Chapter Text
“Hi, my name is Spencer, and this is my second meeting,” he said. The customary response rippled through the crowd as the other attendees greeted him.
Spencer Reid, after going ten months without attending a single meeting, found himself for the second time in a week standing on a stage overlooking a sea of strangers. Men and women he'd never met before, and might never see again past this night.
Yet there was an atmosphere of undying support, of camaraderie and fellowship that soothed most of the nerves he had about opening up about his struggles. Not normally one to make himself vulnerable, even to those he considered family, Spencer knew he would not be judged here. Not here, in this room of people who all struggled the same way he had, who knew exactly what he was going through.
“I stopped using Dilaudid ten months ago.” His fingers slipped into his pocket to trace over the medallion John gave him a few days prior. “And I thought– I thought I was over it. But I've had some. . . bad days at work the past couple of months.”
A few people in the crowd nodded their heads. A couple gave him a sympathetic smile.
He took a deep breath. “I've been trying to ignore the cravings by throwing myself into my work, but it hasn't really been working. The past few days, I've been,” he paused and licked his lips, “on edge and my behavior has been unprofessional at best. I, uh, nearly got myself fired.”
His cheeks warmed as memories of the last case, and how he'd acted, flitted through his mind. Snapping at the school staff and local police alike, yelling at Hotch, intentionally misleading the team to confront an armed UnSub alone. He didn't exactly regret that last one – the chances of Owen surviving if he hadn't were slim to none – but he did wish it hadn't been necessary.
He was grateful Hotch had told the team not to come into work until Tuesday. The long weekend would let him avoid the others. Reid hoped that by the time they came back from the extended weekend, no one would feel the need to discuss the case in Texas with him.
Hotch had also suggested, privately on the jet, that Reid attend a meeting. Not in those words, of course. His drug problem wasn't something to discuss so explicitly while, technically, still on the clock.
And as embarrassed as he was over his boss's first acknowledgment, such as it was, of Reid's addiction being for him to seek out a meeting when the plane landed, he had to admit he'd already been considering it himself. The cravings he'd been experiencing since watching Ryan Phillips’ murder had only been exacerbated by the last few days. So, Spencer had searched for local Narcotics Anonymous meetings as soon as he'd gotten home.
He'd been disappointed the Beltway Clean Cops wouldn't have another meeting until Sunday evening, but he'd found a late-night meeting only a mile from his apartment building.
Which is how he'd found himself in the sanctuary of a small Baptist church, talking about his addiction in front of a group of strangers.
Realizing his thoughts had wandered, Spencer cleared his throat and continued, “I guess I'm hoping that getting it out in the open will help. That maybe acknowledging it out loud will be enough to make it easier to ignore?” He dropped his eyes to the podium in front of him, a sudden wave of uncertainty washing over him. He sighed. “I don't know. It's worth a shot, right?”
Not knowing what else to say, Spencer fidgeted in place for a moment. He glanced over at the moderator, who got up from her seat and moved towards the podium. He shuffled back over to his seat at the back of the small assembly. As soon as he sat down, the hair on the back of his neck stood on edge and goosebumps broke out along his arms and spine.
The moderator thanked him for sharing before giving some tips for dealing with cravings. Spencer tried to listen, but couldn't focus on her words. He'd been an agent long enough to recognize what his instincts were telling him.
He was being watched.
Spencer kept his body language relaxed and trained his face on the stage as someone else from the crowd got up and took the podium. He was thankful he'd picked a seat where he could see everyone who was attending the meeting as his eyes scanned the people surrounding him.
The welcoming atmosphere at the start of the meeting dissipated as the minutes stretched on and the unease in his chest grew. Everyone else appeared to be focused on the current speaker. He resisted the urge to tap his fingers nervously and forced his legs to remain still. The feeling of eyes boring into him hadn't gone away, but no one that he could see was looking in his direction, and there wasn't anyone sitting behind him, he was sure of that.
Spencer took a calming breath. If he was right about someone watching him – and he knew he was – then he couldn't afford to freak out. He would just have to wait until the meeting was over to get a more thorough assessment of the room.
He tried to ignore the growing feeling that attending the meeting tonight had been a mistake. But as that feeling became more prominent, so did his longing for his gun and cellphone left at his apartment.
He had thought at the time that he wouldn't need them. The church was approximately seventeen minutes and twenty-seven seconds away from his apartment when travelling by foot. He didn't live in a neighborhood with much criminal activity, so the gun hadn't seemed necessary for a mile walk. And his last meeting had been interrupted by his phone ringing with the message the team had a new case. And even though Hotch had given them a three day weekend, Spencer hadn't wanted to repeat the experience.
Which left him with no phone, no gun, and he'd left his messenger bag at the apartment as well, so no badge or wallet either.
The meeting finally came to a close, and Spencer forced himself not to bolt from his chair as the people around him started talking amongst themselves as they dispersed back to their own lives. Instead, he carefully scanned every corner of the room, searching for the source of the malicious feeling that had been plaguing him since he'd returned to his seat.
The doors of the church had been left open. The mid-April temperature was warm enough that being inside the tiny church with a broken air conditioner would be uncomfortable, so the doors had remained open to let in a cool breeze.
Spencer approached the doorway. A few other people were also leaving the building, so he managed to time his exit from the sanctuary to be with a group rather than alone. He tucked a loose lock of hair behind his ear as the breeze tried to blow it into his face. The singular lit sconce to the left of the door cast eerie shadows across the entryway, its twin holding a dead bulb on the other side. The fabric awning blocked any light from the moon. Someone wearing dark clothing would not have to try hard to avoid detection.
He scanned the parking lot. A single dim streetlight stood on the corner closest to the road. He noted the make and model of each car there, memorizing each license plate he could make out in the dim lighting.
Trees and other assorted shrubbery formed a dense wall of greenery around the area. Plenty of opportunity for someone to hide from view without obstructing their own. And the treeline was close enough to the open door that if someone had been watching from the porch, they would've had plenty of time to seek a hiding spot among the foliage before anyone inside the building had stepped outside.
He stepped off the small patio as more people filtered through the doors. He made his way back to his apartment, keeping his pace brisk, but careful not to appear too hurried. He forced his shoulders away from his ears and kept his hands loose by his sides even as his stomach sank. The eyes, wherever they were, still followed him.
He passed the treeline, the voices of other attendees carrying over to him across the small lot. It was late in the night in a low traffic area, so Spencer could hear the various conversations perfectly without any cars covering them up.
He didn't often use the old Volvo sitting in his designated parking space, preferring to walk or take public transportation, but the further Spencer got from the small church and the people gathered there, the more he wished he'd driven. Actually no, he wished he'd simply gone to bed and found a different meeting in the morning to attend. Or, if he had to come to this one, he wished he had at least brought his gun. And his phone. And his badge. Then he wouldn't be unarmed and potentially unidentifiable, with no way to call for help.
Some genius he was.
A scuff on the pavement behind him cut through his thoughts. He didn't dare look behind him and alert whoever was following him that he knew they were there. All he had to do was make it back to his apartment.
His footsteps sped up despite his best efforts to keep his pace steady, but he couldn't bring himself to slow back down to his previous speed. His heart was racing and his pulse was thundering in his ears, making it difficult for him to listen for any other footfalls behind him. A cold sweat broke out along his spine.
Another scuff. His breath hitched in his throat. That one was closer. He couldn't go much faster without giving away that he was aware he was being followed.
The residential area the church was located in came to an end as Spencer approached a street. On the other side, the buildings were much closer, resembling the inner city. At the speed he was walking, Spencer was approximately eleven minutes and forty-six seconds away from his apartment. Just four sevenths of a mile away. Approximately one thousand and six yards. Three thousand seventeen feet.
He jogged across the street, barely pausing his strides to check for traffic. He hoped his stalker would chalk it up to wanting to cross as fast as possible, especially considering Spencer hadn't waited for the crosswalk.
He forced himself to slow back down to a brisk walk once his feet met the sidewalk on the other side of the intersection. Footsteps fell heavily behind him as the UnSub picked up his own pace to keep up with him. Still, he forced himself not to glance back.
Don't look back. Don't provoke him. Just get back to the apartment. Find the gun and call for help.
The person following him was now close enough Spencer could hear the rustle of his clothing as he approached. A few cars passed by, but the sidewalk remained devastatingly empty due to the late hour. He passed by a hole-in-the-wall Thai restaurant tucked between a store selling vacuum cleaners and a tire shop when it happened.
Something hard struck him on the back of his head. Spencer dropped to the ground, pain flaring in his skull. He vaguely registered his knees slamming against the concrete as his head throbbed. Something was grabbing him under his arms and dragging him into the small, dark alley between the restaurant and tire shop.
A wave of dizziness protested the movement and his head swam. The arms withdrew, and Spencer slumped face first to the ground with a groan. His mind, despite the pain and vertigo, immediately filled with statistics about the millions of pathogens covering the ground he was lying prone on. He shut his eyes, fighting off the nausea that crawled up his throat, which was only compounded by the stench of the dumpsters and who knew what else rotting in the alley and staining the ground and the walls.
His attacker flipped him over. Spencer cracked his eyes open, getting his first look at the person who just attacked him, just as the man straddled his chest. He was wearing a dark hoodie pulled over his head and sunglasses to obscure his face. Black gloves and dark jeans covered the rest of his body.
“Get off me!” Spencer reached up to push him off, but the man grabbed his wrists and trapped them over his head. With one hand, he held him down while the other reached into a pocket and pulled out a vial filled with a clear liquid.
“What are you doing?” Panic had made his voice high and breathy. “Stop. Get off!” Spencer scrambled to plant his feet against the ground. He thrashed and bucked his hips, desperate to dislodge the man on top of him. He yanked his wrists against the hand pinning them down. But between the dizziness and pain from his aching head, he was too weak to throw his attacker off, regardless of the adrenaline pumping through his veins.
A blow to his temple threw his head to the side, his vision temporarily blacking out as pain overwhelmed him. When Spencer came back to awareness, a hand was forcing his jaw open, and the liquid in the vial was being poured down his throat. Spencer struggled, trying to turn his head away, to close his mouth, but his efforts were in vain. Only when the vial was empty did the man release his jaw.
Spencer turned to his side and gagged against the salty taste in his mouth. The man shifted on top of him, but he was too busy trying to vomit up whatever had been given to him to watch what the stranger was doing.
The sleeve of his right arm was being pushed to his elbow. The man shifted again. There was a pinch in the crook of his arm Spencer recognized as a needle finding its way into his skin. Panic raced through him, and he looked up to watch as the plunger was pushed down.
“No, please don't,” he mumbled, but the drugs were already spreading through his veins, and his eyes were drooping as sleep beckoned him. He struggled to remain awake, to stay alert, but within seconds his eyes shut, and he was asleep.
Spencer resurfaced with a throbbing head and aching bones.
He groaned and tried to open his eyes. His eyelids were heavy and sticky, and it took more willpower than it should have to accomplish the simple task. Slowly, he cracked one eye open, then the other. His vision was blurry, and his eyes itched in the way they only did whenever they were dried out from Spencer accidentally falling asleep in his contacts. He blinked once, twice, a third time, until enough tears had accumulated to soothe the burning itch.
His head was hanging down, his chin touching his chest. Spencer raised his head, letting out another soft groan as the muscles in his neck and shoulders twinged from holding the awkward position for so long.
How long had he been here?
His breath hitched and his heart raced as memories of leaving the NA meeting, of being followed and attacked came back to him in a rush. A sudden surge of panicked energy sent his heading snapping up. Spencer closed his eyes against the vertigo brought on by the sudden movement. He took a deep breath to ease the nausea curling uncomfortably in his stomach.
His head pounded in time with his elevated pulse. It felt like someone had hammered a spike into the base of his skull, the pain spreading out from there into his temples, behind his eyes, down his neck. A small whimper escaped him as the pain crested.
The last time his head hurt like this, he had been pistol-whipped with his own gun and dragged through a cornfield in rural Georgia.
He took a deep breath, then another – trying not to gag at the potent smell of old blood, mildew, vomit, and urine – until the pain subsided enough for him to open his eyes again.
His heart sank as scanned his surroundings. The parallels of his current situation to the Hankel case didn't end at the probable concussion and kidnapping. He was sitting in a wooden kitchen chair, his hands restrained behind his back and his feet tied to the legs of the chair.
The room he was in was small, with wooden floors and walls, and a single unlit bulb swayed from a wooden ceiling. A few feet from the light fixture hung a metal hook on a long chain, not unlike ones found in a slaughterhouse.
A thin metal bed frame was tucked into a corner; the mattress had no sheet and was covered in multi-coloured stains. Spencer forced himself not to dwell on the origins of the various splotches.
Across from the bed was a workbench with various tools piled on the surface. More tools for various jobs lined the walls. Spencer noted a riding crop among them. His stomach twisted uncomfortably when his eyes landed on a braided leather whip. He hoped the UnSub had no intention of using it.
A wooden door rattled on its hinges, but remained latched shut. Sunlight crept through the cracks, just enough to illuminate the dark reddish brown stains that covered the floor. Stains that matched some of those on the mattress.
Outside, birds chirped and wind rustled leaves. Spencer strained to hear any sounds of traffic, but couldn't make out any signs of civilization.
The UnSub had taken him somewhere outside the city limits. For the second time, Spencer wondered how long he had been unconscious. It had been around midnight when he'd been taken, but he had clearly been out for hours based on the sunlight streaming through the cracks in the door. Was he still in Virginia?
The door rattled again. A latch on the other side shifted, and the door slowly creaked open. The sudden change in lighting temporarily blinded him, and he squeezed his eyes shut until the room dimmed again as the door banged shut.
He opened his eyes as footsteps thudded on the wooden floor, each one amplifying the dread making his skin simultaneously heat up and cool to the point of shivers.
His captor stood before him. He was decked in a black motorcycle helmet, a long-sleeved cotton shirt and denim jeans. Working gloves covered his hands, and work boots covered his feet. Dark reddish brown splotches dotted everything except for the helmet in a morbid parody of a Jackson Pollock painting.
Spencer swallowed nervously. He could see his reflection in the tinted face shield, but couldn't make out what the UnSub looked like. Years of profiling taught him that the reluctance to show his face could mean Spencer had a chance of leaving this shed alive.
Tense moments of silence passed one after the other as neither said a word. Spencer tried not to fidget as the UnSub stared him down. This man was trying to intimidate him. To catch him off guard. Two could play that game.
Spencer sat up a little straighter in his chair, his eyes peering into the dark visor where he estimated the UnSub’s own eyes would be. He held contact, resisting the urge to blink, to look away. Goosebumps broke out over the back of his neck and down his arms at the unsettling silence and the prolonged eye contact with his own reflection.
The urge to break grew, as did the urge to fidget in his seat. To tap his fingers along his thigh or to bounce his leg. To lick or chew his lips. But he couldn't back down. None of his teammates would if they were in his position. Not Hotch, or Morgan, or Rossi, or Emily. Even JJ, he knew, would be able to stare him down no problem.
The only possible exception was Garcia, but she wasn't a field agent. She wasn't present during takedowns. She didn't go into the interrogation rooms like the others. But Spencer did. And if he could stare down the likes of Eric Miller or Chester Hardwick, he could do this much.
If he could stare down Raphael as he held a revolver to his head and shot blank after blank right after being brought back from the dead, he could do this. If his teammates could do this, so could he. Spencer was not about to be the weak link.
The UnSub turned away. The brief moment of victory that bubbled up in Spencer's chest fizzled out as he watched the man walk over to the workbench covered in tools and pick up a crowbar. A crowbar that appeared to be covered in dried, but relatively fresh, blood. Likely the blunt force weapon used to blitz him.
The UnSub stalked back over to him, still silent. He tapped the crowbar against his open palm once, twice, three times, before rearing back.
The crowbar landed on his ribs, knocking the wind out of his lungs. He grit his teeth against a whimper as tears welled in his eyes. He wasn't going to cry. He wasn't. He'd been beaten up before. He could handle it.
Another blow landed on the other side of his chest, and a sob escaped his lips before he could force it down. A third landed on the same spot as the first, a crack splitting the air as something gave way.
The air forced out of his body left his throat as a choked splutter. Fire raced through his rib cage as something shifted in his chest. Lightning shot up his spine and into his already aching head. His mouth opened in a voiceless scream, his lungs unable to draw an adequate breath as his ribs protested any movement.
Another hit, another rib breaking under the stress of the crowbar seeking to maximize the damage to whatever it landed on. Tears were streaming freely down his cheeks, despite his best efforts not to cry. Sobs poured from his mouth, and he didn't have the strength to stop them. Each heaving breath hurt as his broken ribs tore into the flesh and organs surrounding them. He only hoped the internal damage would be minimal.
Blow after blow rained down on his chest, and Spencer could do nothing but cry. The entire time, the UnSub never said a word, only letting out a grunt every now and then.
One blow strayed lower than the others, hitting Spencer directly in the stomach. He cried out and hunched over. He wheezed as his ribs screamed at him for the change in position. The nausea he had been fighting back for what felt like hours crawled up his throat, and Spencer had only moments to turn his head to the side before he was vomiting up whatever was in his stomach, barely missing his shoes.
He heaved as bile and coffee dribbled down his chin to the wooden floor, tears and snot joining the mix as he continued to cry.
His head throbbed with the force of his sobs, and his ribs sent fire into his lungs as he gasped for breath.
It was only when his stomach stopped trying to turn itself inside out and travel up his esophagus that Spencer noticed the UnSub had stopped bludgeoning him.
He looked up at the man towering over him. The hand holding the crowbar was hanging by his side. And the man watched him gasp for air. He scoffed, the sound distorted by the helmet, before muttering, “Pathetic.” His voice was deep and raspy, as if he'd spent the past several hours yelling until he went hoarse.
Spencer knew he would remember that voice for the rest of his life, whether he died in this shed or managed to escape alive.
His captor walked back to the workbench, carelessly tossing the crowbar on top. Spencer prayed to a God he wasn't sure was real that the man would leave now, and he could recover from the beating he'd just endured, even if only for a few hours. The prayer went unanswered as he watched the UnSub pick up a serrated hunting knife.
The man came back to Spencer and began to circle him like a hawk after its prey. The flat of the blade dragged across Spencer's shoulders, back, and neck. It was only the adrenaline pumping through his body that allowed him to suppress the shiver that raced down his spine.
The UnSub stopped in front of him. The blade rested just beneath Spencer's chin. Slowly, the blade pressed higher, forcing his chin to rise as well. The UnSub leaned in, and Spencer held his breath. “Don't move,” the man murmured as he shifted the knife to press against Spencer's throat, “unless you want me to scratch this pretty neck of yours.”
Spencer pressed his lips together, but remained otherwise motionless. His captor reached into a pocket with the hand not holding the knife and pulled out a key.
He circled the chair again until he stopped behind him, this time keeping the knife resting on his jugular. There was a clatter of metal jostling against metal, then the cuffs around his wrists went slack. A rustle of fabric, then the hand that had been holding the key wrapped around Spencer's throat. His pulse hammered in his ears as the hand squeezed, ever so slightly.
The knife fell away, and something tugged at the bindings of his feet. With his ankles and wrists now free, Spencer flexed the joints against the pins and needles sensation and rubbed his chafing wrists.
The UnSub resumed his position in front of him, the pair of handcuffs dangling from one hand. “Hold out your arms.”
Spencer blinked and licked his lips. “What?”
The UnSub pressed the knife against his neck again. “I said, ‘hold out your arms.’ Or did the drugs fry your brain and make you too stupid to understand and follow simple instructions?” The knife pressed harder against his skin as his words became harsher.
Spencer winced as the knife pricked him and something wet – Blood, his ever-so-helpful brain supplied – trailed down his neck. He stiffly raised his arms out in front of him.
The man withdrew the knife long enough to clasp the handcuffs back around his wrists. He stepped back for a moment, arms crossed in front of him.
“Why are you doing this?” Spencer asked.
“Because you need to be punished.”
“For what?”
The UnSub scoffed. “You junkies are all the same. You get high to avoid your life and the consequences of your own actions and ruin the lives of everyone else around you. And then once the drugs stop working like you want them to, or maybe you just get bored, you stop. And you find a bunch of people willing to applaud and kiss your ass for deciding to take life on like everyone else and everyone calls you brave for doing it.”
In a flash, his hand reached out and buried itself in Spencer's hair. He yelped as he was yanked out of the seat, his cuffed hands flying up to use the man's arm as leverage as he desperately struggled to get his feet under him. He stumbled as he was dragged away from the chair. He squeezed his eyes shut as a bout of vertigo threatened to send him to the floor and his broken ribs sent fire coursing through his body and stole the breath from his lungs. His head throbbed and vision swam, and then his head was released from the painful grip.
His arms were yanked above his head, and Spencer blinked his eyes open. He angled his face towards the ceiling and squinted his eyes as his brain seemed to rattle around in his skull. The cuffs around his wrists were now caught on the metal hook dangling from the roof. He was tall enough that his feet were still firmly planted on the floor, and he thanked whoever was listening that the hook wasn't connected to a pulley system. His arms would be sore, yes, but it was unlikely he would suffer any permanent nerve damage in his hands. If he got out alive.
The knife was back at his neck, and Spencer slowly lowered his head to meet the UnSub's hidden gaze. The image of the tear tracks, drying snot, and dribbles of coffee and stomach acid staining his cheeks, mouth, and chin, as well as the faint trickle of blood from the knife scratch on his neck, was reflected back at him in the soulless, dark void of the helmet's visor.
The knife slipped under the collar of his shirt. The UnSub reached out and ripped his tie off, tossing it to the ground, and brought the knife down in one swift, sure stroke. Spencer hissed as the knife nicked his stomach. His cardigan fell open as the only button holding it shut fell to the floor. His shirt followed suit, falling open in limp and useless strips now hanging by his shoulders. Two more swipes and his sleeves dropped to the ground, leaving Spencer's torso completely bare.
The UnSub trailed the knife lower. Spencer's stomach twitched under the cool metal. The knife rested at the waistband of his pants as the UnSub undid his belt and threw it to the floor, just like he'd done with his tie. Spencer shivered as he cut him out of his pants, before moving onto his shoes.
Soon, he was left shivering in nothing but his underwear. “Please, you don't have to do this,” he begged.
“Yes,” came the response. “I do.” And the knife came up to shred through Spencer's final barrier between him and the rest of the world.
The UnSub laughed. “You're a skinny thing, aren't you? How much of that's the drugs?”
Spencer's cheeks flushed, but he didn't respond. The knife traced slow circles around his chest, stomach, and hips. Every few seconds, the blade pressed down, and his skin stung with a new scratch. Pinpricks of blood dotted his torso, and he hissed with each new blemish against his skin. Leftover tears from his earlier beating stung his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. These new marks didn't hurt too badly, really. And this wasn't the first time he'd been stripped against his will and restrained in some way.
A slash across his chest had him gasping out before he could stop himself. His ribs twinged and his side burned. A tear leaked out against his will. Another slash, and he clenched his teeth against the whimper that tried to escape. Another slash and another.
His chest burned between the bleeding gashes and his broken ribs. He pressed his lips together as sobs bubbled up from his chest, muffling the sounds of his cries and trapping them in his throat. Tears were welling up and spilling over his cheeks now. Spencer closed his eyes.
The assault to his torso stopped. The flat of the knife touched his left cheek. He held his breath and froze, too scared to even move away.
“Open your eyes.”
He shook his head. A boot stomped down on his left foot, the same one Hankel had beaten just last year. A scream ripped viciously out of his throat as his bones bent under the sudden force and came dangerously close to snapping.
“Open them!”
He sobbed and opened his eyes. The knife caressed his cheek. “Good boy,” the man whispered. “I'm gonna have so much fun with you.”
Spencer suppressed a flinch as the blade stopped a few centimeters below his left eye. The man flicked his wrist, tearing a gash across his cheek. He cried out, salty tears still flowing down his face and stinging the fresh wound, but didn't dare close his eyes again.
The knife pulled away, and he tried not to focus on the red liquid covering the blade that was once silver. The UnSub tucked it into his belt and stepped closer to him, until he was close enough that Spencer's breath fogged up the blank visor that hid his captor's face.
A single, gloved hand came up to rest gently on his cheek, wiping away the blood that welled up and trickled down from the gash he'd just bestowed upon him in a mockery of genuine affection. “You're beautiful like this,” he whispered. “Bloody and crying. And we've only just started.”
Spencer whimpered as the UnSub moved his hand, now covered in blood, to stroke his hair. His stomach twisted, and he thought he might vomit again.
Finally, the man stepped back. He turned and walked over to a cabinet Spencer hadn't seen from his earlier position in the chair. The man grabbed a fan from off the shelf and brought it over to where Spencer stood before plugging the cord into an outlet nearby.
The fan burst into life on the highest setting. The UnSub centered it on Spencer's naked body covered in blood and tears. He shivered and watched as his captor turned and walked out the door.
A rustling sound outside filtered in through the same cracks in the door that let in what little sunlight they could. Spencer held his breath. What was he doing?
The door opened against the wall with a bang. The man entered the tiny shed, a water bottle in each hand. He approached Spencer, setting one of the bottles on the ground before opening the other one. “Open up.”
He complied, not willing to stir the other man's ire again. The man tipped the water into his open mouth and didn't stop pouring until the bottle was empty, even as Spencer choked and spluttered. The process repeated for the second bottle. When both were empty and Spencer was left coughing and gasping for air, the UnSub patted his cheek. “I'll be back in a couple hours to check on you. Don't go anywhere.”
With that, he left the shed. And Spencer hung his head and let himself cry.