Author's note: Sorry for the crazy long delay. I'll try to do better. And, please, bear with me after this… there's generally a method to my madness…

Stalker

Chapter Four

She just wanted a hint of normalcy.

It wasn't so much to ask for.

There was a crack in the plastic chair she was sitting on, and it was pinching her leg, and it didn't bother her, and she wondered if it should.

She wondered if she'd even be considering it if she wasn't trying to occupy her mind with something other than Morgan's voice.

He was a good guy.

Sometimes they could drive each other a little bit crazy, but he was a good guy.

He was trying so hard.

And she knew every detail of the other side of the fence.

And still she wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry when he suggested quietly that they could do 'this' by email, if it was easier.

They were in someone else's office and she couldn't look him in the eye.

(Normalcy, please.

All she wanted.)

"I think that would be crossing some kind of line, in the way of 'pathetic'," she told him quietly.

"Hell with that."

"Half an hour ago, maybe I would have taken you up on it. But aren't we just about done?"

He didn't confirm or deny, instead he told her:

"Talk to me about his mood. Demeanor. His attitude toward you."

"I told the police."

"Tell me."

She waited. But relented:

"It was… disconnected. Disjointed. One minute he was playing at some kind of sick love, the next, there was this…" It took just a second to find the word. "Hatred. In his eyes."

"Hatred?"

"Yeah." She managed to meet his eyes. "I get that that's not textbook."

He nodded, lost in thought for a moment. Told her:

"It's not anything."

And then, sighing heavily and moving to stand:

"Okay," he told her quietly. "We'll call that it for tonight."

She nodded and stood to follow him.

His voice was too gentle.

And Emily, who hadn't said a thing in several minutes, helped her with her coat.

Normal was a world away.

The Texas night air wasn't cool enough for her liking as they made their way to the Suburban.

The video footage the locals had called her in to watch had been a complete wash.

The half-hearted interrogation with Morgan had left her feeling equal parts exposed and pathetic.

And maybe it was all messing with her head, because –

Out of the corner of her eye –

Crazy as it was –

She could have sworn…

"JJ?"

Emily wore a quizzical look.

"You okay?"

"Apparently not."

"Ladies?" Morgan questioned, leaning on the open driver's side door.

"I thought I saw Henry," JJ told them, managing a small laugh.

And despite the laugh, it seemed real.

The toddler in the stroller was too far off now, but just a moment ago he'd been under a streetlight.

And she had, apparently, lost her mind.

"The same stroller," she told Emily, writing it off. "Caught my eye."

JJ ducked into the back seat, not wanting to see whatever concerned look might be passing between her colleagues.

They were half way back to the hotel when Emily's cell phone rang, breaking the complete and utter silence they'd been driving along in.

She glanced at the number.

It wasn't familiar, nor was it in their current area code.

She let it go, and no one said anything.

But when her phone registered a voice mail message had been left, curiosity got the better of her.

It was Will:

"Emily. Will. Lamontagne. This is maybe not right. But I'm getting a wee bit worried about JJ. I get it, it's busy, a case like this. But it's not like her not to call, least check in on our boy. And she's not taking calls, either, which is… well, it's almost stranger, maybe. So if you could just… make sure she's getting my messages? Maybe have her call me? She might kill me for calling you. Tell her anyway. Good night, now."

The message ended, and she restarted it, and held the phone out to JJ.

"Your call," she told her, meaning it in more ways than one.

Cell phone reception in their rooms was terrible.

It was a detail that had Hotch walking the street in front of the hotel while he wished Jack good night.

And he was smiling at Jack's exuberance – feeling sorry for his poor aunt that he wouldn't likely be sleepy any time soon – when something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye.

It wasn't suspicious.

Just… odd.

And he had a mind that had been trained to note and be concerned by odd.

The boy couldn't have been more than fourteen.

On his own, walking up a hotel. Manila envelope in hand.

Hotch followed him, bidding Jack good bye.

He followed him right up to JJ's door, and the kid was none the wiser.

When he turned and saw Hotch watching him, he froze.

Hotch was prepared to block him, or chase him, as necessary.

But the kid only looked confused.

"I thought 'Sweetheart' would be a girl," the kid noted, and he held out the envelope.

Hotch recognized the black, block letters by now.

"Sit down," Hotch told the boy, and at the kid's surprised look, he added: "Yes, right here."

And he pulled out his phone.

"I'm almost there," Emily was explaining a moment later. "Getting in the elevator now. Might lose you."

Hotch hung up without bidding her goodbye, and just seconds later spotted her coming down the hall.

She was alone, which wasn't what he'd expected.

"Where are JJ and Morgan?"

"She stopped to call Will. He's waiting on her."

"Did she change her mind about --"

Emily shook her head 'no' before he could continue.

"She's just checking in." She fixed her eyes on the boy, then the envelope in Hotch's hands, and read the situation without much effort: "We have a witness?"

Hotch nodded.

"His being underage, we have to play this by the book. We have to let the locals question him, but --"

"But we can always request to observe?" Emily finished. "Request loudly." At Hotch's nod, she asked: "Are you coming?"

Hotch looked down at the envelope in his hands.

"I have to show this to JJ."

Emily nodded, appreciating how miserable a task that was.

"I'll grab Morgan." Then, to the kid: "You're with me."

"This isn't worth twenty bucks," the kid muttered.

And as Emily guided him toward the elevator, she told him:

"If you can describe the guy who paid you? It's worth a hell of a lot more than that."

Every time Hotch's eyes darted to the darkening bruise on JJ's neck, she noticed.

She knew he didn't want to look, but his eyes fell to that spot repeatedly anyway.

Nothing like being a human train wreck.

"Hotch?" she finally prompted.

He looked away from her neck, but still didn't have the words.

Instead, he held up a package.

And she steeled herself before she took it from him.

"Has anyone else seen this yet?" she asked.

"No," he told her.

And she thanked him, for that, before tearing open the envelope.

It was just another photograph.

(It was another fucking photograph.)

She was asleep in her own bed.

It was a close-up.

And she could feel the acid rolling in her stomach again.

She barely managed to ask --

"Can I get a moment?"

-- and barely heard him reply –

"I don't know that that's the best --"

-- before she was forced to sprint away from him, to the washroom, to rid her body of what little dinner she'd eaten.

And when she'd kicked the washroom door shut and pressed her forehead against the cool edge of the bathtub, she heard the door to the hotel room open and shut.

She thanked God for Hotch being Hotch.

And then she cried.

Out in the corridor, Hotch's mind wasn't on JJ's reaction to the photograph.

Rather, he was troubled by the image itself.

There was a single detail weighing on him, and he almost felt a little bit sick himself at the thought it brought to mind.

Surely, he was just becoming paranoid after all of these years.

Surely, the universe couldn't be quite that cruel.

Surely, he wouldn't have to have that discussion with JJ.

At the very least, he'd confer with the others first.

Emily and Morgan were supposed to be only watching the kid's questioning.

But neither of them cared.

"Look at me," Morgan demanded, frustrated with the boy's immaturity.

He was starting to seem more stupid than stubborn.

"'Just a dumb white guy' isn't going to cut it," Emily put in.

"You're gonna give us details if we've gotta sit here 'til morning," Morgan hammered home. "Is that sinking in? You're gonna tell us how tall, how fat, how white, how many piercings or tattoos, accent or no --"

"Yeah, that!" the kid blurted out. "He did."

"An accent?" Morgan clarified.

"Like yours or like mine?" Emily questioned.

"His. All his."

"He wasn't southern?"

"Different kind."

"Of southern?"

"I don't know, what, I look like an expert to you?"

Morgan turned to one of the locals, asked –

"Can you get a laptop in here? Wireless internet? We need to give the kid some examples."

"Hang on," Emily told him, pulling her phone from her pocket and punching away at the buttons. Then she prompted the kid: "More like you or more like him?"

And she put her phone on speaker, and played a message.

It started:

"Emily. Will. Lamontagne. This is maybe not right. But I'm getting a wee bit worried about JJ. I get it…"

And the kid nodded, stood up, finally showing some enthusiasm.

"That! That's the guy."

Emily exchanged a glance with Morgan.

That was… wrong.

"You mean that's the accent?" Emily clarified.

"No, I mean that's the guy!" the kid spat.

And Emily looked to Morgan.

Sucker-punched.