Times They Are A-Changing

"Friendship—my definition—is built on two things. Respect and trust. Both elements have to be there. And it has to be mutual. You can have respect for someone, but if you don't have trust, the friendship will crumble."
~Stieg Larsson.

Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.

William LaMontagne could feel his wife's gaze upon him, as clearly as if someone were holding an open flame next to his face. However, he steadfastly refused to make eye contact, instead keeping Henry curled up in his lap as they both watched some silly video on his phone with Sandy, who was leaned across the space between their two chairs. They'd installed themselves in the corner of the room, giving JJ and Emily a modicum of privacy so that they could play catch-up.

JJ knew. Even if she wasn't aware of all the details or even able to guess all the pieces in play, she had a pretty good idea of what was happening. Will tried to remind himself that the fact his wife's usual mental acuity was back in full-force was a good sign in regards to her recovery, he almost (almost) wished that she was still out of it, still too groggy to notice all the things happening just outside her hospital room.

No stress, Doc Mellinger had said. JJ's body had been beaten to hell and back, and that wasn't something a person just sprang back from, no matter how strong they were. Part of that physical beating had an effect on her mental capabilities as well—although the doctor had predicted no long-term side effects, she had warned both Will and JJ that it would take some time before JJ was back to her former full capacity. Dr. Mellinger had warned that short-term memory loss, lower concentration, headaches, and dizzy spells could become a part of JJ's daily life for the next few months, possibly up to two years.

Your brain got short-circuited and forced into a temporary shut-down, Dr. Mellinger had explained earlier that morning, just before JJ was officially moved out of ICU. It's gonna take a while to fully reboot—and even then, there might be some bugs it needs to work out…there's a possibility some things will remain permanently changed. We're talking about your most complex and vital organ, Jennifer. Recovery isn't something you can rush, and you certainly can't take it lightly.

Of course, JJ had nodded and gravely intoned that she understood, but her husband knew her well enough to know that in true Jennifer Jareau fashion, she'd planned to be the exception to every rule. She would will herself back into a perfect mirror of her former self, and she'd do it in a day, if she could. Her determination was awe-inspiring—and worrying.

And of course, Will never mentioned this aloud, because arguing about his wife's recovery wouldn't help the whole avoiding-stress thing.

Not that having the BAU tap-dancing around the bed with unspoken issues was exactly helpful, either.

Speak of the devil. Emily Prentiss quietly re-entered the room, ducking her head slightly as she slipped around the door and closed it behind her.

"Mom, why don't you take Henry for a walk?" It was cleverly disguised as a request, but Will LaMontagne was well aware of the command in his wife's tone.

Emily stopped, shooting Will a look of Oh, shit, we're caught.

"JJ," Will's voice was lined with gentle concern. Her blue eyes cut towards him with a look that immediately silenced whatever else he had to say.

"C'mon, sweetpea," Sandy was equally aware of the tension at play, but she forced a cheerful smile for her grandson's sake. "Let's go get a soda."

JJ didn't even point out that it was still well before noon and certainly too early for sugary soft drinks—a sure sign that she was intently focused on whatever she wanted to say next.

Heavy silence reigned until Sandy closed the door behind her and Henry. Despite her low tone, JJ's voice filled the room, slurred slightly by the gritting of her teeth, "What the hell is going on?"

"JJ, there's nothing going on," Emily infused her words with comforting assurance as she moved closer to her friend, shaking her head slightly to dispel whatever premonition the blonde had.

Now JJ fixed that cutting glare at her friend. "I may have hit my head, but I haven't lost my mind."

Emily stopped, instantly struck by the unspoken words that trailed behind JJ's declaration (and I've certainly never kept anything from you, Emily—even when it would have been easier for you, for me, I've always looked you in the eye and told the truth, so return the favor, for once).

She stumbled over her own tongue, shocked by the vehemence of JJ's gaze and by just how viscerally a simple glance could affect her. "JJ, I—"

"Don't take this all out on Em, now," Will shifted, turning to fully face his wife.

"Oh, I don't plan on it," she looked back at him again. "You've been looking guilty as sin all morning—for days now, actually, now that I can think back and analyze it. Even Mr. Straight-Faced Aaron Hotchner was acting like he had something to hide. But you two are the only ones still here, and out of everyone, I expected you to be the last ones who ever lied to me."

"JJ." The hurt in Emily's tone was so thick, she could've cut it with a knife. Part of it was genuine, JJ knew, but part she suspected was to reel her back in and calm her down.

The brunette sat on the edge of the hospital bed and gingerly took JJ's hand in her own. Her voice remained low and calm, "JJ, you're seriously injured. And the BAU is still in the middle of a domestic terrorism case—which has blown up in the press to become one of the most-publicized cases they've ever worked. So yeah, there's a lot going on—and yeah, most of it's hell. But no one's keeping you out of the loop for spite or whatever the hell you think is going on. It's a case, and it's stressful, just like every other case—even more so—and there are parts that we don't mention because you've got enough stress to deal with and because, quite frankly, there isn't a damn thing you can do to change it."

The words were blunt, but truthful. Of course, JJ knew that being in the loop would have no bearing on the case's outcome. And of course, her team cared about her and wanted to shield her from unnecessary stress.

But that didn't explain why Emily was here. Or why Spencer and Matt weren't. Or why Emily's and Will's expressions of concern weren't quite right—as if they weren't worried about her, so much as they were worried about her buying whatever story they were selling.

She took a beat to spare a glance at both her husband and one of her dearest friends before quietly stating, "I love you both very much. But I really, really hate being lied to. So either tell me the truth, or get the hell out."

FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.

Spencer Reid was slightly surprised when Section Chief Mateo Cruz walked through the door of his makeshift holding cell—throughout this entire ordeal, his superior officer had been absent, at least from Spencer's point of view. He wasn't sure what that had meant—either Cruz believed him to be guilty and therefore wanted no kind of association, or Cruz believed him innocent and his vehement defense had made the Flying Js banish him from the room.

Spencer was too exhausted to try and figure out which scenario was more probable. Instead, he merely watched Cruz with a tired patience, not even bothering to get up from his current position, which was sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Matt Cruz was immediately struck by how small and how still Dr. Reid looked—over the past few months, he'd come to learn that the doctor was a spindly bundle of frenetic energy, and even when his limbs were still, his brain was constantly whirring with facts and connections. But right now, the exhaustion in every fiber of Reid's body made it look as if he'd shut down completely, as if he were merely a wax-figure recreation of himself—the usual spark behind his eyes was missing, the muscles of his face were uncharacteristically slack, and his usual slightly-off-kilter wardrobe seem like freshly pressed ceremonial blues compared to his current disheveled clothing. Thankfully Dr. Reid had been allowed to have his go-bag, so at least he was in fresh clothes, but he hadn't had the assistance of a mirror and, understandably, he hadn't really cared about his appearance.

Cruz stopped for a full beat, staring open-mouthed at the strange and fearful transformation in front of him. Then he regained his composure, quietly closing the door behind him as he cleared his throat. He had a job to do (finally!)—Jack Dawson had called a few minutes earlier and had instructed him to interview Dr. Reid about any possible connection to Maura Morrow. Although Cruz and O'Donnell had remained part of the investigation from the start, this was the first time that Dawson had allowed either of them to truly step in and do something. O'Donnell and Cruz had privately discussed the very distinct possibility that Dawson wasn't laying all his cards on the table with them, but they'd also understood his need for secrecy, given the leaks that had happened earlier in the investigation. Dawson's request implied a new level of trust, and Cruz welcomed it. To add to the feeling of relief, it had been obvious that Dawson was leaning towards releasing Reid, which meant he was beginning to believe the man's innocence—Cruz had never truly given up his belief in Reid's innocence, but he'd been trained to be a good and faithful soldier, following orders and trusting the will of those in charge. The truth would always out, as the saying went, and in this case, it was slowly making itself known. Soon everything would be right again, with just a little more patience and a helluva lot more hard work. At least now they were bringing Reid back into the game—the man whose intellect, in Cruz's opinion, was their greatest untapped resource on this case.

Despite Reid's wan appearance, Cruz could still feel those eyes following his every move as he dragged the desk chair closer to the spot where Reid was currently seated. When he looked back up into the young doctor's face, he didn't see suspicion or even anxiety—merely curiosity.

"Have you ever met someone named Maura Morrow?" Cruz cut to the chase. God knows, the poor man had been in enough suspense over the past few days.

Now Reid's face took on a more familiar expression as he frowned slightly, his brain churning back to life as it zipped through his impressive memory. "No—at least I don't think so. I know of a Doctor Maura Morrow, a handwriting analyst—"

"Who worked on the Amerithrax case with Alex Blake and John Curtis." Cruz finished with a slight wave of his hand, implying that Reid was referring to the correct person.

The younger man shook his head. "We've never met. I would definitely remember."

"But is there any other way that you might have had some kind of…run-in with her?"

"A run-in?" Reid looked at the man as if he'd grown a second head.

"I mean, have you ever had a disagreement over some kind of…data or technique or theory—maybe you publicly criticized the handling of the Amerithrax case—"

"I have never criticized the Amerithrax case, neither publicly or privately," Reid quickly interjected. "And I've never commented on any of her work, or publicly discussed anything within her field of expertise which could be misconstrued as some kind of criticism or barb directed at her."

"OK," Cruz gave a curt nod, as if he'd suspected as much. Reid appreciated that the man simply took him at his word, didn't push for further confirmation—Cruz believed him, and trusted him. A week ago, that would have been a given, but after the events of the past few days, it was a welcome reassurance.

"Why are you asking me these questions?" Reid was curious, not confrontational. He already knew the answer, Cruz realized. The younger man just wanted confirmation.

There was a beat of silence as Cruz took a deep breath. He exhaled slowly, quietly admitting, "We have proof that Dr. Morrow kidnapped Linnea Charles. She also has a direct connection to John Curtis, which might begin to explain the similarities in the case—especially if we continue with your apprentice theory."

Reid took a moment to simply look at his section chief—so they had figured out his Morse Code stunt with Blake. Cruz offered a wan smile (yeah, we cracked the code). Reid found that he wasn't surprised. He knew that it was only a matter of time before someone other than Blake realized that he'd been using Morse Code, but he'd hoped that his team had a head start, at least.

Now wasn't the time to mourn the failed execution of his clever plan. Instead, Reid sat up straighter, his brain returning to its usual rapid-fire pace. "She has to be the apprentice. Her manipulation of Benjamin Fuller—that was her way of stepping into Curtis' shoes, proving she could do what he did with Donnie Bidwell."

Cruz gave a solemn nod of understanding. Since Reid's apprentice theory had been mentioned, Cruz had taken the time to go back over the Replicator case, particularly the section involving Bidwell. He pointed out quietly, "But Bidwell was already angry at his wife and at the cops for ruining his life, so it was easier to misdirect his anger for Curtis' own twisted purpose. That wasn't the case with Benjamin Fuller. By all accounts, he had no reason to hate the FBI."

"And yet Dr. Morrow was still able to take someone who was loyal to the Bureau and turn him into one of its greatest threats," the younger man pointed out quietly.

"So she's more powerful, in terms of manipulation," Cruz followed the rest of Reid's unspoken reasoning.

"Technically, yes—if we're going by Curtis' scoring system," Reid held up his index finger as a gesture of caution. The fact that he was back to talking with his hands was a good sign, in Cruz's book. "But we're talking about a female UNSUB here—this changes the game, in almost every scenario. Her motivations will be different, her reactions, everything."

"So, she's not doing this to prove that she's smarter than Curtis and the FBI?"

"That maybe a welcome byproduct of her work—but it's not the driving force behind it, much less the end goal." Reid frowned slightly now, "Even as impersonal as a bombing attack may seem, when it comes to female UNSUBs, it generally has to be personal. She's not proving a point…she's regaining a point."

"What, like, revenge?"

Reid nodded quickly, hoisting himself onto his feet again with a sense of purpose. Cruz sat back, watching him with a mixture of relief and curiosity.

"We need to look into Morrow's past," Reid informed him, a rather unnecessary statement. "There has to be a motive—and it has to be big. Not some little slight or a caustic comment—"

"Losing her standing as an authority in her field of expertise due to the Amerithrax case isn't a big enough motive?"

Reid frowned, giving a slight shake of his head. "It's not personal enough."

"It was for John Curtis."

"The Bureau was Curtis' life. He had no family, nothing outside of work to add any kind of meaning to his life—I don't think that was the case with Morrow."

"I'll have Sura Roza start digging, if she hasn't already," Cruz rose to his feet. "She's a little preoccupied at the moment—apparently Dr. Morrow flew to England overnight, using her sister's passport and identity. Roza's currently interfacing with Interpol to see if we can confirm that it was Morrow, and to see how far we can track her from there."

"Interpol?" Reid stopped for a moment, his face blank with surprise.

"Emily Prentiss is pulling some strings," Cruz informed him with a slight shrug.

For the briefest of flashes, a smile wavered at the corner of the young doctor's mouth. Emily was aware of the situation, and she was doing whatever she could to help. The thought was comforting.

Cruz moved to the door, giving a slight pat on Reid's shoulder as he went past. "Hang in there, Doc. Just hang in there."

"How's JJ?" Reid turned to follow him.

Now Cruz stopped. With a slight grimace, he admitted, "I haven't been to see her yet. She's…still recovering. It was touch and go for a while, so—"

"Touch and go? What do you mean, touch and go?"

"She's fine now. She just—she had a few seizures, and there was a secondary surgery—"

"And no one thought this was information that I would like to know?" The near-frantic pitch in the younger man's voice was a sure sign of his concern.

"Things have been crazy, it's—"

"There isn't any excuse," Reid cut him off, his tone quick and harsh. "She's my best friend. She's my family. I should have been informed."

"And what would that have done?" Cruz challenged, his calm and quiet voice a juxtaposition to the other man's frantic energy. "You can't go anywhere, you can't make phone calls—hell, I'm sorry I even mentioned it because at this point, you're still on lockdown. Your knowledge of the situation would have done absolutely nothing to change it in any way."

"That's not the point and you know it," Reid informed him. Then he took a deep breath, reset himself, and quietly asked, "Is she really OK?"

"Yes," Cruz's tone was equally soft, tinged with regret. After all, he understood Reid's worry and his anger over not being informed. "She was moved out of ICU earlier this morning. She's back on solid foods, she's up and responsive. Despite her setbacks, the doctors are still saying she's one of the fastest recoveries they've seen so far."

Now Reid gave a wry, single, mirthless laugh. Cruz gave a pinched smile of agreement. They were thinking the exact same thing.

Of course she was the exception to the rule—typical JJ.

Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.

"JJ, you have to calm down," Will was on his feet now, holding out his hand in a gesture of caution. "Doc Mellinger said you can't get worked up over things—"

"Then stop giving me a reason to get worked up," his wife retorted quickly, her tone sharpened with frustration. She knew that he was right, but she also knew that he was using the doctor's orders as a shield to keep her from the truth. She cast another glance at Emily, "The sooner you tell me what's really going on, the sooner I can calm down."

Emily's mouth merely set in a small, thin line, and JJ suddenly realized that whatever it was, it had to be worse than she'd imagined.

"Is…has someone…is someone hurt?" Her lungs contracted and her mind flashed to the only two people who hadn't been in her room that morning—Matt and Spence.

"Everyone is safe, physically," Emily reassured her gently, moving closer again. She began to lightly rub JJ's left shoulder, the sling on its corresponding arm keeping her from applying too much actual pressure. The brunette gave Will a beseeching glance.

William LaMontagne hated how helpless he felt in that moment. Either option would only bring more stress into his wife's life, and either option would leave her angry and upset over the fact that he was keeping information about her family from her.

He took a deep breath and quietly sat on the other side of the bed, gently placing his hand on her leg. "JJ, I need you to keep calm, no matter what."

"You know I can't promise that, even if I wanted to," his wife informed him. If the situation hadn't been quite so serious, he would've laughed. But all sense of humor had abandoned him.

He could feel Emily's gaze locked on his face, as if she were trying to telepathically relay her own strength into him—and he knew that she'd shoulder the burden of being the bearer of bad news, if he asked her to. That was one of the many points of connection between him and his wife's former colleague—their sense of sacrifice, their desire to always carry more than their fellow friends, not out of pride or ego, but out of loyalty and love.

But this wasn't Emily's cross to bear. Will had been the one, from the get-go, who'd kept JJ sequestered from the events of the case. He'd shielded her from the truth, and he'd be the one who told her that same truth, in the end. It was only fair.

So he took another long, unsteady breath, and said, "JJ, almost since the beginning of this case, the evidence has been pointing to Spencer—"

"No, he'd never," she bolted upright, as if she were ready to physically jump to his defense. Both Emily and Will moved to hold her back, making small noises of disapproval and comfort, respectively.

"Just lemme finish," he instructed, his voice firm but not unkind. She sat back, her face still stricken with terror, but the trust in her eyes still shone like a hopeful beacon (and for that, Will said a quick prayer of thanks—she still trusted him, which meant on some level, she understood why he'd done what he did, and eventually, she'd even forgive him). He continued, keeping his tone calm and level, "We all know he didn't have any part of this, but the team running the investigation doesn't know him like we do—and apparently, there's been some pretty rock solid evidence."

Here Emily Prentiss made a small hum of agreement, although her face was lined with regret. However, she kept silent and let Will continue.

"They have him in custody, for now. Now the BAU has been working like the devil to prove his innocence—"

"And at this point, we've be able to do a pretty damn good job of it," Emily spoke up now. "Right now, we're tracking down the woman who's behind the whole thing, and as soon as we have her in custody and she admits that Reid wasn't involved, it'll all be over."

"A woman?" JJ was surprised. Her mind went back to the more important matter, "But what if she lies? What if she still claims that Reid was involved?"

"She won't." Emily promised, fully aware of the fact that she really had no way to prevent such a thing. "We won't let her. By the time we're done, she'll be buried so deep in a federal prison that we'll never had to worry about her again."

JJ squeezed her friend's hand, as if silently making a pact. Emily held on just as tightly, her eyes locked onto the blonde's.

Will understood that he was witnessing an agreement of victory between two of the strongest, most determined women he'd ever known.

For the briefest of flashes, he actually felt sorry for the woman responsible for Reid's troubles. Because with JJ and Emily against her, she didn't stand a snowball's chance in hell.

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

"No way in hell are we letting this Morrow woman get away," Morgan announced to no one in particular as he helped Garcia settle into her desk chair. Despite her insistence that she use crutches, he'd kept his arm around her torso the entire trip from the car to her apartment. Garcia knew that he was simply being his usual gallant self, but part of her wondered if it was a subconscious reaction to the events of the past few days—he still wanted to keep her physically in his grasp, to know and to feel that she really was still there, still with him. She'd understood needing reassurances like that, and so she hadn't put up too much of a fight about letting him help her along, although the voice at the back of her mind warned that this wasn't part of the whole let's-put-some-distance-between-us plan.

What could she say? She was a weak woman. She could only fight so many battles at a time, and her dance card was full.

Today's priority was finally proving Reid's innocence and getting him out of custody. Everyone had sensed a change in the tide when Hotch had returned from his chat with Dawson at the hospital. Dawson's openness had signaled a new turn in the relationship between the BAU and the investigating team, and they could only hope that it continued.

"Garcia, where are we on the email situation?" Hotch was entering the apartment as smoothly as he would the briefing room, as if this were just an ordinary day on an ordinary case. Blake, Rossi, and Callahan were close behind him.

"I can answer that in about three minutes, sir," she informed him.

"We stayed up all night culling through the rest of the potential copy-cat cases," Blake spoke up, closing Penelope's front door behind her and momentarily shutting out the rest of the world. "We couldn't find a single case that had enough points in common with this attack."

Morgan and Callahan made small sounds of agreement—they obviously had come to the same conclusion.

"So it's not a replication of a previous attack," Hotch surmised. He wasn't surprised by the result, and for a moment, he felt a flash of frustration for the time wasted on such a rabbit trail—of course, they wouldn't have known it was a rabbit trail until they followed it, but still. The sensation of constantly running without ever gaining ground only intensified, and it wasn't a pleasant feeling.

"Curtis' apprentice has stopped following the script," Rossi stated, taking a moment to give his friend a sympathetic glance—he understood the underlying frustration, but there was nothing to be done about it at this point. Instead, he focused on the new information they'd learned, "And the apprentice is a woman. A total game-changer."

"So…we go from professional to personal," Blake's long index finger imitated the jump. "But for Curtis, it was personal. And Maura—I mean, she suffered just like the rest of us, but not personally, I don't think."

"Did you keep in contact, after the case was closed?" Hotch asked, face meticulously impassive as always.

"Briefly. A few emails here and there. We didn't chat on the phone or send each other Christmas cards, if that's what you're asking," Blake shrugged slightly. "I mean, in reality, we worked together for a few months. The case was tough, everybody bonded in the way that you do, when you're on a case like that, but we got sent off, and eventually everybody went back to their lives."

"Garcia, you'll need to dig into Maura Morrow's personal life. See what else we can find," Hotch informed her.

"Aye, sir. But first, allow me to dazzle you with my brilliance."

Everyone stopped and turned to fully face Garcia's in-home work station at that pronouncement—Penelope might be flashy and a little hyperbolic at times, but when it came to her work abilities, she never fell short of her proclamations.

The technical analyst was currently glued to her computer screen, fingers flying like they were possessed of their own spirits as window after window popped up on her monitor, each quickly screen capped and saved. However, adept multi-tasker that she was, Penelope was still able to narrate as she continued her work, "I had a friend—let's just say a source, a reputable, talented source, whom I can't reveal—who got me access to Reid's data usage records for the past three weeks. Technically, it's a bit raw—this stuff hasn't been compiled into his monthly bill at this point, but it's all here, waiting. From this, we can see if there is or was a spike in his data usage—"

"Which would imply that someone had hacked his phone with that program-thingy." Rossi was obviously proud of himself for being able to make the connection.

"Correct-amundo, my fine Italian friend." Penelope's right hand left the keyboard long enough to give a congratulatory wave in Rossi's direction. "Now, interestingly enough, we can see a sudden uptick in usage right about…three days ago. And then, since then, there's been nothing."

"Well, Reid did lose his phone," Callahan pointed out.

"Yeah, but it's been turned on again," Penelope reminded her. More images flew across the screen, too quick for the others to truly follow. "The Flying Js have it, and have had it turned on at least long enough to prove that he didn't have a program on there, and that the email was sent from his phone. Now, if the program was still there, it would still be sucking up data, reporting everything back to the mothership."

"But that isn't happening," Hotch clarified.

"Nope. In fact, it stopped happening the day of the bombing." Penelope paused for a moment, leaned forward to inspect a window of information, then grinned again, "And it only happened on that day. Like, the program installed itself around 1 a.m., and then uninstalled itself around 10 a.m. that morning."

"And you can prove that's what happened?" Blake was slightly incredulous.

Now Penelope stopped her work, turning to look at the room full of profilers. "Well, no. Of course not. The program isn't there anymore—I can't prove that it ever was, that's kinda the whole point of the program itself."

"So this whole scenario is circumstantial," Blake spoke again slowly, her hands widening in a gesture of futility.

"Hey, it's a helluva lot more than we had before," Morgan stepped forward. His tone was quiet but his body language was definitely defensive.

"I'm not saying it isn't," Blake's expressive hands swiveled into a sign of surrender. However, she still had a point to prove, "But is it enough to convince Dawson to release Reid?"

The room was quiet as the question hung like the proverbial ax overhead.

"How do we go from circumstantial to concrete, Garcia?" Hotch's calm voice broke the silence.

"Well," the blonde shifted in her seat again, returning to her computer. "You'd have to find the origin point—the computer where all of this was set up, the place sending out the commands to Reid's phone."

"How do we do that?" Morgan set his hands on his hips, feeling a surge of confidence and determination—if anyone could make it happen, it was his BabyGirl, and the day was still young. She could have this whole thing cracked by dinnertime, if she put her mind to it.

"We don't. The FBI does." Penelope was grinning again, this time with her characteristic mischievousness. "It's time to call the technical analyst handling the investigation. Sura Roza can send this info onto the information technology section, and they'll do all the heavy lifting for us—and it'll all be documented and legit, which is a double-plus."

"Then let's get Roza on the phone," Morgan motioned to Penelope's cell.

At this point, David Rossi was glancing at his own mobile device. He had a call of his own to make.

National Women's History Museum. Washington, D.C.

Jordan Strauss sternly told herself that she absolutely would not look at her phone again. Then she promptly did the exact opposite.

Her lockscreen stared back at her, devoid of any notifications of missed calls or texts. She slipped the offensively blank-faced device into the back pocket of her jeans, pushing her legs to move double-time as she skirted around a cordon and through the darkened labyrinth of the museum's east wing, where their latest exhibit was still under construction—Behind the Badge: A Historical Look at Women in Law Enforcement.

She wouldn't deny that her mother had greatly influenced her choice of subject—in fact, Jordan had first compiled her proposal for the exhibit before Erin's death. She had been in the process of being "poached" by the National Women's Museum from her then-position at the National Museum for Women in the Arts, and she'd been explicit on the fact that if the NWM would pre-approve this exhibit proposal, she would accept their offer of employment. It had been a done deal—she'd planned on announcing the news to her mother at their usual Sunday family brunch, but Erin hadn't made it to that brunch, or any brunch thereafter. John Curtis had stolen her life, and with it, some parts of her children's lives as well.

After the tragedy, the project had been shelved, and Jordan had taken a few months' leave to regroup and relearn how to live in a world without her mother. It had been another year before she was able to look at the proposal again, and now, almost two years since Erin's death, she was finally turning the idea into a reality.

As with so many other aspects of her life, Jordan wished her mother could be here to see it—like most people, Jordan had learned too late that she hadn't expressed her love and her gratitude often enough when Erin was still alive, and this symbolized just another lost chance to show her mother how inspirational she'd been to her children.

Mothers left life before you did. That was the way of things, the natural order of the world. Jordan understood that. But they weren't supposed to leave before you had figured it all out, before you didn't need them anymore. Though the older she got, the more Jordan realized that perhaps you never stopped needing your parents.

She remembered her grandfather's funeral. Her mother had been in her early fifties by then. As the family had sat in the back of the long black limousine, Uncle Peter had quietly whispered, We're orphans now. Mother had simply reached out and squeezed Uncle Peter's hand so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. It had been a moment of revelation in Jordan's life—that even though her mother and her aunt and her uncles were all adults, all in their mid-life years, they were still, in fact, orphans. Because no matter how old they were, their parents were still their parents, and they still felt adrift without them.

She understood that on an even deeper level now. Her life had been permanently altered, completely remolded by the loss of her mother—not just by the loss, but by the senselessness of it, the violence, the vehemence, the unfairness of it all.

Jordan wasn't even thirty yet. She still had a lot of big mistakes to make—how on earth could she navigate those mistakes without her mother to help?

She had the sinking feeling that currently, she was making just such a mistake. Another glance at her phone only further confirmed it. It had been over twelve hours since she'd heard from Dora Carrington—since the brunette had stormed out of her house and perhaps out of her life, furious over Jordan's seemingly-cavalier attitude about Linnea Charles' disappearance and its connection to the Bureau bombing.

Of course, Carrington was furious over other things, too. Even if she'd never admit them.

Maybe that was the real problem. There was a huge frakkin' elephant in room and neither one was addressing it—but their mutual silence wasn't keeping it at bay. In fact, it seemed to only make the elephant grow larger.

Jordan Elaine Strauss was her mother's child. She had her mother's eyes and her mother's pride, and the idea of being the first one to reach out was almost physically painful—it was a capitulation, a willful bending of her neck for Carrington's heel.

But was it any more painful than her current limbo? She supposed that all depended on Carrington's response. At this point, it seemed like 50-50 odds on either outcome.

You'll never know for sure unless you try. It was her mother's voice, echoing in her head. That was the advice Erin had given when Jordan had first decided to take an internship with the National Museum for Women in the Arts. She'd convinced herself that she wasn't qualified enough, that she couldn't possibly be a contender for such a position. Her mother had quietly rebutted with that simple statement—and the next morning when Jordan had come downstairs for breakfast, there was a printed out copy of the application, her mother's way of silently telling her just do it.

She'd followed that advice, and had landed the internship—and had spent almost two years at the museum, continuing to work there long after she'd graduated college. That had launched her into her current job at the National Women's Museum—a job that she loved and felt perfectly suited for.

The longing for her mother stabbed harder than usual, a physical pang between her lungs.

That was Carrington's problem, too. She missed Erin—in a different way, but missed her and mourned her loss all the same. Not for the first time, Jordan wondered if everything that had happened between them had simply been some kind of transference of affection and attraction on Carrington's part.

You'll never know for sure unless you ask.

Jordan looked at her phone again.

"Pride, adieu," she whispered mockingly—it was an old phrase her brother Christopher used to toss out before doing something stupid.

She dialed Carrington's number. There was no answer, and she didn't know what to say in a voicemail, so she simply hung up.

In all the times she'd called Dora Carrington, this was the first time that the woman hadn't answered, regardless of the day or time.

Jordan felt like it was a sign.

"I have tried to let you go and I cannot. I cannot stop thinking of you. I cannot stop dreaming about you."
~Erin Morgenstern.

*Author's Note: You can read more about Erin Strauss' brother Peter (who is undoubtedly my favorite Strauss sibling) in Pay the Piper.*