Growing

Whatever you think, be sure it is what you think; whatever you want, be sure that is what you want; whatever you feel, be sure that is what you feel.

T.S. Eliot

***

II

We're booked into a small motel. It's either this, or brave the traffic every day we spend on this investigation, and frankly, I'm not interested in car trips right now. It's only midday, so we leave our ready bags in the SUVs, and we go straight to the local field office.

The gift that's sitting at the top of my bag, drawing me, enticing me – it'll have to wait.

'So how does it feel?' Morgan asks me. I notice that he's waited the entire trip to ask, assessing my behavior, assuring himself that I'm not going to bite his head off. There's a grin on his face.

'How does what feel?'

'Old age.' I roll my eyes.

'Oh no,' I tell him. 'You can't be told what it is; you have to see it for yourself.' My words put a confused look on his face. In the back seat, Reid laughs.

His words do make me think, though. How does it feel? Knowing that half your life may be gone already. It's that thing about choices again. It always seems to be coming back around. All of this has happened before, and all of this will happen again.

'Forty isn't so bad.' I'm serious this time. 'Fifty is going to be the problem.'

'Don't let Rossi hear you say that,' he laughs. I don't see the humor in being compared to David Rossi.

***

So. Victimology. I can say without a doubt that my mind is elsewhere. It hits me that I'm having a mid-life crisis in the middle of a murder investigation. I've always been one of those people that look at balding men in their shiny new convertibles, and pity them. And now I'm there.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

'Seven victims, age ranging from twenty to forty. All were tortured for three days before being killed and dumped.' JJ's reiterating the facts, just in case we might have forgotten after looking at the file a hundred times on the way over.

Like your cynicism is helping, a voice tells me. I've told that voice to shut up more than once, but this time I know it's right.

All the women worked in the same circles, had similar jobs. Finding the exact link might be difficult. The common denominator could be anything from a disgruntled IT worker, to a prospective client. So we go through the files, we make the lists.

And now, it's questioning time.

***

Rossi is driving. He apparently can't seem to stop himself from interfering in other people's businesses. I call it interfering, but really I know that all he's trying to do is help.

'So how're things with Jordan?'

My head snaps up. He's an omniscient son of a bitch. I can't hide anything from him.

'They're…uh…progressing.' I settle on the phrase, but I'm not happy with the wording. It might have something to do with the fact that things aren't progressing in the least.

'Can't work up the courage to ask her out?'

Damn him.

It's always been a solid friendship between Jordan and I. We've had ups and downs, sure, but all friendships do. At some points, though, I felt that maybe it extended a little beyond friendship.

'Nope.'

'Would it help to know that she likes you?'

'Not in the least.'

***

So we question Steve Clarke. Edward Black. Malcolm Watts. Robert Ward. A bunch of names that mean nothing to me. Looking into their eyes, I don't see anything evil, but then, that's where they get you. They have happy, innocent eyes, right up until the point where they garrote you from behind.

Cynicism, the little voice tells me.

And ultimately, we find nothing. Just a list of people who have no idea who might have tortured these women. Any one of them could be lying. But that's what we're here to find out.

***

I dump my ready bag on the bed, unzip it. The blue package sits on top of my clothes. I open it carefully, slowly. Savoring the moment.

It smells musty, but then, all old books do. The pages are a little bit crumpled, the cover a little bit worn, but hell, this must have been pretty fucking hard to find. I put it down softly on the bed, careful not to damage it.

I get out my cell, debating whether or not to call and thank her. I go outside where the air is clearer, where I can think clearly. The fresh air wakes me up. My finger hovers over the call button, hesitant.

I'm not paying attention to the outside world. All my thoughts are focused on the phone, on the call I know I have to make.

Fingers encircle my throat.

What the…?

Happy fucking birthday.