Hotch's hands shook. Then, his whole body followed suit.

For a moment, as he crouched on the shower floor, cowering in a corner, he thought he might have lost his mind. Maybe it was a flashback. The drug with which the unsub had dosed him was lingering in the crevices of his brain; manufacturing hallucinations complete with aural and tactile accompaniment.

The water, so therapeutic mere seconds ago, was tormenting him now. Dripping into his eyes, obscuring his vision, making the tiled floor a slippery trap waiting to claim him. Dashing the spray from his eyes, he levered himself to a standing position with the help of the wall. He watched his trembling hand turn off the faucets.

Every fiber of his being strained to hear…anything…everything. His own harsh breathing made it impossible to pick up much else.

Stress made his stomach ache. He regretted the late breakfast that had seemed ambrosial not so long ago.

Get a grip, Hotchner! He leaned his head back against the wall and worked at slowing his heart, quieting his respiration. There was only silence. Blessed, beautiful silence. It wasn't real. It's okay. Everything's okay. No one touched me. Just my imagination. Maybe a touch of PTSD, but nothing to get worked up about…

"Aaaaaaron…I'm waiting."

The voice slid past his defenses and straight into his gut, lancing him. Skewering him like a butterfly about to be…collected. Because he didn't have all that much strength anyway…not yet…Hotch couldn't help the sob. He muffled it as best he could, but…I'm scared! I'm scared! I'm scared! Dave…where are you!?

It was only a momentary lapse.

He expelled a shuddering breath. He opened his eyes and stiffened his spine. He reminded himself that he was an experienced negotiator; a profiler; an expert in human behavior. His knowledge was his weapon. But the sly, little voice that bubbled up at him from his own frightened depths, sneered. Fat lot of good that'll do against a gun. Or poison. Fat lot of good it did last time…Re-mem-ber?

Hotch stepped out of the shower. He hadn't brought his clothes in with him. He looked for the courtesy robe provided by the hotel. It was gone. Quelling the little fear-beast whimpering in the pit of his stomach, he wrapped a towel around his waist. Cinched it as tight as he could…

…and went to meet his unsub.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi and Reid stared with glazed eyes at the graceful, expansive lines of the luxury yacht, "Golden Treasure." It had hardly seemed worth the effort to pore over every inch of the craft. There were no secrets. They weren't even sure what they were looking for anymore…unless, of course, the killer decided to leave her appointment book behind or a written invitation to meet her for high tea.

"She's not trying to hide anything. She wants a big, splashy headline. She's practically waving her crimes in our faces." Reid's words were equal parts awe and disgust.

"So why is it so difficult to catch one troublesome, little girl who wants attention?" Rossi couldn't seem to stop the small, constant shaking of his head; a gesture of denial. "We've brought down some of the most heinous, ingeniously evil unsubs Hell ever spawned. But little Megan Kane? Nope. She's not only still on the loose, she's not even worried about getting caught."

A mirthless smirk raised one side of Reid's lips. "Our other unsubs didn't have a ton of lawyers forming a blockade around them. But…you know what Prentiss would say, don't you?"

"What?"

"We can't catch her because she's a woman."

Rossi matched Spencer's smirk and raised him a chuckle. "And we're mere men. No match for a female…the deadlier of the species."

"She'd have a point, too. Statistically, female serial killers are more efficient than their male counterparts. And a lot harder to catch because their motives are purer and as a result they don't get sidetracked the way men do."

"Purer? You're gonna have to go over that one again, kid. Ain't nothin' pure about murder in my book."

"When a woman kills, it's not for fun…or pleasure…or any kind of secondary gratification. The kill itself is her goal." Reid welcomed the opportunity to expound. It made him feel better in the face of Megan Kane's ability to remain at large. It restored a feeling that he had control over something, even if it was as insubstantial as data. "And once her goal is accomplished, she moves on. No souvenirs need to be taken. No revisiting the scene of the crime…"

As soon as he said it, something clicked in both agents' minds.

They locked eyes.

"But she revisited Hotch…She went after him twice at the hospital. How does that figure?"

Rossi swallowed hard. "A developing fatal attraction?"

After a few more beats, the older man pulled out his phone. If compulsion was behind Megan's behavior, Morgan and Prentiss needed to know they might be waiting for an unsub who was devolving, but also evolving into a totally different animal.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

One of the hardest things SSA Aaron Hotchner ever did was to place one foot in front of the other and walk nearly naked into a room where he knew Megan Kane was waiting. Still, he managed to keep his head high and he was sure she couldn't hear the racing, booming pace of his heart. He was certain she couldn't divine how vulnerable and off-balance he felt.

And he was almost right.

Megan watched his slow, cautious entrance. His eyes darting as his professional mind searched for some means of escape, or a weapon…anything that could offer a shred of hope that this wouldn't end the way it had for other men she'd met in other hotel rooms. But she saw the ribs she'd caressed moving with the rapid panic of near hyperventilation. It made her smile.

She sat at ease, leaning back in one of the armchairs beside the small table at which Hotch had breakfasted. She had her fingers curled casually around a gun. She had Hotch's gun on the table at her elbow. It kept company with his phone and his badge.

A flute of champagne tinged with orange juice sat before the other chair pulled to the table's opposite side. The unsub's tote bag took up space near her feet; its contents spilling forth as though she'd rifled through them.

Taking out her gun? Looking for poison? Is it already in that drink? Hotch swallowed his fear and tried to glare. It was the only weapon he had left.

"Sit down, Aaron." She motioned with the snout of the gun toward the chair opposite hers.

Hotch remained standing. He was testing the waters; testing her resolve.

Megan gave a long-suffering sigh. "If you don't sit down, I'll shoot out your knees and you'll have no choice about it." Her smile grew kittenish. "And it would be a shame to ruin such a pretty body."

Hotch took one reluctant step toward the chair. But only one.

The unsub chuckled. "Alright, I'll let you stand if you lose the towel. How's that for a deal? Huh?" She reveled in the slight shiver Hotch couldn't keep from coursing over his flesh. Tilting her head to one side, Megan narrowed her eyes, subjecting the man before her to calculating scrutiny.

"Hmmmm…let me guess. You're as squeamish about being seen naked as your teammates were to see you. Remember? They hated that." She let her eyes travel over him, lingering on his bare chest. "So you'd rather be shot? Rather be dead than embarrassed?"

Hotch held his glare…and his towel.

"Well…that gives you a lot in common with the bad, bad men I've been showing up, doesn't it? Appearance...reputation...is more important than anything? Than family? Than life? Kind of arrogant, don't you think?" She raised the gun and took precise aim. "Sit or drop the towel. One or the other. Or I'll shoot whatever's under there that you think is so worth hiding."

Her finger tightened on the trigger. There was no hesitation in her eye.

Hotch sat.

He hoped his voice wouldn't betray him; would still have resonance and timbre despite how awful he felt. "What do you want?"

Megan's features relaxed. She rested the gun on the tabletop. Still pointed in Hotch's direction, but not centered on any vital organ. "I want to talk. And when we're done, one of us will drink…that…or maybe we'll share it..." She nodded at the crystal flute, sweating with condensation in the Texas heat.

Hotch swallowed. "Talk? About what?"

Megan leaned forward, expression earnest.

"Tell me about your father, Aaron. Tell me what he was like…Tell me if you healed…Tell me if it still hurts…Tell me if anyone ever recovers…"

Hotch had thought being naked would be the most vulnerable he'd feel. Megan's plea stripped away more than clothing. Weak and scared and hating his own memories, his eyes filled.

Hers did, too. Somehow, that made it easier.

Hotch began to talk.