The Masque of Queens

"The Spindle is now a turning;
The Moon it is red, and the Stars are fled,
 But all the Sky is a burning."

~Ben Jonson, The Masque of Queens, Celebrated from the House of Fame

*Author's Note: The names of Thomas Yates' victims mentioned in this chapter are names actually taken from the list that Rossi holds in 7.22 'Profiling 101'. I tried to use victims whose locations were not specifically mentioned, but if I place someone where they're not supposed to be, pardon my mistake.*

June 2013. Vienna, Virginia.

David could feel Erin's quiet eyes on him as he finished buttoning up his shirt—she had been watching him all morning, however, whenever he glanced over at her, she would immediately avert her gaze. She wasn't exactly a bright, chipper person most mornings, but today she was deathly quiet, her worry and fear and fatigue brooding over her, permeating the air in the room with an anxious dread. She was trying to pretend to read her book, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose, but she hadn't turned a page in almost half an hour, and her bottom lip had been so abused by her nervous teeth that it was close to bleeding.

She hadn't slept last night—he'd felt her leave the bed several times, and though he'd wanted to follow her, to quietly assure her that it was going to be alright, he knew (perhaps better than most) that Erin Strauss was like a cat at times. She needed to be alone with her thoughts, to heal her own wounds in the quiet solitude of her mind, because when people tried to reassure her, she felt the compulsive need to pretend that their assurances were working, because she didn't want to seem stubborn or ungrateful for the kindness (and maybe also because she was a raging masochist), when in reality, those comforting words usually only drove her closer to hysteria.

He quietly returned to the bed, sitting on the edge next to her feet. She studiously kept her gaze focused on the book propped up on her knees, which were nearly tucked into her chest, and he could tell from the skittering rise and fall of her breathing that she was holding back tears now.

In all the years that he'd known her, all the times that he'd seen her survive brutal shoot-outs and hostile takedowns, dead bodies and desecrated victims, he'd never seen her so unhinged. It frightened him, seeing her so close to the edge of something so obviously dangerous, and it also angered him, knowing that some sick bastard had pushed her to this state, knowing that this UNSUB had used her greatest fears against her, turning her into the epitome of everything that she'd tried so hard not to be—weak, afraid, uncertain, irrational, helpless, driven mad by worry and dread, spiraling out of control with no way to end this hellish ride until the Replicator decided that it was over.

"Bella," he spoke softly, and her bruised bottom lip quivered in response. Still, his lover was always one to put up a valiant fight. She set her book aside, her legs shifting into an Indian-style position as she leaned forward and gently took his wrist, buttoning his shirt cuffs with a domestic tenderness that was heartbreaking in a moment like this.

She was trying to pretend as if nothing was wrong, and yet every fiber of her being was screeching with fear.

He couldn't leave her. Not like this.

He gently reached forward and slipped her glasses off her face, and she finally looked up to meet his gaze, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Tenderly cupping the sides of her face with his hands, he pulled her forward, kissing her forehead, the tip of her nose, her mouth (yep, she'd bitten her lip hard enough to draw blood, probably without even realizing it, because all she could think about was their son and his safety).

"I've never been so scared in all my life," she breathed, closing her eyes at her confession.

"Me neither," he admitted softly, and her hands went up, grasping his wrists in response.

"It's going to be OK," she didn't sound very convinced, and he knew that she was trying to be brave.

"It's going to be OK," he repeated, trying to be emphatic enough for both of them. A beat passed as he tried to remind himself that he was leaving her in the care of half a dozen highly-trained agents. "You've still got your service weapon here, right?"

She gave him an incredulous look—as if that question wasn't even worth answering—and leaned back, one hand slipping into the space between the edge of the mattress and the headboard, reappearing to produce a sleek Glock Model 22.

He grinned, "That's my girl."

Another dubious look. "I think I'm a little long in the tooth to be referred to as your girl, my love."

"Now, what did I tell you about that kind of talk?" He gave her a severe look, and she rolled her eyes with a smile. He was trying to distract her again, trying to make her laugh before he had to go away, and she loved him for it, for all his gentle little concernities, for all the ways he showed the true compassion of his heart, for all the ways he loved her.

She returned her gun to its hiding place, and he returned her glasses to her open palm.

"It's going to be OK," he reminded her.

She gave a curt nod of agreement, her green eyes locking onto his brown ones, "It's going to be OK."

He stood and grabbed the rest of his things, heading for the front door, and she followed (and he grinned at the simple joy of knowing what her bare feet sounded like, padding across the wood floors in the early morning, with her hair still mussed from the night before and his shorts on her hips, her skin still glowing and warm and deliciously sleepy). She rolled up on the balls of her feet to give him one last kiss before sending him out the door with a slight wave and an almost-shy smile, because she knew that the protective detail certainly recognized the dark-haired man leaving her house (the same familiar face that had stayed over almost every night for the past week). And she knew that perhaps she should have been more secretive, should have been more cautious, but gods dammit, they'd wasted too much time dancing around other people and other people's rules and opinions, and so what if the agents in her driveway thought that she was being improper? What the hell did they know, anyway?

He offered a smile and a wave of his own as he walked to his car, his mind still rolling and tumbling with all the mixed emotions that had been a part of every waking moment of his life for the past two way or another, today would be a major factor in the Replicator case. And in less that twenty-four hours, this strange little section of this even stranger little game would come to an end.

The only problem was that David wasn't sure that he would be grateful for the conclusion. Or for whatever may come after it.

Quantico, Virginia.

June 1. Double Dare. Flip a Coin. Do you dare? Which one will you choose? One of these is not like the other ones...

Dr. Spencer Reid's mind was like a car in a high-powered car wash as these thoughts and questions bombarded his brain, their noise and fervor overpowering everything else as he simply sat at his desk, waiting for the phone to ring.

Two weeks ago, an item was left at three of Thomas Yates' former drop sites—one for each son, a token to show just how close the Replicator could get to the ones they loved the most. Today was the eight-week mark since they'd first started down this particular path, which began with the invisible ink letter, and Spencer had informed the local authorities to check each location today for another set of clues.

So why wasn't the phone ringing yet? Why hadn't they found anything, why hadn't they called to say yea or nay?

He was missing something. He knew it, he felt it tingling across the nerve endings in his skin, sensed it with every ounce of premonition and every fiber of his being.

But knowing that he was missing something and knowing what he was missing were two totally different beasts.

The phone still hadn't rung. What on earth could be taking them so long? He knew that he should be grateful—surely it meant that they were carefully searching every square inch of the dump sites, that they wouldn't miss a single clue or overlook any potential evidence, but good grief, the waiting was absolutely killing him. He hadn't been this nervous and fidgety since his first date with Maeve.

Maeve. He couldn't think about her right now, because he'd fall back into that sad place of pain and loss and never knowing, and he could miss something.

Something else. Obviously, he was already missing something.

Desperate to distract himself, he glanced down at his cell phone—he should probably text Jordan, just to make sure that she'd actually gone to her mother's house, like she'd promised that she would. He knew that Christopher would be there, surrounded by federal agents, just like Henry and Jack, and it was the safest place for her to be. Right now, Spencer Reid couldn't deal with the possibility of losing another person, and knowing that she was safe would take some of the edge off.

He sent a quick text message, and by the time she'd replied back, confirming that she was 'on lock down', the phone at his desk was ringing.

"Behavioral Analysis Unit, Dr. Spencer Reid speaking," he answered quickly.

"Dr. Reid, it's Chief Reyes, from Carlin." The tone didn't sound promising. "We've been out at the site for hours—there's nothing new, no clues or anything."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry."

"Me, too." Reid replied simply.

"I've got a couple of officers waiting at the site, just in case your guy tries to leave anything later on. And we'll look again in the morning as well."

Spencer bit his tongue to keep back the retort that none of these things would be of any use, because if the Replicator were going to leave a clue, he certainly wouldn't do it in front of police officers and he certainly wouldn't do it a day later, because this UNSUB was meticulous about his timetable—he knew that Chief Reyes was merely extending a professional courtesy, a kind but ultimately useless show of solidarity towards the BAU.

"Thank you, Chief," he found himself saying in his most neutral tone. "Please let us know if anything turns up."

"Sure thing, Dr. Reid."

With a frustrated sigh, he slipped the phone back into its cradle.

"Nothing yet?"

He turned to see Penelope's anxious face, already filled with the knowledge of her question's answer but still hoping beyond hope that she was wrong.

"Nothing yet," he confirmed sadly.

"He has to leave some kind of message," Penelope stepped forward, her fingers lightly playing with the collection of bangles at her wrist. "I mean, that was what this whole eight-week thing was about, wasn't it? You can't build up and then not have an actual event…can you?"

"Honestly? He can do anything he wants." Reid gave another heavy sigh as he turned away from her again. "It's his game—we still don't even know what the rules are."

He squinted as he looked down at an 8x10 map, which had the six locations marked—the three that had clues, the three that didn't.

He thought back to his conversation with Chief Strauss just a few days earlier. If this was a deflection, then this was technically where the Replicator wanted their attention to be focused, which meant that their attention needed to be focused elsewhere.

But where? There were too many possibilities, too many pieces moving across the board.

Moving pieces. That should probably mean something. It didn't, but it should.

The phone rang again, and Spencer steeled himself for more bad news.

Flip a coin, do you dare? Three boys, one choice, which one do you choose? What's the prize if you win, what's the cost if you lose? Look here, says the magician, but no, he's not a magician, he's a tactician—deflect, advance, take the queen and kill the king…flip a coin, do you dare? Three boys, one choice, which do you choose?

"Behavioral Analysis Unit, Dr. Reid speaking."

Speaking, not thinking, and missing, missing, missing…what is the piece that needs to fall into place?

Dora Carrington knew what the envelope meant—no return address, simply directed to the BAU. However this was different because it had the added line of Attention: Section Chief Erin Strauss.

With shaking hands, she dialed a number that she knew by heart, holding her breath as she heard a ringtone once...twice...

"Strauss."

"Erin, it's Carrington."

"We got something in the mail, didn't we?" The dreadful certainty in her boss' voice was filled with such anxious anticipation that Carrington knew it wasn't actually a question.

"Yes, ma'am. And it's specifically addressed to you."

There was a pause as Erin contemplated the meaning behind this. Then she asked, her voice careful and quiet, "And is there a return address?"

"None. But the postmark is D.C."

Carrington heard Erin release her breath slowly, as if she were trying to remain calm.

The younger woman felt another pang of sympathy for her boss, for the woman who'd always seemed so strong and unshakable until two weeks ago, for the person whom she now knew could feel fear just as easily as the rest.

"Do you want...I-I can bring it to you." Carrington wasn't sure what else to say, but she meant the compassion behind her words. She knew that Erin actually lived in the same neighborhood as she did (she'd gotten too drunk to drive at last year's Christmas party, and Erin had driven her home, citing that it wasn't any trouble because they only lived a few blocks apart).

"You'd do that?" Erin's tone was oddly hopeful, almost filled with soft amazement at this fact.

"Of course," Carrington replied, simply and emphatically, as if there never should have been any doubt on this subject (and really, there shouldn't, because Dora Carrington had spent the last eight years of her professional life taking care of Erin Strauss in a thousand little ways, with the respect and devotion of a true Girl Friday).

"Then, would you please? I'll let the security detail know that we're expecting you."

"I'm on my way out the door right now, Erin."

"And Carrington?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

The younger woman could have sworn that she heard tears in Erin's voice.

"You're welcome," she said softly. She hung up the phone, shaking her head gently at the thought that Erin Strauss was always so oblivious—she had so many people who would gladly be her friend, if only she let them.

Vienna, Virginia.

Carrington didn't even have a chance to ring the doorbell—the door immediately flew open, and she knew that Erin must have been waiting by the window for her arrival.

"Did you open it?" Her boss didn't waste time with pleasantries.

"N-no," the younger woman immediately handed the envelope over to Erin. "I didn't think I should."

Erin nodded quickly. Then she suddenly remembered her manners, "Please, come in."

"Oh, I don't want to impose, I mean, if you—"

"Carrington, stop being so fucking Martha Stewart and get inside."

Ah, there was the Strauss whom she knew so well. Carrington quickly obeyed, and Erin led her into the kitchen.

"It's a lovely home," the brunette took a moment to admire her surroundings. Then her usual razor wit returned as she dryly asked, "I'm sorry, was that too fucking Martha Stewart?"

Erin gave a slight chuckle at the barb—after all, she deserved it. Carrington had been so kind to bring this package, and she'd been her usual brusque and dismissive self, gods help her.

"I'm sorry. I'm a little on-edge—"

"I'd be concerned if you weren't on-edge, Erin. And don't you dare apologize."

"Coffee?"

"I don't think I'll stay that long. Unfortunately, I need to get back to the office soon. I just wanted to make sure that you were holding up OK."

Strauss seemed to find that amusing for some reason, because the corners of her mouth flickered into the briefest of smirks. Then she glanced down at the strangely-shaped package in her hands, "What do you think it is?"

"I'm honestly not sure," Carrington frowned, sitting on a bar stool with an odd sense of familiarity as Erin moved to the opposite side of the kitchen island, reaching over to take a small paring knife from the wood block.

"And you're certain that it was delivered this morning—not last night?"

"Well, I can't say with any definite certainty, but I think so—it wasn't waiting on my desk when I got in, so if it came in last night, then it was very, very late."

They stopped at the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. Jordan appeared, clad in pajama bottoms and a tank top, very surprised to see Dora Carrington sitting in her mother's kitchen.

"Um…hello." The eldest Strauss daughter took a moment to observe the whole scene.

"Hey, Jordan," Carrington smiled softly, and Erin noticed that her secretary actually blushed.

Her daughter's hand was fingering the dip of her collar bone, as if she were playing with an invisible necklace, her voice quivering slightly as her eyes stayed locked onto Carrington, "What are you doing here? Did…did something happen? Is-should I get Chris, or…?"

"No, nothing's happened," Erin said quickly, resisting every urge to push away the package resting at her fingertips (that would only catch Jordan's attention, and her child wasn't an idiot). "Carrington was just dropping something off for me."

"Something that couldn't wait until Monday?" Jordan seemed incredulous.

"Well, we are talking about the Federal Bureau of Investigation," Carrington picked up her boss' lie easily, leaning forward with a conspiratorial smile. "Efficiency is our middle name—we wouldn't want to lose a single minute that could be spent on our usual red-tape."

Jordan grinned at the quip before quietly moving towards the coffee pot. Again, Erin noticed that Dora's blue eyes still followed Jordan's movements.

"Coffee, Carrington?" Jordan asked conversationally, not even bothering to look over her shoulder.

"I'm fine, thanks."

"You won't be staying that long?" She guessed.

"No," the brunette smiled softly. Jordan turned to face her again, and something unreadable passed through her green eyes before she simply nodded.

"Well, it was nice seeing you again," Erin's daughter smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.

"You, too," Carrington gave a small, curt nod. Jordan disappeared into the living room, and Erin waited a beat before speaking.

"She can't know about this."

"Erin, I hate to break it to you, but I'm fairly certain she already knows that we're lying." The brunette informed her. "Your daughter's a pretty quick girl."

"How do you know?" The words tumbled out of Erin's mouth before she could stop them.

"What?"

"How do you know that Jordan's a pretty quick girl?" She'd started down this path, she might as well see it through.

"Well, she knew enough about Bureau protocol to call me and get me to arrange for her access into the building when Christopher was first taken into protective custody. And besides, it's hard for me to imagine that your children would be anything less than bright." Gods dammit, Dora Carrington was such a beautiful liar—how easily she answered, how convincingly nonchalant she seemed, how masterfully she deflected by adding a joke at the end, how brilliantly she furthered her response's verity by looking straight into Erin's eyes.

Of course, that's where she messed up. Because although Erin Strauss had never considered herself a behavioral analyst, she'd been around enough of them to tell when a person was trying to seem innocent—doing all the right things, being overly innocent, being too calm and too well-rehearsed.

Still, Erin didn't point out these obvious clues. Instead, she simply said, "Oh. Of course."

"Well, I really ought to get back to Quantico," Carrington's long legs swung around as she pushed herself off the bar stool and back onto her feet.

"Don't you want to see what's in the envelope?" Erin asked.

The younger woman stopped, visibly shocked by the question. She stepped back towards her boss hesitantly, "I…I thought you wouldn't want me to. I thought—"

"Carrington." Erin stopped her with a gentle reprimand. "You've been by my side through all of this. I think the least I can do it trust you enough to open this in front of you."

This earned her the brightest smile that she'd ever seen.

"Thank you, Erin," Carrington said softly.

"No, thank you," Erin held up the envelope again, silently reminding the younger woman that she was the one who'd driven almost an hour to deliver this package.

Picking up the paring knife again, Erin took a deep breath as she sliced open the edge of the envelope—it was a simple manila envelope, lined with bubble wrap, with two small items enclosed, each wrapped in tissue paper.

Erin gingerly took the two items out of the envelope, setting them on the counter top before gently unwrapping them.

Carrington leaned over, her face scrunched in confusion as she softly whispered, "What the hell…"

"Chess pieces," Erin answered, her voice equally quiet as she pulled away the tissue paper. Though the pieces were two different colors, they were obviously from the same set—their beautiful detailing was exquisite, their hues rich and glossy. Erin picked them up, her thumb gently brushing over their smooth surfaces, their weight so oddly balanced and reassuring in her palm.

A grey knight and a red queen.

What the hell could they possibly mean?

Quantico, Virginia.

"All three dump sites have been combed by local authorities—there were no clues left behind at any of these locations." Aaron Hotchner took a moment to let his gaze flicker over the rest of the team, who were seated around the conference room table.

"And no one has received any other zugzwang taunts, either here or at home?" Derek Morgan was certain that he already knew the answer to his question, because he knew that they were all smart enough to mention something like that.

"No, but our postman doesn't drop off the mail until afternoon," JJ pointed out. "If he's sending something to one of our houses, we might not get it for several more hours."

"The agents on the security detail have been instructed to inspect any and all items coming into the houses today," Hotch added.

"But what about the rest of us?" Penelope piped up. "We don't have agents at our homes, and if a taunt sent to one of us is a taunt for all of us, then he could simply send something to a house that isn't under direct surveillance."

Alex turned back to Spencer, "That would fall in line with your whole deflection theory."

"It isn't big enough," the younger man pointed out quietly with a small shake of his head. "He wouldn't need to distract us to send something via post."

"It's too anticlimactic," Rossi agreed with a frown. "This guy loves showing off, loves a big dramatic move—sending an envelope to our front door after eight weeks of mind games just isn't his style."

"Unless the whole point of this exercise was just to prove how much smarter he is," Morgan leaned forward, clasping his hands on the table in front of him. "Think about it—he spends two whole months making us run around like chickens with our heads cut off, sends our fear and anxiety levels through the roof by threatening our kids, and then he simply fades away. We go crazy just waiting for the other shoe to drop—what better way to prove his control than by simply never dropping the other shoe?"

"I hope you're right," Hotch admitted quietly. "But that's not a chance that we can afford to take. Not with the boys."

"I'm not willing to take that chance, either," Morgan reassured him. "But I'm just saying, if nothing happens today, then it might not be because we missed something—it might be because that was part of his plan all along."

Everyone nodded in agreement, all silently hoping with every fiber of their being that Morgan's theory would come true.

Alex looked over at Spencer again—he was really starting to concern her, the way he kept drifting out of the discussion (she didn't know how she knew that he was drifting, but she could sense it, could sense that his mind was elsewhere, that he wasn't with them). Right now, his brow was furrowed in concentration as his dark eyes kept darting from one location to the next on the large map of Thomas Yates' dump sites, which was still in the corner of the room.

She leaned over, careful not to interrupt the rest of the team's brainstorming session as she quietly asked, "What is it?"

"I don't know," he answered slowly, never letting his eyes leave the map. "And that's what bothers me."

Rural Virginia.

Well, their precious boy genius hadn't figured it out yet—such a sad thing, especially since John Curtis had dumbed it down as much as he could without sending a handwritten copy of his plans straight to Doctor Reid's desk.

He wondered if Erin had received her gift—he knew that she would soon enough, because he'd watched the security feed (which he'd hacked into just last week) and he knew that her faithful little secretary had gotten the package and left the building (surely Lassie would bring the message to her trusty owner). But if Spencer Reid didn't figure out the rest of the game, then Erin's clues wouldn't matter.

He looked down at his now-incomplete chess set, the one which he'd bought himself last Christmas. He hated how strange and off-balance the board looked now, but it was worth the minor aesthetic inconvenience.

For the first time, John Curtis was actually trying to help the BAU catch up—he was trying to show them exactly which roles they would all play in the grand finale, trying to help them understand the ending before it happened (because they certainly wouldn't be able to reflect on what happened afterwards).

If only they would find the damn clues.

There was a reason that he'd chosen six of Thomas Yates' former dump sites—three to leave the deflection of the boys, and three to give his final three puzzle pieces. Continuing the chess motif, he'd even selected the sites according to their locations—one state diagonal to Holly Vaughner's site lay Bristol Evatt's site, and there he had placed the shale grey queen. Two states over and one state down from Chloe Cheswitt's site was the location where Courtney Shandon's body was discovered. There, he'd left the other shale grey knight. The final location was Natasha Hillbridge's dump site, one state horizontal from Paige Howfield's—and that was where he'd left behind the red bishop.

Each piece held its own significance. He, of course, was the red bishop, the piece undervalued, overlooked in favor of the knight. He had sent Erin his red queen for several reasons—it was red, the color of blood and revenge, something dark and primal that a predator like Erin could understand, and it was his queen, his way of showing Erin, I don't need her, you took her from me years ago, and the game's still playing, still going.

But the shale grey pieces, now they were the ones that truly held the most weight. The queen was Erin, so much like Carroll's White Queen, who would spend her last days perpetually living life in reverse, whose past would become her future. You see, part of John's plan included the fact that Erin Strauss would know who he was, just before he killed her. First, he would taunt her with just enough clues to make her start remembering, make her start realizing exactly why someone wanted revenge. He wanted her looking over her shoulder, filling with dread at the realization that her past demons were finally out roaming the earth, waiting to drag her back to the place she truly belonged.

The knight left behind at Courtney Shandon's dump site was Alex Blake, the favored child of the Bureau, so valiant and headstrong and chosen above the more powerful bishop, simply because of its flashiness. She was the one who was supposed to rush into battle, the one the Bureau had chosen to defend the world against their darkest enemies, but she would be no match against the enemy of the Bureau's own making, the one they had turned him into, the one they would never be able to vanquish, because he was their creature, and the creation always surpassed the creator, always.

The other grey knight—the one he'd sent to Erin—had been his final clue. On its base, he'd simply carved b1. A chess player would know what that meant—the knight sent to Erin was the queen's knight. The queen, the queen, the queen has lost her knight. Her flank is unprotected, and that is where I'll strike.

Sure, Erin hadn't lost David yet, but John would make sure that before all was said and done, Strauss' white knight would have an extra helping of angst—David Rossi would receive the full measure of John Curtis' wrath, the proper punishment for traitors of the worst ilk. Especially since he was committing the greatest offense of all—he was sleeping with the enemy.

Vienna, Virginia.

"Dear Lord, Mother—if you don't stop flitting around, you're going to drive us all batty."

Erin didn't stop her endeavors to scrub out the oven as she simply replied, "I have to do something, Jordan. You know that."

"Then you should have gone to work."

"I wouldn't be able to do a single thing. Besides, it's my day off."

"You seem to be able to do a lot of things right now."

"Mindless tasks," Erin pointed out, taking a moment to sit back on her heels—the fumes from the cleaning agents were beginning to get to her. "No one dies if I get distracted while mopping the floor. However, if I were spacing out in the middle of a case, there might be some repercussions."

The mention of death and cases caused an uneasy pause. Then Jordan asked the question that had been on her mind all morning.

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"What did Carrington bring you?"

"Just some stuff from the office." Erin replied causally, returning to her task.

"Must have been pretty important stuff, if she drove all the way over here—"

"Jordan, I am not having this conversation with you," Erin snapped, and she instantly regretted how harsh she sounded. With a heavy sigh, she tried to soften her tone. "You know that I don't like talking about work."

Her daughter gave a slight shrug, as if she didn't really believe her mother's excuse, yet she knew that she had to accept it, because Erin certainly wasn't going to give up any more information. From the edge of the island, Erin's phone began to ring. Jordan scooped it up and gave a slight smile at the name on the screen.

"Hey, David, it's Jordan," she answered easily (she made sure to clearly state who she was, just to avoid any possible embarrassing salutations).

"Hey, Dannie." David had started referring to her by her family nickname, and for some reason, she didn't mind at all. "Where's your mother?"

"Scrubbing away at the inside of the oven like the little cinder girl."

"That bad, huh?"

"Yup. It's actually the stillest she's been all morning—she's been rolling around here so fast that I'm beginning to get dizzy."

Erin snapped her fingers, motioning for her daughter to hand over the phone. Jordan obeyed with an amused smirk, and as she exited the kitchen, her mother could've sworn that she was humming 'Someday My Prince Will Come' from Snow White.

"Any news?" She asked, slightly breathless from nerves and exertion.

"None yet, bella." She could hear the regret in his voice. Then, he asked, "Did you get anything delivered to the house today?"

How the hell could he know that? Erin swallowed quickly, "No. Should…should I be expecting something?"

"I don't know," he answered with a frustrated sigh. After a small pause, he spoke again, "I just wanted to make sure that everyone was alright."

"We're all still here," she assured him gently. She knew that he would rather be here, with her, with their son, with the rest of the family, and she felt a sadness at the thought that despite the rosy time they'd had over the past few days, this moment was actually closer to the reality of their future—David being away and Erin trying not to miss him too much, late night phone conversations instead of simply waking up side-by-side, regrets and distance between them. She pushed those depressing images aside as she added, "And we'll still be here when you get home tonight."

Home. She'd called this David's home, without even thinking about it.

"Good," his voice was warm and tender. There was some kind of noise in the background, and Erin thought she heard Aaron Hotchner's voice. David gave another sigh, "I've got to go—I'll check in a little later."

"I love you."

"I love you, too, bella."

Erin set the phone on the counter again, rubbing her brow in frustration. She didn't want to lie to David about the chess pieces, but something had held her back, and she had followed the instinct. There had to be some other clue, another key to unlock the message that the Replicator was trying to send.

Right now, those two pieces were re-wrapped and in their envelope, tucked away in the study bookshelf, behind her collection of T.S. Eliot and Walt Whitman. And that was where they would stay, until Erin had more information. Sometimes the best move was not to move at all—to simply wait and see the whole field, to figure out where the other players were and where they were going.

She was laying too many traps now—hiding this evidence, altering the Phillip Connor report, searching for familiar faces in the street and at AA meetings—and it was all starting to pile up. If she kept running blind, she was likely to fall into her own net.

Christopher was finally awake, trudging down the stairs as he scrubbed his sleepy face with his hands.

"What's that weird smell?" He asked, his eyes lighting up in understanding when he saw the cleaning supplies on the counter-top. "Aw, Mom, really?"

She didn't answer—she hated how easily she could be read, even by her own children, hated that everyone was making such a fuss over her, when their only concern should be keeping Chris safe.

Her son simply walked up to her and gave her a hug, squeezing her almost too tightly. He didn't try to soothe away her fears or tell her that everything was going to be alright. He merely kissed her forehead (how had he gotten to be so much taller than his mother, when he was still just her baby?).

He glanced around the kitchen, "So, what're we cleaning next?"

*Author's Note: As always, thank you for the reviews, and for your patience.*