Both and Neither

"There is nothing certain, but the uncertain."

~Proverb.

*Author's Note: This first section contains references to events in Hit/Run (7.23/7.24) and 200 (9.14).

The final section contains references to the backstory of how Erin Strauss became head of the Amerithrax investigation, which is also covered in Pay the Piper.

Also, we've got a bit of plot hole that actually extends to the series itself (again, I say, this is why CM should actually get a show bible). In Zugzwang (8.12), Hotch tells the BAU that they're working Maeve's case "unofficially", and the general canon since then has been that Maeve's case was "off books" (this story and its prequel have stuck to that idea as well). However, while re-watching the episode to research another part of this story, I realized that there was an FBI SWAT team with the BAU *TWICE* in the episode—which means, at some point, Maeve's case had to become official or otherwise get "on the books", because you can't exactly call in a Bureau SWAT team without some kind of paperwork. I did a little wiggling to try and get this to work out and still stay in-line with how this particular story has already treated Maeve's case…so, I guess be ye warned of wiggling? I don't know.*

Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.

If William LaMontagne were being completely honest, he'd have to say that of all his wife's friends, he'd always been closest to Emily Prentiss. He adored Penelope's quirkiness and greatly admired Spencer's intelligence, but Emily had been the one who mirrored his own view of the world, the one who'd been a fast and firm friend from the beginning. She'd spent many hours on their couch, curled up with a glass of wine as she and JJ chatted about things, from the hilarious to the mundane to the earth-movingly somber. Will had joined them a few times, and he'd never felt like the third wheel, because Emily never treated him as simply her best friend's husband, but rather as another friend. When Matthew Downs had strapped a bomb to Will's chest, Emily had found him, had refused to abandon him, and in the end, had saved his life. And when JJ had been kidnapped, it was Emily who'd taken him into a big hug upon her arrival, promising him that she'd bring JJ home. And he'd believed her entirely—Emily Prentiss was a woman of her word, and if anyone could do it, it was her.

Which made it even harder when he had to look into the face he'd trusted so completely, so many times, and quietly tell her that she couldn't see his wife.

"I'm sorry," he reached out, gently placing a hand on her upper arm, as if somehow he could physically relay the depth of his regret. "But…JJ's not stupid. She's already asking questions, she knows something's up. And if you show up, she'll know for sure that something's happened, and I can't risk what might happen when she learns the truth—the stress could be too much for her."

"We can just tell her that I flew over, just to see her," Emily replied, and she felt a measure of guilt for the fact that it wasn't true—she should have flown over, just to see JJ, the moment she learned of JJ's fall. The second she'd heard about Spencer, she'd known she was coming back—why was Spencer more important to her than JJ?

Will hesitated, and Emily knew that he was warring between wanting to protect his wife and to accommodate his friend. Again, she felt guilty for putting him in this situation.

"It's alright," she assured him quietly. "I understand."

The relief and the sorrow in his tired features was palpable. Emily felt another wave of compassion, and she pulled him into her arms. He hugged her back fiercely—she felt his chest skitter, as if he were holding back sobs.

"She's gonna be OK," Emily reminded him.

He nodded into her shoulder, "Of course she is. She's JJ."

"Exactly," Emily was grinning as she pulled away. Will was smiling too, the unmistakable redness around his eyes sending another stab of empathy through her heart.

"As soon as she's ready to deal with all that's happened, you'll be the first person I call," he promised.

She gave a quick, small nod, blinking back tears of her own. "Just focus on taking care of her. I'll be fine."

"Of course you will. You're Emily."

She grinned again at his words. Then she stepped back, titling her head towards the hospital cafeteria. "C'mon. At least let me buy you lunch, or coffee, or…something."

He glanced at the clock, and she knew that he was mentally determining if he had enough time to grab something before the next round of visiting hours.

He nodded slowly, "I've got a few minutes to waste til they let me in to see her again."

As they made their way to the elevator, Will quietly asked, "So, have you talked to Spencer yet?"

Emily made a small noise of despair, "They're keeping him sequestered, it seems."

"Poor Spence. He must be going out of his mind."

FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.

Something was wrong. Well, more wrong. Obviously, something had been wrong for quite some time. Although Agent Keller hadn't been particularly chatty or otherwise intrusive, Spencer had still retreated to the solitude of his temporary holding cell, preferring to pace in relative silence as his mind tried to keep up with the short, quick steps of his feet. The room wasn't very large and he was turning quickly on his heel—he began to get the sensation of being in a whirlpool, almost unable to stop his own movements as the repetition and force of his turns seemed to work as their own orbital pull.

This was a set up. But why? And why him? As Agent Dawson had pointed out the night before, there were other people with better motives for such a crime—so why skip over them and come after him?

He hated the answer, because it made him sound egotistical: his intellect. His brain and its higher-than-normal functional abilities—he hadn't asked for it, it was a sheer accident, a luck-of-the-draw defect at birth, as random as a birthmark or an extra digit or a cleft palate. He had merely been another statistic, another blip in the whole of humanity and its probabilities. Granted, he'd nurtured that brain, had filled with many useful (and by some opinions, equally useless) things, but that had been because he couldn't not give his brain these things—they were oxygen, necessary and nurturing, and to even consider not giving them to his brain was impossible.

That intellect had been a blessing and a curse. It had given him a refuge, a shield against the harsher points of his life. It had also been the source of some of those harsher points—the bullying in school, the moments when some UNSUB took it as a personal challenge to prove they were smarter and better than him.

That's how it went, with those types. Every Moriarty needed a Sherlock, every Master needed a Doctor. Even in their delusional egotism, they recognized a need for balance.

Except this wasn't balanced. In order for Spencer to be a proper equal, he had to be aware of the game at-play. He had to be aware of the rules, to be able to see the score.

The UNSUB hadn't given him that—yet.

Unless the UNSUB thought that Reid already knew. Unless he'd left something behind that he thought was so obvious that Spencer would pick it up right away.

The answer's already here. You just have to look, really look.

He was momentarily distracted by the sound of voices in the hallway. Keller, unsurprisingly, and…Dawson. Did he have news? Was there new evidence, a new development?

Reid stopped, straining to hear what was being said.

No news, it seemed. Dawson's voice was low, calm, tired sounding, though Reid couldn't make out the words. If he'd found something, he'd sound more energetic, more…emotional, whether it be relief or anger or disappointment.

Keller was speaking again. However, her voice went even lower, even softer—like she knew that he was listening and she didn't want to be overheard.

So they were talking about Spencer now. He resumed his pacing. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what they were saying now.

"What?" Keller's voice was clear now, raised and edged with panic. Whatever Dawson had told her, it wasn't welcome news. Her voice dropped back down again, but there was no mistaking the quick and agitated tone.

Things quickly calmed down, and then one of the agents walked away. Reid opened the door (Keller hadn't bothered to lock him in, seeing as she was outside the whole time).

Dawson was the one who'd stayed behind.

"Hello," the older man offered simply, his expression meticulously blank. Spencer was instantly reminded of Hotch.

"When can I speak to my team?" He asked, directly but not rudely.

Dawson considered the question. "I'm not sure."

"Is there any particular reason that I can't speak to them?"

"Oh, there are several, I'd say."

"Such as?"

Now Dawson merely offered a tight smile, one that didn't reach his eyes.

Reid switched gears, "Keller said that you were protecting me."

"Yeah, she told me about that," Dawson neither confirmed nor denied the veracity of Keller's claim. He cocked his head to one side. "Do you believe her?"

"I don't know." Spencer admitted honestly. "I don't know if I can believe anyone about anything, right now."

"Except your team, of course."

Spencer took a page from Dawson's playbook and simply offered a mirthless smile in response.

"Well, the good news is that you don't have to believe Keller. You don't have to trust her, either—or any of us, for that matter. You just have to sit tight."

"I would like to see all the evidence against me."

"Not at this particular moment, Dr. Reid."

"I have a right—"

"You and I both know that I don't have to show any of the evidence against you until we go to court, Doctor." Dawson returned easily.

"And you and I both know this won't make it to court," Reid shot back. "My team will find the person responsible, and they will prove without a doubt that I was set up."

Dawson took a beat to study the younger man. "You have absolute faith in your colleagues, don't you?"

"Of course," he didn't hesitate.

"And you trust them with your life."

"I do and I have, many times. And honestly, that's probably the only reason I'm standing here now," Spencer answered quietly, his voice heavy with conviction.

Dawson nodded. Then, he gave an almost-regretful sigh. "Well, Dr. Reid, I'm afraid that I don't have the luxury of having such faith in your fellow teammates. So for the time being, you'll be kept away from them."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Spencer asked.

The sound of rapid footsteps echoed down the hall—Jessalyn Keller was making her way back to them. Dawson turned his attention to her. The dark and troubled look on her features spoke of ill news.

"You'll have to excuse me, Doctor," Dawson pushed off the wall he'd been leaning against, hurrying to meet Keller halfway down the hall.

Reid watched them—they spoke in low tones, but Keller's gaze flicked over Dawson's shoulder, towards him.

The look in her eyes made his stomach sink.

Something was wrong. Even more wrong.

Evidence Lab. FBI Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.

"Whoa, whoa," Rowena Lewis held up her hand, as if she needed to bring more attention to herself (pointless, considering Jeff was the only other person in the room). In her other hand was yet another journal. "New player on the field."

"What?" Jeff slowly lowered his notebook onto his lap.

"New pronoun at play—here's a reference to a she."

"Oh, a lady." Jeff immediately leaned forward in interest. "Has she got a name?"

"Not yet." Rowena flipped a few pages, scanning for an identifier.

"Any idea who she is, in relationship to Fuller or Reid?"

"Not yet."

"Well, you're not much help, are you?"

She lightly kicked towards her partner, as if shushing him with her foot. "Gimme a minute, Masterson. I've only just found her."

After a beat, Rowena declared, "Oh, she's definitely involved. Even if on a minor level. Fuller's recording a discussion with her on the concept of purification."

"What?"

"Yeah, we're at that section of the journal where he gets all weird and talking like maybe he's on 'shrooms."

"So…a girlfriend?"

"Nah. He doesn't read like a guy who had a relationship like that in his life."

"He's still human."

"He was human." Roe pointed out flatly, turning a page. "Now he's just a body in the morgue."

"You're usually a little bit more empathetic," he noted, keeping his tone light and nonjudgmental.

"I don't like traitors," she stated, never looking up from her reading. "Most of the people we investigate, they don't try to hide who they are—at least not like this. They don't cultivate trust with people over several years, only to rip those same people to shreds later on."

She was talking about Fuller, of course, but also her stepfather. Jeff wondered if she realized that (though he'd certainly never point it out).

"Ah." Was his only response.

The timer on her cellphone went off.

"Well, that's our cue," she tossed the notebook onto the table as she rose to her feet. They'd set an alarm so that they wouldn't get too engrossed in their reading and miss the briefing.

Jeff was on his feet as well, setting aside his notebook and retrieving his winter jacket from the coat rack before grabbing Roe's and handing it to her. "We need to take Dawson aside before the briefing and tell him first—professional courtesy, formality, whatever."

"Agreed." She gave a curt nod of approval. "That's the way Mac would want it handled."

"I should text her about this," he was already doing just that, before Rowena could protest that their supervisor should be left in peace for a little while longer. And even though she didn't open her mouth, he could feel her disapproval loud and clear, because he simply retorted, "It's a text, Roe. She can ignore it if she wants. Who knows? She might need the distraction. College graduations are boring as hell, remember?"

Madison, Wisconsin.

After the graduation was over and all the happy-family and joyous-friends photos were taken, Emma declared that lunch was in order. She'd made plans to attend a party that evening with her friends and fellow graduates, so the afternoon was solely reserved for her mother and her aunt. She brought them to a local haunt of hers, promising them the best grilled turkey sandwiches they'd ever eaten.

Despite being in her twenties, Emma had no issue with being physically affectionate towards her mother, as if she were still a very small child. As soon as they were seated in the diner booth, she snuggled up to Mac's side without a second's hesitation.

"So. Mom." Emma Macaraeg leaned over to rest her head on her mother's shoulder, her amber eyes still focused on Mac's face. "What time does your flight leave?"

"Oh, it isn't—there isn't a set time," Mac admitted, realizing too late that this confession was going to open up an entire Pandora's box of questioning.

"Wait, what?" Emma sat up again.

"It's—it's a private flight. All I have to do is call the pilot an hour or two in advance, he takes care of the rest." Mac tried to act nonchalant, but her sister and her daughter weren't buying it.

Emma's brows quirked into an expression of amused befuddlement, "Mom, what kind of secret agent life are you living, now that I'm out of the house?"

From her position across the table, Joan leaned forward in curiosity, "A private flight? You didn't tell me that you'd booked a private flight, Addie, how on earth—"

"It was my coworker," Adelaide held up her hands, as if warding off the oncoming questions from both women. "He overheard me talking to Emma, trying to figure out how I was going to get here in time, and he…he didn't want me to miss such a big moment in my baby's life. He happened to know a retired pilot, and he hired the guy out."

"Wait, so you didn't have to pay for any of it?" Emma's eyes became the size of saucers.

"It's that guy, isn't it?" Joan spoke at the same time. She realized her slip-up too late—Emma's mouth was as wide open as her eyes now.

"Guy? What guy? Mom, do you have a guy?"

"No, I do not." Adelaide answered her daughter, though her eyes were busy shooting daggers at her sister. "He's just a fellow agent, who's working this bombing case with me and who happens to have a little compassion and a lot of connections."

"So he's just a friend?"

Mac hesitated for a second too long. And a second was all it took.

Emma howled with delight, "Oh my god, Mom—you do have a guy!"

"I do not—"

"You hesitated—"

"She's right, you totally did," Joan piped up.

"Shut up, both of you. There is no guy—at least not a guy who's mine. He's just—"

"What's his name?" Emma leaned forward again, her eyes still dancing.

"Oh, no way in hell you're getting that information, missy," Mac informed her curtly. This only made her daughter laugh. Mac shook her head as she checked her cellphone—she'd put it on silent before the ceremony had begun, and she'd forgotten to turn the ringer back on.

There was a text message from Jeff Masterson.

Give us a call when you can—got a few things to catch you up on.

She glanced around the restaurant, trying to get a visual on their waitress. The place was hopping; it would probably be a good ten minutes before their food arrived. "Look, guys, I've got to check in with my team—"

"Saved by work, yet again," Joan intoned dryly. Emma merely pushed her mother towards the edge of the booth, silently telling her to do whatever she needed to do.

"It'll only take a minute," she assured them before hurrying to the front door. One glance back at her daughter and her sister informed her that Emma was already asking Joan what she knew about her mother's mystery guy.

Great. Just great.

Strangely enough, she was fairly certain that David Rossi would be highly amused by this situation.

FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.

"Funny thing, Dr. Reid," Jack Dawson was making his way back towards Reid's temporary holding cell, Agent Keller hovering over his shoulder like a Valkyrie of ill tidings.

You didn't have to be a genius to realize that Agent Dawson was certainly using the word funny in an ironic context. Spencer Reid stood a little straighter, hand automatically going to his stomach, a helpless instinctual gesture to steel himself for whatever came next—given the expressions on the other two agents' faces, it certainly wasn't promising to be pleasant news.

"What's happened?" He asked, the breath leaving his lungs far too quickly to be useful.

"A few things, and none of them good," Dawson informed him curtly. "First, preliminary testing of the handwriting sample says it's a good match to yours."

Spencer didn't take much stock in that assessment—after all, he'd seen it last night, and he'd seen that it was a very good fake. It would take more than a few hours for an analyst to truly prove its inauthenticity.

However, Dawson continued, "Just now, Sura Roza did a complete run-down on your phone. There's nothing on there to indicate that someone had remote access to—"

"Remote access? Are you saying you think someone tried to hack my phone?" Reid's face screwed into a look of confusion.

"No, we're saying we wanted to rule out the possibility—and we just did," Dawson set his hands on his hips, his steely-blue eyes locked onto Spencer's brown ones. "Which means that the only person who could have sent that email was you."

"N-no," Reid felt his lungs tighten involuntarily. "There's no way—there has to be—I don't know, something had to happen. Talk to Penelope Garcia. If anyone can figure out something like this, it's her. She'll know. She'll be able to prove it."

He was talking too quickly now, he knew it, but he couldn't stop his mind from reeling—the things that were meant to prove him innocent had only further implicated his guilt. How was this possible? The nightmare was supposed to end, not darken.

Keller stepped forward, her hand coming out lightly, as if she wanted to steady him, but feared that touching him might shatter what little sanity he had left.

"I'm fine," he stepped back, further into his holding cell, further away from them. "I just—I don't understand. I've been trying to figure it out, and I still don't know. I keep thinking about Maeve, and who could've known—"

"Who could have known?" Dawson asked, his voice quiet but direct, slicing through Spencer's tangled thoughts and bringing him back to reality.

"What?"

"Maeve Donovan. We know she wasn't an official Bureau case. So who could have known about her?"

"I-I don't know. My team knew. John Curtis found out, somehow—or at least he knew about the phone booth where I used to call her, from when he was stalking the whole team." Spencer's head began to spin again as he suddenly realized just how many people had been involved—it wasn't an official case, but once they'd realized that Diane Turner was Maeve's stalker and subsequent kidnapper, Hotch was able to convince Strauss to step in and help (though now, Spencer wondered if David Rossi had been more instrumental in that requisition than their unit chief). "Chief Strauss called in a favor of sorts and got us a SWAT team from the D.C. field office. But I don't think they even knew who Maeve Donovan was—they were just back-up, they didn't get a full briefing—ah, and then after…after the shooting, the local police had to come and take over, since it wasn't technically an FBI case…so, the D.C. police, their forensics team—anyone with access to police files—"

"But were you mentioned in those reports?"

"Yes. Of course. I was…I was there."

Now Keller spoke up, gently clearing her throat, "What he means is, do the reports list your relationship to Maeve?"

Spencer suddenly understood, "No. I didn't—it didn't seem right."

Jessalyn Keller gave him a sad, small smile, and for some reason, he felt that she understood his relationship with Maeve—impossible, considering she barely knew anything about it, but he couldn't shake the feeling of solidarity.

Dawson glanced at his watch and gave an irritated sigh. The afternoon briefing was slated to start in less than five minutes. He stepped back, quickly dialing Roza's number on his cell.

"What's up?"

"Look up Maeve Donovan again—but this time, look through the DCPD database. Then look for a rollout from the D.C. FBI SWAT team on the date of Maeve's death. I need to know who signed off on it, who was part of it—I want the names of every person involved, every person who even thought about looking at that particular case or any file related to it."

"On it, sir."

He hung up and returned his attention to Reid, who was watching him like a hawk.

"I'm not saying I believe you," he held up a cautionary hand. "I'm just saying I wanna check every possibility."

Reid gave a small, slow nod, though his gaze remained wary.

"I need to talk to Jude," Dawson sighed.

"She's on her way back now," Jess informed him. She studiously ignored the slight question in his gaze.

"I've gotta get to this briefing," her unit chief turned and headed down the hall. He gave her one last glance, which implied his desire for her to continue questioning Spencer Reid.

Reid's brown eyes were still following Dawson's retreating form.

"Agent Keller, earlier today—when you said that there were things you couldn't tell me about just yet—this is one of those things, isn't it?"

She gave a light sigh, "I'm afraid so. For now, I need you to tell me everything you can remember about anyone connected to Maeve's case. Anyone who could possibly know about your true connection, or could at least guess—anyone who might have seen you at her funeral, perhaps, or…visiting her grave."

The last bit was a guess, a sheer hazard, but Jess knew human nature well enough to consider it a safe bet. Given the painful prick in Spencer Reid's expression, it had been an accurate assumption.

"It's going to take a while," was all he said, swallowing hard.

"That's alright," her voice was gentle, lined with sympathy. "Trust me, I've got time."

For the afternoon briefing, Jeff Masterson was giving the details on evidence. However, he looked regretful, as if he knew that the words coming out of his mouth were not particularly welcome.

"We're still working on the notebooks—it's gonna take a while to get through everything—but so far, we've found that the ones left in the desk drawer have missing pages. We're assuming those pages have direct references to our killer, which is why they were removed."

"But why not just take the notebooks altogether?" Scott O'Donnell asked, casting a quick glance around the room to see if anyone else shared his incredulity on the matter. This time, Dawson and Eden were the only two Flying Js in the room—Shostakovich was still interviewing the last of Fuller's colleagues and Keller was keeping an eye on Dr. Reid. Callahan and Hotch were back, as was Cruz, who still looked like hell, although he'd at least lost his dazed expression from earlier. Of course, Rowena Lewis was there as well, somehow still quite distracting even though she remained completely silent, tucked away in the corner behind Agent Masterson.

"We're still working that out," Masterson informed him. With a slight gesture of his large hands, he added, "Besides, theory and supposition isn't in our job description. We just process the evidence."

Valid point, and it came across quite clearly—Lewis and Masterson would relay their findings, but they weren't going to interpret them.

Masterson continued, "So far, the notebooks that were hidden inside the books on the shelf don't have any missing pages, and we've found four direct references to an Agent Reid, with multiple male pronouns throughout. There are also a few mentions of someone simply known as the doctor."

They weren't saying those were references to Reid, but they weren't suggesting it could be a reference to anyone else, either—a verbal tightrope walk that wasn't missed by anyone in the room.

Jeff pushed onward, "We've also learned that the desk drawer was locked, often, given the cleanliness and working order of the lock mechanism. However, the on-scene techs never recovered a key, and the drawer was unlocked when they arrived on scene, with no evidence of a forced opening."

He held out his hands in a gesture of finality (that's all we've got, make of it what you will).

Of course, that was a bit of a lie. Jeff and Rowena had pulled Dawson aside as everyone was assembling for the briefing, quietly informing him of the latest development in regards to the mysterious she that had popped up in Rowena's current journal. Dawson had been surprised, but he'd quickly recovered—and had just as quickly commanded the analysts not to disclose that information in the briefing. It wasn't an entirely unheard-of request, but at the same time, it wasn't exactly common, either.

However, true to form, Roe and Jeff had nodded and agreed, letting Dawson keep the others in the dark for whatever reason.

"Thank you, Agent Masterson, Agent Lewis," Dawson stepped forward, giving a curt nod towards each agent in turn. "We've had several new developments in the past few hours as well."

He took a moment to glance over at the two BAU agents, as if he wasn't entirely sure that he should be sharing this information with them present, however he seemed to decide against his better judgment and continue on anyways. "Last night, we recovered a piece of paper—a list of addresses to beauty salons and hardware stores, both of which were listed as potential sources of TATP materials. We sent the list to a handwriting analyst early this morning, and he confirms that it is Dr. Reid's handwriting."

Hotch's entire frame went rigid, and Kate automatically shifted to counter him—she was ready to grab him, to pull him back if need be. However, he remained silent, though the tightness in his jaw spoke volumes.

"We've also recovered Dr. Reid's cellphone. Our technical analyst had theorized that perhaps someone had installed a remote access program, which they could use to send the email to Linnea Charles from Reid's phone."

Hotch and Callahan exchanged looks of mild surprise—so the Flying Js had been on the same line of thought as the BAU, on that subject. Interesting.

Now Dawson looked directly at Hotch. "There was no such program on Dr. Reid's phone."

Hotch's pulse skyrocketed again. All the things that were supposed to prove Reid's innocence were falling apart. A flash of fear and confusion rippled through his brain like heat lightning.

For some reason, all he could think about was how desperately they needed Alex Blake at that moment.

Reagan National Airport. Washington, D.C.

"Don't worry, Hotch, I am on it," Blake assured him, her long legs doubling their pace as she pounded her way down the sidewalk just outside the baggage claim, her dark eyes scanning the pick-up lane for Derek Morgan's truck. When she'd deboarded her plane, there had been a message from Hotch, asking her to call him. He'd told her about the latest developments against Spencer, and she'd understood why she'd been the one that he'd contacted—he needed an expert in linguistics and handwriting analysis. "Do we have a copy of that list of addresses? Even a photocopy of the original would do."

"I don't yet, but Callahan's currently trying to convince O'Donnell and Dawson to let us have a copy, or at least to send it out for a second opinion."

"Smart move. Fingers crossed that she's got some strong powers of persuasion," Alex glanced up again, her face splitting into a grin when she saw the familiar truck up ahead. Apparently Morgan had spotted her as well—the driver's door opened, and he hopped out. "What are you gonna do if she can't get them to play nice?"

"Then we won't play nicely, either," was Hotch's response. Alex understood—they had Penelope Garcia on their side, she'd be able to get her hands on anything. Evidence analysis protocol dictated that multiple photographs—and sometimes photocopies—be taken of all evidence, and especially of any evidence that was being shipped out of the lab for processing. Anything could happen to a mere slip of paper, so you'd better have a backup copy, just in case. Those photos and copies were usually uploaded into a database—and if there was a database, then Penelope Garcia could waltz right in, as easy as you please.

Morgan was only a few feet away, though he slowed down when he saw that she was on the phone. She offered a quick smile, opening her free arm in a gesture of welcome, and he quickly found himself in her embrace.

"Morgan just picked me up," she informed Hotch. "I'll be at Penelope's soon—on the drive over, I'll call an old colleague. She's the best there is, Hotch—regardless of what the other handwriting expert said, she'll be able to prove it was a fake."

Hotch thanked her and wrapped up the call—Alex got the distinct feeling that he was going back to help Callahan convince the others to let them have a copy of the list.

"I knew you couldn't stay away from us for too long," Derek Morgan offered an easy smile, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, which seemed even thinner than he remembered.

"Oh, you know me—glutton for punishment if ever there was one," she returned with a wry arch of her brows. She held up her phone again. "I hate to be rude, but I need to make a few more calls—"

"Do what you need to do," he reassured her. "Trust me, I'm as anxious to get Reid out of this mess as much as you are."

She smiled slightly, going through her phone to find the right number. It had been so long since she'd actually dialed this number, she wondered if it still belonged to the original owner.

"Yes, hello?" That cool, clipped accent—she'd know it anywhere.

"Maura, it's Alex Blake."

"Dr. Blake." Maura sounded surprised. "My, it's been awhile."

"It has," Alex admitted. "Look, I'm working on a case right now, and I could really use your help—"

"I thought you were retired from the Bureau."

"Well, I was—I am. But I'm back, just consulting." A lie, a total and outright lie.

"Well, I'm retired, too. I'm sorry, but I don't think I can offer much assistance."

"Please, Maura, it's—"

"I haven't consulted on a Bureau case in thirteen years—and we both know how that ended." Maura's tone was sliced with curtness. "I'm sorry, Alex, I really am. But I refuse to help on any case involving the FBI. I can send you a list of people who would be happy to help, but I personally can't do this—it's…a matter of principle."

"Principle?"

"I'll compile a list of names and send it to you. Is your Bureau email still the same?"

"Um, oh, yeah—it is."

"Good. I'll have a list to you within the hour. Best of luck."

And with that, the call ended.

Alex stared down at the phone in her hand in disbelief.

"What's wrong?" Morgan asked.

She gave another huff of incredulity. "Honestly…I have no idea."

November 2002. FBI Field Office. New York City, New York.

"Maura, you don't have to do this."

Dr. Maura Morrow looked up, slightly shaken from her inner musings by the gentle voice of SSA Blake. Alex had been her unofficial partner throughout all of this—Dr. Morrow wasn't an FBI agent, she'd merely been brought in to consult on the Amerithrax letters, and her area of application was only in regards to the syntax and semantics of the letters, not the chemicals contained within. Blake's knowledge of linguistics had been invaluable, and the two had been tasked with determining the origin and the creator of the letters. There had been many dead-ends and false leads, and Maura had never been so thoroughly stumped by a simple piece of paper—and she was a woman who'd built her career on determining the authenticity of historical documents. This should have been a walk in the park compared to some of the work she'd done over the last decade.

But if it were a walk in the park, it was a walk through Central Park, late at night, during the 80s, when any number of strange and terrifying things could be seen.

And the most terrifying things were yet to come.

The case had been officially closed—with no suspect, no answer, no success. The original head of the investigation had suffered a heart attack three months prior (not that anyone was surprised, poor man—he was an easily excitable sort and this kind of case didn't really help his nerves or his stress levels), and Erin Strauss had been called in as a replacement.

That same replacement was currently throwing the team under the bus—at least in the public eye. In less than thirty minutes, there was going to be a press announcement, officially stating the case would be closed.

Officially telling the world that they'd failed. Miserably, often, and publicly.

However, there were still some people with a sense of honor—because here stood Alex Blake, gently telling Maura that she didn't have to come downstairs, didn't have to stand beside the team of agents who'd been her constant companions for the past ten months, didn't have to show her face or share their shame.

"No, I think I do," Maura countered softly. "I'm every bit as responsible for those leads as you—and I still stand by my work, just as fervently as you and the rest of the team do. We did good work, Agent Blake. I don't give a toss about what they say—we did good work."

Now Blake smiled, though it seemed to pain her. "Yeah, we did."

Damn the critics and naysayers to hell.

Her husband had told her not to watch the news, so of course, she had to. She wanted to know how the story had been spun—did the commentators, the pundits and talk show hosts agree with them? Did they realize that this team had done their hardest, given their best to this case, to this country? Would anyone acknowledge how difficult this case had been, how overwhelming it had been for the small team assigned to it?

It was strange, seeing herself on TV—her blonde hair looked practically white under the harsh flashes of the photographer's cameras, her skin sallow and drawn from too many nights of too little sleep, her suit and skirt which had once fitted her to a tee now looking loose and baggy (she'd lost almost fifteen pounds since joining this case). She looked like a remorseful ghost.

Then a reporter shouted at her (even though she couldn't hear the question on the TV, she could still hear it ringing in her ears, even now—Dr. Morrow, where do you think you went wrong in your assessment of the letters?).

The answer was still on the tip of her tongue—she'd kept herself from replying, but her glare had implied it well enough (we didn't go wrong—not now, not ever).

In that instant, she watched herself whirl back towards the reporter, the light from another camera washing out her features until there was little more than the dark mauve gash of her mouth and the crystalline blue of her eyes.

For a brief moment, Maura Morrow didn't recognize her own image. Heavens, she didn't look like herself. She looked…ethereal.

Like an angel. Like a seraphim—a vengeful, burning angel.

"The ones who think they've figured me out have the biggest misconception. There's always a piece of who I am that will be left to question."

~Unknown.

*Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone who has left reviews, favorited or followed this story, etc.

Also, there are so many things on my heart, given the world-wide events of the past several days. But it all boils down to this: it's a mad, mad world out there, my darlings. Be safe. Be loving. Be unafraid. And please, please, please be kind. Always be kind.*