Hangknot, Slipknot, A Little More Rope

"Man, honest as he may be, is not infallible. In times of emotional stress, he often draws false conclusions from startling circumstances. This human weakness has resulted in convicting some men who were innocent."
~Unknown.

FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.

A movement at the door caused Sura to snap her head up (she'd consumed way too much coffee and now she'd become a bit skittish). She smiled slightly when she saw Jack and Judith enter, reaching up to slip off her noise-cancelling headphones with one hand as she simultaneously paused her music with the other.

"Oh, my darlings," she gave a saddened moue of disapproval at their weary and worn faces.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Judith assured her, though Sura got the feeling that it was a lie.

"What've you got so far, Sura?" Jack asked, making a beeline for the coffee pot.

"On which front?" She returned solicitously. "I'm looking into Dr. Reid's background, and into Fuller's, and then also into any possible connection the two might have had."

"Just…all of it," Jack gave a slight flop of his free hand. "Give me whatever you've got."

The door opened again and Scott O'Donnell entered, looking slightly relieved to see Dawson and Eden, "Good, you're back."

"Oh, he's rejoicing at our return—must not know us well enough yet," Jude mused with a wry smile, which Scott returned with equal dryness.

Dawson turned to face O'Donnell, giving a slight motion over to Sura, "We're just playing a little catch-up before we start interviewing Reid and Rossi."

O'Donnell nodded, gesturing for Sura to continue.

"Right. So," she turned her attention back to the computer screen, clicking through a series of windows. "Benjamin Fuller—I gave you the basics earlier, age, education, all that jazz. Still nothing in his file that screams I'm about to blow you all to kingdom come. His name doesn't show up in any of the interviews, from when agents were asked if they'd noticed any of their colleagues seeming withdrawn or distant or acting strangely. He seems to pull support positions for every case, nothing commending him for bravery or otherwise going above and beyond the call of duty. No mentions of him in any articles or news reports—in fact, the only news articles on him are a local paper's listing for his high school graduating class. He doesn't have a Facebook, Twitter, Tinder, MySpace, Snapchat—no online presence whatsoever. Not impossible, but a bit unusual for someone of his age."

"I didn't notice any kind of technology in this house, did you?" Dawson glanced over at Eden.

She shook her head, "No laptop. No desktop computer….I'm not even sure the television worked."

"Isn't that a bit odd?" O'Donnell's brow quirked in askance. "I mean, the guy worked with computers."

"Maybe he didn't want to be reminded of work while he was at home," Eden offered, though she didn't seem committed to her idea.

"Dr. Reid seems to be of the same outlook," Roza commented, her eyes darting across the screen. "Now, I can find more things about Reid—mentions in news articles, even a few copies of some papers he's written or presentations he's given. But no, it's not going to be as easy as realizing they're friends on Facebook, if that's what you were hoping for."

"Not a chance," Dawson informed her drolly. "We prefer our cases with a little more challenge than that."

Eden gave a hum of amusement.

"Back to Benny-boy," Roza redirected. "Aside from the death of his father over a decade ago, there really isn't any other loss that could easily be seen as a precursor to the attack."

"Fitting more and more with our idea that Fuller was just a patsy," Dawson turned to Jude again, who nodded in agreement. He explained to O'Donnell, "Fuller's mother stated that Benjamin didn't make friends easily, but when he did, he was loyal til the end. He also seemed to be extremely patriotic—not that either of those are faults, but if you combined them with some kind of personal admiration he might have held for someone higher up in the Bureau…well, it could easily feed into him being led astray and into some questionable acts."

"The note with the addresses," O'Donnell put the two pieces together. "It was supposedly in Reid's handwriting."

He used the word supposedly because even though it did look like Spencer Reid's scrawl, he was having the writing analyzed for verification. Dawson wouldn't have asked for anything less.

"So in terms of motive, Reid looks better," Dawson shifted his attention back to Sura. He downed the rest of his tepid coffee and tossed the paper cup in the trash bin.

"Perhaps," she gave a slight shrug. "I mean, yes—his loss was more recent, and the thing with Linnea Charles implies that connection is being played upon—but it seems as equally unrelated as the death of Fuller's father. Maeve Donovan's case wasn't handled by the FBI."

She held up a file folder, offering it to her boss, "I printed it out and highlighted the parts you need to know."

He didn't smile, but she could tell that he was grateful as he gingerly took the file on Maeve Donovan's murder—at least as grateful as one could be about having yet another senseless death to look at.

Judith picked up the line of inquiry as her boss began skimming the file contents. "Having Miss Donovan's case handled by the FBI doesn't necessarily mean that they are without blame—at least not in Spencer Reid's mind. Though one has to wonder why he took so long to act upon it, if he is doing this in retaliation for the loss."

"Maybe he was trying other ways of coping," O'Donnell shrugged. "Maybe he needed time to select the perfect co-conspirator. You can't exactly just walk up to someone and say 'hey, I'm thinking about bombing Quantico, wanna join me?'"

"Valid point," Eden conceded.

"Speaking of points," Sura piped up again. "There isn't any points of connection between Fuller and Reid—never worked on a case together, didn't go through the Academy together, nothing. Aside from working in the same building, there's really nothing to connect them."

Dawson gave a heavy sigh, not looking up from the file as he asked, "O'Donnell, how many cameras you got in that place?"

The Quantico SAC looked perplexed by the question. He gave a slight shrug, "Maybe a hundred, I haven't a clue. That's a question for the tech department."

"Roza, direct that question to the tech department," Dawson commanded. "And then get 'em to pull all the footage they can from the building."

"You're not seriously going to analyze every hour of security footage looking for a moment that Reid and Fuller could've passed each other in the hallway, are you?" Eden's voice was breathless with incredulity.

"Don't worry—you won't be the one watching it," Dawson returned dryly. With a slight lift of his eyebrow, he added, "Neither will I, for that matter."

He read a few more lines before closing Maeve's folder and handing it over to Jude as he continued, "Besides, I'm looking for something very specific."

"Such as?"

"One step at a time," he informed her, much to the dismay of everyone in the room.

"The techs have already got at least the last two weeks of footage up and running right now—they've been trying to find where and how someone might have smuggled in the items needed to make the bomb," Sura pointed out. "Now that we know that Benjamin Fuller was behind it, we can narrow down where we're actually looking."

O'Donnell nodded in agreement. Jude made a small noise that couldn't be definitively labeled as agreement or dissent.

"There is—there's something else," Sura halted, as if unsure of whether or not to share. But now everyone was staring at her, so she pushed forward. "Um, earlier, I went back to the Mobile Command Center—I needed some more cable—well, that's not the point, anyways—and the techs stationed there told me something…I don't know if means anything—"

"Yes, you do," Jack assured her. "You're a smart woman, Sura. If you didn't think it meant something, you wouldn't be telling us now."

She ducked her head slightly, as if she wanted to disagree, as if she wanted to be wrong, to be crying out a false alarm. Her action did nothing to settle the feeling of uneasiness in O'Donnell's gut.

"You know, the BAU was working with the two techs from D.C., earlier today. Federer was complaining that Dr. Reid had been particularly unhelpful—like he was shooting down every suggestion they had, almost as if he was trying to…I don't know. Honestly, if it had been just Federer saying it, I wouldn't have paid it any mind—the man's an idiot. Don't get me wrong, he's good at his job, but he's still an idiot. But Viega, the other tech, was agreeing with him." Sura shrugged again, "It seemed inconsequential, when they were talking about it—but now—"

"But now it's suddenly an admission of guilt?" Jude finished, slightly incredulous.

"Now it just seems suspicious," Sura found her mental footing. "I mean, they were trying to track down possible purchases of bomb materials, and Reid basically told them not to even try. At first glance, it may seem like he was streamlining the investigation, but now—maybe he was afraid that they might actually find something. Something that wouldn't look too good for him."

"Contact Viega and Federer," Dawson informed her. "Have them get over here as soon as possible. I want to know exactly what was said, and how it was said—it may be a rabbit trail, but we'll at least look into it."

"So we're going to build our whole case over a man being slightly uncooperative?" Jude looked at her boss, trying to keep her tone neutral and failing. "Jesus, if that was all it took, we'd all be in jail."

"But maybe it speaks to a pattern," O'Donnell spoke up. He'd been thoughtfully silent for the past few minutes. "The morning of the bombing, Dr. Reid was uncooperative—he wouldn't surrender his cellphone, like the rest of the agents."

"A cellphone that was used to send an email to Linnea Charles," Sura pointed out.

O'Donnell nodded as he continued, "I chalked it up to adrenaline, fear, whatever—then when Agent Jareau was brought out of the building, Reid broke past the cordon and went into the ambulance with her—and supposedly, that's when he somehow lost his phone. The piece of evidence that could definitively tie him to the email—"

"Or definitively prove his innocence," Jude added, her teeth practically gritted together.

"One isolated incident is an exception—but a pattern of behavior is evidence," Dawson quoted an axiom that everyone in the room had heard at least once during their Academy days.

"But not an admission of guilt," Jude reiterated. A warning danced at the edges of her low tone, but a quick, cutting glance from Dawson sent her back to inspecting the file on Maeve, lips pressed into a firm line.

O'Donnell told himself that he needed to learn how to master Dawson's silent communication skills—how much easier his job would be, if he could put agents back in line with a single look.

Jack Dawson focused on Sura again, "Anything else I need to know?"

"Maybe?" Sura didn't seem very sure. She clicked through a few files on her computer, "Dr. Reid's pretty clean—a few action reports putting him in the line of fire, but nothing requiring suspension. There isn't a single instance of being denied for any kind of promotion—all in all, he has the marks of being a Bureau golden child. Aside from today's behavior, there aren't any real red flags."

Jack could feel Jude tensing up, as if she were holding back another retort, but she didn't voice it aloud.

"Alright. Thank you, Sura." He turned to O'Donnell, "Is Rossi ready for questioning?"

O'Donnell nodded.

"Then let's get started," Dawson decreed, heading for the door. He gave one last missive to Sura over his shoulder, "Let me know as soon as those two analysts get here. I want to talk to them before I question Dr. Reid—he's going to have a lot to answer for, before this night's over."

Benjamin Fuller's House, Rural Virginia.

"You've photo-documented the room, correct?" Adelaide Macaraeg took a moment to simply stand in the doorway of Benjamin Fuller's study, taking in the rows upon rows of books and notebooks.

The younger tech nodded in affirmation, glancing down at his camera to click through the series of photos, as if double-checking himself. "Yes'm. Got it all, from every angle."

"That's a mighty big claim—but I'm sure you got enough," Mac always found the certainty of youth amusing. She moved across the room, looking up at the floor-to-ceiling case of notebooks, a sense of dread settling onto her chest with a heavy weight (weeks, months, this could take, to analyze everything). Without turning back to the tech, she commanded, "Bring the big clear evidence tubs from the van—we'll have to take this all back to Quantico."

"All of it?"

She turned back to the young man, who looked slightly worried at the idea. "Well, we can leave the desk and the shelves. Just the books."

He didn't respond; he merely ducked his head and left the room.

Good to see she was making herself popular with the fellow techs.

She shifted closer to the desk, almost absentmindedly opening the drawers. Unsurprisingly, there were more notebooks inside. She picked one up and flipped through it—pages upon pages of Fuller's handwriting flashed past her eyes. Sometimes the ink color changed, here and there was a page slightly more crumpled, as if there had been some slight water damage, but there wasn't anything outstandingly unique about the journal. Apparently, it was his most recent one, because the last thirty pages or so were blank.

She needed to figure out which notebook the faux-suicide note had been taken from. She crouched down, gingerly taking the stack and pushing the notebooks to one side, making their spiral spines form an orderly row of steps.

Not a single shred of torn paper trapped within the spirals. Whoever had torn out the page had been meticulous—they hadn't even left a clue as to where the page itself had come from.

Or maybe it hadn't come from any of these at all. There were certainly plenty of others to choose from.

She checked a few more, being careful to keep them in their original order. The notebooks in the desk drawer all appeared to be part of some personal diary. It seemed odd that Agent Fuller, involved in a clandestine conspiracy to bomb the Federal Bureau of Investigation, hadn't been slightly more cautious with the books containing his plans. After all, he'd gone through the trouble of creating hollow books to hide the other notebooks—so why leave the others out in the relative open?

That's when Mac noticed the lock—one on the desk drawer itself.

She frowned slightly, leaning in to inspect it. The lock face wasn't scratched, the wood unsplintered, meaning that no one had forced it open. Which meant that it had been opened with a key. She rocked back onto her heels again, craning her neck to see the desk's surface, which was smooth and devoid of any key.

If Jack Dawson or Judith Eden had unlocked the desk, surely they would have said something—or at the very least, left the key where the evidence team could easily find it.

Evidence team. Perhaps the tech photo-documenting the room had removed the key, unlocked the drawer, and then replaced the key where he'd found it, so that it could also be photo-documented. Unlikely, but the best guess she had at the moment.

Mac stood, opening the remaining drawers.

Nothing.

She started for the door, almost bumping into the young tech whom she'd sent out to grab the evidence tubs.

"Oh, there you are," she easily removed the stack of tubs from the dolly which the tech had wheeled in. "Quick question—did you unlock the desk drawer?"

"No," he face skewed in slight confusion. "It was like that when I got in here."

"So, you didn't see a key anywhere?"

"Not that I remember, off the top of my head. But gimme a sec—I'll go grab the camera and look through the photos." He was gone before she could even thank him. Obviously, he'd understood that this might be an important clue.

With a slight sigh, Mac turned back to survey the room again. She really hoped this meant something. She didn't have time to be chasing ghosts. Everything about this case had a bad feel to it, and every discovery only furthered the feeling.

FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.

Mateo Cruz was surprised to see that Dora Carrington was still at the Academy when he returned from Benjamin Fuller's house—although, on second thought, he wasn't really surprised at all. Carrington had proven herself to be an absolute workhorse over the past few months—and over the past two days in particular.

"Sir," she looked relieved to see him, though her left hand immediately began fidgeting with a ring on her right hand. "What's—did they find anything?"

Her first question was going to be what's happening, but she'd changed it. An odd thing to do, and an odd thing to notice, Cruz thought. She went from being certain of an outcome to being uncertain of any outcome at all.

"Fuller's dead," he informed her. "But he left behind a lot of evidence."

"What kind of evidence?" She seemed to be holding her breath.

"Notes—a manifesto of sorts, that kind of thing. It looks like he may have had an accomplice."

"Oh? Who?" Something in her tone wasn't right. As if she already knew the answer.

Cruz took a moment to consider his next answer. Jack Dawson had already made it crystal clear that the Flying Js, Cruz, O'Donnell, and Macaraeg were to be the only ones who knew about the mention of Reid in the notebooks. So he followed protocol and simply offered, "We don't know yet."

"Oh," Carrington looked away. She seemed…disappointed.

Cruz decided that he was much too tired to try analyzing people's nonverbal cues. Right now, everything he knew about life in general and the BAU in particular was upside down, so he didn't even trust himself to given an accurate reading of his own secretary's behavior.

"I don't think I'll be needing you for the rest of the night, Carrington," he informed her wearily. "Go home, get some rest. I doubt tomorrow will be any easier—but I think it'll be more bearable if at least one of us gets a little bit of sleep."

"Yes, sir," she gave a curt nod and went to gather her things. She hesitated before saying goodbye, as if there was something more she wanted to say, but decided against it.

Or maybe she didn't do that at all. He was so tired, it could have all just been in his head.

Carrington waited until she was in her car before she called Jordan Strauss.

"What's happened now?" Jordan answered, not bothering with a greeting (another trait from her mother).

"He's denying it—well, technically he's not denying, since I didn't ask him outright—but he did lie to me. He said they didn't have a named suspect yet."

Jordan gave a low hum. Carrington had called her earlier, telling her about witnessing Spencer Reid's arrest, and Jordan had pressed her to see what else she could glean from Cruz, who as the section chief would obviously be aware of whatever was going on. Cruz's feigned ignorance seemed to only darken the situation.

"What should we do now?" Carrington asked quietly, fully aware of how ridiculous it was, having a secretary and a museum curator playing sleuths on an FBI bombing case.

"I need to tell Dave," Jordan admitted.

"I don't think you'll be able to."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm pretty sure he's still here, at Quantico."

"What?"

"I think they're holding him for questioning—if it is true, and Dr. Reid is a suspect, the whole BAU's going to have to be put back under the microscope."

"I, um—OK. I'll handle this."

"Jordan…"

"Don't worry. I'm not going to do anything dangerous. I won't even leave my house."

"If it were anyone else giving that line, I might be reassured, but with you—"

"Oh, whatever. If you didn't want me involved, you shouldn't have involved me."

Carrington couldn't argue with that—and she also couldn't admit why she'd wanted Jordan involved. It was a horribly twisted way to stay in-touch, a means of staying tied-in to Jordan's life, and there was no way it could end well.

"What are you going to do?" Carrington asked quietly.

"At this point, Carrington, the less you know, the better."

That was completely not reassuring. At all.

Now granted, David Rossi didn't have an off-the-charts, blindingly stellar IQ—but you didn't have to be a genius to figure out that something was definitely up.

Of course, he was in a heightened state of awareness, due to his recent acceptance of the invitation to spend a little quality time in a secluded room at the Academy—not that he'd had any real choice, no matter how nicely Scott O'Donnell had couched the terms. However, he hadn't really reached the place of worry just yet—he had nothing to hide, and despite many soul-crushing moments in his career, he'd learned to inevitably trust the truth to come out and prove itself.

Hotch had been informed of what was going on, and where Rossi and Reid were, and that was Dave's only real concern. The time spent waiting was boring but not entirely unpleasant. He read some old magazines, stared at a crack in the wall's paint, spent a little time watching a spider weave its web in a corner of the room—all in all, a relaxing and rewarding experience.

Smart-assed nonchalance quickly disappeared when Agent Keller entered the room, her pretty face set in a grim expression (though, to be fair, he'd never seen her ever give so much as a smile, so really her serious countenance wasn't exactly a herald of things to come). She strode towards him confidently, gently holding out her hand, as if she did so against her own will.

"Agent Rossi, I have to ask you to relinquish your phone."

His eyebrows lifted in surprised, but he easily acquiesced, depositing the phone into her open palm.

"Am I allowed to ask what's going on?" He kept his voice cordial, unassuming.

"Of course. Free country—ask whatever you like," she matched his tone. For the first time, he saw the beginnings of a smile dance at the corner of her eyes. "Doesn't mean I'll answer, though."

He decided that he liked Agent Keller.

"Well, I'll take my chances: what's going on?"

"I'm taking you to an interview room—a proper interview room," she stepped back, jerking her chin in the direction of the doorway and waiting for him to rise and follow her.

"The purpose being, I assume, to interview me."

"Yes." Another almost-smile, neither cold nor warm. She didn't dislike him, but she was remaining professionally aloof—a good thing to do if you're talking to a potential suspect. Rossi had implemented the tactic himself, from time to time. It was a survival mechanism, a way to keep from getting too emotionally attached to someone who might end up being the UNSUB. While he understood her reasoning, he also felt a slight ripple of injustice at the fact that she thought such a thing was necessary, with him.

He followed her down the hallway with an air of good-natured ease (it was a lie, his skin was singing with the feeling of danger, but he'd learned a long time ago to keep things like that to himself). Keller might be trying to politely block him out, but that didn't mean he was obligated to let her do so, not without a fight.

So he pushed further, always keeping his tone friendly, "Please tell me I'm not gonna get stuck in a room with Agent Shostakovich again."

Now she grinned—and even made a small sound that resembled a strangled laugh. "No. Eden and Dawson will be conducting your interview. They're on their way in now—I was told to go ahead and bring you into the room. Give you time to get comfortable."

It was a seamless lie. If David Rossi hadn't spent more than half his life in law enforcement, he might believe it. Putting a suspect in an interview room before the interviewers entered wasn't about making the suspect comfortable—it was about being able to observe him or her, to read their behavior and see how to get inside their head before the interviewer even stepped foot inside the room.

Still, he'd give her points for good delivery and the easiness with which she lied. Admirable traits, given their profession.

They wound their way through a new set of halls, none of which Rossi remembered, even though he'd spent considerable time at the Academy in the past. If his bearings were still correct, they were now on the northern side of the building, where classrooms slowly melted away into crime-scene mock-ups and other training tools.

The room was a real interview room—actually, it was used in training exercises, but it was still set up just like a real interview room—with white-washed walls, no windows except for the long black one-way mirror. He cast a brief glance in the ominous black rectangle's direction, wondering who was already on the other side.

This was the moment that David Rossi truly felt the gravity of the situation.

"Can I get you anything?" Keller turned to him with a solicitous air. "Water?"

"Why do I get the feeling you're about to read me my rights?" The genial tone from earlier was gone, replaced with cautious searching.

"I'm not," she assured him, offering a perfunctory smile that could be better described as a mere muscle tic than an actual expression of reassurance. She shifted away, back towards the door, adding over her shoulder, "Dawson and Eden might, but I'm not."

Well, that was reassuring.

Keller quietly closed the door behind her, and Rossi settled into his chair—out of sheer obstinance and a growing desire to screw with whoever was behind the glass, he chose the chair that faced away from the mirror, denying the looky-loos a chance to read his expression or otherwise catalogue his behavior. He was also sending a message, which he knew they got loud and clear: I'll follow the letter of your directions, but not the spirit—I can protest without protesting, you know.

From behind the glass, Jonas Shostakovich gave a slight huff of frustrated amusement. Keller hadn't specifically told Rossi which chair to take—because, given his decades' worth of experience in law enforcement, she knew that he was well aware of where he should sit. Rossi wasn't even playing dumb—he was being outright uncooperative, which wasn't exactly a good sign for things to come.

The door opened, bringing in a shaft of light before Keller closed it again. Her low-heeled boots clicked slowly across the tiles, hands tucking into her jeans' front pockets as she turned her attention to the interview room.

"So it's gonna be one of those interviews," was her only observation. Jonas hummed in agreement.

"I don't like this," she admitted quietly, her voice low and heavy with conviction. "I don't like any of this, at all."

"I know." She wasn't sure if Jonas was commiserating or simply trying to placate her. She was too tired to ask for clarification.

The door opened again—Jess and Jonas turned in unison to see Scott O'Donnell enter, followed by Dawson and Eden.

"What'd you find?" The words were out of Jess' mouth before everyone was fully in the room.

"One thing at a time, Keller," Dawson informed her. He glanced over at his English teammate, "Jude, you'll be handling Rossi this time."

"Right-O. Shall I go in now?"

He nodded, waving her off slightly. Eden slipped back out the door.

"You sure that's a good idea?" Jonas asked quietly.

Dawson answered that question with a look which invited no further commentary. He shifted closer to Keller, turning his attention to the interview room. He made a small noise when he saw Rossi's placement.

O'Donnell noted it as well, quietly stepping closer to the glass as he intoned, "A guilty man trying to hide his reactions?"

"Let's not set the cart before the horse. The only thing he's guilty of right now is being a smartass," Dawson stated.

"And he hasn't been hiding that in the least," Shostakovich added. Keller glanced over at him, her eyebrow lifting in the slightest hint of incredulity (and you're one to talk, Joe).

The studied way in which he ignored her silent comment only widened her smirk.

The door to the interview room opened easily and SSA Judith Eden entered with an air of nonchalance that was a complete turn-around from her manner when she'd first arrived back at the Academy. Scott O'Donnell knew that was why there'd been a pause in-between her disappearance into the hall and her reappearance in the interview room—she'd been bolstering herself up, getting back into the right frame of mind for what would certainly be a delicate and trying interview.

Though he had to admit, her current demeanor didn't seem entirely appropriate, given the severity of the circumstances.

"It'll be just a few minutes—Agent Dawson had a quick phone call to take," Eden offered a friendly smile as she closed the door behind her, tossing a notepad on the table with casual flippancy. Her smile turned into something slightly more amused when she realized that he was sitting in what should have been her seat, but she never commented on it. She merely sat down across from him, pulling her knee up to her chest in a child-like fashion, "Though I do have a bit of a pressing question: where is the best place to order Chinese?"

"What the hell is she doing?" O'Donnell asked quietly, truly perplexed.

"Being herself," Agent Keller returned, her tone so impossibly neutral that he couldn't tell if her statement was a compliment or a critique.

In the next room, David Rossi was equally unsettled. He looked at Judith Eden as if she'd grown a second head.

"I ask in all seriousness," she assured him, her dark eyes twinkling in playful amusement. "We'll have to order in for dinner and I refuse to have yet another pizza—which is exactly what we'll have if Jack has his way. Don't get me wrong, I like pizza just as much as the next, but there's something to be said for some small dash of variety in life."

Rossi gave a small sympathetic hum of amusement—he understood life on the road, stuck in police departments or hotel rooms, ordering take-out more than a person should, putting your physical health in the same precarious almost-shambles as your mental state and your personal life.

"I can't say there's a whole lot to choose from when it comes to places that will deliver out here," he admitted sadly, to which she gave a commiserating hum of understanding.

"Yes, it is a bit…out of the way, I suppose," she smiled again, the same relaxed amusement that made her seem like she was merely sitting down for a nice cup of tea instead of an interrogation (it was the accent, which she used to her advantage, playing it like a flute, using it to make herself seem in turns cold and austere or warm and darling). "But surely there's at least one."

"I think Little Palace delivers out here," he squinted slightly as he tried to remember.

"Are they any good?"

"Depends on what you order." David gave a shrug. "Their General Tso's isn't spicy enough for my tastes, but they've got some good crab rangoon."

"I do so love crab rangoon," Eden leaned forward with another smile, this one close-mouthed but so wide that her eyes became slits. "Now tell me, did Spencer Reid ever indicate that he was going to bomb the main building?"

"Life is nothing but surprises. Even our tragedies turn out different than we expect."
~Marty Rubin.

*Author's Note: I want to take a moment to say a heartfelt thank you to everyone who took the time to review/add/follow/favorite this story's prequel—here's to hoping you've enjoyed the beginning of its sequel. More to come soon and happy reading!*