ar·rhyth·mi·a
noun
A heart disorder resulting in a lack of needed rhythm.
Max and Spencer fall back into their familiar rhythms, again.
She hasn't gotten a phone call or had a night episode in sometime.
He's sleeping better when he is home and with her.
He tells her he loves her when he leaves for a case, and they give each other a copy of their apartment keys.
They even talk about her possibly meeting his mother, and he respects her desire to steer clear of his team.
She begins to slowly tell him what she remembers about her past...
How her mother died when she was born and Max's suspicion that this event was either her father's trigger, or his first victim.
How when she was 5, her brother started coming into her room at night and squeezing her by the neck until she would lose consciousness...
How she once found a woman's pearl earring in the floor board of her father's truck, and how it still lives in her jewelry box to this day.
... and how school, and books, and extracurriculars were her escape from it all.
As it turns out, Spencer's knowledge of her real identify didn't change their life much, and the only thing he asks her after the fact is to not lie to him again.
And she didn't intend to.
She really didn't mean to this time, but old habits die hard, and arrhythmia is a condition of the heart...
And time it took him just over 24 hours to figure it out.
It started when she found an envelope in her mail box yesterday morning.
After viewing it's contents, she called Michelle immediately.
They had dealt with this before, so they felt sure they could handle it again.
And that meant they would have to contact Malcolm.
Bright needed to tie up some loose ends with a case he was working on with the NYPD, but he agreed to hop a plane and be there in the morning...
Malcolm, "Bright," as he liked to be called, was the eldest child of the reknown serial killer, The Surgeon.
He and Max had met through his mother, Jessica Whitley.
Jessica, sympathetic to such a cause for obvious reasons, took to financially supporting the youngest Mills child, who just so happened to be the same age as her eldest.
They had become like a surrogate family to her.
As a result, Bright and Max had been friends for years, though their communication had been limited since he started with the FBI several years ago, and she had only spoken to him a few times since his removal from the FBI last year, sending him back home to NYC.
Throughout their emergence into adulthood, Max and Bright found they understood each other with out having to try.
Not just because he was a profiler, not just because she was a therapist, not just because they shared almost identical trauma, or similar sleep disturbing night terrors, but mostly because they shared a fear of the inner workings of their own minds.
While they've communicated these fears in some respects over the years, it was mostly with subtle glances and shared cynicism...
Except that one time when they were 22, and Max was staying with the Whitley's over Christmas Break from University, and she found him in the kitchen with a pitcher of eggnog...
The night after Christmas, 2007
Max bursts though the door and makes an exaggerated jump when she sees his shadow look up.
Malcolm is in mid pour with the left over Christmas Eggnog.
He's facing her, set up on the kitchen's marbled island as he attempts to stifle a look of shock.
"Can't sleep?" He asks suspiciously, lowering the pitcher and lifting an expensive crystal glass of white liquid to his lips.
Max answers with a playful sneer, "I thought I heard you get up. Did you leave me any?"
She walks the rest of the way into the kitchen to the cabinet behind him and pulls out a matching glass.
His eyes follow her as she does.
When she turns around she sees he has spun himself around and is facing her again, the pitcher still in hand.
Her eyes adjust to the dark and she notices he's dressed in the sweater his mother gifted him on Christmas Day.
"Nice," she says, motioning to the sweater.
He shrugs and pours her a drink, they watch the liquid fill her cup, his hand holding the pitcher quivers ever so slightly.
When it's full, they're eyes meet in a familiar way, saying unspoken things usually communicated through quick glances and knowing silences.
She slowly lifts the glass to her lips, as the grandfather clock in the study calls 3am.
Malcolm's only reaction is to narrow his eyes at her, but Max raises her brows before saying, "The witching hour."
"Like we need more creeps in our life," Malcom says, leaning back on the counter and placing the pitcher down.
He then lifts his own glass again to take a large swig.
She does the same with her drink, and when he's silent she says, "so you're seriously going to go to the FBI academy after you graduate next semester," the bitterness in her voice is evident to him.
He's silent for a beat, a little thrown off by the shift in her mood, but that's how it was with her.
They had a tension between them he didn't understand, and any time he felt close to wriggling past it, she would give him whiplash.
He'd come to realization a long time ago he had an interest in her, interest in the purest form of the world.
He was truly curious to see what could happen.
She was like family, and he would do anything for her...
But she knew as well as he did that family could be twisted.
Malcolm was suddenly aware of his own heart pounding in his ears.
His eyes threaten to wander over her, but he closes them instead, inhaling sharply.
"Yes, Max," he finally answers, her face turning more stony as he opens his eyes again.
She downs the rest of her drink.
"It's not personal," he rolls his eyes and pokes her shoulder, as if pressing a button to change her settings.
It must have worked, because she blinks, and her face softens as she says, "it's not that I don't think you'd be great at it... it's just," she shakes her head as her words fail her.
"Ironic?" He says, draining the last of the eggnog from his glass, and putting it down on the counter to the side of him.
She nods her head and goes to reach for the pitcher on his other side, ready to top their cups back off.
When her fingers are centimeters from the handle, she's close enough for him to slip a hand around her wrist, stopping her mid motion.
Her eyes move slowly to his, they look almost bored as her head tilts in interest.
"How many of these have you had?" She asks in a cool tone.
He recognizes what looks like curiosity on her lips, a dare in her eyes.
"Just two," he says, "but you knew that, because you've been standing out there for a while contemplating coming in here," his eyes are locked on hers and she doesn't blink.
He continues, "Just like you've done every year since we were 18. I'm always in here, day after Christmas, finishing the eggnog at 3am. Except this time, you came actually in."
She smiles guiltily, but there is no shame in her face when she says, "like I said, you'd be great in the FBI."
His grip tightens, nails threatening to pierce her skin and her eyes darken as her smile grows.
Suddenly, she's against him, mouth over his, and pinning him to the edge of the island.
He's keeping her there with a hand on her waist, and another tugging at her hair.
He jerks back her head with the hand full of hair, and she makes a sound that sends him to another dimension.
Her hands are making their way around his neck...
There is nothing sweet about this exchange, it's hungry... wild.
Her nails dig into his throat and when he winces, she laughs in his mouth.
He uses an arm to push himself from the bar and spin them, switching their positions, all the while their lips continue to work at the other's.
When he's finished the switch, he slams her against the island, hard.
When she gasps in pain, he pulls his mouth from her quickly.
His catches himself by his hands, now on either side of her, cupped around the ends of the counter.
They observe each other's already swollen lips, and heaving chests.
Max notices a trickle of blood falling from one of the marks on his neck.
Malcolm feels his face fall, and he sees the same look on hers, her look of desire turning to concern.
He shifts his weight from her, straightening himself, and takes a step back putting distance between them.
He reaches for his neck and feels a number of indentations, and broken skin.
When he pulls his hand back, he too sees the blood now on his fingers.
"We can't do this," he says, as if he discovered all he needed to know.
Max reaches a hand to her back and winces again before saying, "we'd literally kill each other."
They don't laugh.
Her eyes flick to his, and a new understanding comes between them.
Malcolm nods his head slowly in agreement.
That's how you fix that, He thinks.
And that's how they became platonic.
Malcolm and Michelle though, well, that was a story for another time.
Present Day
Spencer would only be upset if he knew about the envelope—- and the pictures.
He'd overreact, try to involve his team, and possibly blow her cover.
She could not let that happen.
Being Max Brenner was more important than ever now.
No one would want Harlowe Mills as their child's therapist, or their coworkers girlfriend, or their neighbor...
They'd run her out of town with pitchforks.
So she would keep it from him for now.
She would handle it like she has handled things her whole life.
She stayed at Spencer's that night because she couldn't shake the thought of being watched.
All of the images were either taken in her apartment, or out an about town.
She put on a brave face, telling him about insignificant parts of her day, rubbing at the seams of her shirt to calm herself.
It was probably all in her head, a guilty conscious, but she thought she saw him side eye her a couple of times.
When he left for work this morning, she told him she wasn't leaving with him because her morning sessions canceled.
The truth was she had canceled all of her sessions for the day.
When Michelle and Bright arrived, missing Spencer by a mere 30 min, they began sweeping her apartment for hidden cameras for hours.
But they were gone.
Who ever it was had already removed them, they had gotten what they wanted.
Now they just had to wait for the demands, like the time before.
"I don't want to alarm you, but this seems different than the last time." Malcolm says.
He's standing at Max's kitchen table, having spread the images out, observing them. He toys with the yellow envelope they came in as he thinks.
He's cut off by Michelle.
"Yeah, he thinks he's grown a pair and is trying to do a bigger shake down," Michelle snaps at him.
Malcolm's face is grave, "I'm just saying... this seems more pers—"
"Just find the other guy and ask him." Max interrupts.
Her elbows are on her kitchen island, head in hands.
"Are you going to tell Spencer?" Michelle asks.
"No," Max says. "At least not until you talk to the guy."
Malcolm drops his eyes to the floor to avoid sighing.
"What?" Max says to him, raising her voice.
She notices her stomach growling. It's noon and can't remember when she ate last.
He slips his hands in his trench coat pockets and is chewing a piece of gum.
He looks at her for sometime time before he finally says, "We have to find him first. Then we'll try to contact him. In the meantime I don't think you need to stay here."
Max's phone vibrates beside her.
It's Spencer.
She lets it go to voicemail.
"Don't be ridiculous," Max says still considering the phone.
"Despite having a highly trained FBI agent frequent your apartment, who ever it is is obviously very comfortable coming in and out of your very secure apartment building and unit..." Malcolm says, not needing to finish the rest.
They all jump at a sudden knock at the door.
Malcolm puts a finger to his lips and crosses the apartment to peer into the peep hole.
"Max?" Spencer's muffled voice comes from the other side.
"Shit," Max says, eyes closing, Michelle still frozen in place.
"What do you want me to do?" Malcolm says, stepping away from the door and whispering to Max.
Her phone buzzes again with a call from Spencer.
She inhales and crosses the kitchen, opening the door.
"Hey, I thought I heard voices. I came to grab a file from my place I didn't realize I would need over my lunch break," he eyes Michelle over Max's shoulder, still frozen in place by the kitchen table, then notices Malcolm standing to the other side.
Michelle's eyes dart to the table full of images, unsure how visible they are from his vantage point.
Malcolm nods to Spencer who looks back at Max with concern.
"Is everything ok...?" Spencer asks.
Max doesn't respond, and instead hears Malcolm walk closer.
"Dr. Reid, we've met before, I'm—-"
"Malcom Bright," Spencer says, nodding his head back at him, but his look of concern grows.
Malcolm looks to Max as if waiting for her to say something.
When she doesn't, Malcolm turns back to Spencer and says, "I think you'd better come in."
"What the hell is this?" Spencer's face is filled with confusion, disgust, and fear.
He's standing over the images on the table.
Max has regained her position behind the kitchen island.
Malcolm and Michelle face them both to the side, they look out of place, as if they're intruding on an intimate scene.
Spencer's eyes dark from photograph to photograph.
Pictures of them.
Some intimate.
Some normal.
In bed.
At the park.
Everything.
Everywhere.
All spanning across the months they have been seeing each other.
"Max!" He says in almost a growl, eyes continuing to jump from image to image, as if they could answer his question.
She was frozen.
He picked up one, and matched the angle it must have been taken from.
"They're not there anymore." Max says, finally.
She puts her hands up in surrender and takes a few steps around the island towards him, "I'm handling it."
"Handling what Max?" He waves the picture in his hand, and looks to Michelle and Malcolm.
"Something like this has happened before," Michelle says, taking this as a prompt to speak, "we're going to talk to the guy from last time, we're going to handle it."
His eyes are darting everywhere now, the table, the door, every nook and cranny.
"Are you really telling me right now you have a stalker." Spencer says, meaning in his voice.
"No, it wasn't like that." Max says, "Just some scum bag who found out who I was and wanted a pay out to keep quiet. It's all under control."
"This," he says as he walks towards her brandishing the picture. It's them, half clothed on her couch. "This does not look like just a shake down, Max. It looks personal. And this one is rated G compared to some of the others, why would you keep this from me?"
"Because I am handling it." Max repeats.
His drops his hands to his side and gives Bright a pleading look.
"You see it right?" Spencer asks.
Malcolm nods his head.
"Max," Spencer continues with a serious tone, "I am a Federal Agent. Have I not expressed to you enough the kind of people who have come after me? I have talked about where my mom is in here!" His voice is raising.
"We're pretty sure it was just cameras, only pictures," Max tried, "It's not about you Spencer, the pictures are someone trying to mess with me because they know who I am."
He moves back to the table and picks up one of the more graphic pictures from the pile and brandishes it to the room, causing Max to wince, "I'd say it has a little bit to do with me." He puts his focus on the rest of the images, moving them around with his fingers.
"They're all of just of us." He says, "They go back as far as the day we went to that art festival..." his voice lowers again. "How... and when did you get these?" He says after a beat.
"I found it in my mail box yesterday." Max answers, as he shuffles through them some more.
His head pops up suddenly and meets her eyes, "I've got to call this in."
"No, Spencer you can't—-" her face becomes frantic in an instant, she looks to Michelle and Malcolm.
Michelle goes to object but Malcolm stops her.
"I don't understand how you are being so selfish and naive," Spencer says shaking his head.
Her eyes well with tears "you can't blow this identity Spencer. If you call it in you'll ruin everything."
"Do I need to remind you the last time a stalker was involved with the person I love," his voice is harsh but there is a choke in it.
He is looking at her like he doesn't even know her.
She looks back at him, lips pursed and body rippling with tremors. She wipes at her eye to keep a tear from falling.
The muscles in his jaw are jumping as he waits for her to respond, when she doesn't he says, "you have everyone in this room walking egg shells around you. If you keep it up you're going to be all alone, is that what you want?"
"N-no," Max says finally.
They look at each other in silence for a time, as he does his face grows softer.
"You can trust my team..." he continues, his voice going soft as well.
"The FBI is the reason I have to live like this," she says unblinking.
Spencer is walking towards her now, "The FBI are the reason you got out of that house alive..."
She steps back, not letting him close the space between them, "They told the whole world that I am just like them," her voice has a bite to it that makes Michelle flinch.
"Max, listen... Listen to me." He's close to her now. "I know you don't want to lose everything you have worked so hard to build. But you trust me, right?"
He waits for her answer but she gives none. "I need you to trust me. This is very serious. This— this isn't black mail. This is sophisticated and sadistic."
He looks to Bright who is subtly nodding along. "Who ever did this wanted us, both of us, to feel violated and unsafe. This is something else. And we are not safe. If you do not listen to me, we may not even have a life preserve at all do you understand me?"
Michelle's eyes are as big as saucers, and she and Max jump as the phone in Max's hand begins to vibrate, yet again.
"God dammit," she screams, throwing the phone across the room, she throws her arms around her head and collapses to a crouch on the floor.
"I can't handle this!" She says.
Michelle rushes over to comfort her, while Spencer makes for the phone. Malcolm takes a few steps towards it as well.
It reads;
Bay City Correctional Facility
"How long has he been calling this time?" Spencer calls to her.
Michelle has pulled her into a nearby chair, but her head remains in her hands, muffling her voice when she answers, "It just started again."
"When." Spencer said, already flipping through the call logs.
"Y-yesterday."
"23 times since yesterday" Spencer says, almost to himself.
The phone begins vibrating again. Spencer lifts his eyes to the others in the room.
Malcolm is fighting the tremor growing in his hand by sliding it in his pocket, but he nods to Spencer, endorsing his thought.
Spencer presses the green icon on the screen and lifts the phone to his ear.
✈️
"Realizing you love someone is like noticing you have a sunburn—- you don't know exactly when it happened, just that you were too exposed for too long." -The Nature of Witches, by Rachel Griffin pg. 34
