Firstly, thank you to Chiroho for the beta – you'll hopefully notice how much more polished it is that the past few chapters!

I've been working on a long oneshot, still HP, but a little different. It's a casefic as well. This has meant that the next chapter of this fic may not be up until Friday as I haven't started it yet, having been engrossed in How Far Away the Stars (the name of the one shot).

Thank you for the reviews for the previous chapter. I will try to get round to review replies, but the plot bunnies are still biting and I'm desperate to crack on with the stand alone. It began as the extra piece for my reviewers, and is now too long, so they'll be getting something else before Friday – so watch your inboxes!

This chapter is also a little different – I wanted to try a different style. It was actually much easier to write in the present tense!

Also, my 'interview' with ilovetvalot is up on her forum, 'Chitchat on author's corner'.

Enjoy.

Where the Blue of the Night

"The childhood shows the man, as morning shows the day."

- John Milton

Chapter Thirty Two

November 8th – evening/ November 9th – early morning

And if that diamond ring turns brass,
Papa's gonna buy you a looking glass

The selection of sandwiches has not yet been touched, and everybody seated around the table knows it will probably stay that way. No one is hungry; their appetites have been wiped away with the piece of paper Reid holds in his hand.

"It was passed on to me by one of the officers," he says. "She told me a boy had given it to her. When I mentioned its significance, they got in touch with his parents and took him to the station to try and get a sketch of the person who had given it to him. They'll fax through whatever they get."

No one comments immediately. It is as though everyone has been disappointed by this new occurrence, as if they thought that somehow what had happened with Martha Moore had made their UnSub go away.

"The letter's interesting," Reid says, not noticing that Hotch is raising his brows at the word interesting. "The language he uses is different than before."

"How?" Prentiss says, leaning forward, her dark hair spilling onto the table.

Reid pauses, looking back at the piece of paper that he has kept in pristine condition. He's still wearing plastic gloves even though it's already been dusted for prints. "There are more verbs in it, which suggests he wants to take more action. Nearly every sentence is a statement, telling us what he's going to do, and as you've heard it's quite violent now."

Now it's Rossi's turn. ""I will slice the tongues from their mouths and hang them out for the birds", some nice imagery there given that I don't think he really means it. This letter is all about attention seeking – there's no way he would commit these acts he's threatened. He's pissed that we're working a major case when he thinks we should be quivering in our shoes."

Garcia gets up and heads to the dimmer switch on the wall. The room is illuminated like an operating room. She turns the lights dow,n and opens a cupboard where she knows candles are kept.

"You know, Pen, we're not about to have a romantic dinner here," Kevin says, watching her with interest. "We're kind of like trying to suss out who it is that wants to hurt us."

She glares at him in a way everyone knows she doesn't mean it. "Bright light at this time is not good for sleeping patterns," she says, miraculously finding matches and lighting the candles. She puts them on the table and sits back down. "That's better."

"Although it does look like we're about to have a séance," Emily says. She's sitting one seat away from Hotch, meaning she can't look at him, or him at her. She's feeling awkward; not because of what's happened, but because of what she's planning on saying when she gets the chance. She's thinking of the repercussions.

"That may shed some light," Rossi says, smiling slightly. "More light that these candles do."

"We need to focus," Hotch interrupts, looking at the people who are within glaring distance. He's uncomfortable, looking as if he's put on a shirt which has too tight a collar. "This letter, what else can we infer from it?" He likes this, throwing in a question and making them feed off each other. It's when they're at their most productive.

"He's annoyed we've been working this big case. He thinks he should be the centre of attention," JJ says, taking a sip of the coffee she brought to the table.

Morgan nods. "He's never been the centre of attention before. He's always been sidelined, the second to last to be picked for a team, the one people forgot to ask to the party, the one who thought girls were sniggering about him behind his back, when in fact it wasn't about him at all."

"So he's paranoid, almost justifiably so. He perceives himself as having been the one who was picked on, when in fact he was just ignored," Reid says, still looking at the letter. He flicks a hand across his face, moving away the strand of hair that's fallen across his brow. It bugs Rossi, his hair. Rossi would like to take the kitchen scissors from out of the drawer and shear some of those locks off. It's something he thinks about from time to time, especially when Reid has been particularly tiresome.

"And this is the result," Hotch says. "He doesn't have a high powered role in the department he's assigned to. He's an extremely conscientious worker, and considers himself to be indispensible. He'll have taken very few sick days, and will always have a specific reason for personal days. He wants to feel important."

"I can narrow down the list we have," Garcia says, her fingers poised over the keyboard. She looks tired, which is unusual. The conditions at the safe house are getting to her; she doesn't like to feel trapped.

Morgan looks as if a revelation has just come to him. "He's either an only child or had only one sibling. His behaviour is of someone who has never been particularly good at getting along with his peers, which would suggest someone who has spent a lot of their childhood on their own."

"That should narrow the list down further," Rossi says, nodding towards Garcia. "The Alfie Fletcher case is drawing him out. Maybe we should become more prominent with our role in it; let him see us in the media."

Hotch's expression is stony. "That makes us sitting ducks," he says. It seems like he wants to glance at Emily, he's trying that hard to not look down the table to his left. "He's going to be around Martha Moore's area more and we will have to be there too, unless there's any resolution soon. But under no circumstances must he have the opportunity to follow us back here."

"Why not use someone as bait?" Emily says. "If we keep it to one or two of us being around there, then it's easier for Boyd's team to cover our backs. We need to draw him out as much as we can. If he's out in the open ir'spossible we can see and identify him. This is someone we know, Hotch, however vaguely. This is someone we will recognise and know that they shouldn't be at a scene."

There is silence. Everyone around the table knows there's a very good reason why Hotch is reluctant to do this, it's as plain as day. Everyone also knows who the two obvious candidates are to send out.

Hotch now has a dilemma. There are other reasons why he thinks this is a bad idea – nothing is ever completely clear cut – but there are advantages to this that he doesn't think he can rule out. He also knows who he has to send out there, or rather, he knows who he can't send out. Morgan would have been an obvious choice, but he has to rest; he still has doubts about Reid's capabilities under pressure; Rossi would be an option, but if it was Emily that had to go, Hotch would rather it was himself. JJ was instantly out. He had realised it earlier when he'd taken a walk around the area surrounding the safe house. They'd already suggested that it was himself and JJ who were the most likely targets of a stalker. Given that the stalker was most likely male, the target was unlikely to be him. JJ had undergone quite a change in her personal life in the past two years; having Henry, getting engaged to Will and him moving up to Washington from New Orleans. These were acts that would antagonise someone who thought he had a chance with her. Hotch glances at Garcia. She will be the one to ask first; was there anyone showing a particular interest in JJ? Garcia will know, she will have noticed.

" Prentiss and I will join the search tomorrow, and I'll give a statement to the media when necessary if JJ can arrange that from here. I'll contact Boyd later and let him know our plans," Hotch looks down the table towards Emily, the first time he has purposefully made eye contact with her this evening. "We'll organise a plan tomorrow morning on the way to Martha Moore's. We can't act as we would normally."

"I'm aware of that, Hotch," her tone oozes sarcasm, and Hotch feels as if he's been winded. He looks to Rossi for help.

Rossi lowers an eyebrow at Hotch, who pretends not to notice. He will avoid Rossi tonight. He doesn't want to have a discussion about this.

"Everyone's seen the notes from the interview with John Moore," Rossi says. Garcia has left the room now, attempting to narrow down the search with the new perimeters they have given her. "He's not smart. Lynch managed to find his school records, and he didn't graduate high school. He's seemingly managed to get through life on charm."

"What about the step-daughters?" Reid says, almost cutting in.

"There were allegations of physical abuse," Kevin Lynch answers. "It was investigated, but no evidence was found."

"I don't think he knows anything," Reid says, his eyes scrunched up like they do when he's really thought about something. "He's a cover for Martha. That's why she married him in the first place, among other reasons connected with self esteem. He truly believes she's innocent, hence his reaction when he found out she'd gone."

Everyone seems pleased that the discussion has moved away from themselves and other suggestions and scenarios follow freely, but nothing can be certain until they have more information. Until then it's just guess work.

The sound of a telephone ringing interrupts the debates that are going on, and Hotch steps out of the room to answer it. His absence and the call quieten everyone down, and when he re-enters there is silence.

He looks around at them, inhaling deeply and they know it's not good news.

"They've found Lyndsay Bergamon's body in the basement of Martha Moore's neighbour. She had a heavy blow to the back of the head. It's doubtful she knew what was about to happen. Moore's behaviour is escalating. We know she's not in a fugue state, but she is devolving," Hotch says, reverting to facts and what may happen next, rather than focusing on the tragedy.

They can't focus on the victims for too long, because that will be what kills them. Each of them has developed a thick skin as the years have gone by, the ability to accept what has happened without being overcome with grief. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. That's when they will grieve.

"Any sign of the boy being there?" Morgan says. He is itching to get out there and start looking himself, but it won't happen. By the time he has recovered enough, the boy will have been found - they hope.

"An outhouse was searched, an old ice house. There was a make shift bed in there with blankets. The local PD have brought in the dogs, and it seems to be a positive scent," Hotch says. His eyes are dark, almost emotionless, but everyone knows that the emotion is being contained. Alfie Fletcher is close to Jack in age, and Hotch has seen their faces combined in his dreams.

"But he's not necessarily still alive?" JJ says. She already knows the answer.

No one responds.

A candle goes out, burnt down already, and someone makes a comment about the government trying to save money by providing cheap candles. It's an ironic comment, as there is nothing inexpensive about the safe house anywhere.

Hotch calls it a night, and they begin to leave to go back to their rooms, or in Morgan's case, the kitchen. Emily is the first to disappear and Hotch feels disappointed. He is regretting what he did, that he acted in haste and took what was then the easiest option. It's not anymore. Nothing about this was going to be easy. Nothing worthwhile ever is.

Kevin blows out the remaining candles and turns the light off completely. He pauses by the window and looks out, seeing nothing.

It's too dark out there.

And if that looking glass gets broke...

A streetlight flickers as if sending a secret code to the mother ship. It is the only light on the road. Every window is a blank, everyone is either asleep or out of town, or on a date maybe.

Boyd is sitting in his car again, watching the same house that he has done for the past couple of nights. His mouth is dry, but he doesn't notice, he's too intent on waiting for his prey.

There was another letter today, passed on by a young boy, making more threats, all directed at the BAU. No mention was made of Boyd's own team, the team that was Agent Mansfield's. Mansfield had reminded Boyd of his father; kind, fair, helpful but firm. Boyd had rebelled as a youngster. Maybe he was still rebelling now.

A car purrs down the road and pulls up on the driveway Boyd has been watching for the last one hundred and twenty six minutes. He gets out of his car but doesn't lock the door.

There are two people in the car on the driveway, one is Karl Calzaghe, the other is his girlfriend.

"Hey, Boydy," Calzaghe says.

Boyd doesn't respond. Instead he readies his gun.

Papa's gonna buy you a billy goat

Emily has drawn herself a bath even though it's almost midnight and she should be trying to get some sleep before an early start in the morning. She aches everywhere, as if she's about to come down with flu, but she knows it's not that. This ache's caused by something psychological instead, a combination of things that are going on.

She strips, throwing clothes into a random pile near the door. The bathroom is en suite and the door is locked, so there's no chance of someone coming in unexpectedly. And she doesn't want anyone in there tonight. No unexpected visitors.

The water is almost too hot, and she has to lower herself into it gradually, as if getting into a cold swimming pool. Once she's fully immersed, bubbles drown her, and for a second she can imagine she's at a spa somewhere, far away from this place and its nightmares.

The water is soothing now, lapping over her skin, encasing her. She found some Molton Brown bubble bath in the cupboard, an English brand, which supported Garcia's theory that this was a place designed for the British prime minister or a member of the royal family to stay.

Emily doesn't feel very royal today. Her temper is as hot as the water she's now in, and she wonders if her anger showed on her face, or in her tone of voice. She doesn't hold grudges, but neither can she leave something unaddressed when it's irritating her.

Hotch's face makes its way into her mind and she pushed it away. She's too tired to be bothered addressing her issues rationally right now, and instead she focuses on the warmth of the water. She lathers up her hands with soap and starts to wash her skin, feeling the weight of the day's dirt peel away from her. It is a ritual; the need to be clean, to wash away the terrors they see.

Once satisfied, she lies back again the water, which has cooled slightly, and she lets everything become still around her, slowing her breath so that the water moves minimally.

There is no noise.

Everywhere is silent.

She knows that Garcia and Kevin will still be awake and about. Morgan will be in the kitchen, recovering from hospital food, and Rossi will probably be reading or writing. But she can't hear anything.

Silence was something she was used to as a child. With no siblings and a lifestyle that meant friends weren't around very often, she was used to her own company. Maybe that was one of the reasons she had never married or had children; she liked that alone time and there were very few people she wanted to share it with.

Was Hotch one of them? She had thought so.

She recalled an evening several months ago, just after he and Haley had separated. She'd wanted to shop, to buy some new clothes and a few luxury items, so she'd gone to a mall a few miles out of town.

She'd seen Hotch in a men's outfitters, choosing shirts and looking uncomfortable. He hated shopping, he'd already said.

He'd cut a lonely figure, and at first she'd wanted to impulsively go into the shop, maybe see if he wanted to grab a bite to eat or go see a movie. But she'd stopped herself. Alone time.

And that is what they both have now. Emily pulls herself out of the bath, causing water to wave over the side. She swaddles herself in the massive towels, and lets herself dry, leaning against the wall, knowing that nothing good is ever decided or said when tiredness is reigning.

And if that billy goat won't pull...

Sleep has never been something Agent Llewellyn is particularly attached to. Even as a child, he'd never needed much sleep. Not that he was a nuisance as a baby; he'd been quite content to just look around noticing things while his mother slept, or so she had told him. That had been one of the first things that made him unusual.

His colleagues will come into work, complaining about being tired, exhausted; he never feels that way, no matter how late he's been up the night before. Sometimes he can seem a little 'distant', something that would be put down to tiredness, but that's usually because he is distracted by something.

Llewellyn reads quickly, though not as fast as Reid. He doesn't have an eidetic memory, but his memory is better than most. He has lots of Asperger's traits, but also lacks some of the key ones, making him more unusual; something he likes. He's reading through a condensed list of names that Garcia has forwarded to him. They've struck up a bit of a bond: himself, Garcia and Lynch. He identifies with them more so than any of the rest of the BAU or even his own team, and he was in her study before, watching as she played with search terms.

They were down to eighteen possible. All were men on the periphery of the BAU, people they would have come into contact with on an occasional basis at least. Four had applied for jobs within the unit, and these interest Llewellyn the most. They had a grievance because none of them had been successful in their application, but Llewellyn also questions whether there had been another reason for them to want to work in the BAU, namely one of its members.

He begins to search through various databases, looking to see if they blogged or had a Facebook account when an email hits his inbox. He reads it immediately and forwards it to Hotch and Rossi. Someone called Sophie is missing.

Papa's gonna buy you a cart and bull

Hotch received Llewellyn's email and notes the time: it's half past one in the morning, and he's pretty sure that he, Llewellyn and the two computer techs are the only ones awake. He emails Garcia and asks her to check flight records for the date when Sophie left South Dakota, and all financial transactions and cell phone details since then.

A sinking feeling resides in his gut and he knows who she's with, who has lured her away from home. He has to tell Emily now, to find out if she knew anything about this plan, if she had sent plane tickets. He pulls a t-shirt on; he'd been in the midst of getting ready for bed when the email arrived, and he doubts Emily will want him turning up semi-naked.

It's only two doors away and he doubts she's asleep. He knows she will be lying in bed, trying to relax, but her mind will be going back to the cases. Sex worked for her, he'd found in the past few days. She fell asleep easily afterwards, and he'd been able to lie with her curled in his arms and listen to the soft whisper of her breath.

He knocks on the door, trying not to think about sex with Emily any more. When she opens it there is a look of confusion on her face. She's wondering why he's there, he can tell; is it because he wants to talk, or is it work. He wishes it was the former.

"It's Sophie," he says. "I need to come in."

He sits on the bed they shared until a couple of nights ago, and he notices the mussed covers where she has been lying. Emily stands near the window, the curtains still open, the soft light from a low wattage bulb giving a glimmer to the room.

"What's happened?"

She's gone pale and Hotch hides a wince. "Her mom found Jolene today and told her that Sophie got on a plane to come here on November 6th. She said you'd got the ticket for her and arranged everything via email. Sophie texted her mom when she landed in Washington, but that's the last she's heard from her. Jolene spoke with Detective Rawson, and he contacted the Bureau – the message just reached Llewellyn." He's tried to give her all the information at once so she can mull over as full a picture as he had.

"We spoke on the phone while we were in Utah," Emily says, her voice breaking some. "We talked about her coming here for a week in the holidays." She looks up at Hotch with wide eyes that look scared. "My email account was hacked, Hotch, and our cell phones were being tapped. He's pretended to be me to lure her here." She closes her eyes and sits down on the wide window sill.

Hotch breaks his own rules and goes over to her, putting an arm around her and pulling her into his chest. He can smell her moisturiser and feel her heat.

"This is something that's been well planned," he says. "I thought it was JJ he was targeting; she profiles better as a victim for a stalker, but this may change things." He stands up, somewhat abruptly. "I have to phone Strauss and let her know, and get in touch with Rawson in Calverville Point."

"What can I do?" The fire is back in her eyes now, and it sends a sharp burn through him.

"Go see Garcia," he says. "She'll be working on accessing Sophie's email account. Speak with Lynch too, and have him look at Garcia's shortlist of suspects to see who has property where they could hide a teenage girl."

"You think she is still alive?" The edge to her voice cut him as well.

"Why wouldn't I? The threats the UnSub has made are against us. He hasn't hurt anyone else. Taking Sophie is his way of trying to show us something, to prove a point," Hotch says, trying not to consider what would happen if he did hurt her. "We have to hold it together and find her, Emily; not go considering any alternative."

She nods, looking more like the agent who turned up in his office two years ago telling him she was now on his team. The silence hangs like a slanted picture.

"Hotch," she says. "You need to go. I need to get dressed."

He leaves, never before feeling so hollow inside.

And if that cart and bull fall down,
You'll still be the sweetest little baby in town.

She couldn't help but smile. Every time she looked at him, she smiled. Maybe this was how it was meant to be; this was what she was here for, for him. He was asleep now, his head nestled into her chest, his cheeks still tear stained. She knew the crying would stop, that eventually he'd forget his mother – not that there was much to forget as she'd never been around, and then he'd be hers. He was better than the other ones.

And she was safe here, tucked away. They wouldn't think to look here for them. She figured it would take three days before their search moved, probably to Harrisburg, Philadelphia, where she had a small property she'd never told anyone about. Where she went after that, she wasn't sure, but she'd figure out something, and somebody would help; they always did.

Martha kissed the top of the child's head and lay him down on the blanket she'd put over the cushions. It was okay as a bed. She'd told him – Matthew she now called him – that it was like camping, and when he was older they'd go proper camping. Then he'd asked if they would take his mommy with them, and she'd wagged her finger at him and told him off. If he mentioned her again, she'd have to give him a smack.

She lay next to him, not feeling at all tired even though it was late. It was all too much really, the fact that she'd managed to get away. She hoped John thought before he spoke, otherwise he could blow everything – he knew everything of course, or nearly everything. As much as she wanted him to know.

Her blood ran cold when she heard voices outside. She sat up, listening to what they were saying, her blood boiling as she heard the words.

"...maniac teacher! I can't believe I let her look after my kids. They were all in her class. Still, she was always a bit..." The voice went away, but it had been enough for Martha to recognise it. Mrs Peachman worked as supervisor at a care home for the elderly. Martha knew her routine; she would finish her night shift, come home, walk the dog and then stay awake to take the kids to school in the morning. Her three boys were all troublesome, and Martha had always blamed their mother.

Martha wasn't the maniac, Mrs Peachman was.

Martha wasn't the maniac, Mrs Peachman was.

Martha wasn't the maniac...

Please review!

Sarah x