"Life is full of luck, like getting dealt a good hand,
or simply by being in the right place at the right time.
Some people get luck handed to them, a second chance, a save.
It can happen heroically, or by a simple coincidence,
but there are those who don't get luck on a shiny platter,
who end up in the wrong place at the wrong time,
who don't get saved."
~ Jessica Sorensen ~
Sarah was sick and tired of her waitress gig.
Sure it had seemed like a good idea at the time, college dorms were expensive and she was friends enough with her roommates to justify getting an apartment together. Of course she had forgotten to take into account that her financial aid would drop when housing was no longer calculated into her overall cost. Meaning the strain on her pay check would grow rather than shrink.
But it really had seemed like a good idea.
"You're done, Baker." Her boss called, motioning for Sarah to clean up and clean out. She was more than happy to go. This day had been longer than most. And she was secretly cursing herself for deciding to go to school out-of-state. Florida was fine, Florida was great, she should have stayed there.
But, no. She'd wanted to "see the world" and so had jumped at the chance to attend a "real" university in the Big Apple. Well, shame on her for thinking New York would be anything other than long hours and minimum wage.
Not that she regretted the move. Not really. She was just tired after a long shift at the diner. She was simply happy that the state allowed her to serve alcohol as a nineteen year old, or there was no way she could have landed the job.
The place wasn't exactly what one would call "family-friendly."
Although she could have done without having to take that stupid bartender course.
Yes, Sarah's life wasn't what one would call "stellar" but she was content with where it was going. After all she'd have her B.A. in Education in two years, and then she could land her dream job of teaching in New York. (A big factor in leaving Florida was their horrible education system, and treatment of teaching staff).
Unfortunately Sarah would never get to see her dream actualize. In fact Sarah would never get to see that dingy apartment that she had just spent the last eight-hours busting tables to pay for. The last thing Sarah would get to see would be the barrel of a gun before she was shot.
And the first thing the NYPD would notice upon arriving on the scene was that very shot.
One bullet.
In the center of her forehead.
Executioner's style.
The next thing they would notice would be the encrypted note stapled to her work-collar.
4-1.6-1-5 3.8-1-2.8-4-1-2.8-0.6-1-0.8 2.6-1 4-3 4-4.6-1-2.8-4-5 5-1-0.2-3.6-3.8 3-1.2 4-3-3.6-1-8-3-2.6
1.2-1-3.6 4-3.6-5-1.8-2.8-1.4 4-3 0.6-1.6-0.2-2.8-1.4-1 4-1.6-1 3.8-5-3.8-4-1-2.6 1.2-3.6-3-2.6 4.6-1.8-4-1.6-1.8-2.8
1.8-2.6 0.6-3-2.6-1.8-2.8-1.4 2.8-3-4.6 1.8-2.6 0.6-3-2.6-1.8-2.8-1.4 4-3 3.6-1-4.6-0.2-3.6-0.8 4-1.6-1-2.6
1.2-1.8-3.6-3.8-4 4.6-1 4-0.2-2.2-1 2.6-0.2-2.8-1.6-0.2-4-4-0.2-2.8 4-1.6-1-2.8 4.6-1 4-0.2-2.2-1 0.4-1-3.6-2.4-2.8
Which would be promptly de-coded the next day and go on to create more questions than it solved.
The case would be broadcast through all major news channels, but when the killer failed to strike again it would eventually find itself shelved. And Sarah Baker's death would be written off as 'unfortunate' but accidental. As in;
"The poor kid was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
And it would remain unsolved for the next two years.
Okay, so maybe it was a stretch to say Allison "shared a class" with Dr. Reid.
She actually very rarely saw the FBI agent. What with the fact that she was often grading papers in the Professor's office-the trials of being a TA-and the few days a month she did sub in for the philosophy professor often fell on days that Dr. Spencer Reid was out.
Most likely working.
This was fine with Allison as she had only ever shared one, slightly awkward, conversation with the guy, and so didn't feel it any great loss that they constantly missed each other.
Besides, there was also the slight awkwardness over the fact that she-technically-out ranked him in the classroom. Despite the fact that he had three PhD's, in Mathematics, Engineering, and Chemistry (the very subject she was struggling to pull together a dissertation for) he was still taking an undergraduate level philosophy course, probably trying to earn yet another bachelor's, under the very Professor that she herself had chosen to..."apprentice" under.
It just felt wrong to grade his papers. To read his essays on Morality and try to judge whether or not his thought process, his arguments were flawed. What right did she have to criticize a mind such as his? To try and quantify his ideas, his beliefs? What right did she have to assign him a grade at all when she couldn't help but look forward to whatever he wrote?
Allison loved reading his papers.
Philosophy papers in general were always interesting, both reading and writing them. She had loved taking the class herself, a few years ago. And it had gone on to heavily influence her style as a poet. Transforming her from a naturalist to a writer with a political agenda. A downgrade in the eyes of many, but to Allison that period of her life represented a very important change in her psyche.
Rather than witlessly stringing words together based on syntax based on such technical aspects as alliteration or chiasmus. She began to write based on emotion based on that innate feeling that spurred her on even when she really should have been sleeping, or eating, or doing something other than scribbling on the back of a napkin.
Sure many critics would think she had regressed as a poet. Would criticize her work for specializing too strongly. For not allowing for multiple interpretations. For stating her meaning, rather than allowing the meaning to speak for itself. But frankly?
She didn't care.
She didn't care because she was happy with her work, she was proud of what she wrote. So what if it didn't fit some stuffy so-and-so's cookie-cutter view of poetry? It was good enough for her Graduate Professor, a modern day Orwell, and so was good enough for her.
So, yes, Allison loved reading Dr. Reid's papers, especially when they gave her such unceasing inspiration. Looking down at the stanza she'd just scribbled, she couldn't help but think-
Perhaps Language is but an agent of deceit.
With all its allowances and exceptions.
Content to slay Virtue through ambiguity.
-that she was fine if they never met.
If they never spoke again.
As long as he kept writing, kept feeding her such useful fodder, she had no complaints. Rather selfish of her, she could admit. But as George Orwell once said; "All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy," and Allison could freely admit that she was no different. But that was fine with her, one did not study poetry of all things if they cared about what others thought of them, after all.
No, Allison was fine with being 'vain, selfish, and lazy' as long as it meant she could continue being a 'writer.'
For that she could take on any and all slurs.
Dr. Spencer Reid didn't know what to think of his Philosophy T.A.
He was certain he had met her before, and her face was heavily aligned with the phrase "The Norton Anthology of Poetry" in his memory. Which, knowing how his edict memory worked, implied he had read the book title while in her presence. But did not help narrow down where he may have met her.
Spencer's memory was well above that of the average man, and the fact that he could not instantly recall why this girl was familiar to him could only mean that their meeting hadn't been a very memorable one.
Perhaps he had bumped into her in the cafeteria awhile back? But, no, that would have caused him enough emotional embarrassment to have forged a strong enough neuro-pathway to allow for near-instant recall.
The only emotion Spence associated with her was the low level awkwardness he'd come to associate with conversing with anyone outside of his Mother and the team.
So he had spoken to her, then? Why?
Well, that was easy enough to answer. He had asked her a question, that's the only reason Spencer would willingly initiate conversation with a stranger. Well, the only platonic reason, but he doubted he had been trying to strike up a conversation with a girl seven years his junior for any reason but a platonic one.
He'd definitely remember that.
No, he had definitely asked her a question, then. And judging by the way she acted in his presence, eyes instantly seeking him out when she entered the room, before continuing to scan the rest of his classmates for attendance, he could only assume she remembered him.
Spencer seriously doubted that her memory was better than his, not out of any misplaced hubris but simply because the probability of this being so was so low that it seemed almost senseless to consider.
Which left only one other option. Their meeting, while nothing special to him was different enough to have caught her attention, and kept it. Coupled with the knowledge that he had most likely posed a question to the young girl, and Spencer felt confident in his conclusion that he had approached her not as a fellow student, but rather as an FBI agent.
Instantly images started to assault him, flashes of a fire, a burning dorm building, the repetition of 3.3.3.and a question;
"The fires...do you think they could have been set by a chemistry student?"
Allison Wolfe, one of the interviews from the University Arson case, of course. It seems that Ms. Wolfe had managed to graduate after-all, Spencer'd had his doubts seeing as she had been on the edge of burn-out when they'd met two years ago. It hadn't been more than a passing thought at the time-
She pushes herself too hard. A perfectionist. A well annotated Poetry Book and a paper filled with notes on Physical Chemistry. A double-major? Possible. Bags under her eyes, shaking hands, sever bouts of insomnia. Highly likely. Probability of suffering burn-out before the semester ends? Upward of ninety percent.
-something that he had observed and file'd away almost subconsciously. All the more when he was busy with an active investigation and interviewing a potential witness. In the end she had known nothing, and while her answers had hinted at a destructive personality;
"If I were the arsonist, I'd probably try to make a D-class fire. Break into the Organic Chemistry lab or something and get a chemical fire going."
Spencer had ultimately ruled that she had nothing to do with the fires. That she was unlikely to commit any sort of felony, if not for moral reasons then due to her pragmatic outlook on life.
"I have next to no free time, definitely no time to go around burning down the University that I'm paying thousands of dollars to attend."
Spencer never expected to run into her again, least of all in Virginia, in his University. Still, it wasn't that important in the grand scheme of things. Spencer was just happy to have solved one mystery. Now her presence wouldn't continue to grate on him-he didn't do well with unsolved puzzles-and he could just write this whole thing off as a coincidence.
After all, the chances of their path ever crossing again were astronomically small.
A/N: Well there's chapter 1 of Coincidence I hope you liked it! The genre and opening of this chapter should have given it away, but this fic is going to be largely written as a murder mystery. Feel free to play detective if you want! The cypher up top is easily breakable and does not need a key (hence why the NYPD broke it in a day) so you could try your hand at decoding that *shrugs* up to you.
For those of you who are new to my stories I make it a habit of responding to any and all reviews at the bottom of the preceding chapter. So, below you shall find said responses.
Thanks to all who read!
Responses:
ripon: Haha, it is definitely a strange degree, but it exists I promise. A degree in literature wasn't what she was aiming for, that would be like getting a degree in applied science as opposed to chemistry. She wanted the overly specific degree, she's weird like that. Thanks for your review! Hope this chapter kept your interest!
annabethfan15: Thank you very much! I'm happy the age-gap doesn't bother you as that is going to be a very crucial point of this fic. Haha, you got lucky this time. Don't expect such speedy updates regularly!
P.S. Votre Anglais est bien meilleures que mon francaise. Alors, pas de soucis.
Guest: *Takes deep breath* I apologize in advanced for my verbose response.
I say she's "not a genius" to represent how Allison has a healthy view of herself, not to avoid a situation that an ounce of good writing will prevent. She is smart. She is very smart. (As stated) she, however, does not have an IQ four standard deviations away from the mean (i.e. +160) and, therefore, is not a 'genius.' I can appreciate the her situation is far from "normal" and I can appreciate that this leads you to believe Allison is a Mary Sue. That's fine; I write. You read. I intend. You interpret. Far be it from me to criticize your interpretation. That being said, I hope you can appreciate that I can do nothing to assuage you of your interpretation but keep writing and tell you that I do have a reason behind everything I reveal. Hopefully you keep reading, if not, thank you for your review!
~:~
Thanks again to all who read/alerted/Favorited/reviewed. You guys are the best!