"I want out of here!" she all but screamed at the reflective window. She knew they were there, just watching, waiting for her to cave in and admit guilt. To say she'd killed Tamyra. To say she had pulled the trigger. To say she had relished in the way the other girl's life had drained from her, onto the ground in a dark, deep crimson pool. She knew they expected to have this case wrapped up by tonight - tomorrow, at latest. They wanted to keep calm and alert no one about the fact a girl who'd won Prom Queen, who had every opportunity at excelling in life, who was everybody's favourite, had been killed with one shot to the forehead.

She wasn't giving them that chance. She hadn't done it. She scoffed, stood, walked to the mirror, and slammed her fists against the pane. "Let me out of here, Dunway. Hear me, damn it? Let. Me. Out. Of. Here!"

The door opened, and she stepped back to see who the newcomer was. Her eyes instinctively rolled at the sight of the stoic man. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and his ebony eyes were trained on the file in his hands.

"Have a seat, please."

"Who are you."

It wasn't so much a question as a demand. He glanced up and narrowed those sombre eyes that meant "I'm not playing around." A sigh forced itself from her lungs; she sat in the cold chair, crossed her legs, and dropped her cuffed hands to the table with one last, resounding bang.

"Who are you?"

"I'm SSA Aaron Hotchner. I'm from the Behavioural Analysis Unit. The FBI."

"And lemme guess. Dunway in there has you convinced I killed Tamyra."

"Did you?"

"Hell no. Wouldn't waste my freedom on taking her life."

"Tell me what happened that night."

"Ask Dunway. He seems to know every little thing that happens with us crazy people."

"I'm asking you."

The sharp tone took her aback. She brushed a lock of pale blonde hair from her face and linked her fingers together. Her eyes dropped to the table; the sound of her rattling breath echoed through the room when she inhaled.

"It was a party, obviously. We had one every Saturday if possible. Ya know, sin on Saturday, repent on Sunday. That kinda thing. Well…"

His lips on hers felt as hot as the fire blazing nearby, and she moulded her body to fit against his. The music flowed through them - much like the alcohol. A loud crack rent through the air, and they parted, looking around. Suddenly, a body hit the ground. People screamed. Her country boy joined in the pandemonium and ran, along with everybody else. Truck doors slammed shut; within seconds, the clearing was empty, save for a bonfire, a dead body, and an inebriated girl. She stumbled over to the body and closed her eyes against the sight. Tamyra was dead. Blood was flowing into her hair, to the dirt below. Jemma ran toward the woods. She keeled backwards as something blunt slammed into her forehead. Everything went black.

"When I woke up, I was in the hospital. Then Jackass out there slapped some metal bracelets on me, dragged me here, and lo and behold, you're here, asking me the same damn things they asked."

"Do you know who would want to kill Tamyra?"

"Ha! Nobody around here. She was perfect." With a roll of her eyes, she looked at him, asking softly, "Why is this a Fed case? It was only one uncalled-for murder. What's the Bureau's interest?"

"Have you left Pine Mountain lately?"

"Yea, I went to Mars just yesterday!" she spat. "No. I've been stuck in this hellhole for my entire life. Only time I left was when Mom and Gran were on speaking terms when I was seven. Now…tell me, why is the FBI so interested in a singular, measly killing?"

·····

"Hey, Morgan, look at this. This must be the rock that Jemma slammed her head into when she tripped."

SSA Derek Morgan took in the scene. "I dunno. Prentiss, I need you to do something for me. Act like you're tripping over a stick or something." She did as told. "See? When you 'tripped,' there was no path or any markers to indicate that you'd fallen in any way. Over here, where she allegedly tripped, there's a path, like she was dragged or something."

"Which means," she replied, catching onto what he was implying, "Jemma Marison isn't our unsub. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"And the actual unsub made sure he took the heat off himself."

Alright. So I'm starting to get annoyed with this. UGH. Hopefully, by the time I actually come back around and refresh the window, it will have updated the story like it was supposed to, twenty minutes ago. While I wait...time to write more! :D