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!

50th chapter guys! Wow! I can't believe you've done stuck with me for this long. I hope you liked it! I love you guys! Have a wonderful day, you stunning people!

Charlotte POV

It was half past six in the morning when I was awoken by a sharp, quick rap on the wood of my bedroom door. As quickly as I was able, I pushed my hair out of my eyes and refashioned the messy, high bun that had become askew while I rested in the surprisingly comfortable bed, and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. Padding over to the door, the floor cold against my bare feet, and I groaned, "Coming."

I swung the door open, and glanced upwards, to see Derek standing in my doorway, with a surprisingly awake, disturbed expression pinched across his features. He didn't even give me a 'good morning' before he pushed an oversized navy jacket in my hands, and said, "Get dressed. There's another body."

I nodded, vehemently, and he span on his heel, without delay, and shot down the corridor, as if he were aflame. I closed the door behind me, and turned to walk into the bathroom. As quickly as I could, I brushed my teeth, then ran a cloth over my face and brushed a comb through my hair, quickly, and winced as I caught my brush in a few of the knots that had formed in my hair. I glanced out of the window in my room and found that the snow was descending, lightly, through the air, blanketing all that it touched. The sky was grey; the cloud all heavy and tumultuous, and I dressed for such weather. A pair of thick socks, followed by worn, form-fitting denim jeans and a black, thick sweater. I wrapped a coral scarf around my neck, and shuffled into the oversized navy jacket that Derek had given me, and found that it was a custom-made FBI jacket, with my name engraved in the gold enamelling of the insignia on the right breast pocket. I braided my hair to the side, and pulled a beanie over my already-reddening ears.

Without pause, I toed my feet into a pair of mid-calf black boots, and rubbed lotion onto the skin of my face, neck and my hands, before I pushed my fingers into a pair of leather gloves, and quickly left the safety of my bedroom. Morgan was waiting for me in the reception, with Garcia, who was busy typing away at the screen of her laptop, with a pinched, intense expression displayed on her face. She didn't acknowledge me, but I understood why, because she was in the middle of a case, and I knew that she needed to concentrate. As did I, and I nodded, once, at Derek, and he led me outside, into the freezing cold and towards the large silver vehicle stalled in the front parking lot of the cabin house. He said, "Get it," then after a moment's pause, he turned to me and, after giving me a thousand watt grin, he said, "You're with me today, kid."

Quickly, I slipped into the passenger side of the car, and once we were in transit, driving down the sloped stretch of road, I asked, "Who's the victim?"

While focusing on the road ahead of the car, he replied, factually, "Georgia Heike, thirty years old."

His jaw-line thrummed as he ground his teeth together, and said, "This time it was different. She wasn't hung. He's changed his M.O. It's strange."

The crease between my brows deepened, and I asked, as I rubbed the back of my neck, in confusion, "What was the change in M.O., Morgan?"

It didn't make sense – there was no reason for him to change the pattern of his kills.

This time, he did turn to me, and his eyes expressed so much anger, so much rage, that I had to choke back a small cry of my own, and he growled, threateningly, "She wasn't hanged. He choked her with his bare hands. He put so much pressure on her neck, post-mortem, that her larynx was nearly flattered. This was more personal. She was tied to her own bed, by her ankles and wrists, and the pentagram was cut into her stomach, with a thin, sharply-pointed blade."

Nodding, slowly, mulling over the information, and then asked, "He's angrier this time. Was there evidence of sexual violence?"

He dipped his head, once, curtly, then replied, "Yes. There were traces of semen on her sheets, but none inside of her vaginal cavity."

Pouting, slightly, I glanced out of the window, drawing small looping circles on the cool glass with the crook of my index finger and said, absent-mindedly, "Okay... So he is able to perform, but not be with someone physically. Maybe some kind of sexual abuse in his past? He does seem to hold a strong grudge against young brunette women. I'm becoming more convinced that it's a surrogate for, maybe, a maternal or a sororal relationship."

Derek pursed his lips, his fingers tightening on the wheel of the car. I could tell that this case was getting to him, what with the killer having so much confidence as to continue killing women while there was such a large FBI presence around the town. It was surprising, though, that there were people still being left alone in their homes, even after we had informed them, over and over again, to stay together at all times, and they still didn't. For some reason, people never seem to think that they would become that person; the person they hear about on the news, until it happens.

It took a while for us to make our way down the stretch of road and into the main town, and once we turned the corner, leading onto the road where the murder took place, and my eyes widened of their own accord. There were hoards of people, surrounding the yellow and black tape that the Cordova Police used to keep the crime scene intact, and they watched, in horror, as the officers walked in and out of their neighbours home. I could almost see the regret, the fear, the guilt in their eyes – Georgia Heike had been their neighbour the day beforehand. The morning before, Miss Heike could have been pruning her roses, or clipping her hedges, or walking her dog, and now, she was gone. Like a wisp of pale smoke in the air. Like a quiet whisper into the early morning dawn.

It could have been any one of them, and it scared them, like it should. They should be shitting themselves, because if we don't find this son of a bitch, it could be any of them lying on a cold metal slab at the end of the week. And if it's not one of them, it's someone they know.

I released a gust of air from my lips, then turned to Morgan, as I unlocked the car door and said, as I slid out the car, "Let's get this over with, Derek. I really want to get this guy."

He glanced at me, over the bonnet of the hulking monstrosity that we called a car, and said, seriously, "Me too, Char. Me too."