"Now I believe that lovers should be draped in flowers
And laid entwined together on a bed of clover
And left there to sleep
Left there to dream of their happiness"
-Bright Eyes, "A Perfect Sonnet"
Molly Moreau dropped the body as soon as she reached the blackness of the alleyway, wiping her sweating palms on her shirt and fingering her crucifix.
"Do you think she believed it?" she asked, unable to keep the tremor from her voice.
Agent Blythe rose to her feet, her face cold and composed. There was no sign of mercy or forgiveness on her shadowy features, no hint of absolution for her supplicant.
Moreau felt her heart twist the way it had in the interrogation room.
Blythe sat with her fingers steepled in front of her, her blue eyes steely and full of contempt. A photograph and a shoebox rested on the table between them. Moreau could not tear her eyes from the picture. She stared at the large dark eyes that regarded her solemnly, accusingly.
"That was taken on Elicia's last birthday."
Blythe's inflection on the word "last" left no doubt as to her meaning.
"We think that she was already being raped." Her voice rang out so clearly and matter-of-factly.
"She… she wasn't raped," whispered Moreau hoarsely, forgetting to feign ignorance. "She wanted to sleep with him. That's what she said."
"That's what I said too, Molly. That's what we all say. It's what we tell ourselves."
Moreau's eyes snapped up to Helena's face, which may as well have been made of marble for all the compassion it held.
"What?"
"Because it's always someone we owe it to. It's not really the scary man in the alley, Molly," the way she said it, even Moreau's own name sounded like an accusation. "It's someone we need."
"Who…"
"See, I couldn't tell him to go away, Molly. He was the only person standing between my father and the liquor cabinet. He was so generous, you know. The perfect sponsor. He turned my dad around. One day I was waiting for him to pass out so that I could water down the vodka in the dead of night, the next he was waking up in time to take us to school and come to our ballet performances. And I had one person to thank. I was so grateful."
"Please stop," Moreau pleaded, her eyes flickering between Helena and Elicia Diaz. "Please."
"And then he offered to take me shopping. He said that he'd always wanted a daughter to spoil. That all he wanted was to find me the perfect dress for my father's fiftieth birthday party. How could I refuse a kindness like that?
"And how could I refuse when he followed me into the dressing room, Molly? How could I do anything but bite my tongue when he put a finger to my lips and pushed me up against the door? How could I do anything but stare at myself in the dressing room mirror, wearing that pretty, pretty dress, and wait for him to finish? And when he bought it for me? What do you think I said, Molly?"
Moreau took deep, shuddering breaths, unable to speak, closing her eyes to avoid the blazing blue spotlight of Blythe's impassive gaze.
"I said "thank you," Molly. And that's all I said every other time after that.
"Look in the box, Molly."
Moreau shook her head furiously, screwing up her face and trying in vain to banish the Elicia Day's black gaze, which floated behind her eyelids. She clutched the cross, feeling it dig angrily into her palm.
"Molly," Blythe's voice was coaxing now. Gentler. "It's alright. I just want you to look in the box."
The hint of softness produced such a sense of relief that Moreau could not help but obey. She would have done anything to assuage some of the feeling of accusation in the other woman's voice.
"Do you see the blood, Molly? Do you know why it's there?"
"N-no-"
"Yes you do, Molly. You saw the scars on her didn't you? When you carried that little body into the woods."
"I didn't-"
"Helena, that's enough," said a gentle male voice from the behind her. Molly jerked around to look at the tall, dark-haired man who stood in the doorway of the interrogation room. "I'll take it from here."
The red haired woman rose from her chair, casting Molly one more venomous look before leaving the room. As she passed the man, they exchanged a meaningful look, her face full of trust, his with compassion. Then he took her place at the table, regarding Molly with earnest brown eyes free of the cruelty and judgment in Helena Blythe's frigid blue gaze.
"I'm sorry about Helena," he began, addressing her with almost paternal warmth. "She's a good agent, but she's not particularly good at Christian forgiveness."
(Outside the interrogation room, Helena had grinned broadly, pleased that Hotch had picked up on her strategy so quickly. Raw and full of guilt, all that Molly Moreau needed now as a confessor.)
"Is that true? About the last one? Was she…?"
Hotch nodded solemnly, and Molly dissolved into tears, her stomach contorting. Isabella Cream had been so kind, so reliable, so persuasive…
"I didn't know," she forced out through sobs.
"I know, Molly," he murmured, his voice unbearably kind. "You just trusted her. You just did as she told you."
Molly nodded furiously, rubbing at her eyes and gasping for air.
"She said… she said that they were ruining lives. She said she needed help to fix everything. She said that no wife should have to go through what I did."
"So you helped her kill those women."
"NO," Molly howled, shaking her head. "She said we were purifying them. That if they repented, they would be spared."
"She lied, Molly. She lied and because of it, three people are dead," he pressed on, some of the gentility draining from his deep voice. Sobs continued to wrack Molly's body as she buried her face in her hands. "But it's not too late for you, Molly. You can still make this right."
"H-how?" she asked, hope alleviating her misery just enough for her to speak.
"I need you to talk to me, Molly. I need to know everything. Then we can figure it out together."
Glancing at the mouth of the alley way, Helena checked her watch. Molly Moreau fidgeted and watched her undemonstrative companion, unable to tear her eyes from the small, fragile figure before her. Then, without another glance at Molly, Blythe turned walked past her, fading into the shadows of the narrow street.
Moreau stood alone, waiting in the darkness for her chance at atonement.
Treading silently to the dead end of the alleyway, Blythe joined Hotch behind a dumpster, glancing around at the armed agents concealed in every corner and shadow. Wordlessly, Hotch gestured to the kevlar vest and Glock that he had brought for her. She donned them without making a sound. The quiet in the alley was interrupted only by the occasional drip of water from the roofs of the surrounding buildings.
Blythe stared at the peeling paint on the wall next to her, trying not to remember the look of desperation, guilt, and helpless obedience on Molly Moreau's wide, open face. Blythe could not deny the vicious pleasure that she took in the act of manipulation, the intoxicating joy of gaining control over another's mind. But to take advantage of the woman's better angels… it left her with a bloodied, bitter taste in her mouth.
Arkady would be so proud.
She was spared further introspection by the sound of shuffling footsteps reverberating through the alley. Every muscle in her body coiled as she heard Cream's warm, creaky voice.
"Well, this is an unpleasant situation, Molly dear." Helena's heart sank at the tone of mild reproach in Cream's voice. She had made out the situation quickly. She glanced at Hotch, who shook his head and shot her a warning glance. Molly began to speak in a shaking voice, reciting the lines that Hotch had coached her through.
"Mrs. Cream, I need to talk to you about what we've been doing. I think-"
"Where is she, love? What did she say to change your mind? I told you that she's a liar."
"She's not here. I changed my mind-"
"You didn't do anything, dear. She changed it for you. You always were so impressionable. She took advantage."
Helena listened, torn between disgust and admiration. Isabella Cream had figured out an excellent backdoor into the weak, easily influenced mind of Molly Moreau: the firm, benevolent, maternal attitude that she had cultivated perfectly suited Moreau's desperate need for guidance and affirmation.
"I think-"
"How many agents, dear?"
"What?"
Blood running cold in her veins, Helena cast a frantic look at Hotch, whose face was set in a stony mask. He shook his head.
"If we want to take them both alive, we need Molly to talk her down. Otherwise she swallows the suicide pill and we lose the chance to interrogate her and save the hostages. We can afford to lose Molly Moreau. Cream has to live."
He had told her that in a voice that brooked no opposition.
It took every fiber of self-control to tether her impulse to leap out and intervene in the scene playing out just ten feet away.
"How. Many. Agents? I know you brought them, Molly. I'm not stupid."
"I-I didn't. It's just me."
"Then where," hissed Cream, her voice suddenly transforming from pleasant, elderly creak to an inhuman snarl, "is Helena Blythe?"
"She's… I've hidden her," Molly lied lamely, "I won't take you to her until we've talked. Until you tell me who you poisoned."
"Liar."
Helena heard the snap of what sounded like a purse, then a rustle. Then…
Click.
She began to react, but-
Bang.
Molly felt many things in no particular order. She felt air rush past her ears, whistling gently. She felt a jolt that shook her entire body and sent her keeling backwards. She felt sense of vertigo, remembering with nostalgia the trust falls that her seventh grade drama teacher had liked so much. She felt sharp, searing agony branding the right side of her chest.
By the time she hit the ground, lying on her back and staring at the sky, she did not feel the impact. Her vision had been enclosed by a black fog that crowded out the starry, rained-out sky, though her eyes were cast uselessly upwards.
She did not feel the frenetic clutching of a pair of small white hands at the freely gushing wound in her chest, nor feel the warmth of a freckled cheek as someone lowered an ear to the hole, listening to the telltale sucking sound that emanated from it.
Nor did she realize the incoherent string of words that tumbled from her own lips. All she could make out among the sound and fury were three words murmured into her ear: "It's all forgiven."
Briefly, ever so briefly, her vision cleared and she gazed up into the clear heavens.
She did not feel the fingers that gently closed her eyelids.
Helena's tenuous resolve snapped at the sound of the gunshot. She rushed out from behind the dumpster without pausing to draw her weapon. Hotch followed close behind, gesturing to the agents to follow. While the others swarmed Isabella Cream, Helena knelt beside the toppled Moreau, casting around frantically for some fragment of plastic to stop the influx of air through the bullet wound as it slowly collapsed the gasping woman's lungs. The woman's heart was working perversely against her, pumping blood from her body with endless determination and replacing it with frigid air.
Blythe tore Moreau's tight polyester shirt to clear the wound, pressing her palm against it in a vain attempt to block its generous bleeding and greedy sucking.
All the while, nonsensical phrases poured from the dying woman. Something about… trust falls? Shift changes… then a series of garbled apologies. They sounded like prayers, half-formed confessions, choked pleas for forgiveness, which grew quieter and quieter as her lungs were flattened by the air squeezing past Helena's small, useless hand.
Helena gazed into the cloudy eyes as they gazed unseeing into empty air, then to the gush of blood over her own fingers. Suddenly, she felt terribly tired.
Leaning down, she murmured the only words that she could imagine would bring any succour.
Molly Moreau sighed softly, imperceptibly, as her treacherous heart stuttered to a halt.
Wiping one of her crimson hands on her skirt, Helena raised it to shut the wide, gray eyes.
"Helena."
She did not turn around at the sound of Hotch's soft, tentative voice. She felt him kneel beside her and rest a large, warm hand on her shoulder, but it was as though her skin were covered in an icy, impermeable sheet of stone.
"There's nothing you can do for her."
She stood up suddenly, and Hotch rose with her, clasping both of her shoulders as if to steady her, though her legs felt perfectly solid under her. Suddenly she felt very aware that her coat was soaked in still-warm blood, that it would be unbearable to wear it for even a moment longer. Her struggle to free herself from the thick wool shook Hotch's hands away.
"Stop, leave it on," he told her sternly, but in an undertone. "You're in shock. You'll freeze."
"I have to-it's all-just-" she muttered in a thick, obstructed voice.
Undeterred, she tore it away from her and dropped it on the ground-first the kevlar, then the warm, red-stained wool. As it turned out, he was right-the night air against her skin felt intolerably cold. Sighing, Hotch shrugged off his own jacket, which he wore the bullet proof vest that looked so natural on him, and draped it over her shoulders.
She stared up into his face, searching for some sort of comfort in his unshakeable stability, in the body heat that began to thaw her skin.
He wrapped an arm around her, gathering her close, and together they followed the arresting officers back into the station.
"It doesn't fit. She doesn't just kill without reason. It's just not in the profile."
"Are you really willing to bet lives on a profile?"
"It doesn't look like it matters. None of us could get her to talk."
"We'll send Blythe. She'll get a reaction."
"Gideon," Hotch intervened for the first time since they had apprehended Cream. "You are not sending her in."
Helena had a hard time parsing the argument that raged between the rest of the team. Still wrapped in Hotch's coat, she had remained quiet to conceal the thick choking feeling in her throat. At the sound of Hotch's near-snarl, however, she glanced up from the tabletop.
"You can send me in. I'll talk to her," to her displeasure, her voice came out hoarse and quiet. Nevertheless, it stopped the discussion cold.
"Helena-"
"What do you want me to say?" Her voice gained strength now as the task took hold.
"I need you to fluster her first. Then run through a few theories. We'll watch and see if she flinches."
"Gideon-"
"Sure. Walk me through the strategy."
Hotch watched from behind the mirrored glass with a confusing alloy of anger, concern, and pity as the blood-soaked girl made her way to sit across the table from Isabella Cream. The old woman sat perfectly still, her innocuous little face settled into a complacent smile.
Helena sat with her back to them, her posture relaxed and unaffected. Quite a feat for a woman who had been trembling and effectively nonverbal ten minutes ago.
"Nice shot back there," she remarked lightly. "She was dead before she hit the ground."
The callous humor in Helena's voice, though he knew it to be false, disturbed him. From the expression on her face, Cream clearly found it equally disconcerting. The smirk dropped from her face, which contorted into disgust.
"I didn't kill her, you bitch. You did. You turned her and used her as bait."
Hotch watched Helena's back for any sign of weakening, for any manifestation of her guilt in her thin white shoulders. He could see none, however. In fact, she responded to the invective with a chuckle and a shake of the head. He could only imagine the maddeningly carefree smile from the fury on Cream's face.
"Those are some impressive mental contortions, Cream. Although I suppose that you're an expert in those by now. This isn't exactly the first partner that you're thrown under the bus, is it?"
"I don't hurt anyone who doesn't deserve it. Which is more than I can say for you."
"Is that so? Fascinating," she drawled, leaning back in her chair. "So what did Molly Moreau do to deserve it? I assume that the whole murdering thing doesn't count for you."
"She was a criminal and a drunkard. A waste case. That crucifix she wore was a lie."
"I see. And whom did I hurt? Since apparently Molly doesn't matter."
"The wife. The poor wife of that cheating son of a-"
"I see. So why not go after the husband? He's the one with the-"
Helena stopped speaking suddenly, responding to the same split-second expression that Hotch and Gideon noticed from behind the glass. For just a moment, the ugly sneer had dropped from Cream's face, replaced once again by a smug little smile.
"I see," she murmured. "You poisoned the men, didn't you?"
An angry red flush suffused Cream's wrinkled face as it twisted into a mask of fury. She sputtered, vacillating between furious denial and vague threats.
"Right. I think that's all I needed. Thanks very much."
Blythe rose from her chair and turned on her heel, leaving the tiny crone to rage weakly against her restraints.
Outside the interrogation room, she paused and leaned against the door, her shoulders caving slightly into a slump.
Gideon had already begun barking orders, sending emergency teams to the three intended victims.
Hotch approached the pale, shaking girl. He wasn't quite sure what to say, but he offered his arm to her. She smiled gratefully and rested one lily-white hand on his forearm and shifting her weight so that she leaned heavily on it.
"Still friends?" she asked in a hesitant voice. She looked suddenly so hopeful and vulnerable that he could do nothing but press his lips to her forehead and rest his chin on the top of her bright hair.
"Always."