Lightbulbs and Flickers of Doubt

"I'm afraid, and I'm sick in my heart that you might look at her, then at me. And regret."
~J.D. Robb.

February 2015. Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.

Any fears Kate Callahan might have had about her predecessor pretty much evaporated the moment she met Dr. Alex Blake. The woman's smile and kind eyes spoke volumes—she making an effort to make Kate feel at-ease, and that simple courtesy didn't go unappreciated.

"Spencer has always spoken very highly of you," Alex informed her. "It's nice to finally meet you in person."

"You and Reid…talk?" Kate seemed slightly surprised.

"Occasionally," Alex gave a curt nod, her lips pressing into a moue that Kate would later learn was a common tell, whenever Dr. Blake was unsure of her speaking companion's mood or thoughts. "He used to guest lecture for me, before I joined the BAU."

"Oh, of course," Kate pretended as if she'd already known that.

Alex Blake offered one last smile before turning her attention to Hotch, "I called my old colleague—the one I told you could help with the handwriting analysis. Apparently she's unable to look at it herself, but she did send over a lists of possible replacements."

Hotch made a gesture of agreement, and Kate spoke up, "Dawson's agreed to let us have the original, but we'll have to wait—apparently the expert they chose is still working on it."

"I'm not surprised," Alex admitted. "If it's a good, solid forgery, it could take days—even weeks—to verify, depending on the analyst's workload and how many samples he or she has. And, of course, it just depends on the person analyzing it, what techniques they use, how fast their general pace is."

She was rambling slightly, but Aaron Hotchner didn't have the heart to stop her. Sometimes he forgot how much like Reid she could be—and right now, it was both endearing and reassuring.

"Prentiss and Rossi are on their way back from Linnea's grandmother's house," Derek Morgan spoke up. "No one was at the house, and Prentiss said it looked like no one had been there for quite a while. Either Linnea's hiding someplace else, or she's missing."

"Can we get a GPS location on her cellphone?" Hotch asked.

"Oh, my captain, my adorably hopeful captain," Garcia gave a slow shake of her head. "That would be the easy way, and you know that simply isn't how we do things around here."

He continued to give her a blank stare, so she added, "We've already tried—no bueno. Her phone's either dead or turned off."

"Find Linnea's husband," Hotch directed. "Callahan and Morgan, get ready to pay him a visit. We need to make sure that he's truly unaware of his wife's disappearance."

Derek Morgan gave a curt nod, though the tautness in his shoulders showed that he was excited at the prospect of finally getting to go out and do something constructive—not that he hadn't enjoyed the chance to catch up with Alex Blake on the ride back to Penelope's, but a man of action can only wait around for so long.

"We've got bigger issues," Hotch informed them. "The handwriting expert claims that the list is definitely in Reid's handwriting, and his cellphone didn't have a remote access program or any other kind of spyware installed on it."

He was looking at Penelope now, as if hoping she could concoct some kind of answer for the second issue.

"Well," she gave a slight wave of one hand—the other was busy hitting the send button, transferring a home and work address on Linnea Charles' husband to Morgan's phone. "If our evil villain could remotely install it, he most likely could uninstall it as well."

"So, what?" Alex quirked her head to the side, her dark brows furrowing as she considered the theory. "The UNSUB installs this program, sends the email, then uninstalls it, to cover his tracks?"

"Sounds like a John Curtis move," Morgan murmured, voicing the thought that was, or at least should have been, already on everyone else's mind.

"I mean, that's how I'd do it," Penelope shrugged. She quickly added, "If I were to do that sort of thing, which I wouldn't."

"So how would you prove that it had ever been there in the first place?" Kate asked, her expression filling with concern. It was a good theory, but until they had solid proof, it was just that—a theory. They needed cold, hard facts to get Reid out of custody.

Garcia gave a heavy sigh, and no one liked the sound of it.

"Lemme see what I can do," she offered, turning back to her computer. Hotch merely reached over to give her a reassuring pat on the shoulder—and that simple act of comfort and faith warmed her little fuzzy heart, right to the toes. Her Sir Hotch might be a man of few words, but heavens, he knew how to say enough without them.

"What about Reid?" Morgan crossed his arms over his chest. "When can we see him?"

"After the next briefing," Hotch frowned again. He didn't add that Dawson had said maybe—because in his book, come hell or high water, they were going to see Spencer Reid.

FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.

Put it together, put it together….find the pieces and put it together. Spencer Reid was back to his pacing again. However, this time, Jessalyn Keller had moved her chair from the hallway into the tiny little office, patiently waiting for him to mentally stumble across another piece of information.

"I didn't write that list of addresses," he announced, turning curtly on his heel, one hand absentmindedly rubbing his chin. "I would have remembered writing it. And I didn't—not for any reason, in any context."

"OK, so it's a forgery," Jess held out her hands slightly. She qualified, "But a really good one—one solid enough to make even you think twice."

He glanced over at her, and she pointed out, "Last night, you told Dawson that it certainly looked like your handwriting. So technically, even you admitted that it was a good fake."

He gave a small nod of agreement. "But that level of detail, of commitment—you can't do a one-to-one match on handwriting like that without a lot of practice. Hours, weeks, months—"

"And who's to say that our UNSUB didn't have that much time?" Jess sat back slightly, arching her brow. "We don't know for sure how far back Fuller's journals date, yet—and it would make sense that he started keeping a record of this particular endeavor after it had begun."

"That's highly obsessive."

"And?" Her tone implied that it certainly wasn't out of the realm of possibility.

"And why me?" He stopped his pacing for a moment, holding his hands out helplessly. "I've spent hours, wracking my brain, trying to think of someone, anyone, who could have possibly held some kind of grudge, no matter how slight, and I—I just can't."

Now his hands flopped to his sides, defeated and lifeless. In his two-day-old rumpled clothes and equally disheveled hair, he looked like the epitome of a lost boy.

"Maybe we should look at it from a different angle," Jess suggested, her tone soft and soothing, almost maternal.

Spencer's face filled with cautious curiosity, but he didn't speak. She continued, "If a man wants to kill his wife, he'll do it—whether he has to use poison, a knife, or a gun. The act itself is the point—but the how of it can sometimes give you the why."

He remained silent, but she could tell that he was still following her.

"So this…person wants to kill you. Well, maybe not kill you, but—what, exactly?" Jess frowned slightly. "Frame you for an act of terrorism? Ruin your career and credibility?"

"Those two run hand in hand," Spencer pointed out. However, he corrected himself, "Unless of course the UNSUB knows that I'll be able to prove my innocence—but it wouldn't matter, after a certain point—"

"You could be proven innocent, but there could still be a stain on your reputation, a cloud of suspicion and mistrust," Jess agreed.

"Curtis believed that he hadn't botched up a single thing with the Replicator case, yet he still felt that his career had been ruined by his involvement in it," Spencer murmured, almost to himself.

"And Curtis is dead," Jess reminded him. "People need to stop getting hung up on ghosts. He may have been the inspiration, but if he hadn't come along, someone else would have, and they still would have found a way to inspire the individual responsible for this particular attack."

"You said the how can sometimes give you the why," Spencer retorted easily, returning to his pacing. "This UNSUB chose Curtis for a reason—either he was connected to the man personally, or he sees himself in Curtis. A crusader of sorts, avenging the wrongs of a great agency upon its smaller, helpless agents."

"Vigilante," Jess corrected.

"A vigilante, but still a coward," Reid turned on his heel, pointing towards her. "Bombers are, as a rule, the most cowardly types of killers there is. They don't have to personally interact with their victims, like shooters do, and unless they're suicide bombers, they don't even have to be in the line of action when the bomb goes off. They're safe—safer than, say, a man killing with a gun or a knife."

"OK, yeah, Rossi already mentioned that in one of the earlier briefings, when y'all were laying down a profile," Jess leaned forward, nodding in agreement.

"But maybe the bombing was also the only practical way," Reid was at the other end of the room now, whirling around again. "For this UNSUB, winning isn't just about framing me for the crime—it's about watching me suffer and squirm as I helplessly try to prove my innocence. You can't do that if you're dead."

"Yeah, but he could have used anthrax or poisonous gas or…something else," Jess held out her hands, as if motioning towards an invisible array of options.

"They wouldn't have been as effective—explosions are big, flashy, they grab people's attention. Besides, there's less to go wrong with a bomb. The anthrax might not reach many people, and gas might malfunction, and either way, there won't be a physical level of devastation that compares to blown-out walls and burning buildings."

"Valid point."

"And the cameras couldn't see it."

"What?"

"The news cameras. There were dozens of reporters and television crews here the first day of the bombing. The UNSUB had emailed Linnea Charles, to make sure that at least one reporter knew what was happening—or what was going to happen. A bomb is the only thing that would leave damage that's visible from the outside." Spencer's hands were moving volatilely now, trying to keep up with the spinning wheels of his mind. "Of course, the FBI couldn't hide that—they couldn't cover that up like they could an anthrax or gas attack. But it wasn't just that—the UNSUB could watch it on the news. He could see it, again and again, every news cycle for days to come."

"He attacked the Bureau and won, and everyone can see it, everyone knows it." Jess said slowly, nodding in agreement with her own words.

"That's where John Curtis failed. Sure, there were a few articles, but for the most part, the Bureau kept the details of his case out of the media. He didn't get to show the world that he was better than the rest of us—"

"Well, in the end, he proved that he wasn't," Jess pointed out. "He got caught."

"But he wouldn't have, if he hadn't gone after Strauss," Reid's brow furrowed. "Honestly, John Curtis probably could have continued to operate for months, possibly even years, before we would have caught him. He was too good, too meticulous. He got sloppy when he went after Erin Strauss—that's how we figured out his identity, by figuring out his connection to her and Alex Blake. He was always building up to killing Strauss, but he moved too soon. He was following us, following our movements, and when he saw that Strauss was in New York again, he lost his control. He couldn't stop himself—there she was, in the city where it all began. He didn't know when he'd get another chance like that—the symbolism of it was too compelling, he had to move, perhaps much sooner than he'd expected."

Suddenly, Spencer stopped. "I need to speak to my team. Now."

"You know I can't—"

"Please understand, I appreciate all your help so far, but if you can't get me in a room with my team, then I need you to leave and find someone who can. This could literally be a matter of life and death."

Jessalyn gave him a look of surprised concern, but she still rose to her feet and quietly left the room.

This time, he heard the door lock, before hearing the quick and steady rap of her boot heels down the tiled hallway.

His stomach began tying itself in tighter and tighter knots. He was pretty sure he had the answer—he just really, really wished that he was wrong.

Judith Eden knew that she'd missed some big developments in the case whenever she entered Sura's office and saw Jonas and Jack quietly talking on the couch.

"What's happened, then?" She asked, almost breathlessly—she wasn't sure that she wanted to hear the news, given how recent events had transpired.

"We have a third," Jonas gave a grand flourish with his hands. He seemed pleased.

"A third…conspirator?"

He nodded. Jack spoke up, "Lewis and Masterson have found references to a woman in Fuller's journals. And they've realized that the journals you found in the bookshelves are copies of the ones found in Fuller's desk, plus a few extras. Except they don't have any missing pages."

"So Fuller's killer didn't know about the ones hidden inside the books." Judith surmised.

Jack made a small noise of agreement. "They're going through the rest of the journals now, seeing what information was removed, and who was more likely to benefit from said removed information—Dr. Reid or this other woman."

The door swung open again, nearly ploughing over Judith Eden, who hadn't moved far enough away from it when she'd entered earlier.

"Watch yourself!" She cried out, skittering sideways.

Jessalyn Keller's disapproving face peered over the other side of the door. "Jesus, woman, you're the one standing in the doorway—it's like you want to get hit."

Jack Dawson tamped down an amused smile at the pair's usual lack of warmth, but Jonas Shostakovich was studying them with a clinical sense of scrutiny, as if trying to find the line between reality and fiction. For years now, he could have sworn the mild animosity was genuine, but now, he knew that it was all a farce. Still, they played their parts so well, it was hard to tell the lie, even when you knew it was right in front of you.

"Dr. Reid is requesting to speak with his team again." Jess turned all of her focus to Dawson, ignoring Jude's dark look at her previous comment. "He's very adamant—and more importantly, I think he's made some kind of connection in this case that we haven't yet."

"So, what? You think he's gonna tell the BAU who the UNSUB really is?" Jonas shifted in his seat, turning more fully towards his teammate.

"Yeah, I think so," Jess gave a quick nod, her eyes wide and flashing with a hint of adrenaline.

"I don't know if that's a wise decision," Dawson stated.

"If he knows who the real co-conspirator is, do you think he'd really—"

"But what if he's wrong?" Dawson's words were quiet, but they held enough weight to stop Jessalyn's question. "Are you prepared to live with any possible consequences from such an idea?"

Jess looked down at the floor for a moment, her lips pressed into a thin line. Then, she spoke again, "We'll pat 'em all down before they go in. Send 'em through a metal detector—something, anything."

"You don't need a weapon to kill—I can guarantee you that at least three of the people on that team know how to snap a man's neck with their bare hands," Jonas pointed out, though his tone implied that he was merely playing devil's advocate.

"They can't all be in on it," Jess retorted. "Besides, it would be stupid to make a move in a building filled with other federal agents."

"That's what Benjamin Fuller did, and he was relatively successful," Jude pointed out quietly. She added, "At least in the bombing aspect."

"We'll let him speak to Agent Hotchner," Dawson decided. "In an interview room, where we can be on the other side. If he does reveal the identity of Fuller's killer and co-conspirator, we'll be there to hear it."

Everyone nodded in agreement. Dawson shook his head slightly, looking down at his phone to call Aaron Hotchner.

He had the distinct feeling that he was going to regret this decision.

Outside Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.

Alex Blake made a little flurry of noise as they stepped out into the chilly February air, her shoulders jumping with an involuntary shiver. She was walking out with Morgan and Callahan, though she wasn't going to interview Linnea Charles' husband—she was only following them as far as Morgan's truck, so she could retrieve her go-bag before he left.

"Really?" Derek Morgan was amused. "It's got to be way colder up in New England."

"It is. Doesn't mean I enjoy it." In an exaggerated Southern drawl, straight out of Gone with the Wind, she added, "I'm a delicate flower—I was never meant for the cruel bite of winter."

He laughed at that (because obviously, he knew she wasn't nearly as fragile as she pretended to be—he'd witnessed her strength firsthand, many times). Even Callahan grinned—she hadn't ever seen Alex Blake in action, but within two minutes of meeting the former BAU member, she knew that woman was anything but delicate and retiring.

There was a slight commotion overhead, followed by a wolf whistle. The three looked up to see Penelope Garcia's grinning face hovering out of her window.

"Change of plan, my lovelies. Rossi and Emily are going to talk to Linnea's hubby."

"And what are we going to do?" Morgan tried to keep the frustration out of his tone.

Now Garcia's grin deepened. "You're going with Hotch to talk to Reid."

McMahon Law Firm. Washington, D.C.

"Who's doing the talking?" Emily Prentiss asked, her gaze fixed on the dial above the elevator doors, which ticked its way up to the appropriate floor. She and Rossi had been on their way back to Penelope's when Hotch had called and re-directed them to the law firm, where Linnea Charles' husband worked.

Beside her, Dave gave a slight shrug. That was his way of indicating that they would simply play it by ear, seeing which one struck up a better rapport with Mr. Charles. It wasn't about rank or who was actually the FBI agent or even a competition over being the "better" interviewer—it was simply up to chance, based on the man's personality and how it meshed with each of theirs.

Emily gave a soft smile at how easily they slipped into their old roles. Once they'd discovered the empty house and were sure of Linnea's disappearance, Rossi had stopped asking questions about her personal life or her feelings for Aaron—he'd directed his laser-like focus to finding Linnea Donovan Charles, and figuring out what her disappearance meant. He acted as if she'd never left the Bureau, as if they were simply working another case together, as if nothing had changed in the past three years. She loved him for it.

She loved him for many things, to be honest. Her own father had been a dim figure in her childhood, a quiet and weary man who'd been eclipsed by the bright and at-times fearful image of her mother, who had the innate ability to suck the air out of any room she entered. Eventually, Elizabeth Prentiss' husband tired of simply being known as just that, and went his own way. Emily was sure that he loved her, but she felt it was merely out of obligation and expectation—and he'd never done anything to prove otherwise. David Rossi had been her biological father's polar opposite. He'd pushed his way into her personal life, making her take down boundaries and defenses that she'd constructed decades before with an endearing and irritating sense of determination—and truthfully, she'd allowed him to take down those boundaries, because somehow, she'd always understood that the hands doing the demolition were tender ones, and their work was one of love and concern. She'd felt safe with him, for almost as long as she'd known him (almost, because in the beginning, he was a bit of a wildcard, and Emily Prentiss didn't like unpredictable things). He'd opened his own past, showing her there was nothing to fear in acknowledging who she once was, because people grew and changed—and the good things about their current selves were often owed to the darker times of their past ones.

You can be who you are because of what's happened to you, or in spite of it. He'd told her that one day, when they were, as usual, pounding the pavement on a case. Granted, she'd heard similar sentiments from her therapist years before, but somehow, when David Rossi said it, the quiet conviction in his voice (and her first-hand knowledge of his personal past) had made it seem like the truest thing she'd ever heard.

She trusted him like a father—sure, she'd call him on his bullshit, even fight him over the most ridiculous things, but in the end, she was devoted to him—and she got the sense that he adored her as a daughter. If someone had told her, after they first met, that this would be how they ended up, she would have warred between laughing hysterically and being greatly concerned. But now, she couldn't imagine it any other way.

David Rossi must have read her mind, or at least been experiencing similar thoughts, because he looked over at her with a small, warm, almost-regretful smile as the elevator doors opened, his hand reaching out to lightly touch her arm, as if guiding her out into the hallway.

Despite the sprawling lay of offices, it wasn't hard to find Mason Charles, who was immediately concerned to see two law enforcement officers at his door.

"What's happened?" He was on his feet the instant they appeared, before his secretary could even fully introduce them.

"Mr. Charles, as of right now, we don't know that anything has happened," Emily kept her tone calm and low, casting a quick glance at the secretary, who quietly slipped away. Rossi closed the office door behind them, and Mason Charles' expression darkened in further anxiety.

"When is the last time you spoke to your wife—actually spoke to her, heard her voice?" David Rossi asked quietly, slipping his hands into his coat pockets with an air of nonchalance that seemed natural to most people, but Emily knew was his way of trying to appear calm when his gut feeling was screaming in opposition.

Mason thought for a moment before answering. "Last night—well, yesterday afternoon. She—she left a voicemail. I was in a deposition, so…I didn't take the call."

Emily read the expression on his face—were they about to tell him that was the last chance he had to speak to his wife?

"But—she's been texting me since then," he rummaged around on his desk, quickly finding his phone and holding it up, as if it were some kind of talisman against whatever evil they were bringing into his life. He couldn't stop himself from asking again, "What's happened? Why are you here?"

"Mr. Charles, I think it's best if we just take a moment to sit down," Emily adopted her soothing tone again. "As I said, right now, we don't know for sure that anything's wrong. We just need to get in touch with your wife, and we need your help—we need to ask you a few questions."

He immediately plopped back into his chair, as if he'd suddenly lost all strength, giving a slight motion to the two chairs positioned in front of his desk.

As she maneuvered around one chair to slip into the other, Prentiss shot Rossi a quiet look.

This wasn't going to be easy. Not by half.

FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.

SAC Scott O'Donnell felt like someone had attached a live-wire to his fingertips, so jumbled with nerves was he—and he knew the vast majority of that effect was due to the odd energy being pulsed around the room by his colleagues.

Of course, it didn't help that there were eight people crammed into a room that was little more than a glorified broom closet—though what was happening in this room wasn't nearly as important as what was happening in the next.

Because in the next room, the interview room into which everyone stared with rapt and anxious attention, sat Spencer Reid and Aaron Hotchner. The younger man was facing the one-way mirror, though his gaze was locked onto his supervisor's face, as if he were desperately trying to forget the others watching his every move.

O'Donnell glanced around the room at the assembled opponents and proponents—next to him stood Mateo Cruz, who still looked like a man who'd been to hell and back, but was looking better than he did earlier. In front of him stood Callahan and Keller, both as close to the glass as they could possibly be, as if the extra few inches somehow would help them better comprehend the scene before them. At the edge of the window's frame leaned Morgan, his nonchalant posture at-odds with his tense jaw. Alex Blake kept close to him, arms folded over her chest and lips pressed together. O'Donnell honestly wasn't sure how she'd gotten in here, considering that she was no longer an agent, nor had she been called on to consult for this case. He chalked it up to Hotchner's persuasiveness and Cruz's already-battered defenses. However, from his limited dealings with the woman during her time as an agent at Quantico, he knew that there was little cause for concern. She wasn't a loose cannon, despite the dangerous fact that she was no longer under his purview and free from all career-based sanctions that the FBI could throw at her.

In the back corner of the room stood Shostakovich and Eden, their shoulders huddled together in a conspiratorial fashion. Aside from O'Donnell, they were the only two not focused on the interview room—instead, they were quietly studying the reactions of the people around them.

It had been stranger than usual, the Flying Js' reactions to the BAU's arrival this evening. Dawson had insisted that Hotchner not be allowed his sidearm while in the room with Reid, and the other Js kept wary eyes on the rest. O'Donnell wasn't sure why they were acting as if it was the showdown at the OK Corral, but he assumed they had their reasons—though the fact that he wasn't in on their reasoning was a bit worrisome.

The door to the interview room opened again, and Jack Dawson entered the room, gingerly taking his place in the corner and gesturing for Hotchner to begin.

However, it was Reid who spoke first. "Who else is here?"

"The team, plus the investigators," Hotch shifted slightly. "And Alex Blake."

"Blake?" Now Reid sat up, as if suddenly interested. He'd already complained about the fact that he hadn't been allowed to speak with Hotchner in private, and as a result had become tight-lipped and slightly withdrawn.

In response, Alex Blake shifted closer to the glass, as if she were going to call out, to reassure him that she was indeed there.

Hotch nodded. "We're bringing in anyone we can to help—and since she was a direct connection to both the Replicator and the Amerithrax cases, it seemed like the most logical choice."

He was speaking to Reid, but his eyes were locked on Dawson. Jack had to give Hotchner some credit—the man hadn't tried to hide the fact that they were still holding their own off-record investigation as well, and even now, he wasn't trying to hide their line of inquiry.

"Good. We're on the same train of thought, then," Spencer's face was pale, paler than it had been a minute ago. His left hand tapped three times on the table top. "I know yesterday we were looking into a connection between Curtis and this UNSUB—I think it's more than that. Much more."

His hand tapped the table again, three distinct times. Hotch's dark eyes flickered down to Reid's hand, but he didn't comment on it.

"Yes," Hotch spoke slowly, his gaze traveling back up to his colleague's face. "The similarities are growing—Curtis attempted to frame Morgan for Strauss' murder, using his own fingerprints, although it was quickly proven false. It stands to reason that our UNSUB would have felt compelled to do something similar, yet still show that he was smarter than Curtis. Better at forging evidence."

Now Reid's left index finger was rapidly tapping on the table top—loudly and in such an odd rhythm that Hotch was having trouble forming his own sentences.

Reid simply nodded in agreement, "He's trying to prove he's better than Curtis—and by addition, better than us, since we technically beat Curtis at his own game. He's trying to show us that not only can he take us down, he can walk away—he can survive and be free."

He almost made the comparison to George Foyet—the Reaper, who'd lain dormant for years, just to prove his superiority. But the BAU had found him, had beaten him at his own game—and ultimately, Aaron Hotchner had taken his life.

It wasn't a pleasant memory, but there was something comforting about it. The team always got their guy, in some way or another.

But there was always a price to be paid. They all knew that. And they knew the longer it took for them to catch their UNSUB, the steeper the price became.

His finger started tapping double-time.

Across the glass, Kate Callahan's brows knit downward into an expression of confusion and concern. Spencer Reid wasn't exactly the most normal or nonchalant person in the world, but he was acting positively odd right now—his entire body was rigid, unmoving except for his left index finger, which was tapping away at the table like a fish flopping out of water. Hotch had obviously noticed the newly-developed tic, but he'd kept silent, which made Kate think there must be something that she was missing. That was the only thing that kept her from mentioning it aloud—because she knew that the Flying Js didn't know Reid well enough to know that this was out-of-character behavior.

However, she spared a quick glance over at Derek Morgan, trying to keep her movements natural, to avoid arousing suspicion.

Derek merely returned her gaze with a tight-lipped look of his own (yeah, I know, something's up).

That's when she noticed Alex Blake, who was standing next to Morgan. Blake's eyes never left Reid's hand—and her left index finger occasionally twittered against her leg, as if tapping in response. Her eyelids were slightly fluttering, and there was a twitch at the corner of her mouth, as if she were almost mouthing a word aloud, but barely restraining herself from doing so.

The answer sizzled in her brain like wildfire, and suddenly, Kate wanted to laugh.

Holy shit. Of course. That's why Reid had been so alert at the mention of Blake's presence—because he knew that her skill set would include something that the other, less linguistically-inclined agents wouldn't have.

He was communicating to her in Morse code. He was going to tell them who he thought the UNSUB was.

Strauss House. Vienna, Virginia.

With one last deep breath, Jordan Strauss hit the send button on her phone. For a split second, she felt the impulse to end the call before the line even began to ring, but she fought it down. It was too late for that kind of consideration now.

The feeling of lost control spiraled through her veins yet again—ever since Linnea Charles had shown up at her grief recovery meeting, Jordan had felt like a woman in free fall. Every move had felt like her only option, and she'd never been one who liked being backed into a corner. Both Dave and Agent Hotchner had reprimanded her involvement, and she'd made paltry promises to keep out of things—and yet here she was again, sucked back into the thick of it all.

"Hello?" Carrington's voice was stuffy-sounding, as if she'd been crying or had a cold.

"It's me. Are you OK?" Jordan felt a wave of concern—Dora didn't sound well, and if she were in any kind of discomfort, it was certainly Jordan's fault at this point.

"I'll be fine."

"Your response implies that currently, you are not fine." Jordan had dealt with this odd form of double-talk with her own mother, back in the day. Erin had used evasive language to side-step talking about her alcoholism whenever it was in full swing, and later to avoid talking about her relationship with David Rossi or her work—work that eventually killed her, when it came down to it. And through her mother, Jordan had learned not to let half-answers slide.

"I'm not," Carrington admitted. "But I also don't want to talk about it, currently. What's up with you?"

Jordan felt a slight twinge of guilt at the fact that Carrington was well-aware that she was only calling because something had happened and she needed help. However, she took a deep breath and launched into her reason for calling. "Linnea Charles is missing. I've spent the afternoon talking to Karl Miramontz, her coworker—he called to tell me that she was missing, because apparently, she left behind my contact information as a means of reaching her. She told them that if anything happened, I'd know what to do."

"Jesus." Carrington breathed. "A lot of responsibility to place on you, especially coming from a relative stranger."

"We trust each other. Strangeness and relativity don't matter."

"And what can I do?" Carrington shifted gears, sounding slightly annoyed (although Jordan wasn't sure why).

"Karl wants to meet. In person."

"Jordan, you're neck-deep in some weird conspiracy theory around the bombing of a government building. I don't think now's the best time to start meeting strangers who might have ties to the case as well."

"Well, that's kind of what I thought too…so…I thought—I thought you could come with me."

"What?"

"Please."

"Jordan, this isn't a good idea—"

"Look, I know it may come into conflict with your job, but you're the only one I trust."

Carrington fought down the urge to add besides Linnea, and to inform Jordan that she technically was no longer employed by the Bureau, but kept both comments to herself.

Jordan quietly added, "Carrington, you're already halfway down the rabbit hole, just like I am. Might as well keep falling, right?"

She was rewarded with a sigh. On the other end of the line, Carrington shifted slightly.

"Fine. I'll be at your place in twenty minutes. We can figure out how and when to meet Karl then."

"Thank you." Jordan felt a wave of relief. Despite how normal Karl had sounded on the phone, she'd learned firsthand that the scariest people were amazing at parading as normal and sane. Aside from Carrington, she knew she could truly, deeply trust her siblings, but her older-sister instincts warred against getting them involved.

"And—Jordan?"

"Yeah?"

"If we are falling down the rabbit hole, just keep in mind—we don't have a choice anymore. We just hit whatever's at the bottom."

The younger woman swallowed the lump of fear in her throat. "I know."

Somehow, saying it aloud seemed to make it even more real. And making it even more real seemed to make it even scarier.

"Without fear there cannot be courage."
~Christopher Paolini.