Kingdoms Lost

"The Devil is in the details, but so is salvation."
~Hyman G. Rickover.

FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.

Jack Dawson's cellphone began to ring as he stepped through the double glass doors of the Academy's main entrance. He gave a heavy sigh at how perfectly timed it was—he'd left a still-shaken Jess at the hospital with Jude, and as soon as he'd officially re-entered the world of the case, that world had immediately started clamoring for his attention.

It was Sura. He answered, "Roza, I'm walking in right now."

"Oh, cool. So, I have good news and interesting news—both of which might actually be considered bad news, given the situation."

"What's the news?" He navigated through the hallways so easily now, it was as if he'd been here for years instead of a mere four days.

"First, the kinda-good news: Interpol got the footage from the CCTVs in and around Heathrow. They ran it through their facial recognition program, and they've got a match. We can confirm that Maura Morrow definitely entered the United Kingdom this morning, under her sister's identity."

By this point, Dawson had reached the office-turned-temporary-headquarters, and the last few words of Sura's statement were in surround sound. She smiled when she saw him, and they hung up simultaneously.

"Hiya, boss," she was too cheerful, and he knew this was her attempt at bravery.

"Jude's gonna be OK," he knew that she needed to know as soon as possible, and he didn't prolong her suffering. "I can give you the full run-down later. For now, let's hear the rest of the news."

"You're gonna wanna close the door behind you," her hands made a fluttery motion towards the door.

He acquiesced, his body humming with the first signals of something not good afoot.

"You're going to have to revise your theory on Dr. Reid." She informed him.

"What do you mean?"

She waved him over to her, to the other side of her desk, where he could view her computer screen (not that it mattered, the visuals and graphs on her screen meant absolutely nothing to him).

"So I've been looking at Spencer Reid's cellphone data usage for the last three years—"

"Wait, how did you—"

"That's really not the point right now, my dear." Sura waved away his question. "The point is that we can finally answer questions about Dr. Reid's phone, and whether or not someone could have gained remote access."

Dawson pushed down the urge to further pursue the details of exactly how Sura had come across this information, when he was certain that their warrant hadn't been granted yet. Instead, he focused on trying to make the graphs and numbers make sense. "OK, so is there an uptick in usage? Any kind of indication that this program was installed or used?"

"Look at this man, knowing all the right questions to ask." She reached up to give him a patronizing pat on the shoulder.

"And do you have the answers to those questions?"

"I do, my dear, and I resent the implication that you'd even think that I wouldn't." Sura didn't even sound remotely upset. "There's one spike, six months ago. A mere blip. Then another—about three days ago."

"OK, so there's credence in the theory that someone installed a remote access program on his phone." Dawson gave a small nod.

"Yes, but that's not the point of this entire exercise." She tapped a few more keys, and the entire slew of images disappeared. She turned to fully face her team leader. "I want Penelope Garcia here, with me. I want her working on this case in an official capacity."

Garcia. The BAU's technical analyst. Dawson suddenly had a premonition, "She's the one who sent you these reports. How'd she get them?"

Sura gave a slight shrug at this, as if it wasn't entirely important. She crossed her arms over her freckled chest, "She's the best of the best, Dawson. I want her here—I need her."

When it came to describing the character and personality of Sura Roza, humble wasn't a word that came to mind. Dawson knew that when the woman said she needed help, she truly needed it. And if she were handing out compliments like the best of the best, well—she meant that, too.

"I'll see what I can do," he promised.

"No, just do it," Roza countered. "I need another set of eyes and hands in here anyways, and I honestly don't trust Viega and Federer with the kinds of tasks that need to be done. They're good for grunt work, but Garcia could run laps around them in her sleep. I need someone like that. Besides, we owe her—it would've taken days if not weeks to get all this information from the cellphone company, and she just handed it to us on a silver platter."

Dawson couldn't argue with that—and he certainly didn't want to argue with Roza, regardless of the topic. His team was already unraveling, and he couldn't afford to have his analyst pissed at him. There was enough stress in his life without that.

"Fine," he gave a heavy sigh. "Call Garcia. I'll let O'Donnell and Cruz know about our latest developments."

Sura was smiling now, self-satisfied.

Dawson stopped just before he opened the door again, "By the way, you know your theory about Jonas and Jude? Way off the mark. Way, way off the mark."

He left her with a quizzical expression. He'd explain later—but for now, there were more important things to do.

Scott O'Donnell rubbed his forehead in a mixture of frustration and frenzy. The events of the morning had somehow set a pace that was both too fast and too slow, and he warred between wanting things to slow down and speed up.

Earlier in the morning, the local security personnel at Washington Dulles International Airport had found Linnea Charles' car in the long-term parking garage. A team of bomb specialists had been called in to make sure that this car wasn't rigged to blow as well, and once the all-clear was given, the trunk had been opened—Linnea wasn't there, a not-entirely-unexpected development that caused both relief and concern. Nothing could be simple, not even the reaction to each new piece of evidence.

Quick calculations based on what time Linnea was first kidnapped and what time Maura Morrow boarded her flight for London revealed that Linnea could be anywhere within a six hour radius of the District—and that was only if Morrow obeyed the speed limit. Not exactly heartening.

The car was currently being loaded on to a trailer, so that it could be hauled back to the Quantico evidence lab for further analysis. Although the only likely outcome would be confirming that Maura Morrow had been in the car—something they already knew.

See? All these new bits of evidence, all pointing back to things they already knew. Push, pull, too much, not enough.

It wasn't even noon, and he was already completely exhausted. Granted, he'd been awake since the early hours of the morning, taking part in the raid on Maura Morrow's house—and everything that had happened there had only further drained what little energy he had to begin with. The shock of adrenaline to his system after the explosion and Agent Eden's resulting injury had been enough to knock anyone on their back, but he didn't have time to recuperate. He'd headed up the beginning of evidence collection on site and had then returned to Quantico, where he'd overseen the situation with Linnea's car from the Flying Js' makeshift incident command center at the Academy. Sura Roza had been uncharacteristically kind to him and had even gone so far as to make him a cup of coffee. He could only imagine how pathetic he must have looked, to elicit such a response from that woman.

He was on his way back for another cup of coffee (his fourth of the morning, maybe his fifth?), when he saw Jack Dawson in the hallway.

"What's the status of the car?" Dawson asked, without preamble.

"En route," O'Donnell returned. "How's Agent Eden?"

"Stable."

O'Donnell gave a nod of approval. "Cruz spoke to Dr. Reid, who claimed to have no connection, personal or professional, to Maura Morrow."

"Interpol just confirmed—Morrow was the one using her sister's passport on the flight to London," Dawson added. "Sura's keeping an eye on things, but as of right now, her credit cards are still inactive, and neither her name nor her sister's had appeared on any flight manifests leaving the country."

"Not that she needs to fly at this point," O'Donnell pointed out. Dawson hummed in agreement—the U.K. was the gateway to Continental Europe. Morrow only had to take the Eurostar from London to Paris and then from there, she could go anywhere.

O'Donnell's phone buzzed. It was a text from Macaraeg, informing him that they'd finished preliminary evidence collection at Morrow's house and were headed back to Quantico. Unsurprisingly, there had been no evidence of Linnea Charles at the house.

He relayed that information to Dawson, who seemed equally nonplussed.

Another set of footsteps echoed through the nearly empty halls, and Mateo Cruz soon appeared, looking as haggard as the others. He didn't bother to ask how their morning was going—their dour expressions were answer enough.

"We're bringing in Penelope Garcia," Dawson announced. Cruz merely nodded, as if he'd been expecting such a thing. That was what fatigue did to you—took away your ability to be surprised by any form of news. Dawson continued, "Roza needs help, and she claims Garcia's the best."

"She is," O'Donnell returned easily. He didn't know the technical analyst personally, but her work had always been exemplary and even people who didn't know her were aware of her skills.

Dawson nodded, as if accepting O'Donnell's assertion. Then he turned to more important matters. "We need to find Linnea Charles. I want you two to turn the conference room into an incident center dedicated solely to Charles' kidnapping. Shostakovich will help you, as soon as he returns."

The other two men made small noises of agreement. Cruz spoke up, "Do you want to assign a secondary team to Charles' case?"

"I'm working on that now," Dawson informed them, turning curtly on his heel and heading back down the hallway.

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

By the time Emily Prentiss had rejoined the BAU, everyone was preparing for lunch. She was warmly welcomed by the others, and she gave a slightly apologetic smile in response, as if she'd been caught skipping class. She knew that no one blamed her for spending a little time with JJ, but still, she felt a pang of guilt for not actively being a part of the morning's efforts to solve the case.

"How's JJ?" Blake asked, rising from her seat at the dining table.

"She's, um…she's good," Emily shifted a shopping bag from one hand to the other as she slipped into Penelope's bedroom. She reappeared a few seconds later, sans bag. "Although I should warn everyone: she's now aware of the situation with Reid, and she's not exactly pleased with the fact that we've kept it from her for so long."

"It was in her best interest," Hotch returned easily, voicing the thought that had simultaneously flashed across everyone's mind.

Morgan held up a hand, "And we were just following Will's lead."

"Dude, way to throw poor Will under the bus," Callahan chided playfully.

"Look, you haven't had the misfortune of being on Jennifer Jareau's bad side yet," Morgan defended himself. "But lemme tell you, it isn't something you enjoy. I'm just trying to survive."

This earned him a few grins—because the older members of the group definitely understood where he was coming from.

"But there is a ray of sunshine," Emily held out her hands, as if offering a gift. "Our guys tagged Morrow on the CCTVs at Heathrow. So we officially know where she is."

"For now," Rossi added.

Emily ignored the comment and glanced around the room, "What about you guys? Any news?"

"Yep, and all of it good," Penelope informed her. "We have Reid's phone records, which can lead further credence to the theory that he was hacked, and I just got a call a few minutes ago from the lead technical analyst on this case—she wants me to come to Quantico, to join the hunt for Morrow in an official capacity."

"Good," Emily's eyes went wide. Then she glanced back at Hotch, "That is good, right?"

Hotch nodded.

"I'm getting ready to head out now," Penelope continued.

"But not before you have some lunch," Rossi informed her, looking for all the world like the stern Italian mama that was most certainly his inner spirit-animal. Emily and Penelope exchanged twisted grins, as if silently agreeing: isn't he the cutest thing when he's in mother-hen mode?

"You want me to drive you?" Emily asked.

"Na-uh, Miss Ma'am," Derek Morgan held out his hand, as if physically stopping her. "I've already called dibs on driving Miss Daisy."

"But only if you talk like Morgan Freeman," Garcia stipulated.

He gave her a smooth smile in return. "Anything for you, babydoll."

Alex Blake's face quirked into an expression of bemused concern, "Is it weird that I've actually missed listening to you two talk like that?"

"No," came Morgan's reply.

"Yes," came the rebuttal from Hotch and Rossi.

Everyone else laughed. Again, Kate Callahan was struck by the feeling of family that permeated the apartment, even in the midst of such stress and darkness.

However, Aaron Hotchner quickly returned to more serious subjects, filling Emily in on the rest of the morning's developments, "The note forged in Reid's handwriting is already with a second analyst, so hopefully we'll be able to take away another piece of evidence against Reid."

"You think they'll finally release him?" Emily felt a ripple of optimism.

"I suppose that depends on what this new analyst says."

Evidence Lab, FBI Field Office. New York City, New York.

The rest of the lab was certainly aware that something was up. An entire section of the lab had been cordoned off by the lab director Shelley Gosslee, more affectionately known as Hooch, thanks to her spiky grey hair, which gave her an uncanny resemblance to the Hogwarts instructor of the same name. No one else was allowed to walk past the two large stainless steel tables, which had been pulled together to form a makeshift barrier.

Hooch was wearing a set of magnifying glasses over her regular glasses, which only made her look more like the iconic character from the Harry Potter films—however she was far too engrossed in her work to be concerned with the slight twitterings of her younger colleagues, one of whom had taken a photo of her to later post on Tumblr, citing it was "too good to pass up".

Addie Mac had contacted her earlier that morning, claiming that she needed to cash in a favor. Now in general, Shelley Gosslee was a helpful person, but when it came to Adelaide, she was even more so. They'd come up together through the years, and two decades ago, they would have even been classified as best friends. As such, Shelley had been one of the few people who really knew why Mac had transferred to Albany, and she had nothing but mad respect for the woman and her decision. Over the years, they'd fallen out of touch, but once Mac had returned to the New York Field Office, their friendship had resumed. Gosslee prided herself on running an efficient and unbiased evidence lab, but she wouldn't deny that perhaps she gave Mac's cases a little more personal attention.

Case in point: here she was, personally analyzing this piece of evidence. Granted, Mac had specifically asked her to look at it herself, instead of foisting it onto one of her assistants. Mac hadn't come out and said what to look for, but she didn't have to. The first analyst had confirmed this handwriting sample wasn't a forgery, and yet the FBI was asking for a second opinion. Which meant they had expected it to be a fake.

If it was a fake, it was a damned good one. At first glance, it was a match. At second and third glance, it still matched.

But Hooch wasn't the kind of woman who stopped at third glance—or even fourth glance, for that matter. She blew the handwriting up to almost fifty times its original size, staring at it with her magnifying glasses like it was the world's most fascinating puzzle. Two samples were side by side: a list of addresses, and a page from handwritten after-action report (who still wrote these things by hand nowadays?). Her right hand rested on a weighty tome, Between the Lines: The Dissection of Handwriting, from Theory to Practice by Dr. Maura Morrow. The book was over a decade old by now, but some techniques were truly timeless. Hooch's personal office at the other end of the lab held at least another half-dozen books on the subject, but this particular one was her guiding light. Morrow's research touched on minutiae that other writers on the subject had never considered, or at least hadn't bothered to write down. The woman had a reputation for being one of the most foremost authorities on handwriting, and this book alone proved that she'd rightly earned the distinction.

Hooch blinked. She'd been staring for so long that her vision had clouded and unfocused. Usually, when copying another person's writing, the writer would leave behind tell-tale marks, little hitches in the lettering where they'd had to stop and retrain their hand to form a certain letter a certain way. This held none of that. If the list of addresses was a forgery, the forger had practiced this handwriting for a long time—weeks, perhaps even months. They'd made sure the writing flowed easily, as effortlessly as their own. With any forgery, that would require a level of skill and concentration to be commended, but even more so with this particular slanted writing.

The e's were positively beastly, with pointed edges and odd sharp endings. And the s's lost their curviness, coming to harsher angles as well. In fact, every s held that same odd pitch….and the numbers all kept close to each other, in tight-yet-neat little lines. There wasn't much room for the poor things to breathe.

Suddenly, she began to laugh. The rest of the lab exchanged glances ranging from amused to mildly concerned. No one could tell if Hooch had experienced a breakthrough or simply a breakdown.

Evidence Lab, FBI Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.

Jeff Masterson shifted slightly in his uncomfortable metal chair, silently consoling himself with the thought that after today, the electrical crew would be finished with the repairs at the blast site and soon they would be back to a regular power source. Obviously that wouldn't do anything for the soreness in his back and legs due to the chairs, but at least he wouldn't be subjected to the incessant whirring and whining of the generators. In moments like these, one had to look for silver linings wherever they could be found, no matter how slight they seemed.

And today was a day in dire need of silver linings.

He and Roe were currently processing the samples that they'd taken from the explosion at Maura Morrow's house. There had been some hope that they could link it to the bomb that had detonated at Quantico, but that was quickly dashed. The person responsible for this boom didn't have the same skill level as the Quantico bomber—that had been obvious from the start, given how ineffective it had been. But each test only further confirmed the differences—different substances, different chemical signatures, different everything.

For a brief moment, he wondered if he should take a break and check on Mac. His supervisor had locked herself away again with the journals—it only took two to analyze the new evidence, and besides, it wasn't Mac's area of expertise. Sure, she was the head of their department, but she hadn't spent years studying bombs and their making, like Jeff and Roe had.

However, before he could even act on the thought, Macaraeg whirled into the main lab, her amber eyes wide with a mixture of fear and adrenaline.

Jeff could feel Rowena's entire body stiffen next to him—obviously, she'd read the urgency in their boss' body language as well.

"What's wrong?" Roe spoke before Jeff could.

Mac was still clutching a notebook in her hand. Her expression held a faint air of horror, and Jeff was struck with the feeling that they'd somehow missed something—something big.

His supervisor held up the journal, as if it were a banner, calling troops to war. "According to Fuller, this bomb had a detonator."

Three Days Earlier. Benjamin Fuller's House. Rural Virginia.

Benjamin Fuller shook his head, his expression still glazed with shock and dismay as he quietly repeated, "All those people. All those innocent people."

Maura pushed down a wave of frustration. Initially, she'd shared Benjamin's chagrin, but he kept harping on the thing, as if constantly repeating the fact that they'd made a mistake would somehow undo the error itself.

It was neither welcome, nor helpful.

"This was not the plan," he spoke again, and again, it was another phrase that he'd repeated often over the past hour. "This was not the plan at all."

"I am well aware of that," she bit back the ice in her throat, barely keeping her tone civil. Benjamin had always been fragile, particularly when it came to her disapproval, and she really didn't need anything else tipping him over into depression or whatever the hell else he might be careening towards.

"The kid," Benjamin's voice broke. He didn't have to clarify (after all, they'd fully dissected this a dozen times by now)—Maura knew he was referring to the young intern who'd been pushing the mail cart. The mail cart loaded down with their bomb. Their bomb, which was never meant to leave the mail room.

"Benjamin," Maura spoke in a low, quiet tone that was at-odds with the frustration coursing through her veins. "Benjamin, it's not your fault that the boy came into work hours ahead of schedule. We couldn't have planned for that. You're not responsible."

The younger man simply set his mouth into a thin, hard line, giving a single shake of his head.

Maura knew that she didn't have any other choice. Thankfully, she'd planned for this eventuality. Benjamin's sweet nature and overdeveloped sense of justice had been his greatest asset, whenever she'd been able to manipulate it into helping her plan the attack. But now it was his greatest weakness—and Maura had known it would be this way, for quite some time.

She moved silently into the kitchen, taking down two tumblers from the cabinet and pouring a splash of whiskey into each. She glanced over her shoulder, back into the living room, where Benjamin sat. He was too far in his own head to notice what was happening around him. Maura gingerly slipped the small vial from her pocket and poured the liquid into one of the tumblers.

It would have been easier to simply use a powder, but it wouldn't dissolve as well, and Benjamin might notice. Maura had decided that she didn't want him to ever truly know what was happening to him. She'd told herself that it would break his precious little heart, if he realized what she'd done—but a smaller, quieter voice in her head acknowledged that it was more about not ruining that shining adoration he held for her. If he figured it out, he'd look to her with broken eyes and she'd watch more than just a physical death. For all his faults and failings, Benjamin Fuller deserved to die with some measure of hope still left. It would be her final kindness to him, her final thank-you for all his work, for his dedication and his devotion.

With a quick swirl, the drink was mixed. She turned back to him with a sympathetic smile, offering the glass.

He took it, looking down at the drink with a brooding expression.

"Drink," she quietly commanded. "It'll help."

He didn't obey. Instead, he merely set the glass aside. "I'm not ready to be helped."

She knew what he really meant—I don't deserve to be helped. He was punishing himself for the mistake, for the one factor that he couldn't control in this entire scenario.

Everything had been paced and planned, like a ballet. The package was left in the mailroom. The email had been sent to the reporter, alerting her of the bomb. There would be a second email sent out, revealing the bomb's location. Linnea Charles would have simply blown the whistle. Then the Quantico Bomb Squad would have gone into the mail room—and the bomb would have been detonated. Justice would have been served.

Except that hadn't happened. The first email had been sent, and then the bomb had gone off. All because some overzealous kid showed up to work early and couldn't fucking leave well enough alone.

After another fifteen minutes of listening to Benjamin whining and wallowing in self-pity, Maura tried to get him to drink again. And again, she was met with failure.

She glanced at the clock. It wasn't supposed to take this long. She should have been gone by now. There was still so much left to do—the Quantico bombing might have been Benjamin's final act, but it was only her opening salvo. Granted, any chance for real revenge was gone the moment that the bomb went off, at the wrong time and even in the wrong place, but the rest was simply part of the plan—the plan that she and John Curtis had begun, what now seemed like a lifetime ago. John was long gone, but part of her felt that she still owed him this much. After all, she never would have gotten a chance for vengeance, if he hadn't shown up.

A chance. A chance lost, but at least not wasted. She'd tried, and she'd failed, but eventually, she'd find a way to succeed. For now, she needed to wrap up loose ends, pay off old debts, then skulk off to lick her wounds and create a new plan of attack.

Time was unraveling, just like the loose end currently seated in front of her. In the beginning, she wouldn't have even considered taking out Benjamin Fuller. He was solid, dependable, completely devoted to her. Over time, she'd realized that was exactly what Curtis would do—what he had done, in the last instance that he'd used a proxy. She saw the practicality of it, but it was the compassion of the act that swayed her.

Because, yes, this was compassion. The more she'd gotten to know Benjamin, the more she realized that he was, in many ways, still a young and sensitive boy, forever turning inward into his own world of introspection and reflection. At some point, he'd start to doubt himself, his actions, their consequences—and at some point, he'd be overcome with guilt, regardless of how he'd felt at the beginning of their venture, regardless of how right he knew his actions were, regardless of the logical argument his brain would present to his tell-tale heart. His logos would lose to his pathos. He'd never lash out at her, but he'd destroy himself.

This was the reasoning behind Maura's current plan. She was saving him from himself, even if both scenarios ended in his death.

Granted, her decision was helped along by the discovery she'd made just last week. As the day of reckoning had approached, she'd noticed that Benjamin had become more skittish. He'd shown the first signs of hesitancy, the first doubts, the first indications of instability. So she'd slipped into his house while he was at work (after all, he'd shown her where the spare key was hidden, "in case anything happened"), and had taken a good look around. His desk was locked, and she'd spent considerable time finding the hidden key, but in hindsight, she was glad that she'd taken the time.

Because inside the desk were the journals. Pages upon pages of their plan, from the minutest detail to recountings of lunches they'd shared, over which the plan wasn't even discussed. Her stomach had tightened as she'd read the lines—she'd always known that Benjamin had a soft spot for her, but she'd never realized just how deep his obsession ran.

Obsession. The word was tawdry, the type of thing you find in dime store romances smudged with too many fingerprints, but it was the only word that fit. Why was he keeping record? And for whom—himself, or someone else? Was this a sentimental memento, or his get-out-of-jail-free card? If he knew he would get caught, would he burn these, or give them to the FBI on a silver platter?

The possible outcomes were too much of a gamble to take. Any lingering doubts Maura might have had evaporated completely. She'd returned everything to its rightful place and never mentioned to Benjamin that she knew of his betrayal.

When it came to ending Benjamin's inevitable suffering, Maura had done a bit of research. Poison was clean and relatively quick. She just had to find a compound that was easy to create and that would dissolve into the bloodstream, leaving no traces. But she also knew that poison was the preferred method of many female murderers, for the exact same reasons—and she had to leave no doubt that Benjamin Fuller had died by his own hand. The story had to begin and end with him, leaving investigators with no reason to suspect another.

Benjamin provided the solution himself—during her tour of his home, she'd found the personal handgun that he kept in his bedroom closet. A gun owned by him, with his fingerprints already on it. All she had to do was make it look as if he'd shot himself—an M.O. favored more often by male suicide victims than female.

The idea of poison had been switched for a tranquilizer. Perhaps a little bit harder to obtain, but less chemistry involved, and while it wouldn't kill him, it would knock him out enough to keep him from realizing what was happening—and more importantly, from fighting back. Despite the obstacles, she'd been able to arrange everything she needed within a very short timeframe, further proving that today's failing certainly couldn't be her fault—she was capable of executing a plan, capable of getting the job done, no mess, no mishap.

Except Benjamin wasn't following the plan. He should've finished the drink by now, his limbs heavy and drowsy, eyelids drooping as he tumbled into peaceful slumber. But he hadn't taken so much as a single sip.

Maura took a drink from her own glass, watching him pointedly, silently prompting him to do the same.

He missed the message, apparently. Instead, he stared at the far wall, eyes glazed over with pain and remorse.

"So many innocent people," he whispered again. She could almost hear his heart breaking.

"Yes." For someone who spent so much time studying the way people communicated, she'd never really learned how to infuse the correct emotional tone in her voice. She glanced at the clock again, slightly distracted by the time. She thought about the letter that she'd planned to place on the credenza—it wasn't really a letter, but it was the closest thing to a suicide note that she could find among his rants and writings. And there had been something poetic about it, something that she didn't want the investigators to miss, when they found his body. She wanted them to know that all of this had been caused by their hubris, their arrogance, their inability to see past their own ego. She thought about the gun, still in its case on the shelf in his bedroom closet, and the latex gloves waiting in her purse. She thought about how many hours it had been since the explosion, how many agents were assigned to the case, and how quickly they could link everything together, how soon they'd storm Benjamin's little cabin, how much time she had to take care of everything.

Her chest tightened at these thoughts, an involuntary panic reflex. For the first time, she felt as if things were truly spiraling out of control. All the things before were unfortunate events, but simply a possible consequence of their work.

"We…we wanted to…we didn't want this," Benjamin spoke again.

"No, we didn't." Again, she tried to sound reassuring and failed. Instead, she merely sounded factual.

"But that doesn't matter, does it? Because we've done it, we've done this, the thing we didn't want to do. We're no better than the traitors we tried to punish—we are the traitors. I am the traitor." The realization hit him like a ton of bricks, and Maura saw the true moment of Benjamin Fuller's break. It had been easy to justify his actions, so long as he was able to tell himself that the person he was punishing was worthy of punishment—he was taking out a traitor, he was helping the Bureau, he was ridding them of a bad apple, a serpent in their garden who had marred their reputation and ruined their legacy. But his mission had failed, and innocent lives had paid the price—and with it came the cost of his sanctimony, his own rationalization for all his actions and motivations. He hadn't been an avenger, he'd been the very type of villain that he'd tried to punish.

Maura realized that she should have taken matters into her own hands several minutes ago. Benjamin's downward spiral had officially begun. She went to her purse, taking out her latex gloves with one last glance over her shoulder (a habit more than a gesture of actual concern—Benjamin wasn't aware of her, not in the slightest).

"Drink," she commanded again. "You need it."

Then she turned and quietly made her way down the hall, not bothering to see if he followed orders. Either he did or he didn't—either way, it wouldn't make much difference now.

Maura realized her hands were shaking as she put on her gloves. She took the slim gun case from its shelf. The weapon felt heavy, but the weight in her palm was somehow reassuring. She didn't know much about firearms, but she knew enough to check the magazine clip. It took her a few seconds to figure out how the safety worked, but it felt longer than that—she had an irrational fear that Benjamin would suddenly snap out of his self-loathing stupor and come after her. If he found her here, with the gun and the gloves, everything would be ruined.

She loaded a round into the chamber before switching the safety back on and moving to the room across the hall—Benjamin's study, where she'd found those incriminating journals. Not for the first time, she inwardly cursed this man. In the months that she'd known him, she'd found him to be thoughtful, meticulous to a fault, and slightly paranoid (which often worked to her advantage, surprisingly). This journal-keeping was almost completely out of character for him—hadn't he realized how reckless he was being?

She found the page that she was looking for easily enough—last time she'd been here, she'd put everything back into place, just as she'd found it, but she'd remembered which notebook and even which page number the chosen faux suicide letter was on. She thanked her former self for the time saved by this precaution, delicately removing the page with a frown of concentration.

Each step back down the hall sent a corresponding pound of dread in her stomach. Briefly, her mind flitted to the thought that she didn't have to do this, but it seemed like merely a requisite hesitation instead an actual consideration. After all, shouldn't one have some kind of moral quandary before taking a life? Wasn't that supposed to happen?

The irony of the moment wasn't lost on her—and not too surprisingly, she wasn't shocked at her own lack of response. She'd only told herself that she should feel guilty or remorseful, because that was what she was supposed to feel, but she didn't actually experience those emotions. She blamed the people responsible for this whole thing in the first place—after everything, she'd lost what little empathy she'd had to begin with, and she'd been through the kind of fire that leaves one hardened and impassive, regardless of their previous outlook. It wasn't her fault that she couldn't feel even the slightest bit of remorse for what she must do next—it was the fault of those who'd taken every other option away from her, the ones who'd driven her to this particular brand of madness through their cruelty and callousness all those years ago.

Benjamin hadn't moved. Not that she'd really expected him to. He'd probably sit there, rooted to that damn chair until the FBI barged through the door. He was utterly broken.

She was doing the right thing. She was putting this poor creature out of its misery.

As she gingerly lowered the piece of paper onto the credenza, she noticed that her hand no longer shook. Adrenaline had truly taken over, and now every movement was weighted and thoughtful and smooth, as if she were conducting an orchestra or performing a ballet or playing the piano.

There was a sudden rush of appreciation for the young man seated before her, still oblivious to his inevitable fate. Yes, he was reckless and had proven himself completely incapable of handling stress, but he was also still the sweet and thoughtful and ardent boy who'd shook her hand all those months ago. He'd been her constant and only companion since the loss of John Curtis, and she couldn't have gotten this far without him. Despite his failings, he'd been useful, and she owed him a debt of gratitude.

She couldn't let him die like this—well, not quite like this. She couldn't let his last emotions on this earth be ones of regret and self-loathing. She'd wanted him to slip away with a feeling of accomplishment, of knowing he'd done well, that he'd done exactly as she'd asked and that she was grateful for his work, that he'd truly earned the adoration that he'd been so desperately seeking from her.

She slipped the gun into her back pocket as she took a deep breath. As repulsed as she felt at the idea of physical contact (just as she'd always had, ever since she was a child), she would find a way to overcome, to touch him, perhaps even hold him, to give him some measure of the fantasy he'd always held for her. She'd learned that a smile or an accidental brush of her hand was enough to send him over the moon—she'd kneel before him and place her hands over his hands, she'd caress his face and tell him that it was all going to be alright. He'd like that. And more importantly, he would believe her. He would be calm and serene and she'd let him go into the next realm without any of this horrid guilt. It would be her gift to him, her final token of esteem.

But he opened his mouth and ruined it.

"We should turn ourselves in."

"What?" Maura's entire body went still—her muscles, her heart, her blood, everything. But her veins hummed back to life quickly, and all thoughts of sweetness were gone. They pounded with the drums of war.

"We can't be like them, Maura." It had been a while since he'd used her first name. For some reason, she took it as a sign that she'd fallen in his esteem. He never even turned back to look at her, and suddenly, it wasn't because of his shock—it was because of his revulsion. He couldn't stand to look at her, she could see it plain as day now! More anger and betrayal barreled through her blood like gasoline onto an open flame. This boy, who had no clue how cruel the world really was, or how it really worked, was going to lecture her?

Benjamin continued with a heavy sigh, his voice filled with surety, "We have to take responsibility. If we don't, we'll be no better than—"

He never finished the sentence, because in a flash of fury, Maura's right hand slipped the gun from her back pocket as her left zipped forward, burrowing into Benjamin's dark hair and wrenching his head back with surprising ferocity.

It all happened so quickly, but there was still a moment for her to register the shock in his eyes, just before she pulled the trigger. And in that flash, she saw what she'd so feared—the adoration and trust so steadfastly present in his eyes were completely gone.

"The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms."

~T.S. Eliot.

*Author's Note: I know, it's been a while. Like MONTHS. Like to the point where there needs to be some kind of explanation. Please understand that is the only reason I'm sharing this with you—I'm not fishing for pity or hoping for comfort, and I balk at the idea of this being seen as some kind of cry for attention. So please see it for what it is: an explanation of my absence, plain and simple.

Three months ago, my second mum passed away, completely unexpectedly, followed by the death of my niece four days later, which was, sadly, completely expected. Aside from the grief, I had to make travel arrangements and plan a funeral from 1800miles away—not an easy task, I'm sure you can imagine. Grief does not a productive writer make, in my case. I began writing again, but my job requires me to spend the entire month of July in San Diego, after which I take a week's vacation in Louisiana. Again, traveling and hectic schedules do not a productive writer make.

But I am back now, and ready to wrap this story up. Thank you to everyone who has followed and favorited this story, to those who have left reviews, and especially to Gerardfan, who reached out to make sure I was alright after such a long silence.

This story is now dedicated to Jane, my second mum, whose one-of-a-kind Devonshire accent, amazing compassion, ballsy bravado, persevering strength, and unendingly tender heart was a large source of inspiration for the characters of both Judith Eden and Brighid Adair, in varying respects. I was once your muse, and now you are mine—although there isn't a wordsmith in the world who could do justice to the sheer brilliance that was and still is you, my dearest. *