The Widening Gyre

"Always trust your gut. It knows what your head hasn't figured out yet."

~Unknown.

*Author's Note: This is specifically directed to FCOL, reviewing as a guest—your reasoning for not having an account is something I've honestly never considered, but that totally makes sense to me. Thanks for pointing that out. As stated in my first author's note, I generally don't have an issue with guest reviews, except for when they do make comments or ask questions that require an answer and are posted as reviews on completed works, meaning I can't address them in author's notes in future chapters, as I am currently doing with your response (I actually went back and amended my original note to emphasize that my ONLY issue is specifically with guest reviews on completed works that require feedback). As previously stated, I'm not trying to bash anyone, and it wasn't my intention to imply that every person who comments as a guest is simply trolling. But I have received a few anonymous reviews that were of a trollish nature over the years—I try to leave up all the reviews, positive and critical, because that's part of the process, but this past story was the first time I've actually had to delete a review because the commentary had nothing to do with the actual story and was rather directed at me personally (which is utterly ridiculous, when you think about it). Hence my trolling comment.

Let me be very clear: there's nothing wrong with critical reviews. One of my favorite reviews was one that completely eviscerated the piece I'd written, because it made me a better writer and a stronger researcher. Critiques are part of how we writers learn and improve. So long as they're kept in the right spirit and not turned into some kind of bash against the writer as a person—and I think that's a point we can all agree on.

And yes, actually—putting a name to a guest review really does help! It helps me keep track of who's asking what and who's having questions. For example, if I get 5 anonymous reviews over the course of the story discussing a misunderstanding/dislike of a certain character or plot line, that may not be indicative of anything. They could all be from the same person, and that could simply mean that I'm not their kind of writer (it happens—we all have read writers whose narrative style simply doesn't "work" for us)—but if those reviews are from 5 different people (or even 3 different people), then that's an indication that there is an issue with how I'm telling this story, and that I need to take a closer look at my technique. So leaving some kind of identifying factor in a guest review greatly helps me, in terms of charting feedback and thereby gauging my own effectiveness, if that makes sense.

And thank you again for showing me a side of the situation that I hadn't even realized. Perspective always helps.*

FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.

A bomb could have exploded right over David Rossi's head, and he would've been less surprised. He stopped, blinked, leaned forward slightly, one brow quirking downward in suspicious disbelief, as if he no longer recognized the woman seated in front of him, as if Judith Eden had somehow transformed into an alien. Judging from their previous interactions, SSA Eden had been nothing but fond of Spencer Reid, and now she was accusing him of terrorism.

"Reid? You really think Reid could've had anything to do with this?" He was still frowning, still trying to make out whatever riddle had just been given to him.

Eden seemed almost relieved at his reaction—and in truth, she was. He gave the genuine response of someone innocent, someone who had no possible idea.

Her dark eyes flicked to the glass pane behind Agent Rossi. She kept her mouth slightly open, as if she were somehow still tethered to her previous question, which hung in the air like a balloon. She touched her tongue to the right corner of her mouth.

"He's telling the truth," Dawson decreed from the other side of the glass. Jude had always been his best reader when it came to body language, and they'd developed a silent communication of their own—shifting her head down and cocking her chin to the left meant the person was lying, looking at him and gently tapping her tongue to the right corner of her lips meant the person was telling the truth. It was more subtle than tugging an ear or wiping her brow, and she always made sure to mask it into her body language—there had even been times when it had seemed so natural that Jack had almost missed the cue itself.

"So, what do we do now?" Scott O'Donnell asked, glancing around at the other people in the room. "Let him go?"

"He's shocked at the idea of Dr. Reid being implicated—that doesn't mean that he doesn't know who the real bomber is," Jessalyn Keller pointed out quietly, arms still crossed over her chest as she kept her focus on the occupants in the other room.

"Or that he isn't the real bomber himself," Jonas added. He felt everyone shift back towards him, and he glanced around, holding his hands up in protest, "I'm just saying—if you put him up against Spencer Reid, David Rossi was way more motive than Dr. Reid. As does Agent Hotchner, for that matter. I'm trying to keep an open mind and let the facts fall where they may, but this…this scenario just isn't logical, not to me, not by any stretch of my imagination. It just doesn't fit."

Dawson gave a heavy sigh, "Until about an hour ago, I would've completely agreed with you. But I saw the evidence with my own eyes, Jonas. These are the facts, and when the facts don't fit, you have to change your parameters. But you can't change the facts."

Jonas turned his attention back to the interview room, his voice barely audible as he quietly declared, "Unless the facts aren't really facts."

O'Donnell was momentarily focused on Jessalyn Keller—in the dimly-lit viewing room, the features of her face seemed flawless, washed in the faint glow emanating through the one-way mirror. However, it wasn't her beauty that was holding his attention (though, he could very easily admit that if this were a different time and place, that beauty would be more than enough to command his gaze), but rather the expression on her face. She was looking at Dawson as if she didn't recognize him.

However, unlike Judith Eden, Keller didn't go head-to-head with her superior officer whenever she obviously disagreed. Instead, she merely turned her attention back to the interview room, though the look of mild bewilderment never fully left her face.

Scott wondered what the hell that meant—as if he didn't have enough things to worry about.

Benjamin Fuller's House. Rural Virginia.

"That's the last of it?" Adelaide Macaraeg surveyed the room again, making sure that nothing had been missed—they'd packed the entire library into plastic evidence tubs, taking painstaking care to make sure that everything stayed in the order that it had been on the shelves and that each tub had been marked appropriately so that they could rebuild the entire library in its correct order back at the evidence lab. It might have been an exercise in pointlessness, depending on whether or not the order somehow revealed a clue, but it was better safe than sorry.

"Yes'm," answered the tech who'd been photo-documenting the site, whom she'd learned was named Marvin (really, was there any better name for a techie than Marvin?). At first, he'd been a bit uncertain that there was a method to her madness, but after all the time they'd spent in this tiny house together, they'd inevitably bonded and now he understood that Mac didn't give an order without a damn good reason, and he respected that.

She gave a curt of approval, taking one last turn around the room to make sure nothing obvious had been left behind. Once she was satisfied, she performed a similar scout of the bedroom and hallway—the living room and kitchen still had items to be processed, but in the relatively short hours they'd been here, they'd worked quickly for such a small crew. Of course, everyone knew how important it was to have this evidence collected, processed, and analyzed—the rest of the crew perhaps even more so than Mac, since it was their home office that had been bombed, their friends and colleagues lying in hospital beds or on slabs at the morgue, their sense of safety and rightness that had been ripped away.

She wandered back into the library, staring ahead with unseeing eyes as her mind mulled over the same detail that had been bothering her for hours now. They still hadn't found the key for Fuller's desk, which should have been locked. It was a small thing, perhaps an inconsequential detail (maybe he never locked the desk, maybe he'd lost the key years ago), but still, it nagged at the back of her mind. She didn't like leaving things undone or unknown.

"Marvin," she called the young tech back into the library.

"Yeah?" He lumbered down the hallway, his face lined with cautious curiosity.

"Bring the camera back in here. I want detailed photos of this lock," she pointed to the bottom drawer of the desk. "Every angle, every aspect—even the part of the mechanism that's attached to the rest of the desk. Once you've documented it, I want the drawer to come back with us as well."

"Oh…kay," his confusion was screamingly evident, but he didn't question her decision.

She set her hands on her hips for a moment, simply staring at the desk. She could be wrong, but at least she wouldn't lie awake at night, wondering if she'd missed something by not inspecting the unlocked drawer further.

Her cellphone went off as she was heading back down the hall. She saw Masterson's name on her caller ID, so she answered with, "How's it going up there?"

When she'd left, Jeff Masterson and Rowena Lewis had been continuing their slog through the chaos of the blast site.

"It's gone," he informed her easily. "We were calling to say we've just bagged and tagged the last of it."

"Really?" She couldn't help but be impressed. Between the three of them, they'd tackled a bomb site in less than three days, and they'd won. Granted, they also hadn't really had a decent night's sleep, either, but still.

"Yep. Roe's getting ready to take it all down to the lab," he added. There was an indistinct mumble from Agent Lewis, and given the tone, it was obvious that she wasn't relishing the trip. Knowing those two, they'd probably made a bet, which Rowena had lost. And also knowing those two, Jeff would still help her take the evidence downstairs, and probably end up carrying most of the stuff anyways.

"Well, good work. I have to say, that's faster than I expected."

"We weren't calling just to brag," his tone was laced with slight amusement. "We wanted to know if you needed a couple of extra hands out there."

In that moment, Adelaide Macaraeg felt a swell of gratitude for her team. This was her first time out in the field since being transferred and promoted to unit chief, and that had brought its own dose of trepidation at what she would discover—and she couldn't be happier with the results. Roe and Jeff, who were hailed as the best of the unit, had earned their titles rightfully. They were hardworking, determined, and most importantly, they were able to keep a relatively positive demeanor, given the darkness of the work they did and the sights they saw. She couldn't have asked for more.

And here they were, after the second day of crawling around through debris with tweezers, offering to come help on the next scene. Mac knew that part of it stemmed from a true desire to help where they could—but some of it came from a desire to help their friends in the BAU, too.

Which was why she couldn't allow them to be here.

"I think we're good here," she informed him, stopping in the living room to glance around and reassure herself of that statement's veracity. "By the time you guys drop off the rest of the evidence, get your gear, and drive out here, we'd already be wrapped up. So why don't you two finish up at Quantico and then head back to the hotel to get some sleep?"

"Don't have to tell me twice," he joked, though his tone was tinged with relief. Quietly, he asked, "So, didja find anything?"

She had to answer that question very carefully, "Oh, lots of things. Whether or not they're useful things, only time will tell—which is why I need you and Lewis to get some rest. We'll need to look at it with fresh eyes in the morning."

She didn't tell him about Reid, for the same reason she didn't let them come to Fuller's house. Let them have one last night of good sleep, one last night of believing that the people they knew couldn't be capable of such a thing, one last night in a world that seemed as close to balanced and just as their world could be.

The truth could shatter those beliefs in the morning. But for tonight, it could rest.

The Hotchner House. Suburbs outside Washington, D.C.

Jack Hotchner was halfway through his recitation of the Gettysburg Address when his father's phone rang—and on cue, he immediately stopped, looking at his father with expectant eyes as he waited for Aaron to answer it.

Aaron pushed down a wave of self-hatred at the realization that his nine-year-old son had been inadvertently trained to stop and shush whenever Aaron's work pushed its way into their lives—and he hated himself even more for how quickly he answered the call.

"This is SSA Hotchner." He didn't recognize the number, but it was a D.C. area code and there were very few people who would be calling him at this hour—all of whom were Bureau personnel.

"Agent Hotchner?" An unfamiliar female voice wavered on the other end of the line. "I'm—I'm not sure you'll remember me—I'm Jordan Strauss, Erin Strauss' daughter. We've met, a few times—"

"Yes, of course." Aaron didn't remind her that the last time they'd seen each other, it had been when he'd offered his condolences at her mother's graveside. Or that he was already well aware of the role she'd played in the fiasco this afternoon which had left two of his agents in temporary custody.

"I'm sorry, I wouldn't be calling if it—have you heard, already?" Her voice was disjointed, her thoughts obviously muddled.

"What's happened?" Aaron glanced over at his son again, who was watching him with rapt interest. Jack was currently bedecked in an attempt at Lincoln-esque dress—in his own black slacks (such a young boy, to have such dark and formal clothes—sadder still to know how often he used them) and his dad's white button-down, the collar popped up to accommodate a black tie that had been hap-hazardously turned into a bow-tie, his father's black vest and black suit coat completing the look. In lieu of a stovepipe hat, there was a black bowler that Aaron honestly couldn't remember ever wearing or even buying. He'd briefly wondered if it had been part of the theatre costuming that Haley had kept over the years, though he couldn't think of why it would be in there—or how Jack had come across it.

"Spencer's been taken into custody."

Aaron felt a measure of relief—of course he already knew. Mateo Cruz had informed him about the decision to keep Rossi and Reid at Quantico until the whole mess with Linnea Donovan Charles was sorted out. He fought back the urge to point out that the only reason they were in custody was because of Jordan Strauss, who'd brought the situation to their attention in the first place. However, he kindly refrained.

"Reid's just being held until they can confirm a few things about Linnea," he informed her, keeping his tone low and calm, though he was too tired to infuse any kind of warmth or gentleness (because again, if she'd just told Linnea to go to the FBI instead of taking to the wind, Reid wouldn't be in custody—it was hard to feign sympathy for the person responsible for current events).

"No, no—he was already being held. I'm saying that now, he's under arrest."

"Under arrest?" Hotch sat up slightly, unsure of what was happening.

"Yeah. That means they've found something, right? Something bad?"

Hotch was on his feet now, moving into the kitchen. He could feel Jack's eyes on him, but he was too sucked into the moment—he didn't like where this was heading, and he had to give it his full attention. "How do you know this?"

If Spencer Reid were under arrest, his first call should have been to Aaron Hotchner.

"I—uh, you know, I probably shouldn't say—"

"To be perfectly honestly, that would apply to this entire conversation, Miss Strauss. But we're already here and we're already having it, so you might as well tell me everything you know and how you came to know it." Aaron was gone; SSA Hotchner was out in full force.

And it worked. Jordan Strauss answered quickly, like a schoolgirl chastised for forgetting her homework. "Dora Carrington, Chief Cruz's assistant. She called me and told me that she saw someone arresting Spencer Reid."

"Did she say who or what for?"

"No. She knew who it was, but she said I wouldn't know them. And she—oh, please don't think badly of her—"

"Jordan."

"Right. I'm sorry. I just—"

"Jordan. I understand that you're feeling a lot of conflicting emotions right now—but I need you to understand that if what you think's happening really is happening, then I need to know everything you know, and as quickly as possible."

"Right, right, of course—she said Spencer wasn't in handcuffs. But she did—she listened in on what was being said. And it sounded like he was being arrested. She said they took him to interrogation. She knew that she shouldn't say anything, but she called me anyways."

Hm. Carrington's quickness to confide in Jordan Strauss implied a closeness that deserved some scrutiny, but at another time. Hotch continued his questioning, "And that's all she knew?"

"Yes. She knows there has to be more, so I told her to wait around and talk to Chief Cruz—he didn't tell her anything, other than they'd found something at the UNSUB's house."

He took a millisecond to file away the fact that Jordan Strauss also knew proper behavioral analysis terminology.

Jordan continued, "But when she pressed Cruz for more details—well, he specifically didn't mention Spencer, which makes it seem…kinda odd. Like they're hiding it, for some reason."

"Has she told anyone else?"

"No. And neither have I—I tried calling Dave, but he isn't answering. So you were the next logical choice—if anyone can help Spencer, it's you."

"How'd you get my number?" This wasn't a necessary detail, but a source of curiosity, nonetheless.

A slight pause. "Mom's cellphone. I…I still have it. Just in case, I guess."

He heard the almost-apology in her voice, and he understood it—in grief, the most mundane of items could become sacred objects. You held onto them, nurtured them, made up excuses for their continued existence in your life, anything other than admitting the simple fact that they were once touched by your lost loved one and you were desperate for any part of them, whether it was a cellphone or a favorite CD or even a kitchen mixer that you never used, but it had been your wife's Christmas gift eight years ago and she'd been so happy over a damn mixer that you couldn't bring yourself to give it away.

Instinctively, his gaze flicked over to the kitchen cabinet, where an aqua-blue mixer rested. Yes, he understood. Though in Jordan's case, at least her token had proven useful.

Unsure of what the silence might mean, Jordan Strauss pressed forward, "I'm sorry—I know I probably shouldn't have called, but—Spencer's a friend. A really good friend. I didn't know what else to do."

Aaron glanced back into the living room, where Jack was still patiently waiting.

"I should probably inform you that you're actively interfering in a federal investigation." He didn't add the yet again, but his tone implied it well enough. However, his voice softened as he added, "But I must admit, I'm glad you did."

"What are you going to do?" Suddenly Jordan Strauss sounded very young. Very young and very afraid.

"I don't know yet," he admitted easily. Keeping his tone as neutral as possible, he added, "However, I think it's time that you remove yourself from the investigation. The federal government doesn't look too kindly upon civilians running rings around them and blowing over their house of cards while obstructing the course of justice."

"Yeah, I know," she sounded sheepish, almost embarrassed (almost). Aaron Hotchner had a general idea of Jordan's personality, and he was fairly sure that even though her actions were obviously outside the color of the law, she saw herself as helping the course of justice, rather than hindering it.

"But before you do, I suggest you convince Linnea Charles to contact the FBI and tell them everything she knows."

"I…I would if I could." Jordan took a deep, unsteady breath. "But I haven't heard from her in hours…I've called, left voicemails, texts—nothing."

On a good day, this would seem suspicious. On a day like today, it seemed downright ominous.

"I'll see what I can do to help find her," he promised. Jordan murmured another string of thanks before hanging up.

Aaron Hotchner was already dialing Mrs. Gregg, the neighbor across the street whose son also happened to be a year older than Jack—they were both on the same soccer team, and Aaron often switched out carpooling duties with her on the weekends.

She answered on the second ring—the din in the background informed him that the rest of the Gregg family were still happily installed around the dinner table.

"Hey, Aaron, what's up?"

"Alice, I have a favor to ask—something's come up on a very important case—"

"The bombing?" She supplied. He'd forgotten that everyone in the United States knew about it by now, thanks to the media.

"Yeah. I know it's—"

"Say no more. Just grab Jack's PJs and bring him over." Her tone was warm, filled with reassuring camaraderie.

"Thank you."

"Oh, trust me, this isn't a freebie—the team wants to go to the arcade after their next game. Guess who just got himself volunteered as the chaperone for that little outing?" He knew that she was grinning.

"Deal," he allowed himself a little smile too. Honestly, he would have volunteered anyways. "I'll, um, pack his lunch for school and bring it along—you can just put it in the fridge til tomorrow morning, just in case I'm not back in time."

"Sure thing, Aaron." Now her tone was laced with pity. However, she quickly infused it with false cheer, "I'll let Elias know that he's having a sleepover tonight."

"Thank you, Alice."

"You're welcome. See ya in a little bit."

By now, Jack had shuffled into the kitchen, the sleeves of his father's coat swaying just past his knees (once there was a time when those sleeves would have been dragging the floor—when had he gotten so tall?). His childish face was matured by his look of serious calm.

"Ya gotta go?" It was a question, but there was no doubt in Jack's eyes.

"I do." Aaron felt his heart break a little bit more at the confession. He sighed, wrapping his son into a hug. It never got easier. "You're gonna spend the night at Elias' house."

Jack's hand rubbed comforting circles on his dad's back—and again, Aaron felt a pang of regret at realizing that his son was also accustomed to comforting him over his guilt.

Aaron sat back slightly, forcing a smile, "Look, we've got a few minutes to get our things together. So why don't you start from the top, and give me the full Gettysburg Address while I make your lunch for tomorrow?"

Jack smiled in agreement. Then, with a heave-ho, Aaron lifted his son onto the kitchen counter (a feat not nearly as easy as it used to be), where he could stand as if on a stage, addressing his father and the rest of the imaginary audience below. Jack readjusted his bowler hat and held out his hands in a dramatic fashion.

"Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth, upon this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal…"

He continued onward, and Aaron continued putting together his son's lunch, occasionally helping him with the pronunciation of a difficult word. For the briefest of moments, they were just like any other family.

It took every ounce of Aaron Hotchner's focus and determination not to start making phone calls or to simply speed off to Quantico—but it was a sacrifice he had to make for his son. As much as he cared for Spencer Reid, he wouldn't allow Jack's memories to be filled with only his father's rush to be anywhere but with him.

However, the second he'd dropped off his son and was back in his vehicle, he was calling David Rossi's number.

It went straight to voicemail. He didn't bother leaving a message.

He took a moment to mentally catalogue his team's home addresses—he'd call them in order of who lived farthest away. That way they'd all be able to arrive at Quantico at relatively the same time.

Which meant JJ was first.

There was a slight pang as reality returned and he remembered that JJ wasn't on the case. He needed to call Will again—it had been hours since he last checked in, and he didn't want JJ's husband to feel as if they'd forgotten about him. They were a family, and that's what families did. They rallied.

Next on the mental map was Kate Callahan.

"What's happened?" She sounded as if she'd been waiting for this call.

"I'm not entirely sure yet. But I think you need to get to Quantico."

"Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world."

~William Butler Yeats.