to speak again, but Spencer spoke first.

"You know that I remember every single word we ever spoke to each other? Every letter we exchanged with each other?"

David sighed profoundly. Unlike himself, where the memories decayed over time, where he forgot the exact timbre of his son's soft cry, or his first wife's declarations of love and adoration when they were younger and in the throes of poetic love, Spencer wasn't afforded that pleasure.

"Finally." David sat back in his seat, splaying his hands out. "The downside to an eidetic memory."

A ghost of a smile flitted across Spencer's lips.

"Listen . . . Spencer . . . if you wanna feel better, you can't control the process. You have to let yourself grieve. If there are things your mind is telling you to do that might help, listen to it, and don't fight it. Safely, though."

Spencer swallowed and nodded, tucking his hair behind his left ear. He cleared his throat and blinked a few times, averting his gaze. His voice trembled, and his throat was tightening in the manner he knew meant it wouldn't be long until his voice would flit away.

"I'm not sleeping because when—when I do, I dream of Maeve." He'd started telling Alex about this the other night. Now, he was giving David a fuller picture, a grander understanding of how this plagued him—just a touch. "In one of the dreams, when I see her, I feel the sweetest relief imaginable. She always asks me to dance, but I can't because I don't know how to dance, and because . . . I never even got to touch her when she was alive. And sometimes I can't see anything in my dreams beyond the image of her being killed again and again."

David was speechless and disturbed.

"There's another one, too. The day that I knew she was in trouble was a day we normally don't call each other. I called her because that morning, I had dreamt of her. You were there, too, you know; in my dream."

David furled his brows in curiosity but didn't interrupt.

"I"—Spencer laughed—"I was, um"—his face flushed—"I, um, was—Garcia, she was officiating—that is—I was marrying Maeve. You and JJ, Will, and Henry, and Hotch and Jack, and Morgan and Emily and Blake and my mother; you all were sitting there and watching me. And the ring—" He paused, blinked. His left hand clasped on something empty. Clearing his throat, he continued: "The ring, the one I was supposed to give to Maeve, was warm in my pocket, and warm in my hand as I held it. And I was confused, because no one was standing there, but when Garcia told me to put it on her finger, Maeve was near me, but her face was covered in a thick veil.

"And when I took her hand to put the ring on her finger, it was so warm. When Garcia told me to kiss her and I lifted the veil, there was only a blank, featureless face staring back at me. It's then that I woke up, and at that moment I realized that I wanted to try again to meet Maeve after our failed attempt a few weeks before, because I was ready to spend the rest of my life with her. I don't put that much stock in dream analysis, Rossi, but it was clear to me that something internally was telling me that Maeve and I—that we belonged together. I was ready to commit to that inkling."

David was silent, staring at Spencer with a weight that pulled his aged, sagging flesh lower.

"So, I went to a phone booth and I called her, and that's how I found that she was in danger." Spencer cleared his throat again and paused. He swallowed, and then his voice came out paper thin. "Now, whenever I have that dream, the ring is burning me: from my pocket, in my palm, in my fingertips. When I hold her hand, her fingers are cold." He swallowed. "And if I lift her veil, I can see her face, and her whole body is just . . . pale.

"It doesn't matter which dream I have of Maeve; I have to force myself to awaken, because now I feel the most horrific pains. I know if I give in to that fantasy of dancing with her in my dream, I'll be lost forever, so I force myself to wake up, or I just don't fall asleep at all." He looked up at David, eyebrows furled and drawn, beseeching, and his voice came out small. "Is that part of normal healing?"

David unstuck his dry tongue from the roof of his mouth but was unsure of what to say in the moment. A proper response to this might need to be crafted with some forethought.

"We got nothin' significant on Marion Knowles so far," Derek groused as he walked into the room. "Except that he—"

Both Spencer and David turned to him, and Derek sensed that he had intruded on something. "Should I come back in a sec?"

Spencer stood up and wiped his hands over his face like he was wont to do when he was distressed. His hand weaved through his hair and gripped at the roots, knuckles whitening, before he let go. "No, you're good. I'll be back," he mumbled, words tumbling out.

Derek watched Spencer walk out the room, eyes trailing him, watching him as his one hand rubbed at his leg while he walked, the other flitting to his belly and pressing against it. Beyond him, Alex had been walking toward the conference room and seemed to have said something to Spencer, to which he gave a mere nod before he disappeared behind the bathroom door. Derek's eyes slipped to David. "He talked to you."

"Yeah." David shook his head. "It's excruciating."

In the next moment, Alex was turning into the room. She beheld a curious expression. "Is Spencer okay? I just caught him on the way to the men's room and he—"

David shimmied his head left to right. "Mm. He and I talked a little."

Alex tilted her head. "Talked as in . . . Maeve?"

Derek sat at the table.

David nodded and sipped his cooling coffee, eyebrows quirking upward. "I was just telling Derek: it's not pretty at all."

"He spoke to you about the dreams."

"Oh yeah. And good lord."

Derek didn't have to ask. Alex had detailed him about how they were keeping Spencer up. "The kid keeps seein' her. I'm guessing he keeps seeing her bein' murdered or . . ."

Another nod. "That, yes, but an array of other things besides."

Derek shook his head lamentably. "They're keepin' him from sleeping, aren't they?"

"Mm-hmm. I thought," David began, "that eventually he would be better, but from what he just told me . . ."

"Honestly," Alex started, "one can't just cover over this kind of trauma. He tried in the beginning, but with someone with an eidetic memory, you can't just erase emotional memory."

"That's basically what he was conveying in what he told me."

"He's not adapting to his grief as most people would do," Derek said. "People tend to integrate into their lives naturally, but others . . . some people get overwhelmed by it. It's what's happening here."

"I hate to say this, but he may need more help than we're able to provide for him," David suggested.

Alex pursed her lips again and gave her head a solid shake while closing her eyes for just a moment. "Aaron thought the same thing and I still have the same stance. Spencer just may refuse it. In my opinion, he's not quite yet at the stage that this might be quantified as complicated grief. He's getting there, though. Before that happens, I think there's something that we try. It came to me after we spoke earlier, Derek. We've forgotten the simple things that we can do, and I feel terrible for having overlooked such a simple thing. Spencer has no proper sense of closure."

"Closure?" Derek parroted. "In what manner?"

"Maybe that's not the best word to use. Spencer saw Maeve for only a few minutes before she was murdered, yeah? Think about this: the only thing he can connect her visage with is that one traumatic event."

"Mm. That's not untrue," David agreed, "according to his dreams. Too little is left of her that's tangible. His memories of her are tethered to a voice in a phone, letters on paper, a book, and her violent death. He—" David was pierced with a fuller understanding of Spencer's previous words, and it hurt him. "He never got to even touch her."

At the very least, he'd held his son in the moments before he died. He knew his small, bundled shape. Spencer didn't get that at all.

"Right. That book that he has—those letters that he has . . . yes, these are connected to Maeve, but what of these isn't touched by Diane, by the secrecy they had to keep due to Diane? The associations are too closely linked to her murder. Spencer needs to know more than the Maeve he spoke to on the phone and wrote letters to. He needs to know the Maeve that existed before she even had a stalker."

"You're saying pictures, videos," Derek listed. "That kinda stuff."

Alex nodded. "Mm-hmm. "

"Garcia said that she burned through anything online about herself, though, didn't she?" David asked.

"Yes," Alex answered, "but I'm sure there are some things that can be retrieved. She burned through her digital footprint. But that's a mere fraction, no doubt."

"Possibly," Derek said. "Don't you think that'd make things worse?"

"We wouldn't know until we tried. But oftentimes when in grief, it's the fond memories of a person that helps a grieving person to begin moving toward a healing phase."

"Mm-hmm. Just wondering how we get a hold on any of those things. I doubt her parents want anything to do with him, and they're the ones who stowed her away in that loft, so everything there goes back to them."

"That does pose a problem," David murmured, thinking over Derek's words.

Through the blinds of the window, Derek could see Spencer just making his way back toward the conference room, and Jennifer and Aaron were in tow. "He's heading back." He was quick to change the subject. "Did questioning the suspects that we had give you guys anything?"

"Honestly, a whole lot of nothing," David answered. Just then, Spencer walked back in.

"JJ just got back," Spencer announced as he entered the room.

It seemed to them that he was purposely avoiding any personal conversation. They were sure he knew that they were talking about him.

"Good," David said. "Then we can discuss everything and possibly grab a late dinner before heading in?"

In just another few minutes, everyone was gathered, Penelope was called, and they all discussed where the case of Marion Knowles stood so far:

Judging by his social media, he was another low-risk victim. However, he had a dispute with his workmate yesterday, according to Penelope's search of his recent messages. Apparently, he was supposed to have worked a half shift that day but had to cover the shift of his irresponsible hooky workmate and so ended up working a twelve-hour day. They argued back and forth via text for the duration of the day.

Not that they suspected his workmate in the first place, but her alibi had checked out; she had skipped out of work and gone to a 24-hour spa with her girlfriends in Koreatown miles and miles away instead. And there were no other conversations on her phone to indicate that she wanted anyone to act out against Marion.

His family lived in Florida, and they were flying up to help with the investigation and to help find him.

It was of note that not one of the main suspects had an insufficient alibi. They all checked out. It seemed they would need to continue weeding through the other suspects generated by Penelope's searches.

What confounded them all was the missing tire. There could have been a slew of reasons for being taken. Their best bet was that it had some damning type of forensic evidence that might implicate the unsub.

Come morning, Penelope was going to begin the difficult task of cross checking the names in the volunteer sign-in sheet against those that might have been from the generated suspect list, as well as checking for any other potential unsubs in there. Penelope hadn't even finished going through the surveillance feeds from the places Noah had gone, and she was employing Kevin and a couple of other analysts to help her. It was just so much for her to tackle on her own.

The gym didn't have surveillance outside of its facility, but Derek and Alex were able to have the staff patch in with Penelope so that she would also be able to look at the footage to see if anyone had been watching Marion that night. He left at 9:05, and from there had just disappeared into the night.

It wouldn't do for them to carry on, so they decided to head to a diner.

Dinner went well until Aaron had received a facetime call from his son. He stepped outside the diner and when he returned a few minutes later he was beaming with one of his rare, soft smiles.

Jessica had just finished helping Jack decorate a love letter project that he was going to give his classmates tomorrow in response to recent bullying taking place. It was an adorable conversation he had with his son, and then Jessica sent him the picture, which he showed everyone.

Spencer got up from the table moments later, and Alex excused herself when she saw from her vantage point that he went—not to the bathroom like he murmured he would be going to—but outside instead.

Alex found him leaning against the building and pressing his curling hand against his abdomen with one hand and rubbing his thigh with his other. His hand was formed into a loosely gripping talon, and if he weren't wearing pants, he might be scoring his legs. He sucked air through his teeth in rapid, agonized breaths. She approached him, perturbed, never having seen his reactions reach such acute intensity before.

"You okay, Spencer?" She neared him when he didn't answer and placed feather-light fingertips on his arm before receding her hand. "Spencer?"

His breath came out in little puffs.

"Spencer, I need you to listen to my voice. I want to help you. Would you be able to tell me what's distressing you?"

His head kicked back, eyes clenched, before he barked out a single, choked sound of misplaced laughter.

"God. Spencer! God."

But it seemed that the expulsion of air was what he needed. Unable to vocalize himself, he spoke with the flutter of his hands. "I need air."

"Okay," she continued aloud, but in a softened voice. "Is there anything I can do to help? What happened to put you in this state?"

Spencer didn't answer at first.

"Spencer, please."

His response was aborted. "The letter. Maeve wrote another letter. I never saw it. It was there at the warehouse."

He was referring to what was found in the building following Maeve and Diane's death. CSU had recovered a few things, among them a letter that it seemed Maeve never sent him. No one knew its contents.

The conversation about Jack's activity with Jessica had triggered the memory of Maeve's murder. He couldn't go on with this anxiety attack.

"Spencer, I need you to breathe with me. Take even breaths. Please count with me."

He nodded. Slowly, she led him through a breathing exercise until he could control his own. "Good. Good, Spencer." She braced her hand on his arm. "Are you okay now? Better at least?"

"Better," he responded, but he still hadn't vocalized the response.

Alex thought to shift the conversation to something different without completely changing the subject. "Look at me, Spencer," she commanded in a gentle whisper. He did so with little hesitation, training his eyes on her. Below, his hand continued to rub. "Instead of finger spelling her name, create one for her," she said, electing to also sign with him.

"For Maeve?"

"Yes. You tried your hand at giving me a name. A-b Linguist."

"That was a bad name. It was just an example that time. You said that only the Deaf Community and non-verbal people can truly give a person a name."

"Yes, that's right. But let's consider this a special circumstance. Just between me and you. Okay? I want you to think of one for her. Proper word association."

It didn't take any time at all. Spencer tilted his head upward a little and his jaw gave that familiar little drop, and then after a moment he flushed as he thought of all the wonderful things to associate Maeve with that could properly be used to create a name.

Lovely. Alex knew that some of the associations that were conjured in his mind's eye wouldn't be able to translate properly. The fact was that he was thinking about them in relation to Maeve, and it was poetry. The brainwork.

"I'll think it over." He was unable to keep from twitching his lips into a smile.

The change in his demeanor, from distressed to reflective and almost—could she call it euphoric?—in just seconds, was reassuring.

"Good." Alex winked at him meaningfully, heart glowing as she tapped his arm in a fond touch. She felt successful in diverting Spencer's attention from something negative. She knew that in coming up with a name for her, he would latch on to warm memories. It was just a temporary salve, but it might be a significant step in the right direction. Whatever name he ended up choosing for her, Alex would use this as a steppingstone to extract more information from him. She would want to know his reasoning.

With the kick of her head, she spoke aloud. "Go inside—if you feel you've gotten that air, that is. I'll hang back for a minute."

Breathing out and then swallowing something around his throat, Spencer spoke, voice fluttering. "Hmm." He nodded, clearing it. "Mm." He turned to the entrance, then rocked back and faced her, saying in a wispy voice, "Thank you, Alex."

"Any time, Spencer."

"Alchemy."

Spencer turned his head, his key card still in the card slot of his hotel room he'd been prepared to enter. "Hmm?"

David was standing before his own hotel door, his jacket slung over his shoulder.

"Alchemy."

"What about it?" Spencer asked, facing David.

David approached Spencer with his typical swagger. "It turns common metals into precious ones." He flicked his wrist upward and shimmied his hand for emphasis, the gold and diamond watch he wore glinting in the light.

Spencer tilted his head, bemused. "Yes?" His eyebrows furled as he drawled the word. "I know what alchemy is, Rossi," he said without offense.

"Your dreams, kid."

Oh. Spencer hadn't realized the earlier conversation was continuing. "Yes?"

David sighed in exasperation. "Dreams work the same way. Turning something awful into . . . something better."

Spencer wished that would come true in his case. He'd give anything for Maeve's deathly, pallor visage to change into something warm, or to think of her final declarations about Thomas Merton to be something he loved to hear from her. "I don't know. I'd like to believe that, but—"

"Up-bup-bup!" David halted Spencer from finishing with a steady hand that was held mere inches from his face. "Just think about it."

Spencer seemed like he was going to say something.

David halted him again. "No wait. Better yet . . . don't think."

"You know I can't do that ," Spencer said with a small smile cracking his lips. "My thought chatter doesn't have an off button."

"Just let it happen, kid. Think about something good between the two of you. Just one thing. Latch on to that wonderful memory. A conversation you two once had, maybe. Latch onto it; replay it in your head over and over again. I don't think that's difficult for you to do, with your obsessive personality. That's what you fall asleep to."

Spencer breathed out through his nose, grateful for the advice. But just one wonderful memory? Of the many? He would have trouble choosing.

David grinned. And there he goes. He saw how Spencer's brows furrowed, and his features contorted in that familiar thinking face. "I see a little twinkle in your eye, kid. Good. Keep thinkin' about it. Me? I'm gonna get some shuteye. You should, too." He gave Spencer a clap on the arm and turned away.

"Mm. Thank you, Rossi," Spencer said to the turned back.

David merely waved two fingers before pressing his key card into the slot and opening the door.

Spencer would write a letter to his mother, just as every night, and then would think about what that wonderful memory was. Except, instead of falling asleep to it, words just started cascading around Maeve's visage, and he found himself trying to cling to just one or two. There were too many to choose from.

He didn't sleep at all, but he found that on this night, he didn't mind. If he never slept again and kept seeing her like this, he wouldn't mind.