Okay, I don't own anything to do with the perfection that is CM or any of its affiliations. I do, however, have the pleasure of owning my OC, Charlotte. Hope you enjoy the story - and have a great day!

Charlotte POV

Instead of wasting my time sitting around the lodge, driving myself insane with frustration, I stepped into a pair of thickly soled boots, and decided to revisit the families, one-by-one. There had to be something that I missed, it was right there, on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn't say it. I couldn't think of what it could be, and that alone was jarring enough. To have Ledger and Cade here, sitting around, laughing and joking with the team, acting as though there was nothing wrong between us, on top of that was too much. I could barely breathe in there – it was so stuffy.

Sliding into the car, I closed my eyes, momentarily, and felt a large weight lift from my shoulders, and I smiled for the first time this morning. Once I was on the road, I felt significantly lighter, and the weird, crushing sensation that plagued my stomach ebbed away, bit by bit, as I drove further and further away from the cabin, and I had no idea why. Instead of focusing on my problems, I forced myself to forget the mess that awaited me when I returned, and concentrated on the problem at hand.

That being a psychotic murderous killer on the loose, of course.

Within twenty minutes, I pulled into the driveway of the first victim's family – Jemima Holloway. I knocked on the door, courteously, and waited for the husband to answer. When he didn't, I glanced through the nearest window, and the sight that greeted me was horrifying, at the least.

The first time Rossi and I came here, barely two days ago, it was pristine, as if frozen in time, but the air was thick with grief and distress. Now, though, it was slovenly. The floor was matte with whatever kind of unmentionables cluttered the floor and the amount of beer cans that littered the floor was nearly astounding. As loudly as I could, I banged on the door, with as much might as I could muster, and exclaimed, "Mister Holloway? Are you in there?"

I heard some shuffling, but I could see no sign of life, and it worried me greatly.

He groaned, loudly, then opened the door – not enough for me to come in, but enough for that wretched smell to leak out, and I swear, I nearly lost my lunch as soon as it hit my nose. Without pausing, he growled, rather threateningly, "Who is it? If it's another one of you fucking kids, I swear, I'll kill you!"

Shaking my head, slowly, I replied, awkwardly, "No, Sir, I'm with the FBI."

He faltered, equally as woodenly, and murmured, "Oh.."

After a moment, I asked, "May I come in?"

He glanced behind him,he answered, sheepishly, "It's a bit of a mess.."

Shaking my head, I gave him "I don't mind, Sir."

That was a lie. I wanted to puke right here on the spot, but I didn't want to be inconsiderate. The man just lost his wife.

He laughed, dryly, as if the action physically pained him to do so, and said, "The backyard is through there. It's cleaner than the inside."

He opened the door, and I barely held back the gasp of pure revulsion that assaulted my throat at the disgusting scent that accosted my nose, and murmured, bleary-eyed and nearly dizzy, "Lead the way, Sir."

I had to dodge a few cans of cheap beer, and their dog was sleeping on the floor, like a lumpy mass of fur and flesh. He whined, low in his throat, and I frowned, deeply, at the sadness in his eyes. We sat down, and, thankfully, what he said was true; the air was brisk and fresh, and the wooden chairs dotted around the yard were clean, yet wet from the dried snow.

Clasping my hands together, I asked, formally, "Sir.. I hope you do not mind if I ask a few follow-up questions?"

He nodded, slowly, but surely, and muttered, "I wont be much help. I've tried... To remember everything, but..."

Dipping my head, I replied, comfortingly, "I understand, Sir. Just... Sorry... But your dog. Is he usually in the house?"

"No. After Jem.. Passed, she just sits there. Every day. She doesn't move. Sometimes she looks like she isn't even breathing. I tried to move her, but.. She just sits there, like she's waiting for her to come home."

Chewing on my lower lip, I asked, softly, "Do you think, Sir, that your dog might have seen the culprit?"

He shook his head in confusion, and replied, "I don't know. Jem usually takes her out on her morning runs, but she didn't... Go."

Frowning, I quizzed, "Have you tried to move her?"

"Yeah," he laughed, then lifted up the sleeve of his gingham shirt, to show me his injured forearm, covered with a thick wrapping of gauze and tape. "I didn't try again."

My brow puckered, deeper, and replied, quietly, "One moment, Sir."

I stood up, quickly, and walked towards the sandy-coloured dog, and crouched, so I was at eye-level with her. Comfortingly, I scratched behind her ear, and muttered, "Hey girl.. What's your name?"

I reached down, and grasped her name tag, quickly, feeling the growl bubble away in the centre of her chest, and read her name – Giselle.

"What a beauty."

She surveyed me with clever, dark eyes, and I asked her, "I know you saw something, Giselle. And I'm going to need you to show me what."

After a moment of careful surveillance, she rolled onto her back, revealing her belly, and I couldn't hold back my gasp in shock.

Dotted, dried blood.

A day later...

Hotch glanced up, and stared at the brightly-dressed blonde, and stated, "Yes Garcia?"

She grinned, manically, and glanced up over the head of her laptop, and shot off, excitedly, "Alright, my pretties, are you seat belts fastened? Because you're in for the ride of your-"

He interrupted, sternly, "Garcia."

Sheepishly, she murmured, her cheeks flushing in momentary embarrassment, "Sorry. Anyway, Hotch, you asked me to send the samples of the wax we found at the crime scene, and it turns out to have been man-made."

Morgan asked, firmly, "The UnSub?"

She nodded, her glasses perched at the end of her nose, and replied, "Most likely."

I asked, chewing on my lower lip, and fiddling with the pen in my right hand, "Was there any DNA trace found?"

She shook her head, and answered, exasperatedly, "Not. A. Trace."

Frowning, I asked, glancing between the stoic faces of the people around me, "Then why is this good news?"

She replied, with a casual shrug, "Well, newbie, the main property found within the wax itself is found in the nearby forest. Mistletoe being the most prominent."

The nickname wasn't said maliciously. She was grinning while she said it, and I couldn't hold back my own, small smile in response. Morgan stated, sitting up, the manila folder closing in his lap as he did so, "That means the UnSub is someone who is comfortable in the forestry."

Rossi prompted, a singular brow raising in interest, "A hunter?"

Hotch nodded, and answered, shortly, "Possibly. Garcia... Could you find the names of all of the people who bought large quantities of any of the other properties found within the wax?"

Spencer sat forward, covertly, and slipping his hand beneath the table, and clasped his hand around my own, knitting our fingers together, making my heart treble in speed, and said, "Soy, paraffin, beeswax.. Those are all necessary."

Garcia tapped away on her keyboard, and replied, "Will do."

I asked, tightening my hold on Spencer's hand, and saw his smile widen, out of the corner of my eye, "What about the blood on the dog's fur?"

Garcia nodded, and glanced up at me, then replied, "I sent it along with the wax, and-"

"And?"

She smiled, sadly, and answered,"Yeah! Not a match for anyone in the database. I've checked with the FBI and NSA, and there's not even a whisper of this guy. Stan, from Hematology, said that there were low levels of red blood cells, and the UnSub might be is anemic."

Morgan asked, "Okay.. Anything else that he found out, baby girl?"

She shook her head, sadly, and replied, "... No."

Damn.

Hi guys... Been a while, huh?

I know, I'm the devil! I'm sorry! But I'm back!

Okay! Well, I turned 17 yesterday, and I'm on a two week Christmas holiday from college

So yeah, I'm back, bitches!