Author's note: Thanks to the reviewers, it's really encouraging me to keep up with this fic! Apologies that this chapter's not longer. The story is writing itself in my head faster than I can type it, and between work and life, this is all I had time to get down today. A warning to you all, things are going to get dark, and fast.

Chapter Two

He's tall, but he's shorter than I remember. That was all Reid could think. For about three point five seconds, at least. Then the next thought trickled in: I'm taller than him. I win.

Then the next: Well, that was stupid.

And the next: My brain hasn't been this quiet since the last time I shot up.

After that, the floodgates were open and he was drowning in his own mind.

He was here the whole time?

Charles is my brother?

I have a brother.

Sixteen years, one month, nine days, three hours, and here is my dad. He was here the whole time. I shook his hand; who caught that? Rossi definitely caught that. He's been watching me all day. I'll have to tell them. I'll have to explain. He was here the whole time. I have a brother. Maybe I can just leave. Quit the BAU and become a croupier or a magician on the Strip. No, I'm banned from all the major casinos. But if I worked for them? I'm not banned in Reno. I could go to Reno. Am I banned in Reno? He was here the whole time. I have a brother.

His thoughts raced, even more than usual. He would have to tell them, Reid knew it. But then he thought of Kathy Woods' grief-stricken face. Did she know about him? No, there'd been no hint of suspicion in her affect. Did she even know her husband had been married before? He couldn't put her through this, not now. Not with her son missing.

Not with my brother missing. Is he my brother? He could be Kathy's son by another man. Don't be an idiot; he looks exactly like you.

He looks exactly like me. I have a brother.

And he was here the whole time.

He had to tell Hotch. It wasn't like he'd done anything wrong. He just didn't want to deal with this, and he especially didn't want to deal with every damn member of his team knowing that he was dealing with this. He had enough experience with that already. Do I have to tell? Could he just keep it a secret? No, Garcia would figure it out. Would Garcia figure it out? Don't kid yourself, he thought; odds were, Garcia had already figured it out. Had she already told Hotch? No, Garcia wouldn't do that. She didn't tell anyone about his mother when she found out about the schizophrenia, she had waited until he told them himself. Garcia wasn't a profiler; she understood boundaries.

He was here the whole time.

I have a brother.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, and it made him jump. He whipped it out. GARCIA flashed across the screen in green LED letters. Shit.

This entire thought-process had lasted only about ten seconds, and J.J., Hotch, Rossi, and Herrera were themselves just turning away from the grieving parents. He turned his cell's ringer off, ignoring the incoming call. He needed to think. He just needed a minute to think.

I'm going to puke, he thought. And he excused himself to the men's room.

"Is he alright?" asked Hotch as Reid scurried towards the restroom. Rossi knew Hotch was really asking, Is he using? But they both knew better than to say it.

"I think he's okay," replied Rossi. Something was itching the kid, had been itching him since they found out they were headed to Vegas. And there was definitely something about this specific case that had gotten to him; he'd completely forgotten himself the moment he was handed the case file. Yeah, there was something up with Reid, but Rossi was pretty sure it wasn't drugs. "It's been a long travel day for us," he said, "Cross country to San Quentin, then down here. He was a bit over eager to watch the interview, too. I think he had four cups of coffee before we even started."

Hotch didn't smile, but he frowned a little less thoroughly. "Alright then," he said, "Let me fill you in."

CMCMCM

"I'm the UnSub," said Morgan. He crouched in the dead grass where a few hours earlier, Herrera had found Charles Woods' library card. It was dark now, but the moon was full and the warm air of late spring lingered. Morgan had doffed his jacket at the station before they headed to the park, and Detective Vargas tried not to be too obvious as he watched the well-developed muscles flex under Morgan's tee shirt. They were on a case, for Christ's sake! There was a missing child! Vargas already had a boyfriend! Morgan stood slowly and scanned the park. Damn, though! Thought Vargas.

"I want a kid," continued Morgan, thinking out loud. "It's early afternoon, after school, nice day, dozens of kids here to choose from." He visualized the scene: bright sun, families, children of all ages running and playing; parents, coaches, nannies watching them.

"So why Charlie?" said Rossi, sauntering past the uniformed cops to join Morgan and Vargas. It was only a five-minute drive from the station, and after a quick briefing from Hotch, he'd headed right over.

"Detective Rodrigo Vargas, SSA David Rossi," said Morgan, as the two men shook hands.

"Because it's Charlie I want," Morgan continued, back in the mind of the UnSub. "No other kid will do. The UnSub definitely knew Charlie, and Charlie knew him."

"Can you be sure?" asked Vargas.

"There were other kids who'd have been a lot easier to grab," said Rossi. "He could've gone to any neighborhood, any time of day. Instead he came to a safe, populated park in the early afternoon, when he knew it was at its busiest."

"Even here, there were easier targets," said Morgan, "There's a patch of trees fifty yards away," he pointed across the field, "There was a group of kids playing hide and seek in there at the time of the abduction. "

"Charlie was alone," said Vargas. "And he's small for his age, the guy would've known he couldn't put up a fight."

"He knew he wouldn't fight at all," said Morgan. "Think about it: it wasn't just the kids playing hide and seek who would've made easier targets. There was a birthday party at those picnic tables over there," he pointed to the other end of the field, "Kids and adults running around in every direction. There was a girls' softball game going on over there," he turned ninety degrees and pointed to the baseball diamond, "Parents with their eyes on the match and their eyes off their other kids. There were people playing with their dogs over there," he turned another ninety degrees and pointed to the dog run in the greener, shadier part of the field. "He could've blended into the crowds, waited for that moment when everyone's attention was averted, and made his move. Instead, he chose Charlie, who was walking right in the middle of this field. Alone, yeah, but literally surrounded by witnesses, right in the center, out in the open, where everyone could see him."

"And people did see him," said Rossi, "Benny Torres and Keith Wong, playing chess over there," he pointed to the tables. "Plus eleven others, who didn't get as clear a look, but remembered seeing Charlie walking across the field.

"He came here for Charlie, and he knew Charlie would follow him without causing a scene. Charlie knew the UnSub, and he trusted him."

"You think it was the father?" Asked Vargas.

"It usually is," said Rossi. He was sure Reid would have some numbers on that. He heard the kid's voice in his head, "Actually, stranger abductions of children are very rare, statistically they account for only…" Rossi cut off the imaginary ramblings of their human encyclopedia before they could go too far. "The father's a lawyer, right?" he asked, "If it wasn't him, maybe we're looking at revenge. An associate that Charlie recognized and would have followed, perhaps? Any more info from Garcia on the family?"

"Not yet," said Morgan, realizing that it had been an unusually long time since she last called. He double-checked his phone, but she hadn't tried to reach him. He tucked the phone back in his pocket, if she didn't call by nine he'd check in. "How was San Quentin?" he asked.

"Restrictive," Rossi replied.

CMCMCM

Reid puked.

He always puked.

Ever since he was a kid. Nervous? Puke. Excited? Puke. Happy? Puke. He'd puked every Christmas and birthday morning till the age of ten, just out of anticipation of presents.

The only time he hadn't puked was his first dead body. Lots of people lost their lunches over their first bad crime scene, but he didn't even blink. It was like he was numb to it already, and his lack of physical response had frightened him. But Gideon had warned him, just like he had after he'd shot the LDSK: it would hit him. And it had. A week later, he'd awoken in a cold sweat, and he'd puked.

He stumbled out of the stall and rinsed his mouth in the sink. Then he rested his arms on the countertop and looked up at his reflection. He was pale, his eyes looked sunken, and his cheeks looked hollow. Had he been this thin this morning? He should eat. He should eat a cake.

"Not knowing what you feel isn't the same as not feeling anything," Gideon had once told him. So, what did he feel now? He didn't feel like thinking about Gideon, that was for sure. He pushed the man out of his mind for what seemed the hundredth time that day, and scratched at the crook of his elbow. He stood stock still for just a moment before he hauled his messenger bag off his shoulder and onto the countertop. He hesitated for just a moment more, eyeing the door to the restroom for movement, and then reached inside and began to rummage around. He didn't look into the bag for what he sought, but felt around for it delicately with his fingers while he stared straight into his own eyes, reflected in the bathroom mirror. The anticipation was part of the game. Finally, his fingertip brushed a cool, smooth surface, and he sighed in relief.

A couple minutes later Reid strode back into the main office of the station. Hungry. That's what he felt. He'd just flushed away the peanuts Rossi had given him, and they were all he'd eaten all day. He should eat a cake.