Marietta was furious, wild and crazy in her rage. When we got back to the house, she slapped Embry several times. Then she slapped me. Then she slapped Fran Morgan, who could do no more than moan quietly in her drugged state.

"They'll pay," Embry said meekly. "They'll pay the same amount for her as they would the kids. I watched them all summer. They dote on her."

"That's not the point!" Marietta screeched. "I wanted them to suffer forever. I wanted their money and I wanted them to have to deal with the mess their children were because of what we did to them!"

I cringed slightly at the thought, thankful that that little boy and baby girl had gotten away. I didn't know who the hell I was with all these feelings of compassion.

I watched as a veil settled over Marietta's eyes. They moved frantically from side to side while she thought. "She'll have to die," Marietta finally said, her lips slightly snarled. "We'll play with them for a few days, then we'll request the money transfer. Once we have it, we'll let them find her dead. They'll never get over it or get passed it. They'll be heartbroken and ruined. It won't be quite the same, but it can work."

Embry let out a breath of a relief at those words and Marietta's eyes snapped to him. "You'll be punished for your mistake."

She turned to look at me and nodded slightly. I'd done my part well, and she wasn't angry with me. "Adrian's down with Holly. Take her to the play room. Get her stripped and tied up. Take a picture. Use the computer in my research room to send it like I showed you; it will be untraceable. Embry and I have some business to take care of upstairs."

Embry whimpered slightly and then stopped himself. Marietta reached her arm out like she was going to hit him again, and instead she slapped Fran again. I put my arm around the drugged woman and caught her before she could fall down. "As you wish," I said to Marietta, wanting to get Fran out of there before Marietta could hit her again.

I did as I was told, swiftly and efficiently. The doors to the cellar were open and unlocked, as was the playroom door. As I stripped Fran down as gently as I could, I heard the faint sounds of Embry howling in pain filter down the stairs.

I put a naked Fran in shackles and handcuffs and strung her arms up so they were hooked on the wall.

"I'm going to need you to look at the camera, Fran," I said.

She shivered at my voice and tears filled her eyes. I did what I was told, and I'd continue to do it for now, until I found a break or opportunity to escape. I looked at Fran through the camera lens and felt my heart breaking at her frightened, tear-soaked face.

Who was I and what were these emotions? I barely remembered this version of me, the empathetic eighteen-year-old who entered the grounds of Oxford with the intent of becoming a Chemistry Professor. Cocaine and other drugs and Adrian and an ill-fated night where I raped a child while Adrian recorded it changed that. I became harder, vicious, and brainwashed.

Twelve years in prison had broken the spell. I wasn't sure I would ever be anything more than a criminal, but I didn't want to be one like this.

I snapped the picture, like I was told. Then I left Fran in the room to send it. But before I got outside of the room, I whispered, "I'm sorry for this."

I didn't tack on a preemptive apology for what was to come. Marietta would likely have her fun with Fran before this was over.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Derek was in our bathroom taking a shower, Leon was at school and I'd just put four-week old Rory down in her basinet. I smelled like breast milk and baby and happiness. Curiosity and longing drove me to the partially-opened door of our bathroom.

Steam billowed above the clear shower doors, but hadn't yet clung to the glass to obscure the view. He stood under the spray of warm water after his workout, his head bent down, chin on chest, eyes closed and one hand on his erection while the other firmly pressed against the tile wall.

I smiled softly at the image. Four weeks without any sort of sexual intimacy was taking its toll on both of us, even though my body wasn't quite ready to engage in such acts. Still, after the year we'd had together, not having his body around mine or in mine for so long was starting to feel like a dull ache.

We communicated with words and touches and our eyes. We communicated in laughter and smiles and hums of contentment.

And we communicated with our bodies; both of us for whom sex was strife with trust issues had found a safe haven with each other.

I stripped off my clothing in the bedroom and crept slowly into the bathroom, leaving the door open wide so I could hear Rory if she woke up. So focused on his task, he never looked up. It wasn't until the glass door rattled as I slid it open that he startled and opened his eyes. He looked almost embarrassed, and I laughed quietly as I stepped into the shower, a towel in my hand that I quickly slung over the shower door.

His hand now hung limply at his side as he took in my body, his eyes starting at my feet and traveling up slowly. I was curious what he would think since I was just starting on the road to a post-pregnancy body. There had d been almost no opportunities for him to have full-on view since I'd given birth, and sometimes I didn't know what to think of myself when I looked in the mirror. But his eyes moved up my legs that could definitely use a razor, to the juncture between my legs - a jungle that would probably require a very generous tip when I went in to get waxed in the next week - to the looser skin on my stomach and a handful of stretch marks that were still angry red, to my heavy breasts and much larger nipples, before finally landing on my eyes.

The desire on his face was palpable. The love reached out with invisible arms and surrounded me. I smiled and blinked back tears at the raw longing and acceptance on his face. It wasn't even just acceptance, it was delight. My changed body was part of our journey and he loved and wanted it all.

I quirked a small smile at him and reached my hand towards him, still hard, even harder than before. I ran my finger from base to tip and he groaned. "You're playing with fire," he mumbled as his forehead dropped to my shoulder.

I startled at his figure of speech for a second, the word "fire" being something that we carefully tiptoed around. But it was just a figure of speech, and the best his beautiful, aroused mind could come up with in the moment. I smiled and kissed his neck, my free arm wrapping around his waist to squeeze him to me tightly for a moment. Then I grabbed the towel where it hung near me and dropped it on the tile floor. I kissed my way down his chest as I dropped to my knees on the towel.

"Em…" he whispered in restraint. "I can wait."

I shook my head and looked up at him. "The one advantage of playing with fire is that one never gets even singed. It is the people who don't know how to play with it who get burned up."

I engulfed him in my mouth, and he groaned in relief, "Oscar Wilde?"

I laughed lightly then, my mouth around the pulsing heat of him, just thankful to have that type of closeness to him again after a four-week hiatus...

I've thought about that Oscar Wilde quote several times in the past twenty-four hours.

I'm thinking about it now as I stare at the empty field where there was once a mansion. The road to the house in Theydon Garnon that I shared with Clyde, Penelope and Derek over two years ago is not that far off the path of where we're heading, and our borrowed car seemed to veer there of its own accord. The gate and driveway still stands, but the area that once held a beautiful home that was burned to ashes has been cleared, like the estate never existed. Though the owners were given the money to rebuild, it appears they haven't started the process.

I sigh at the sight, sadness about Clyde and the memories of that house swirling around me, and a familiar sigh from the passenger seat echos mine.

"We should go," says the soothing voice.

I nod and put the car into drive again, heading down the road towards our destination. A hand touches my shoulder, squeezing gently, then it's gone again. I turn on the radio, just for something to do.

This car is a disaster, just like the man we borrowed it from is currently a disaster - garbage stuffed in crevices, a fine sheen of ashes on the dashboard from chain smoking, and smudged, dirty mirrors that make it difficult to navigate through the fog that hangs thickly in the air like a second skin.

Maybe we all just played with fire a little too long, I think.

Last night, I was having the same morose thought in the quiet corner of a bar in the international terminal at Dulles. I stared down into a cup of black coffee, my carry-on with Clyde's tactical jacket and a change of clothes stuffed between my feet under the table. In combat-like boots that were stiff enough to loathe, jeans and a black turtleneck, tired eyes and my hair pulled back, I'm sure I looked like a harsh, yet broken middle-aged woman.

I thought about playing with fire too much. I thought about how many lives I could possibly have. Was I at my ninth yet? I was cutting it close.

I thought about the note left in our home. Time to Pay the Piper. It was written in confusing, almost child-like print. The Pied Piper of Hamelin was something my Grandfather often read to me when I was younger. He seemed to find pleasure in the darker aspects of children's stories when I was young, nastily snarling and reveling in the fate of the antagonist or protagonist, depending on his mood.

Thinking about children's stories with morals made me remember the weekly little gym classes I'd started taking Rory to, and how the instructor would sing silly songs and rhymes, her favorite being Little Bunny Foo Foo. She enthusiastically sang about that bunny picking up the field mice and bopping them on the head.

I half expected the Good Fairy to pop up from behind the bar at the airport and tell me I'd used up all my chances.

I thought about happiness, and how Derek and I had been acting like we were just any other married couple, without a lengthy history of people who might want revenge. That it was these people - ones associated with Adrian Stancu - was just coincidence. They'd gotten to us first, but that didn't mean others weren't out there waiting in line.

We've been playing house like happiness was made of impenetrable titanium, but happiness is a fragile thread for people like us, I thought there in that bar as I poured cream into my mug and tried to stir the coffee into a murky submissiveness I could swallow.

I'd spent the better part of ten hours at Rossi's with Derek acting like there was nothing that could touch me, that I would go to London, fetch Fran from wherever she was, bring her home, and life would resume. And he'd spent the better part of ten hours not calling me on my bullshit and holding in his anger and fear.

All and all, not the greatest of goodbyes, aside from about twenty minutes on the floor of Rossi's downstairs bathroom.

I felt bereft without my wedding and engagement ring on my finger. I felt like my arms had been cut off and I was still reaching for my children without limbs with which to do so while I sat staring at that mug of coffee. And I knew I couldn't live this devastation. I needed to focus on my anger. My anger and compelling need for vengeance was what would get me and Fran back home. I didn't have time to be soft or sad or loving or heart broken.

I caught the eye of the server to ask her for bourbon instead of coffee, but before I could get the words out of my mouth, a glass with ice cubes and soothing brown liquid was placed before me. "Is this seat taken?"

She looked slightly different with several inches of her hair gone; she looked like the woman I'd seen when I returned from Paris in 2011. We knew each other so well that when we met for lunch during the work week in DC, whoever was there first could order for the other. We'd spent so many hours together, especially since Rory had been born. She knew where every dish and appliance and utensil was in my kitchen. She knew where we kept the extra toilet paper and what Leon was doing in school. She knew how to rock Rory to sleep and where we kept the extra batteries for the TV remote.

I quickly pushed down my softness at seeing her face and hissed out, "What are you doing here?" not quite able to meet her eyes with my harsh tone.

"Coming with you," JJ said simply as she sat down at the chair on the other side of the table.

I shook my head immediately. "You can't."

"My boarding pass says otherwise," she said.

I lowered my voice even further, "JJ, you can't fly with your passport."

She smirked. "I spent seven months flying to Paris or London as Jennifer Jareau. After that it was fake passports all the way to deliver me to that hellhole in the middle east. When I got out of that mess, I decided to hold a few IDs back, in case I ever needed to pull an Emily. I had my own Ian Doyle out there at that point, remember? And relax about it. I think the only person who ever could have known the names on those IDs is dead."

That last sentence was delivered with the JJ kindness I knew, but her voice left no room for debate. I wasn't going to argue with her and get her to stay off the plane. I wasn't going to be able to reason with her. She was coming with me, and she'd either follow me wherever I went, or she'd be right by my side if I let her.

Still, I tried. "What about work?" I asked.

She didn't miss a beat. "My mother fell and broke her leg. I'm taking a few days off to help care for her."

I tried again. I glanced around the bar to make sure we still had privacy. "Are you sure you understand what I'm going there for?"

"Yep," she said while taking a swig of her own drink. Bourbon, too. She never drank the stuff. "Fran and no loose ends. I understand. I'm in."

I shook my head again. I leaned forward so no one besides the two of us even had the chance to overhear. I hissed, "You understand in the context of the heat of the moment. The whole team does. This is premeditated, and it's different."

She shrugged, not put off by my words. "Have you ever done something like this before, other than Doyle?" she asked.

Once, I thought. Once when I was still in my late twenties and fresh at Interpol. I'd spent the better part of two months looking at dead children, used and discarded. I went undercover to find the unsub, and when I knew we had him, and I knew what I needed to do to make an arrest, I baited him. I dreamed about killing the man, and I manipulated the situation on purpose, so that he'd pull a knife on me and I could snap his neck. He died and I walked away with a scratch on my arm. Clyde knew what I'd done, and while I was feeling a little lost after the case was over, he showed up at my flat with a bottle of wine, a quiet gesture of saying, "I would have done the same thing."

"Once," I said out loud to JJ.

"I'm in," she repeated, like the idea of going after the unsubs in this circumstance with the mind of a killer instead of the mind of an investigator was no big deal to her; my heart was in turmoil about the whole thing. JJ, who had an uncanny ability to balance hardness and softness was sitting before me telling me that whatever my sketchy plan was didn't bother her. She was trying to get on the plane with me.

I took a gulp of my drink and eyed her. I took in some air, preparing to speak again, to try a different angle, and she cut me off before I had the chance.

"The real question, Emily, is not why I want to come. I can list the reasons for you. I owe you for me and Will. I want our lives back to how they were as much as you do. I love Fran and I'm only a notch less pissed off than you are about this whole thing. You are part of my family. You are my sister when I never thought I'd let myself feel like that about any friend ever again. Nearly three years ago, I stood chained up and wished and hoped with everything in me that Hotch would call you. He did, and you came without a second thought. So why I'm coming with you is moot. The real question is why you don't want me with you now, and don't argue that it's about my sensibilities regarding right and wrong. I flung a man off a roof and you were there to catch me before I fell. So what is it?"

I stared at her and took in her words. I swirled the liquid around in my glass. I hedged. "I don't want you to get hurt. I couldn't stand it if you got hurt. You have a family, too. Will is probably pissed off right now and just wanting you to turn around and go straight back home."

Her lips lifted slightly, like she knew I'd say that first. "Wrong answer. Will is pissed and scared, but he acquiesced to the inevitable without a fight because he didn't want to send me off with harsh words. Just like Derek did with you. "

The tears that burned my eyes only made me angrier and more desperate than I already was. "I want you around for my family if I don't make it back."

Her hand touched mine. "Bullshit. You know you're coming home. You're second guessing it right now, but you know in your heart there's no way in fuck you're going to risk your life to the point that you put in question getting yourself back to Derek and Rory and Leon. It's the reason Derek let you go, because no matter how scared he is right now, deep down he knows you'd never let him or the kids go. Try again."

I huffed out a light, bitter laugh despite myself. I drained my glass for a little liquid courage, knowing this was going to come out at some point, and deciding I wanted to rip off the proverbial bandaid. "Because I don't know how to be who I need to be for this while I'm tagging along with someone who knows who I am now. I need to forget that Emily if I'm going to do what I need to do."

Her slight smile was one of acceptance and understanding, the answer she'd been looking for all along. "No, you don't. Or if you do, that's okay, too. I can be there to help you remember or forget her, but I'm not letting you go alone," was the immediate reply.

I surveyed her and chomped on a piece of ice as the loudspeaker crackled, "Flight 714 to London is now boarding."

"You're a real piece of work," I said as I stood and grabbed my bag. I started walking a few steps and turned to ask her if she was coming, but she was already there, a bag similar to mine slung over her shoulder.

"What seat do you have?" I asked instead.

"2A. What about you?"

I raised an eyebrow at her first class ticket. "Penelope?"

She tilted her head. "It pays to have certain friends."

Jane Irwin, please come to the check-in counter. I was only vaguely aware of the loud speaker crackling again as I looked at JJ's face, feeling terrible about her coming with me, but thankful in the deepest recesses of my heart.

JJ nudged me in the ribs with her elbow. "That's you," she said.

Yes, that was what my passport currently said my name was. I made my way to the counter by the gate and was told about my changed seat assignment. The woman smiled at me as she handed me a new boarding pass. 2B.

The satisfied smile on JJ's face was a distraction. A distraction that I didn't know quite how to contend with. And then I remembered JJ kicking ass when she needed to, and how she'd always curbed the balance between right and wrong, and how I trusted her to not lead me astray. Which meant, if she was here in these circumstances, she thought I was doing the right thing.

There was an immense amount of comfort in that.

I didn't know how to deal with comfort in circumstances such as these. I still don't as she sits beside me in a slovenly Volkswagen and we pull away from Theydon Garnon and make our way towards "Gil."

There were seven names on Clyde's list. Six of them had first and last names, along with one or two aliases and one or two numbers.

And then there was Gil. Just that as a name, a star next to it, and a single phone number. We didn't start with calling that number, though.

We spent the first hour of the flight talking about options and trust before succumbing to a handful of hours of much-needed sleep.

Trust born of loyalty and love and understanding was real. Trust born of debt was fragile, something only to be relied upon until a person needed to save him or herself by giving you up. I trusted Marcus Klaus, but I didn't want to put his job in jeopardy; asking him to help me would be a lot like letting Hotch come with me - his absence would be noted. My trust in the people I knew at Interpol was questionable when push came to shove. That left one person.

We arrived in London a little after eight o'clock this morning and took a cab to Nick Hansen's flat. Nick and Clyde had been an on again, off again item for years. Nick had already proven his loyalty by not selling me out when reporting the story about Adrian Stancu and the whole Minotaur case. And I knew Nick had been approached by a publisher about writing an autobiography about Adrian Stancu a little over a year ago. His communication with me fizzled after that, but I still trusted him as our best shot, a man who had access to research we needed that might lead us to the woman with red hair and a location for Fran.

We took a cab to his flat, a flat I'd been to for dinner on a couple of occasions with Clyde. The man who answered the door looked like a mess; his once impeccable flat looked like a frat house. I could see dirty dishes and piles of papers scattered about; I could smell the scent of stale marijuana. I may have left London and left the case from two years ago behind to start a better, happier life, but Nick had somehow gotten himself lost on the way.

His red-rimmed eyes took me in for several long seconds. "Emily?" he asked.

I nodded and he let me and JJ into the flat without further words.

I surveyed him and surveyed the mess and he looked embarrassed. I smiled softly at him. "I'm sorry about the mess," he muttered.

I shook my head. "Don't worry about it." More quietly, I said, "We need your help."

Nick hastily cleared off his couch and one arm chair so we could sit. JJ kept casting furtive glances at me, like perhaps Nick wasn't our best bet as to someone we could trust. But I knew the man, and I knew behind whatever a mess he currently was, there stood a heart of gold, and a man with discretion who wouldn't say a word about me being in London, even if he couldn't help us much more than with just information.

I told him the whole story, laid it out honestly - what had happened, why we were there, my intended outcome. And as I spoke, Nick came back to himself somewhat, looking a little more alert and a little more together.

"I tried to write the book," he said when I was done talking. "I tried. I took the deal from the publisher and started my research, intending to dedicate the book to Clyde. But the further I dug and the more I found out, the more I fell into depression. That those people could live like they did and that Clyde died because of it was too much. I stopped my research."

He paused and took a breath. "I was fired from my job a few months ago. I was useless at that point, not able to produce a single story. What do you need? I'll do whatever I can to help you."

"Do you still know how to fly?" I asked him. Clyde had taught him, years ago, first a helicopter, and then a plane.

Nick nodded. "My pilot's license is still good."

I nodded back at him. I wanted to talk to him more, to help him, to hug him, but we didn't have time for any of that. "I need you to get cleaned up. I need your research, especially anything with Adrian's past. Garcia is currently going through his financials to see if there's a discrepancy we missed. We need to find the woman with red hair. She was special to Adrian for some reason, and we need to know why. I might need you to fly. Right now, I need to use your phone and borrow your car."

Nick stood immediately. He handed me his keys and pointed to his phone. "I'm going to shower. My research is a mess, but I'll gather it for you. I'll get the guest room cleaned up for you both."

I stood as well. I couldn't let him go without giving him something. "I scattered Clyde's ashes in the Potomac. I'm sorry. I should have called you. I should have let you be there. I can help you get back on your feet when this is over."

I watched tears fill his eyes. He nodded and turned, walked down the hall. A few minutes later, I heard a shower start.

I looked at JJ who had been silent the entire time. "Are you sure he's up for this?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. Trust was born of loyalty more than debt. I was the recipient of Nick's loyalty via his loyalty to Clyde. It was once-removed, but it was there. "He'll get it together."

I reached for Nick's phone and dialed Gil's number, putting it on speaker so JJ could hear, too, not sure what to expect when he answered.

"Hello?" a gruff, surprised voice answered.

"I'm looking for Gil," I said.

"And I assume I'm talking to Emily?" he responded, a little less gruff.

The frankness surprised me and I paused. He chuckled slightly over the line. "Only one person ever had this number, and then he came to me and said he was giving it to you, a little over two years ago. I don't like to share information over the phone."

He rattled off an address and we agreed to meet at noon.

Now, as JJ and I drive over English country roads and get closer to Gil's address, I'm filled with anticipation. Anticipation for help, anticipation for meeting this mystery man, anticipation for finding Fran.

A small castle-like structure looms in front of us and I say to JJ, "I think that's it."

She stares. "You've got to be kidding me. Is there a moat?"

I smile.

We pull the car to a stop in front of a gate and it opens immediately. We drive down the path of the lengthy driveway in silence, taking in the impressive structure before us, complete with turrets.

Mentally my mind makes a picture of what Gil looks like based on his house. I'm imagining a distinguished man in a suit as we make our way out of the car and to his front door. When it opens, I realize how wrong I was about my perception of this man. My first thought is Jerry Garcia.

"Gil?" I ask and he nods.

The man is in his sixties, with a scraggly beard and wild hair nods. He's barefoot, wearing a tie-dyed t-shirt and faded jeans. I half expect him to present me with a bong before he whips out a guitar and breaks out into a rendition of Uncle John's Band.

Instead, he steps out of his doorway and wraps me in a hug.

"Well, this should be interesting," JJ mumbles loud enough for me to hear.

Despite myself and my inner turmoil and fear and anger, I laugh slightly.

I'm glad she's with me. More than glad.