Chapter 1: She’s Beauty, She’s Grace, She’s… Not Quite Sure if This is Business Casual?
Notes:
"have patience. all things are difficult before they become easy." - saadi
Chapter Text
Dear Miss Evelyn Brooks,
This letter is in response to your application for admittance to the F.B.I. Behavioral Analysis Unit, Quantico, Virginia.
Congratulations, I am pleased to offer you a profiling position within the FBI's B.A.U., effective beginning Monday, 01/19/2009. Going forward, you are required to attend a mandatory orientation on Friday, 01/16/2009, at 10:00 A.M. Please ensure all paperwork and necessary permits are filed before the starting date.
If you have any questions, feel free to contact the number or email listed below.
Welcome to the team,
Aaron Hotchner
B.A.U. Unit Chief, Quantico, Virginia
Evelyn had lost track of how many times she'd read the letter. Over and over again, her eyes avidly scanning the page, each time filling her with that same nauseating mix of exhilarating trepidation. The words themselves were practically burned into the far reaches of her mind, each line committed to memory with such care she half-believed she could recite it in her sleep.
Congratulations.
It had been almost two months since she'd submitted her initial application to the B.A.U. By the third week, she had completely given up hope for the position, despite knowing what extensive measures the hiring process entailed. The federal government couldn't very well enlist just any applicant, now could they? The probability of her acceptance was about as low as her chances of uncovering a crisp Ben Franklin on the city sidewalks. Rejection felt like a realistic mindset.
And yet, she had been wrong. Beautifully, impossibly wrong.
She had received the small envelope four days ago, a plain slip of ivory amongst coupons and junk mail, marked only by a glaring red "confidential" stamp.
Her sister, of course, was the first to hear of her invigorating prospects. Evelyn was sure the last thing the poor girl expected on a Saturday morning was to be subjected to shrill screams through the phone, but Rachel was her best friend. She was used to it by now.
Three years younger and effortlessly brilliant, Rachel was entering her senior year of undergrad—political science, like their father. With her sharp jawline, silky blonde hair, and gorgeous blue eyes, she was practically his carbon copy in both looks and ambition. Evelyn had always teased that Rachel was Elle Woods, excluding the pink obsession and overly extroverted personality. Beautiful, clever, destined for law school.
Evelyn, on the other hand, carried their mother's legacy: a wild mane of copper curls, freckled skin, hazel eyes framed by lashes so light they nearly disappeared, and a slight frame that left her joking about how easily she could skip a bra without anyone noticing. No one would ever guess she and Rachel were related—save for the freckles. But none of that mattered. Despite their differences, the sisters were inseparable.
By Tuesday morning—three days before her mandatory orientation—Evelyn's nerves had taken root. While she had been selected out of many qualified applicants to fulfill a profiling role, she still felt incompetent. On paper, she was more than capable of profiling a criminal. But outside of the Academy and her degrees, she had nothing to prepare her for the actuality of working in the field. What if she couldn't handle it? What if the other profilers didn't find value in her contributions—if she even had any to offer? What if, when it came down to it, she wasn't enough when it mattered?
She shook her head. It was silly, worrying over "what-ifs" when evidently someone found promise in her achievements. Why else would she have been hired?
To escape the apprehensive mood she had begun to find herself in, her solution was simple: armor in the form of a new outfit. If she couldn't control her thoughts, at least she could control her presentation. It was always easier to portray confidence if you appeared the part, and her current wardrobe consisted of old (but hardy) dress pants and blouses that were long overdue for an update. The desire to shop was a rarity and often fleeting. Hours later, Evleyn returned home with three blouses in muted tones—navy, beige, and a forest-y green. Red hair made shopping difficult—the undertones of certain clothing items never matched correctly, meaning she couldn't venture far outside basic earth tones.
However, as with any shopping excursion, the purchases called for a second opinion. Which meant phoning her youngest sister.
She answered on the third ring.
Still in high school, Kathryn—"Katie," as the family called her—was a blend of both parents. Blonde curls, hazel eyes, and constellations of freckles mapping her skin. Nine years younger than Evelyn, but her maturity matched (and occasionally surpassed) the eldest. And she was the only sister who had developed any sense of fashion (as she so bragged), hence the call.
"Please tell me those aren't boring funeral clothes," was her immediate response.
Evelyn laughed, rolling her eyes. "No, of course not. Is that what you think my closet is?"
Silence stretched between them. Leave it to the younger siblings to critique every aspect of your life. She was right, though; the previous array of clothes had been slightly unflattering.
"Alright, then," Evelyn sighed before returning to the apparel. "I bought three blouses. Navy blue, a light beige, and a forest-greenish color."
"Green," Katie confirmed instantly. "Green's your best color, you know that."
"But do I wear the green for training or the first day?"
Truthfully, Evelyn had no real cause for worry. The chance of anyone taking an extended notice of her choice of attire was slim, but it wasn't solely for their sakes. They were a form of control, those outfits, given the unknowns sure to follow.
"If you're taking an ID picture on Friday, wear it Friday. Imagine every time you pull out your badge, it's just this ugly photo of you—"
"I don't think people really pay attention to those photos," Evelyn loosened a breath.
"Oh, they do. You're already a redhead; can't give them more reason to bully you."
If it hadn't been a phone call, Evelyn would've shoved her.
It had taken nearly an hour to resolve the clothing debate. Katie had argued for the navy blouse on Friday and the green on her first official day. She'd also demanded that Evelyn at least make an attempt with her hair—she couldn't very well introduce herself with the appearance of a crazed madwoman. It wasn't entirely her fault, though. Learning to style and care for the finicky curls had never taken priority in her life.
They broached other subjects as well, some easier than others. School had been a particularly favorite subject—Katie took after her sisters in that regard, insisting upon enrolling in every AP and Honors course she could get her hands on. She had been considering the medical field as a potential career choice, based on her love for her current chemistry and anatomy classes. Evelyn asked whether it was truly the classes she loved or the fact that the boy she was crushing on happened to be in them.
Katie threatened to hang up.
Evelyn had considered turning down the position approximately seven times on the drive to the B.A.U. The protein bar she'd hastily consumed before leaving threatened to evacuate her stomach—a battle of all-consuming butterflies and expired granola. Anxious, worrisome thoughts had plagued her mind since her earlier conversations with Katie. She wished she'd worn the green blouse. Why would she ever listen to her sister? But the clock mocked her with its certainty. 9:42 A.M. No time to change, let alone reverse the car.
She managed a relatively close parking spot, sweat lightly coating the door handle of the tanned building. Precisely a quarter to ten. Heels against the vinyl tile echoed through the quiet space, unlike the obsessive clatter raging in her mind. The receptionist at the forefront of the entrance—Lisa, was her name—directed Evelyn to several forms to complete, including a request for official identification. She could only hope the picture didn't capture the nervous expression she assumed was plastered across her face.
Small mercies, she supposed.
It didn't, thank god. And if she was being honest, it was one of her better pictures—which said quite a lot about the number of photos she kept of herself.
After completing all the required forms and strapping the temporary ID card to her belt, she waited in a chair at the side of the room. Six seconds before the elevator doors' chime filled the sterile room, they opened to reveal a rather stern yet sharply dressed man. His dark, groomed hair almost matched his darker demeanor, and yet, the closer he stepped, the more his brows began to relax.
It took Evelyn another three seconds to discern why he was approaching, the outstretch of his hand revealing the command in his posture.
"Agent Aaron Hotchner," he greeted, extending his hand. His grip was steady, commanding, but not crushing. "Pleasure to meet you."
Perhaps he sensed her nerves. He was a profiler.
"Evelyn Brooks," she smiled as she shook his hand with equal fervor. "Thank you for this opportunity, sir."
The corners of his mouth twitched, as though vague amusement threatened. But the warmth was brief, quickly buried beneath steel professionalism. Evelyn suspected he wasn't one for outward displays of emotion, but that didn't necessarily mean he was emotionless.
"I wouldn't thank me just yet, Agent. Have you completed the forms at reception?"
She nodded, dropping her gaze to the ID that sat alongside her hips—mental reassurance that it was indeed there. That she hadn't imagined this entire endeavor.
"You'll receive a badge on Monday with updated credentials. That badge is your identity. Without it, you won't be granted access to this building. It's also a tedious bunch of paperwork should you lose it, so I'd refrain from doing so."
Evelyn nodded again, unsure how else to respond. His humor seemed steeped in rigid authority, subtle and quiet. Unintentional. Aside from that, it was difficult to read him, to determine whether or not he approved of her position within the unit. Administratively, he had approved of her, of course. She wouldn't be here otherwise.
The man continued.
"Now, if you'll follow me, Agent Elle Greenaway will give you a brief rundown of the building." Hotchner had already begun walking back towards the elevators.
A few moments later, she was briskly escorted into a room of buzzing activity. Dozens of people whisked in and out of rooms, to and from paper-lined desks. Light chattering, fax machines whirring, papers rustling—a perfectly organized system in an unorganized area. It was almost hypnotic, a certain rhythm underlining the day-to-day operations of the chaotic space. Evelyn could've marveled at the cadence of the room had another smiling brunette not pulled her focus away.
The woman couldn't have been much older than her, the casual way in which she held herself relaxing the novice agent. Her presence alone conveyed a pleasant warmth, contrary to the Unit Chief's cooler aura.
"Elle Greenaway, very pleased to meet you," she introduced herself, kindly extending her hand.
Evelyn couldn't help but smile—more than that, she wanted to smile. If there was anyone in this office she wanted to associate herself with, it was this woman. Quiet confidence exuded from her pores, a sharpness set in the considerate tone of her words. There would be no mistaking her calm for frailty; this was a woman who withheld storms in her eyes, opting simply for a smile.
"Brooks. Evelyn Brooks. Happy to be here," the rookie replied before dropping her hand. When the woman's gaze leveled on her, Evelyn felt her light expression slip, faltering under the nearly scrutinizing stare.
Confident, she reminded herself. You belong here.
"Don't take this the wrong way, but how old are you?"
Evelyn straightened.
"Twenty-four."
A look passed between the Unit Chief and the agent, one the youngest wasn't yet privy to. A silent exchange.
"So, what? We have another Reid on our hands?" She asked, lips raising in a partial, teasing smile.
Reid?
"Reid was twenty-two. And no, Elle. One is enough," Hotchner replied, shaking his head. This time, Evelyn caught the faint smirk that softened his features. Admiration for this person? Possibly even... affection?
She was scarcely given time to dissect the brief interaction before cool professionalism slid across his face, once again cutting off any potential emotional ties. Compartmentalizing, they had called it—the training instructors from the Academy. A necessary skill for a field agent to develop whilst navigating the harsh terrain of reality. A way to keep personal lives and work lives separate.
A method to maintain sanity.
"I'm handing you off to Agent Greenaway. I have full faith in her capabilities to give you a rundown of the facility. Let me know if you have any questions," he spoke, glancing at the watch hidden beneath his sleeve.
He was gone before she could utter a polite response.
"Don't take it personally."
Evelyn turned back to the brunette, brows pinched.
"Take what personally?"
"The detachment. Lack of engagement. As I'm sure you've already gathered, Hotch isn't openly... well, open. Don't take it personally," Elle shrugged.
She wasn't going to. In fact, he had engaged with her far more than she'd expected. She didn't even think she'd meet the Unit Chief until she began her casework, so greeting her at the elevator had been almost shocking.
Elle tilted her head to gesture Evelyn forward. "Come on, I'll show you around."
"Last but not least, the bullpen. All agents who aren't currently appointed to an office reside here, including you. You'll share an open cubicle unit with Dr. Reid, Agent Morgan, and Agent Prentiss. And If Morgan gives you a hard time, give him one back. He could use the challenge," Elle smirked, shaking her head with a sigh.
She had led them directly back to their original starting place—the open, noise-filled floor of bustling agents. A single desk remained empty, unburdened by mountains of manila folders and printer paper.
Evelyn's desk.
"New cases are briefed every morning at 10:00. However, it's not at all uncommon to receive cases at all hours of the day, so you'll need to be prepared to come in whenever you're called. Each agent takes care to pack what we call a 'ready bag,' essentially a duffel of clothes, toiletries, and other essentials. I suggest having one made as soon as possible. Keep it tucked under your desk," she instructed, pausing to take a breath before folding her arms across her chest.
With a smug look in her chestnut eyes, her hips rested against a nearby desk. It made Evelyn anxious. Jittery. No one ever smiled like that without a task in mind, and she suddenly felt quite unsure of every decision she'd made this morning.
"Alright, Rookie. Let's see how much you were paying attention."
Her eyes glowed with danger, with a challenge. "Summarize."
Evelyn blinked.
And blinked again, uncertain if she'd heard the agent correctly.
"Summarize... the tour?"
Yes, dumbass, she wanted to criticize herself after the question passed her lips. Whatever intelligence she claimed to have failed her, apparently. Regardless, Elle nodded.
Evelyn inhaled through her nose. She wouldn't make a fool of herself, not now. Reciting information was easy enough, especially when the senior agent had done a paramount job of presenting it.
"Agent Hotchner, Agent Gideon, Agent Rossi, Jareau, and Garcia all have their own offices. Hotchner is the Unit Chief, Gideon and Rossi are Senior Agents, Jareau is the Communications Liaison, and Garcia is the Technical Analyst," she began to recall, hesitation skulking into her voice. She ignored it. "Everyone else in the bullpen is an SSA, each with varying specialties. I'm sharing a cubicle with three other agents, one of which tends to flirt, am I right?"
She didn't wait for confirmation about Morgan before continuing.
"Cases are briefed every morning at 10:00, expect to come in at odd hours, and have a bag ready under my desk. Oh, and the break room with the coffee machines is the most important room in the building. How'd I do?"
By the amused look on Elle's face, she assumed fairly well, if only a bit cocky. In her defense, she was providing a summary as requested.
"I can't wait until you meet Reid," was all she told the rookie agent.
"Until who meets Reid?"
Another voice of smooth velvet, belonging to a woman with jet-black hair that cascaded past her shoulders and a set of dark eyes to match—like a raven.
Sleek. Sharp. Quietly commanding. An elegant type of darkness.
Her thin brows held no tension as she approached the two women, leading Evelyn to believe that—despite her shadowy exterior—her intentions were purely harmless. Sincere.
"Brooks, this is Emily. Emily, Brooks."
Emily Prentiss, she recalled from Elle's tour. Evelyn held out her hand, greeting her with a smile she hoped appeared genuine. It was meant to be.
"Ah, so you're the new recruit," Emily observed, taking the younger agent's hand in her own. "You look pretty young to be a profiler."
"So I've been told," Evelyn chuckled, a nervous heat creeping into her cheeks.
Her age seemed to spur quite a few mixed feelings. If the B.A.U. was intent on hiring personnel, experienced personnel, why hire her?
"Hey," Emily said softly, resting her hand on Evelyn's shoulder. Had her thoughts been that apparent? "Working here at twenty-four is beyond impressive. Fifteen years ago, I don't think I would've been able to handle starting in this position. I grew into it, so more power to you."
She wasn't sure if a nod or a verbal response was more appropriate, nodding regardless. Emily squeezed her shoulder, grinning with perfectly white teeth. The reassurance was appreciated.
Towards the back of the open floor, a door opened, and several unfamiliar faces exited the conference room. Evelyn mentally attempted to compare their appearances to Elle's concise descriptions—to put names to faces.
The confident, gorgeous blonde gripping a small stack of files reminded Evelyn all too much of Rachel. Well-dressed in a short-sleeved pinstripe blouse and ebony pants, the air around her lightened where she stepped. Jennifer Jareau, then, Evelyn presumed. That woman didn't feel like a Technical Analyst, let alone look like one.
Not that she had any idea what a Technical Analyst looked like. Were they supposed to look a certain way?
Was that biased?
Four more people swept through the doorframe after the blonde. Evelyn listed the remaining names in her head: Gideon, Rossi, Morgan, Reid, and Garcia. As none of the residual members were a woman, she scratched Garcia from the list.
Gideon, Rossi, Morgan, and Reid—the infamous Doctor. But which one was he?
Not the handsome man with the charming eyes, she gathered. Not a word had been spoken, and yet she instantly knew him to be Derek Morgan. It was written even in the way he carried himself—controlled power beneath a relaxed, casual exterior. His body language screamed trouble... and not necessarily the destructive kind. Elle was right; he looked like he could use a challenge.
Only three names remained, and Evelyn was running out of time to make her deductions before she was inevitably introduced.
Of the two older men, the one bearing carefully groomed facial hair and a suit perfectly tailored to his form stood out in particular. Given the hurried nature of Elle's illustrations of the team, that man was either Gideon or Rossi, both of which held a senior supervisory position. And of her minimal (practically non-existent) knowledge of surname origins, Rossi was Italian. He very well looked like he could be Italian.
Leaving only Gideon and Dr. Reid, both of whom quickly approached the three women.
It wasn't hard to pinpoint who was who.
He appeared almost out of place—tall and lanky with an awkward grace to his movements, like he was still not quite used to the length of his limbs. His long brown hair fell in soft, uneven waves, occasionally brushing his face as he walked toward them. Evelyn couldn't help but notice the distracted manner about him; his gaze turned slightly downward as if avoiding eye contact. But when his eyes lifted, sharp and impossibly focused, it was clear he was taking in far more than he let on.
Dr. Reid, the man of the hour.
Meaning it was currently Gideon who reached forward to shake her hand, a kind smile in his worn eyes.
"Jason Gideon," he presented himself as. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Brooks. It's not every day we get a new agent."
"Pleasure is mine, sir."
Unfortunately, he wasn't interested in a conversation at the moment.
"Apologies for the interruption, but I'd like a word with you two," he said, gesturing to Prentiss and Greenaway. "Brooks, stop by my office on your way out, will you?"
"Of course, sir," she nodded, assuming it was introductory-related.
With another light look, he departed with the two agents, leaving the reserved brunet who seemed anything but comfortable. When the silence lingered long enough for her own comfort to diminish, Evelyn offered her hand.
"Evelyn Brooks," she smiled politely. "You're Dr. Reid?"
A puzzling stare and quick blink, but no greeting. No move to shake her hand.
Had she said something wrong? Was a handshake offensive?
She swallowed. "Right... well, I'm assigned to the same cubicle as—"
"Psychology and Criminology, correct?"
The nondescript nature of his question caught her off-guard. She had almost expected him to say nothing. Was it a form of hazing? You'd think an established government agency would be above such childish antics.
"If you're asking about my degrees, then yes. How did you—"
"And you chose the B.A.U. of all potential career fields? Psychologically profiling criminals?"
Evelyn bit her tongue to hold back a scoff. Interrupting twice was already considered rude enough, but whether he realized it or not (and he appeared intelligent enough to realize it), his tone suggested... judgment. Inferiority. Within thirty seconds of interacting with him, she had received the impression she wasn't welcome. And when his stance revealed he wasn't parting without an answer, she folded her arms across her chest.
"I guess... I've had an interest in the F.B.I. since I was a girl. Spies and secrets, you know? Eventually went to school for psychology, so behavioral analysis seemed like an appropriate occupation."
None of it was true, of course, but Evelyn felt reluctant to divulge that information, especially with someone who seemed highly disinterested. In actuality, it wasn't until her sophomore year of undergrad she decided to pursue a career in criminology. Profiling was never the path she'd imagined for herself.
Her response, nevertheless, satisfied him enough to refrain from asking anything else. And without further elaboration, he brushed past her like she hadn't even existed, like the brief conversation had never taken place.
It was precisely that moment Evelyn concluded two things:
1) Elle Greenaway was, without question, the most attractive woman she had ever met.
2) She did not like Reid.
Chapter 2: The Rookie's Manual for Mayhem
Notes:
"because things are the way they are, things will not stay the way they are." - bertolt brecht
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
01/19/2009—Quantico, Virginia
There were a great many things Evelyn Brooks had come to believe in over the course of her twenty-four years: the quiet elegance of vintage cars, the necessity of strong coffee in the morning, the unyielding authority of stop signs, and the inevitability of karma.
Karma, in particular, seemed to govern the unseen architecture of life. Good choices, effort, and decency should, theoretically, be rewarded with favorable outcomes. Poor decisions and malice, on the other hand, would inevitably circle back like a predator stalking its prey. Evelyn liked to think she had earned a positive return from the universe.
But today, it seemed karma had decided to call in a debt.
Her first official day as a profiler for the Behavioral Analysis Unit had begun as a comedy of errors—a faulty alarm clock, a shower curtain rod collapsing mid-shampoo, expired creamer curdling her freshly brewed coffee, a broken eyelash curler, and to round it all out, a smear of toothpaste across the front of her newly ironed green blouse. The one meant to make a lasting impression. A flattering impression.
It was a miracle she had even managed to make it out of her apartment intact, let alone arrive at the B.A.U. shortly before seven without another catastrophe.
Lisa, the receptionist, had greeted her with a brand-new badge and a comment about how the green blouse suited her complexion better than the navy one she'd worn last week. Evelyn hadn't known how to respond to that... compliment? Passive critique? Lisa seemed the type who clung to conversation out of necessity rather than ease, so perhaps it was a compliment.
Evelyn made a mental note to stop by during a lunch break. It would be nice to have a friendly face to converse with from time to time.
The bullpen was unnervingly still. The fluorescent lights hummed faintly above her head, casting a sterile glow over the cubes of empty desks. Evelyn's gaze drifted toward the single island of bright light: the desk adjacent to hers. A figure sat hunched over a file, dark hair falling in loose strands across his forehead.
Spencer Reid.
Perhaps last Friday had been a fluke. People had bad days, did they not? Car trouble, illness, maybe even the death of a beloved pet—though he didn't seem the kind of person to own a furry companion. Or a companion in general. Surely, one odd interaction wasn't enough to draw a conclusion. Everyone deserved a second chance, even if Reid had made it abundantly clear he'd rather be left alone.
Evelyn sat across from him, the cold metal of the chair biting through the thin fabric of her pants. He didn't look up. The only sounds were the rustling of paper and the distant hum of the air vents. Her gaze wandered to his face—sharp lines, dark brows pulled together in focus, the faint shadow of sleeplessness beneath his eyes. The hair falling into his face didn't seem to bother him, but it certainly bothered her.
Her watch read 7:00 A.M. exactly. The start of the workday. Right?
"You're an hour early."
Reid's voice cut through the penetrating silence, even when he hadn't looked up.
Evelyn glanced at her watch again. She hadn't missed daylight savings or something, had she?
No, that was in March.
"I thought we started at seven."
"Seven is applied loosely unless we're on a high-profile case. Eight is more realistic. Feel free to show up late—everyone else does."
"...But we get paid to start at seven."
"Yes." He flipped a page in the file.
"Then why are you here early?" Evelyn cocked a brow, curious as to what would compel the veteran agent into the vacant office space. And, as a bonus, her questions clearly annoyed him.
His fingers stilled on the edge of the paper. He finally lifted his head, eyes dim and astute beneath the fallen strands of hair.
"In a recent study, fifty-three percent of workers reported productivity loss in noisy environments. I'm taking advantage of the quiet." A faint trace of irritation tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Or, at least, I was."
Evelyn's jaw tightened. Civil. She would remain civil. Although the urge to be anything but was quickly growing.
"I think you and I might have gotten off to a bad start," she said carefully. "Why don't we just... reset?"
"You're thinking wrong," Reid replied instantly.
Her teeth pressed together.
"Alright," she said, setting her papers down with an unintentional slap against the desk (though it undoubtedly worked in her favor). His gaze didn't even flicker. "I get it. You don't like me. That's fine, considering I'm not here to make friends. But I don't understand the need to be condescending."
Evelyn leaned forward in her chair, her eyes locking onto his. He wasn't a fan of eye contact? Then she would make him look at her. "We've spoken for less than five minutes and you've already discredited everything I've said. You don't know me, so you have no right to speak to me like I'm lesser than you."
He didn't react, not how she'd expected. Granted, she knew nothing about this agent or what kind of person he was, but... an argument. An analytical retort. Something to endow her with a deeper understanding of his character. But, of course, there was nothing. No defensiveness, no apology. He simply studied her with honey-brown eyes, the sharp angles of his face carved in shadow beneath the artificial light. His expression hadn't changed, yet something about those eyes did.
"Evelyn Brooks," he said finally, relinquishing the silence. "Twenty-four years old, born in 1985 to James and Lori Brooks. Graduated high school in Oregon two years early with an outstanding academic performance, then attended UCLA before transferring to the University of Michigan to complete a master's in Psychology and Criminology. Moved to Virginia seven months ago, where you completed training at Quantico and acquired a position at the B.A.U."
Evelyn's spine straightened. So he had Googled her. His point was...?
"That's public record," Reid continued. "Information anyone can access. How about something that isn't kept in a file? First impressions matter to you, make you anxious and overthink, don't they? Last Friday, you wore a navy blouse—newly purchased, based on the lack of wear patterns—because you wanted to be taken seriously despite your age. Today, you're wearing green. Combined with the color of your hair, it's a complementary mix that draws people's attention. You want to be seen. Not because you crave attention, but because if they see you, if we see you, it means you have a purpose here."
Her pulse pounded at the base of her throat as every response died on her tongue. He wasn't wrong, but he wasn't supposed to know that. He wasn't supposed to look inside her head and see every flaw, every imperfection.
"And yet," Reid's gaze drifted toward the faint white smear on her blouse, "you were distracted this morning."
The toothpaste. She thought she'd cleaned it all off, erased all traces of the unfortunate start to her day. Her clothes, her appearance, had been the one thing she'd been in control of, the one thing she could hold on to. And even that had been taken, picked apart and criticized by a cruelly observant man.
His mouth curved faintly at the edges. "Careless mistake."
Heat flushed beneath her skin. God, why couldn't she just say something, instead of allowing this onslaught of back-handed insults to continue?
"What I don't understand," he added, "is why you transferred universities. Profiling was always the goal—at least, that's what you claimed. But California to Michigan is a large jump. Why?"
The question hovered between them, gnawing as fiercely as the metal chair beneath her. Evelyn's jaw locked, her nails digging small crescent marks into the flesh of her palms. Her life—both past and present—remained hers. It was no concern of his, and she wanted to make damn well sure he knew it.
"Whatever reason you think you have to act like this, I don't care," she said, her tone sharp. Steady. "I've done nothing to offend you, so I suggest you find some other outlet for your unresolved hostility, understand?"
She sat back and picked up the papers on her desk—blank, useless manila folders—and resisted the urge to throw them at his smug face. If it had been a test, she undoubtedly failed. He'd gotten under her skin simply because he... could. A way to further prove he was a professionally trained profiler with years of experience, and she was not.
7:13.
Thirteen minutes into her first day, and already Reid had shredded through every thin layer of composure she'd managed to build. As much as she had fought to convince herself she was a real agent who'd provide invaluable insights to this team... who was she kidding? He'd clocked her feeble insecurities within two days; imagine what months of working with him would be like. Years.
He'd shred her to pieces as easily as he dissected words on a page.
Evelyn needed coffee. Immediately.
After her daily dose of caffeine, the world seemed marginally less hostile. Reid hadn't spoken another word, and Evelyn hadn't attempted to bridge the animosity. Fair enough. If he wanted to simmer in his quiet superiority, she wasn't about to stop him.
In fact, she much preferred the silence.
By 8:00, the bullpen had shaken off its emptiness. Agents filtered in at a steady pace, their footsteps blending with the low chatter of early morning conversation. Despite the influx of people, an undercurrent of fatigue hung in the air. Not just physical exhaustion—something deeper. Worn expressions. Heavy movements. The subtle weight behind their eyes that spoke of too much loss, to many ghosts.
Elle and Emily dropped into their chairs with the casual ease of seasoned grace. Morgan followed shortly after, his stride relaxed, eyes vigilant beneath the familiar edge of a cocky smile. Hotchner appeared behind them as well, as unreadable as days prior. Controlled. A fortress in a suit.
Jennifer—JJ—was the last to arrive. The click of her heels was muffled against the nylon carpet as she crossed the room, a small stack of files balanced effortlessly in one hand. Evelyn noted the smoothness of her movements, the subdued authority in the set of her shoulders. Jareau spoke briefly to Hotchner, and his nod was all it took for the atmosphere to shift.
A case, she thought to herself, an anxious, excited feeling rising in her stomach. Cases weren't something an agent should hope for, of course. They guaranteed life-threatening danger, a tragedy a person would rather forget. But it was still a case, and possibly her first one.
The elevator's low ding echoed through the floor. The Unit Chief's voice followed, persistent and clipped.
"Conference room."
Without hesitation, the team rose from their desks and filed toward the glass-enclosed room at the top of the stairs. Evelyn followed, sliding into a seat between Prentiss and Reid. He didn't acknowledge her.
Again, probably for the best.
A case. A real case.
Jennifer stood at the head of the table, placing the files on the wooden surface before pressing a button on the remote in her hand. The white projection screen unfurled with a low mechanical hum, an image appearing seconds later.
A young woman sat on a park bench, propped against the side as if... sleeping. In the early morning light, her skin remained eerily pale, and yet, Evelyn half-expected the woman to sit up at any moment. Walk away. The unnatural stillness of her limbs was the only indication that she was not simply resting. Her eyes would never again open, her legs never again move.
"Emma Foster," the blonde began, "a twenty-nine-year-old graphic designer, was found dead—displayed in a local park in Houston, Texas, back in 2007. She had been reported missing by her roommate when she didn't return home from work the night prior. Ligature marks along her neck indicated strangulation as the cause of death." She clicked a button, and the image shifted to one of a man sitting on concrete steps. His posture slumped, expression hollow and absent beneath half-lidded eyes. The architecture of his surroundings, she mentally noted, suggested a museum or federal building.
"This is Michael Reyes. He was thirty-one, a financial analyst at a local bank. In early 2008, a janitor at the Harris County Courthouse found the man sitting on the steps to the building when he was opening for the day," she explained. "The same ligature marks were found on his neck as the previous victim. The connection?"
Another click. A close-up of a small black device appeared on the screen—a digital timer, numbers frozen at zero. "Aside from the fact both victims were arranged in a specific position post-mortem, they were both found with a digital timer hidden inside pockets of their clothing. Both timers had been set for twenty-five minutes, and both had reached zero."
The grainy security footage that followed showed Emma Foster walking across a nearly empty, dim parking lot. Evelyn had to lean forward to make some of it out. From what she could see, Emma's movements were steady to begin, ordinary—until they weren't. Her hand darted toward the purse at her side. Then... nothing. A sudden, violent stop. A shadow moving outside the camera's field of vision. The particular angle didn't reveal the assailant, but the outcome was undeniable. Something had wrapped around Emma's throat. Tight. Suffocating her, strangling the life from her body as she desperately clawed at the ligature.
Even without sound, the sight was sickening. Evelyn's stomach tightened.
"We have a time of death and a time of post-mortem abduction," Jennifer said. "But the killer remained completely outside the camera's range the entire time. Same with Reyes."
She held the remote higher again, the video feed transitioning to gruesome footage of Michael Reyes's death.
"Why now?" Elle asked, extending forward to grab a photo from the table. "Emma was killed in 2007, Michael in 2008. If this was the start of a pattern, why didn't Houston PD report it sooner? Why are we just now hearing about this?"
"Because," the blonde continued, "the extended time in between the murders combined with the sheer amount of cases Houston receives on the daily meant these two were pushed aside. No one has bothered to connect them." Jareau's mouth pressed into a thin line. "And because of this."
The next slide showed another woman. Brunette hair curled loosely over her shoulders, a warm smile beneath bright blue eyes. Evelyn recognized the official style of the school photo even before Jennifer said the name.
"Sarah Lawson, a twenty-six-year-old schoolteacher—found two days ago outside a shopping mall, positioned post-mortem like the others. Same ligature marks. Same timer. Similar security footage. Whoever killed her knew exactly how and where to hide."
Morgan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. His posture seemed so casual, as if they weren't presently discussing three disturbing deaths. At what point in this career did the sight of a dead body not instill a gut-wrenching reaction? Evelyn felt sick to her stomach, and she had only glimpsed pictures.
"So, the unsub's started up again," Morgan said, illustrating their thoughts. "Any note found on the victims? A message sent to the local police? A guy like this clearly wants to make a statement of some kind."
"The local police initially treated the cases as unrelated due to the time gap," JJ explained. "But the timers and the identical cause of death indicate a single offender. Houston PD contacted us after the third body."
"Strangulation is a highly personal crime."
Reid. Even hearing his voice caused her to fight a frown. He hadn't raised his eyes from the notepad he'd pulled from his pocket, pen moving rapidly across the surface as he spoke.
"Statistically, the vast majority of stranglers are men. The level of organization and precision here also suggests premeditation and high intelligence."
Emily tapped her pencil against her lower lip. "He's not killing impulsively. He's most likely stalking them beforehand, learning their schedules."
"But why go through the trouble of organizing an abduction only to kill them in a public space?" Morgan asked.
"And the timers?" Elle added. "What's the message?"
"Thrill-seeking," Evelyn said before she could stop herself.
Reid's pen stopped mid-stroke, his lips already parting. That was his thing, wasn't it? Constantly divulging information. A human encyclopedia.
She beat him to it.
Evelyn's gaze slid toward him. "The posing, the countdown—it's about control. He's organized. Calculated. It's not about sexual gratification; it's about the act of killing itself, the thrill of it." She swallowed, glancing toward the rest of the table. The eyes that caught her own almost made her regret speaking up, until she realized they weren't judging. They were listening.
So, she continued.
"Serial killers can be divided into four categories: the visionary, the mission-oriented, the hedonistic, and the ones who crave a sense of power and control. We don't have enough information to perfectly place him anywhere, but I'd put him in the hedonistic category—only he's not motivated by lust, but power.
The smile that tugged at the corner of Morgan's mouth made her understand exactly why he had earned his charming reputation.
"Damn, Rookie."
"She's right," Gideon added from the far side of the table. He had remained relatively quiet up until now, his commanding gaze cutting through the room like glass. "This amount of organization suggests an unsub between twenty-five and forty-five. Likely white, educated, socially isolated. He wants to make a statement, but not to a figure of authority—it's not a message in the traditional sense."
Evelyn felt a pair of eyes continue their scrutinizing stare, studying her. Just like they had that morning.
"And the manner in which he kills—quick, clean," Reid said. "Strangulation often indicates pleasure-seeking behavior, but the post-mortem positioning of the victims implies remorse. A way to put together what he broke. However, the timers directly contradict that, implying he's not posing them out of guilt. He's leaving them for someone."
Evelyn's eyes narrowed. "Or for himself."
The Unit Chief glanced down at his watch. "We'll continue the profile on the jet. Morgan, have Garcia run the victims' backgrounds—employment, social groups, education, any shared connections. Reid, I want you on victimology. Brooks, you'll assist."
Evelyn's chest tightened.
Of course.
"Yes, sir," she replied evenly. The last thing she wanted was for the other profilers to discover her disdain for the resident genius.
The meeting dissolved into quiet activity as agents stood and collected their files. Evelyn lingered for a moment, her gaze fixed on the frozen image of Sarah Lawson's smile, the blush-colored blouse she wore littered with white polka dots. It only made the gnawing pit in her stomach grow; this woman was dead. Twenty-six. Two years older than herself.
The sound of her name pulled her attention toward the door.
"Brooks?"
Hotchner stood inside the frame. His expression was as impassive as always, but there was an edge to his tone—something she couldn't quite place.
"I want you working with Reid on victimology," he repeated, as if ensuring she'd heard it. "Think you can handle it?"
The job wasn't about making friends. She simply had to work with him long enough to develop a proper profile—that was it. She'd be professional. Focused.
But she knew that wasn't why the Unit Chief was asking. This was her first day, and here she was, thrown blindly into a pool of sharks.
Evelyn forced a smile. "Yes, sir. I can handle it."
The brunet nodded. She gathered her files, feeling the weight of Reid's stare follow her as she crossed the bullpen.
Oh, karma was definitely collecting its debt.
Notes:
Hi, my lovelies! I just want to thank everyone who has made it this far—it means a lot to know someone has stuck around lol.
Just wanted to give a fair warning, I'm starting college (wish me luck), so any updates may be... few and far between. But don't you worry, I've got plans for this, BIG plans mwahahaha...
And as always, feel free to contact me with any questions/concerns/comments/etc.<3
Chapter 3: Profiling Because Murder is Wrong
Notes:
"when one burns one's bridges, what a very nice fire it makes." - dylan thomas
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
March, 2003—Brooks' Residence, Oregon
1917 Augusta Avenue stood at the heart of a quiet, upper-middle-class neighborhood—a two-story house wrapped in the illusion of serenity, framed by manicured hedges and the tentative bloom of early spring flowers, their petals unfurling beneath a sky the color of damp stone. Inside lived a lawyer, a schoolteacher, and three daughters, their laughter and footsteps weaving through the hallways alongside the scurry of an aging Pembroke Welsh Corgi whose bark promised more than it could ever deliver.
The Brooks family was comfortable. Stable. The kind of household that could have been plucked straight from the glossy pages of a home and lifestyle magazine—pristine countertops, Sunday morning pancakes, a life curated to appear effortless. The father, a corporate lawyer in one of those big-name firms, bore the weight of their financial security. The mother, a seventh-grade English teacher, didn’t bring in much, but she found meaning in shaping young minds, and for her, that was enough.
To the outside world, they were the portrait of suburban perfection.
A portrait.
A carefully painted facade.
Not reality.
“Katie, not right now, okay? Go find your shoes, we’re going to be late.”
Evelyn nudged her youngest sister off her lap, her voice edged with more harshness than intended. Katie had been clambering over her legs, rambling about some math card game she’d learned at school. Evelyn couldn’t focus on it—not today.
Katie’s small lips protruded in the beginnings of a pout, but she obeyed, her socked feet scuffing against the hardwood as she shuffled down the hall. On any other day, Evelyn would’ve listened. She would have smiled and asked questions, humored Katie’s fourth-grade dramatics. But patience was in short supply. The weight in her chest pressed heavily against her ribs.
She sank into the worn couch, smoothing out the wrinkles left behind on her dress. Black. Formal. Appropriate for the occasion. Her hands lingered in her lap as the reality of the day settled over her shoulders.
She was supposed to give a speech. A eulogy. And she hadn’t written a single word.
Lori Brooks, beloved teacher, wife…
And mother.
Dead at forty-one years old.
The unreleased breath lingered in her throat, tightened as she fought back burning tears. She rubbed at the sting building behind her nose. No one had seen their father all morning. It had fallen to Evelyn, the eldest daughter, to make sure her sisters were dressed and ready. Rachel had braided Katie’s hair when Evelyn’s attempts failed, fingers deft as she tied a black bow behind the girl’s head.
Her mother should have been there to do that.
9:27 A.M.
The funeral service was at 10:30. They were expected at the church in thirty-three minutes. That wouldn’t happen unless their father was ready—and judging by the stillness upstairs, that wasn’t promising.
Evelyn climbed the stairs, each step hollow beneath the soles of her shoes. The wood didn’t creak. No sound to fill the silence, no reassurance that life still existed in this house.
Her father sat at the edge of the bed, motionless. His blond hair was back, the only black suit he owned draped over his lean frame. The tie was a pattern of intricate swirls—Evelyn had picked it out for Father’s Day a few years back. His lucky watch sat abandoned on the dresser, gleaming beneath the pale light filtering through the half-closed curtains.
Her mother had given him that watch.
“Dad…” Evelyn crossed the room, her hands curling around the cool weight of the watch as she picked it up. “We have to leave soon. They want us there by ten. Kate’s ready; she just has to find her shoes. Rachel’s—”
“Her perfume’s gone.”
Her father’s voice was low. Faint. His gaze remained fixed on the faded wall across the room.
“What?”
“She always kept her perfume on the dresser. Three spritzes every morning. It’s gone—”
Evelyn’s throat tightened. “Dad, we have to go.”
“If one of you girls took it…”
He still wouldn’t look at her. His hand rubbed absentmindedly at his knee, knuckles bone-white, as if the flesh hadn’t even existed.
She was told grief did strange things to people. Some became angry, their rage manifesting in biblically destructive flames, consuming everything and everyone around them until not even the ashes remained. Some found themselves lost to the tsunami of grief, waves crushing them against the earth over and over again. Others felt… nothing, a hollow emptiness at the center of their being. It was heartbreaking to lose a parent.
It was devastating to lose both.
Evelyn stood at his feet, the watch dangling loosely from her hand.
Then a sick, acrid smell curled beneath her nose, and every ounce of remorse she felt shriveled and died.
He hadn’t touched a drop in nine years—not since Katie was born.
Her stomach twisted as she sat next to him more forcefully than intended, the mattress shifting beneath the sudden weight. The watch clinked softly as she set it on the bedside table.
“Look at me,” she said. Demanded.
He didn’t move, crystal blue eyes a dull shade of grey.
“ Look at me.”
His gaze lifted slowly, bloodshot eyes snaring hers in a silent confession of weakness. Evelyn’s chest tightened, constricted by the weight of frustration and the sting of betrayal. He was crumbling—once a fortress, now a ruin, fractured and collapsing when they needed him to stand tall. He had three daughters. Three reasons to hold himself together. He didn’t have the right to shatter—not now. Not like this.
“Jesus, are you kidding me?” Her voice sharpened. “Mom’s funeral is in an hour, and you’re drunk ?”
His brow furrowed, anger flickering through the grief-clouded expression. Inebriation and emotional distress were a poor combination.
“God, will you give me a break ? Do you think this is easy for me?” He snapped. “Talking to people about how wonderful Lori was, how much she’ll be missed—do you have any idea what that feels like? My wife is gone. Your mother is gone —”
“You think this is easy for me ?” Evelyn’s voice trembled, fury lacing every broken word. “Rachel and Katie need you. They need a parent. You don’t get to drown yourself at the bottom of a bottle because you can’t handle it. Not today.”
“Don’t you talk to me like that,” he snapped, his finger stabbing toward her chest. “I am your father . You know, nothing , understand? Nothing. ”
Evelyn’s fists curled at her sides, frustration burrowing deep in her core. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard it hurt.
“Get up,” she said coldly, heart shattering with every order. “Comb your hair, you look like shit. I’m starting the car. If you’re not downstairs in five minutes, we’re leaving without you, understand ?”
She didn’t wait to see if he listened, didn’t turn around to look at his face to see if he cared.
An anguished whisper left her lips, so torn with fury, she didn’t recognize her own voice. “I don’t care if you were her husband—she was my mother.”
Downstairs, Katie was struggling to clasp the buckle of her shoe. Rachel stood nearby, arms crossed. Her face was too still—too indifferent for a fifteen-year-old.
Rachel had heard the fight. She always heard, regardless of who was arguing.
Evelyn knelt and fixed the strap of Katie’s shoe.
“Better?”
The little blonde nodded, a loose curl bouncing near her ear.
“Is Dad coming?” Rachel’s voice was hollow.
Evelyn’s jaw tensed, guilt twisting, maiming her guts. “Of course he is.”
But the teen’s cerulean eyes stayed flat, emotionless. Her gaze lingered a moment too long before she followed Katie through the garage door.
Evelyn sighed, fingers threading through the wild tangle of her curls—red, unruly, relentless. She despised them She longed to sever them, to strip every fiery strand from her scalp until her hands dripped crimson, until the color bled into her vision and swallowed her whole. Maybe then, in the embrace of inky darkness, she would finally be free from the ghost in the glass, from the reflection that never let her forget.
That, she hated most of all.
It was no longer her face that stared back, a cruel, daily reminder of what the universe had taken from her.
As the door swung shut, for the briefest of seconds, Evelyn swore she caught a faint trace of perfume in the air.
Present Day
The plane bobbed, pulling Evelyn from her premature slumber. Her eyes shot open as the sudden shift jostled her forward.
“You okay over there?”
Morgan’s voice pulled her from the haze of sleep. He slid into the tanned seat across from her, dark eyes glinting beneath the low, warm light.
“Yeah.” Evelyn rubbed at the sleep clinging to the corners of her eyes. “I’'m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Kid, if I had a penny every time someone fell asleep on this jet, I sure as hell wouldn’t be working here anymore,” he chuckled, relaxing back into the beige leather.
Evelyn’s gaze wandered to the window, clouds smudged in soft strokes of white and grey, their edges touched by the glow of the sun. The light wavered, shifting, ephemeral. In the glass, her reflection lingered like a ghost of herself—hazel eyes shadowed with thought, framed by unruly strands of vermilion.
Morgan’s smile softened, almost as if he’d noticed where she’d begun to go. “It’s a tough job. No one’s expecting you to be perfect on day one.”
Her mouth curved at the edges, forming a quiet but genuine smile.
“I think I’m okay.”
And surprisingly, it wasn’t a lie.
She wasn’t unraveling, nor was she drowning beneath the shifting tides of a new career, a new team, a new challenge. If anything, the case honed her focus to a razor’s edge, carving clarity where uncertainty once lingered. The world, once a vast and unknowable ocean, had distilled itself into something small, contained—an illusion of control within the fragile glass of a fishbowl. Outside, chaos churned. Inside, she was the observer, tracing the ripples of a mind unmoored.
Someone had killed three people. Someone had arranged their bodies like fractured verses in an unfinished poem, heedless of the laws that tethered most to morality. They wanted to be heard—and Evelyn intended to find out why.
Morgan’s smile widened.
The jet touched down with a gentle lurch, a momentary quiver that ran through the fuselage before settling. The descent had been smooth, uneventful—yes, the minute the wheels kissed the tarmac, a low hum of anticipation lingered over the team. Like static before a storm. Within minutes, they disembarked, slipping into the government-issued SUVs waiting for them on the runway, their sleek black frames glinting beneath the bruised sky. The drive was short, the cityscape of Houston stretching around them in sharp angles of glass and steel, all softened by the gauzy smudge of late afternoon light. Evelyn traced her fingers idly over the leather seat, absorbing the hushed atmosphere as they approached their destination.
The police station loomed ahead, its facade a blend of severe lines and tired brick, the kind of place where time had worn grooves into the very foundation. Inside, the air was thick with the mingling scents of stale coffee and ink, the murmured exchange of officers threading through the halls like background noise. The minute they stepped through the entrance, the team was met with three men—detectives, clearly, though their suits (all variations of drab brown) did little to distinguish them from the institutional beige walls.
“Jennnifer Jareau,” JJ introduced herself, her voice even, assured. She extended her hand to the tallest of the three, a man whose full, neatly trimmed beard bobbed slightly as he spoke. “We spoke on the phone. This is SSA Hotchner, Rossi, Gideon, Prentiss, Greenaway, Dr. Spencer Reid, and Agent Brooks,” she listed off, gesturing to each of them individually.
“Jeffery Davidson, Deputy Chief.” His handshake was firm, the roughened pads of his fingers betraying years of experience. “Thank you all for making the trip down here. I’m sure you’re eager to get started, so I’ll make this brief.”
His voice was gruff, worn down to the grain like a well-used whetstone. He gestured to the two men beside him. “This is Detective Williams and Detective Conners; they’ll get you set up in the conference room you requested. Any questions or concerns, don’t hesitate to reach out. We’ve dug up any old file we could find regarding the two original victims. Took a bit of time—Homicide is a bit backed up, as I’m sure you’re aware. But I have to warn you: the files are… slim. Not a lot of people were looking into this a year or two ago. It’s Houston, you know?”
Hotchner, ever unshaken, nodded. “We’ll make do with whatever you can provide.”
They were led through a labyrinth of hallways, the hum of the station a constant undercurrent. The conference room itself was sterile, the kind of place built for bureaucratic deliberation rather than desperate problem-solving. A whiteboard had already been set up, a few grim photographs of the victims pinned haphazardly to its surface. Evelyn had a sneaking suspicion that, within seconds, Reid would rearrange everything to fit some methodical, unknown system locked away in that encyclopedic mind of his.
Detective Conners—broader than Williams, his tie slightly askew—lifted a filing box onto the table with a dull thud. He removed the top, revealing a single, pitifully thin file.
Elle plucked it from the box and flipped it open. The same photographs from the board. Nothing more.
She held them up, unimpressed. “That’s it? We have more information on these cases.”
Davidson sighed, his hand passing over the wiry bristles of his beard. “Like I told you, not a lot of people were looking into this. The information I sent over when I requested the B.A.U.’s assistance was only documented last week, pushed to higher priority because of the recent murder. Houston’s got a lot of ground to cover; hell, Texas in general—”
“268,581 square miles, to be exact. It’s the largest state in the contiguous forty-eight and the second most populous,” Reid interjected, the words rolling off his tongue like a reflex.
A pause. A single, collective blink.
Then: “Don’t mess with Texas.”
Silence stretched thick, the weight of it pressing against Evelyn’s ribs. A room full of federal agents and local police, reduced to nothing but awkward, hesitant glances.
And then, to her horror, she laughed.
It wasn’t even funny. It wasn’t even close. But the silence was unbearable, a vacuum desperate to be filled, and somehow, Reid’s awkward, misplaced attempt at humor managed to breach it. Evelyn clamped her lips shut so quickly she swore she heard her own teeth click together. A quick glance at the Unit Chief told her he wasn’t particularly entertained. No doubt he was used to Reid’s antics.
She refocused, fixing her gaze on the photographs, letting the conversation flow forward without her. It was a welcome escape. The next hour blurred into a flurry of motion—photos, notes, a map steadily overtaken by ink and annotations. It was like an elaborate puzzle, each piece jagged, ill-fitting, but undeniably part of a greater whole.
Emma Foster.
Michael Reyes.
Sarah Lawson.
Different lives. Different careers. No obvious connections, no discernible patterns. Yet, the unsub had chosen them for a reason. He had positioned their bodies deliberately. Left timers in their pockets, as if taunting the agents, daring them to decode the message.
As the others branched off, investigating the victims’ families or combing through forensic evidence, Evelyn found herself on the periphery of it all. Reid was beside her, sifting through reports with ordered precision, his mind a relentless machine. She tried to keep up. She really did. But his system—if he even had one—was utterly impenetrable.
So, she adapted. Abandoning the chaos of the files, Evelyn sought something tangible. Something she could map. An officer procured a city map for her, a massive sheet of topographical detail that she unfolded against the unused side of the whiteboard.
A pattern began to form. Small, indistinct at first, but undeniable. Each victim abducted from one place (which she designated with an “x”), their bodies discarded in another (which she designated with a star). Always within five miles, always somewhere public. A park. A courthouse. A shopping mall. It was almost frustrating. If the Houston Police Department had more numbers, perhaps the killer could’ve been caught before the second murder. Certainly before the third. Those people didn’t have to die.
Reid’s voice cut through her thoughts. “What’re you doing?”
Evelyn exhaled, bracing for dismissal. “Geographic profiling. Most serial offenders operate within familiar territory, so I figured marking the various crime scenes would determine the approximate location of the unsub’s home. We’d at least be able to narrow down a significant chunk of Houston—six hundred and forty square miles isn’t exactly light work.”
He was quiet for a beat, scanning the marks she’d made on the map. “They were placed where people would see them. But no one did.”
“Exactly. Why?”
His brow creased, a flicker of realization sparking behind his eyes.
“You’re walking in the park late at night. Maybe you need to let off some steam or you’re training for a marathon, but whatever the reason, you’re alone. It’s dark. Halfway through your endeavor, you come across a woman lying down on a park bench. What’s the first thing you assume?”
“That’s she most likely homeless,” Evelyn answered, catching on to his thought process.
“Right, or inebriated or just sleeping or a million other things, but not dead. Especially given the physical position she’s in. So, you keep running. You don’t think much of it. Houston’s homeless population is approximately eight thousand people. None of the victims were noticed because they blended perfectly into the background of the world.”
Even with his explanation, transporting, carrying, and perfectly positioning a body wasn’t exactly a covert operation. It required the cover of night, the hope no stray pedestrian stumbled upon the scene. It required speed, dexterity, strength —
Time.
It required time.
The timers weren’t for the police, they never had been.
“Reid.” Evelyn turned to him, pulse quickening. “The timers aren’t a message to us. They’re for him. He’s not counting down our failures—he’s timing himself.”
Brown eyes silently urged her to continue.
“Think about it. This guy is practically flaunting his abilities to avoid detection, to blend into the background just as much as his victims. The timers could just be another sick part of his game. He’s not telling us we’re running out of time, he’s telling himself. Possibly allotting less time with each kill. When the clock reaches zero, he knows he’s finished.”
She was on a rant now, the stream of theories spilling from her tongue.
“He’s bragging, always has been. The framing of the security cameras, the fact he knew there were cameras to catch the kills on, never revealing his face, strategically placing his victims in high-traffic areas without getting caught—each time he gets a little bolder, a little more confident. And his timers are just reaffirming those feelings.”
The Doctor blinked, mouth parted as if he had an addendum to her claim… but then he closed it. He said nothing. He didn’t criticize her theory or disregard it altogether. He didn’t correct her.
And she could feel the little burst of pride spread in her chest.
His eyes broke away from hers, traveling back to the map. “I think—”
“I think you’re supposed to be working on victimology,” a voice from behind her interrupted.
Morgan.
Evelyn clenched her jaw, preparing for some form of professional scolding. Falling asleep and working off-task was not the best start to her day.
Instead, he smiled.
“But I’m honestly glad you weren’t. You’re gonna give Reid a run for his money, profiling like that. Garcia just called while you two were yapping away.”
“She found something?” Reid asked.
“She found the connection. All three victims visited and created recent profiles on an online website,” Morgan explained. “A dating website. And the night of their deaths? That’s when each victim scheduled their date.”
Dates.
Emma, Michael, Sarah—they had dressed for anticipation, for possibility. A night of laughter, of fleeting romance, of stories to share in the morning. They had placed their trust, their faith, in the hands of a stranger, believing in the promise of a harmless, ordinary evening. Instead, their final moments were stolen, twisted into something dark and merciless. No whispered goodnights, no parting smiles—only pain, only terror, only the cruel realization that the world was not as kind as they had hoped.
“Did Garcia find a name? A profile? Anything about our unsub?” Reid questioned, pushing back a lock of hair from his face.
At this point, he should just tie it back. Or cut it.
“The profile was anonymous. Right from the start, these people were walking in blind. She’s going through what she can right now; hopefully, we’ll get something,” Morgan sighed, eyeing the map behind Evelyn.
Without a user profile, they were grasping in the dark. No name, no pattern, no breadcrumbs to follow—just a faceless predator lurking behind a screen. They didn’t know who he was, what guided his hand, or why he chose those victims. Maybe it was random. Maybe they were just unlucky souls who crossed his path at the wrong time, their only mistake trusting the wrong stranger.
Demographically, they were scattered, bound by nothing but fate and the invisible thread of his choosing. No shared age, no common background—only the city itself tethered them together. But even in the chaos, there was a sliver of order. He hunted within a defined stretch of Houston, a vulture circling familiar ground. It wasn’t much. But it was a start.
Wait.
“Wait, guys,” Evelyn began, brows pinched in concentration. “We don’t technically need a user profile. Hypothetically, all we’d need to do is set up our own fake account, set our location to this specific part of Houston, and wait for him to message us.”
They both stared at her like she’d lost her mind. Then, slowly—almost reluctantly—they considered it. Probably realizing, hopefully realizing, that it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Reid’s neutral mask slipped, just for a second, his lips parting in a quiet, almost wounded why didn’t I think of that?
And then Morgan—grinning like she’d just handed him the winning play—clapped a firm hand on Evelyn’s shoulder.
“Rookie, you’re a goddamn genius.”
There it was again. That flicker of pride, warm and electric, curling through my chest like the first taste of something dangerously addictive.
Notes:
Could you tell I took a creative writing course? :)
(Please say yes, even if you couldn't—feed into my delusions plzzz)
Chapter 4: If Looks Could Kill (They Do)
Notes:
"i would prefer even to fail with honor than win by cheating" – sophocles
Chapter Text
01/19/2009—Houston, Texas
Rookie, you’re a goodman genius.
Derek Morgan had declared it with the kind of conviction that made Evelyn wish it had been true. But genius, she was not. Two hours later, he was already reconsidering his statement. Her profiling had been more instinct than intellect, a rush of conjecture spilling out in the heat of discussion. There was nothing empirical to back it—just the flimsy scaffolding of a theory built in desperation. A house of cards that, with a single breath of logic, had crumpled in on itself.
That breath had belonged to Spencer Reid, of course.
Evelyn had failed to account for the sheer improbability of their unsub stumbling across the fake dating profile. With approximately two million people using QuickDate—the digital hunting ground connecting each of their victims—and only 5,463 active users in Houston, the probability of the unsub selecting their trap was a meager 0.27 percent. A statistical ghost of a chance. A near impossibility.
And impossibilities were not the kind of odds they could afford to chase.
The unsub was erratic, untethered by pattern. His victims spanned every demographic—no preference for age or gender, no common economic thread weaving them together. His only allegiance was to chaos. The team could not afford to sit back and wait for him to come to them. Every wasted second was a breath stolen from his next victim.
So, just like hours before, they found themselves staring into the void of uncertainty. Back to square one.
Yet, Penelope Garcia, ever the preparer, had gone ahead with the decoy profile anyway. A failsafe. A net cast into dark waters. It was Evelyn’s first time hearing her voice, even if only over the phone, and the sound of it was unexpected—warm, effervescent, brimming with color. It felt like a contradiction that someone who spent their days neck-deep in crime and cruelty could still sound like spun sugar. She reminded Evelyn of Katie. The way, despite everything, light still lived in her tone.
“Alright, beautiful people,” Garcia announced, her voice bright with a self-assured lilt. “The QuickDate profile is live. It’s got just enough sass and charm to catch an eye, but we’re not looking for just anyone, are we?”
Morgan, arms crossed, leaned against the conference table. The room around him felt suffocating, walls shrinking inward with the weight of photographs, maps, scribbled notes—a crime scene fragmented into desperate puzzle pieces. A grotesque collage. The sum of lives lost, yet still searching for a final shape.
“What’s the angle?”
Garcia hummed, the rapid-fire click of her keyboard threading through the speaker. “I made her approachable but mysterious. Twenty-eight, new to Houston, loves books, long walks, and true crime podcasts. High compatibility with about eighty-seven users in the area, based on shared interests and activity patterns.”
“Eighty-seven is a big pool,” Emily noted, stepping back into the room, the weight of grief still clinging to her from speaking with the victims’ families. “How do we narrow it down?”
Reid spoke before Garcia could answer. He did that a lot, didn’t he? Quick to the draw, his mind already outpacing the conversation before the rest of them had even put their fingers on the trigger.
“The unsub’s messaging pattern suggests he initiates contact quickly but escalates after the third or fourth exchange. He’s seeking control, not compatibility.”
“So, we wait for someone to push the conversation in that direction,” Morgan summarized.
Evelyn shifted in her seat, a thread of unease coiling tight in her stomach. They didn’t have that kind of time.
“What if he doesn’t take the bait?” She asked. “We already know he’s unpredictable.”
Morgan’s gaze flickered to her, measured. “Got a better idea, Rookie?”
Evelyn hesitated, then nodded. “The unsub thrives on control, right? What if we message him first? Garcia found the semi-anonymous profile he’s been using, even if we don’t have his exact location. If we initiate contact, we break his pattern. We throw him off balance.”
Hotchner, standing beside the whiteboard, barely turned his head as he spoke. “That’s a risk. If he’s as sporadic as we believe, there’s no telling how he’d respond to being approached. He may ignore the message entirely.”
“Or,” Evelyn countered, “it forces his hand. We’re running out of time. If we keep waiting for him to make the first move, someone else is going to die.”
Silence settled over the room, thick as fog. Then, finally, Rossi spoke, experience heavy in his tone.
“She’s got a point. It’s a gamble, but it might be the edge we need.”
More typing crackled through the phone line. “Okay, then,” Garcia murmured. “Give me a minute to tweak the profile for an outgoing message. And just so we’re clear, messaging on dating apps is not my area of expertise. But, if it’s for the greater good…”
Reid leaned forward, strands of hair ghosting over his cheekbones. The stray wisps would have driven Evelyn insane, yet he barely seemed to notice. His mind was already elsewhere, constructing the next step before the first had even landed.
“If we do this, the message needs to be crafted carefully. It can’t come across as desperate or overly eager. The unsub will see through that—or worse, ignore it.”
“Let’s hear your pitch, Doc,” Morgan said, a teasing edge in his voice. It earned a rare flicker of amusement from the team, a sliver of relief in the tension. Even Evelyn felt the corners of her mouth threaten an upward twitch.
Spencer Reid never missed a beat. She doubted he even knew how.
“Something simple: ‘I’ve been scrolling for ages, and your profile stood out. You seem like someone who’d appreciate the darker side of human nature. What’s your take on true crime?’ It’s direct but engages him on a topic he’s likely interested in.”
“Not bad,” Prentiss admitted.
A final burst of keystrokes. Garcia exhaled. “Got it. Now, we wait.”
Minutes stretched and curled like mist, thick with the scent of old coffee and the whisper of pages turning under restless fingers. The air in the briefing room had grown heavier, weighted by the silence of too many unsolved questions. Some of the team busied themselves with patterns and probability—Rossi and Prentiss exchanging low murmurs over the unsub’s likely next move, their words soft but sharp-edged, carving theories from the unknown. Meanwhile, Morgan, Gideon, and Hotchner had left with Elle to walk the ground the victims had once walked, searching for echoes in the bloodstained earth.
Reid’s pacing was a metronome against the hush, his fingers drumming a rhythm against his leg. A nervous habit, or just a mind moving faster than the body could follow? Evelyn watched him for a moment, the way the corners of his mouth twitched in thought, the way his pen scratched across a legal pad in fits and starts, not frantic, but methodical.
“What are you working on?” Evelyn asked, breaking the quiet.
“Profiling backup theories,” he answered without looking up. “If this approach fails, we’ll need to predict his next escalation. He hasn’t shown signs of impulsivity yet, and his cooling-off period is extensive. If we don’t catch him now, we could miss our window entirely.”
She twisted the cuff of her sleeve, the fabric suddenly too tight against her wrist. The anxiety curled there, something cold and small and persistent.
“What if he doesn’t respond at all?” Evelyn’s voice was measured, but she could hear the undercurrent of urgency beneath it. “For all we know, he’s already created a new profile. He’s smarter, smarter than we’re giving him credit for. And if Garcia can’t trace him—”
“Actually,” Reid interrupted, adjusting the pen between his fingers, “if we’re considering intelligence, his erratic behavior might suggest a lack of long-term planning. High intelligence doesn’t always correlate with control in this context.”
She frowned. “But what about the way he’s avoided leaving physical evidence? That suggests calculation.”
“Avoidance isn’t necessarily calculation,” he countered. “It could simply be luck or situational opportunity. Statistically, even impulsive offenders experience periods where they evade detection.”
“So, you’re saying this is dumb luck?” Evelyn asked, incredulous. “That doesn’t explain the precision in his victim selection. There’s still a reason he chose these people.”
Reid didn’t flinch, nor did he gloat, though his voice carried the kind of certainty that made her teeth clench. “The lack of clear victimology suggests randomness, not precision. He’s likely exploiting the app’s algorithms rather than intentionally targeting specific traits.”
“You’re assuming too much,” she shot back, frustration creeping into her tone. Exhaustion made her thoughts jagged. “We can’t dismiss the possibility that he’s methodical. If we do, we’re underestimating him.”
“And if we overestimate him,” Reid replied evenly, “we risk misallocating resources and chasing patterns that don’t exist.”
“Okay, kids,” Rossi finally intervened, raising a hand from his seat across the room. “Let’s not lose sight of the bigger picture. You’re both making valid points, but let’s focus on actionable insights, yeah?”
Before either of them could retort, Reid’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He flipped it open and, without preamble, turned the call on speaker.
“Garcia, anything?”
Her voice spilled through the speaker, bright and anxious all at once. “We got a response. Sending over the chat now.”
The team converged around the single computer in the room. On the screen, a message glowed in the chat box:
Depends. Do you prefer the classics or the unsolved mysteries?
A chill prickled at the back of Evelyn’s neck. It was eerie, talking to a killer like this—like reaching out into the dark and having something reach back.
“That’s him, right?” Evelyn whispered.
“Now what?”
Rossi straightened, his expression carved from stone. “Now, we catch them.”
Reid leaned closer to the screen, scanning the response for patterns the rest of the team couldn’t see. His mind was a machine, dissecting, analyzing, constructing meaning from the barest of words.
“He’s testing for compatibility while asserting subtle control by narrowing the options,” he murmured. “Let’s see how he reacts to a slight pushback.”
He settled into the chair, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
“How about: ‘Unsolved mysteries, definitely. There’s something thrilling about the unknown. Don’t you think?’”
Personally, she thought it was a bit on the nose, but Rossi nodded.
“Send it.”
The message went through. Now, it was a matter of staying ahead of him.
Emily stepped away to call Hotchner, relaying the update. If Garcia could pinpoint the unsub’s device location, or better yet, schedule a meeting, they’d finally have an opening.
A sigh cracked through the speaker, paired with the frantic clatter of keys.
“Talk to me, Garcia,” Rossi urged.
“Bad news, my gorgeous crime-fighting family,” she sighed. “Tried tracing his IP, but it’s a dead end. He’s rerouting through QuickDate’s servers. All I’m seeing is their headquarters in Palo Alto. Totally useless.”
“He’s hiding behind the app’s infrastructure,” Reid confirmed. “A common tactic among tech-savvy offenders.”
Tech-savvy. That lined up with their theories—his ability to avoid security cameras, the lack of physical evidence.
How common?” Evelyn asked.
Reid shifted. “While not foolproof, rerouting through centralized servers obscures location and adds anonymity layers. It’s not infallible, but it complicates tracing efforts in real-time.”
“In English,” Emily deadpanned.
Garcia chimed in. “It means unless this guy slips up and logs in without QuickDate covering his tracks, I can’t pinpoint where he’s actually messaging from.”
Emily exhaled, crossing her arms. “So, we’re back to his offline patterns. Parking lot abductions, strangulations, obsessive cleanliness—any recurring links we missed. And we keep him talking. If he’s distracted, he’s vulnerable.”
Rossi nodded. “Garcia, monitor for changes. Let us know if his behavior shifts.”
“Will do, lovelies, and—oh. He’s… already replied,” she muttered, her voice uncharacteristically subdued.
The dull glow of the laptop monitor flickered, pixels shifting before the grey message materialized on the screen. Evelyn’s breath shallowed. This man—this killer —was on the other side of that screen, fingers moving across his keyboard at that exact moment. A horrid game of cat and mouse where the mouse had already bled dry, yet the game continued for sport.
Thrilled someone interesting finally messaged me. I was starting to think this website was a waste of time. What’s your take on all these ‘true crime’ fans out there?
The words slithered across the screen, a viper coiling before the strike. Calculated. Expectant. Evelyn leaned in, her elbow brushing against the edge of the desk, again catching the faint scent of aged paperbacks and the ghost of burnt coffee. Her eyes scanned the message over and over. It was an invitation to misstep. A test, but not an academic one—no, this was something crueler. There was a right answer, at least in the unsub’s mind, and an avalanche of wrong ones.
“He’s subtle, but there’s an undertone of superiority,” she mumbled, shaking her head. “Like he wants us to slip up so he can educate us on why we’re wrong.”
Ironic . She was getting acquainted with a coworker just like that. Slightly less conniving, but still.
“Let’s see how he reacts to being matched,” Emily said, arms folded. “We need to respond with something balanced—engaged but not overenthusiastic.”
Reid, ever the pragmatist, had already crafted a response.
I think true crime is fascinating, but some people take it too far. It’s one thing to study human behavior; it’s another to glorify it. What about you? What draws you to it?
No one talked like that on a dating site. But then again, the unsub wasn’t looking for love; he was looking for prey. A thrill. An opportunity.
Seconds bled into minutes, stretching long and thin. The screen remained stubbornly unchanged, and yet no one dared look away. The tension was a living thing, pressing against the walls of the room, suffocating in its patience.
A sharp ding.
Every head snapped to the screen.
Talking’s nice, but I’d rather see who I’m dealing with. Care to grab a drink tomorrow?
“Damn,” Morgan said. “That’s bold. Three messages and he wants to meet?”
“Not surprising,” Emily replied. “He’s been escalating. Testing boundaries, seeing how much control he can assert. If he’s asking for a meeting, he already has a plan for his next victim. His timeline has dramatically shortened.”
Rossi exhaled slowly, arms folded. “We can’t afford to wait. The question is—who’s meeting him?”
The words clung to the air like smoke, curling between us, waiting— daring —someone to take the first breath. Evelyn’s stomach twisted, bracing for a volunteer, though she already knew none would come. Jennifer, their Communications Liaison, was the voice, not the bait—her role was behind the scenes, guiding, strategizing, never stepping blindly into the unknown. And Emily, though striking, carried herself with a quiet, razor-edged experience that set her apart, placing her just beyond the boundaries of the profile Garcia had meticulously pieced together.
That left only Elle or Evelyn.
And Elle was occupied.
Oh. Shit.
“Wait,” she blurted, hands raising defensively. “You’re not suggesting I—”
“It makes sense,” Morgan interrupted, too calm. “The profile he’s been messaging fits your personality, or at least one you could play. He’s expecting to meet you.”
“Not me,” Evelyn countered, pulse quickening. “He’s expecting the person Garcia created—a confident, book-loving, true crime enthusiast.” Not that the unsub had the chance to dissect any of that in three messages.
“Exactly,” Rossi said, ever composed. “Which is why you’re perfect. You know the profile. You understand it. You can step into that role seamlessly.”
“Step into it seamlessly?” Her voice was climbing. “This guy is a murderer, orchestrating every part of this performance, and I am not an actress. What if something goes wrong?”
“That’s why we’ll be there,” Morgan assured her. “Monitoring everything from start to finish. You won’t be alone for a second.”
Garcia’s voice softened through the speaker, coaxing. “Look, sugarplum, I know this sounds terrifying—and honestly, it is—but you’re part of this team now. We believe in you.”
Emily’s midnight eyes met the rookie agent’s, brimming with steady confidence, mirroring the concern tightening in Evelyn’s chest.
“It’s not just about the role,” she added. “It’s about trust. If we didn’t think you could do this, we wouldn’t consider it.”
Evelyn swallowed, willing her breath to steady, her hands to still, her heart to cease its hammering against her ribs.
She had two master’s degrees by twenty-two, an almost impossible feat. She completed training at the Federal Bureau of Investigation Academy this past year. She was hired by the B.A.U. just over a week ago.
Acting was nothing. She had spent her childhood slipping in and out of make-believe, weaving stories from air, donning masks with ease. What was one more role? One more carefully crafted illusion? This was just another game of pretend.
Only now, the stakes were real.
“Okay,” Evelyn exhaled. “I’ll do it.”
Morgan grinned, though his eyes remained entirely serious. “‘Atta girl.”
No one was taking this lightly.
“Let’s not waste time,” Rossi said, slipping into command. “Garcia, find a location that’s public enough for her safety but isolated enough for the unsub to feel in control. I’ll call Hotch.”
“On it,” the Technical Analyst confirmed.
“Reid,” Rossi continued, “work with Brooks on a script. Keep it natural, but focused on drawing out key details. Anything to get a confession.”
Reid nodded, expression unreadable. He hadn’t spoken this entire time, and she didn’t know what to make of that.
“And me?” Evelyn asked, still overwhelmed. First day. Hours ago, she had been obsessing over the trivial—whether her hair looked presentable, whether she’d meet workload expectations, whether she’d blend in or stand out. Now?
Now, she was staring down something far bigger than bad first impressions.
“Get ready,” Rossi said simply. “You’ve got a date tomorrow.”
Chapter 5: In Case of Emergency, Panic
Notes:
"ah, danger, she said to herself, you are the gold that wants to spend my life." — steven schutzman
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
01/19/2009—Houston, Texas
“Get ready. You’ve got a date tomorrow.”
Even as every agent filed out of the room, even as the station’s fluorescent hum dimmed under the guise of emptied desks and officers clocking out, even as Evelyn stared at the whiteboard, mapping connections between inked lines and grainy surveillance images, Rossi’s words circled like vultures in her head. A date. A performance. A careful arrangement of words and gestures designed to keep her alive.
How charming.
Evelyn pressed her nails into the flesh of her palm, grounding herself in sensation. If she appeared nervous, he’d see it. If she hesitated, if her voice wavered, if her pupils dilated at the wrong moment, he’d read it all like a language only he and monsters like him were fluent in. One misstep, and he’d bolt, retreating into the shadows, leaving the team with nothing but the hollow cross of failure. Or worse—he’d see through the act entirely. He’d move fast. Hands around her throat, thumbs pressing into the carotid arteries, a slow compression depriving her brain of oxygen. Five minutes, and she could be dead.
But they wouldn’t let it get to five minutes. She wouldn’t be his fourth victim.
The station door swung open, pulling Evelyn from her thoughts. The team returned, their presence shifting the air, the room becoming heavier with the scent of linen and leather. Hotchner didn’t hesitate, gathering them into the conference room where she had already spent the entirety of the day, diving into the minutiae of the upcoming sting.
“The unsub has consistently chosen parking lots for his abductions—locations where victims feel a false sense of security, surrounded by empty vehicles that offer no real protection,” Hotchner explained, his voice unperturbed. “Evelyn will meet him at the lot behind the strip mall. The lighting is poor and foot traffic is minimal during the evening. Garcia found three security cameras monitoring the lot—our unsub will avoid them, just as he has before.”
Evelyn studied the map pinned to the board, its lines and annotations forming a blueprint of a place she had never been but could now see with perfect clarity. Cracked asphalt marred by oil stains. Flickering street lamps casting sickly yellow halos onto the pavement. The distant rumble of traffic, the occasional burst of laughter from the bar across the street. A place where the ordinary became a hunting ground.
“Morgan and Gideon, you’ll be parked at separate exits. Rossi and I will be stationed further out, close enough to intervene, but not close enough to spook him. Reid, you’ll remain in the surveillance van with Greenaway. Prentiss, I need you on the ground, eyes on Brooks at all times.”
The Unit Chief continued, detailing the wire she would wear beneath her clothing, the earpiece feeding her every breath of instruction. There would be no weapons—carrying one would be both impractical and an immediate tell. Even if Evelyn wanted one, she wasn’t authorized to carry yet. That, at least, was something she could change. A note for later: schedule firearms proficiency test.
Evelyn exhaled slowly, steadying her hands against the cool surface of the table. This was real. A predator’s playground, and she was the lure.
Morgan leaned back in his chair, the plastic groaning under his weight. His gaze settled on her—not unkind, but assessing, searching. She wondered if he could see the tension wrapped around her ribs, if he could hear the pulse thumping within her veins. She had to get better at this—at masking, at folding her fears into something unreadable.
“Rookie, if this guy so much as looks at you the wrong way, we’ll be there. You got that? He won’t touch you.”
The words were meant to be reassuring. And, in a way, they were. Not because they softened the reality of what she was about to do, but because she believed him. There was no room for doubt in his voice, only certainty. A certainty she hadn’t yet learned to have in herself. But Morgan had it. The team had it. And if they believed Evelyn could do this, then maybe—just maybe—she could.
Reid shifted in his seat, his expression indistinct, though something in his posture betrayed him. His lips pressed into a thin line, the bruises of sleep deprivation darkening his already dull eyes. Tension drawn tight in the set of his shoulders, the way his fingers curled against the table’s edge. When he spoke, his voice was lower than usual, collected but short, as if balancing on the edge of something brittle.
“With all due respect, this is a reckless plan.” His eyes flickered between Hotchner and Morgan before settling on her. “We’re placing Brooks directly in the unsub’s reach, and for what? A chance that he will take the bait? There’s no guarantee he’ll even show up, let alone engage.”
His words landed heavy in the room, pressing into the silence that followed. A moment stretched between them, taut as a drawn wire.
Evelyn shifted in her chair, the loose fabric of her blouse resting against her shoulders, a second skin she couldn’t quite shed. The room felt smaller now, though no one had moved. She imagined the weight of a hundred unspoken arguments curling around her throat, invisible fingers tightening in slow increments. Reid’s gaze flickered over to her like he was solving an equation where she was the variable that refused to balance. She wasn’t sure what answer he was searching for, but she had a sinking feeling he wouldn’t like it regardless.
“Reid, I appreciate your concern, but—”
“This isn’t about concern,” he cut in, voice edged with something raw and unfiltered.
Never mind.
“It’s about probabilities,” he pressed on, a near-frantic energy lacing each word. “The unsub’s erratic behavior suggests he thrives on unpredictability. If he senses even the slightest hint of a setup, he could lash out—or worse, vanish entirely. This isn’t a controlled environment; it’s a gamble.”
A doll. A mannequin. A statue.
Pliable, moldable, breakable.
That’s what she’d become if their killer had his way with her, if he strangled the life from her body, eyes bulging and lips turning the color of a winter dusk. Evelyn wondered where he would place her, how he would contort her limbs into a grotesque parody of life. Would she mean anything to him? Would he time himself, breath hitching with delight as the seconds fell away into nothing? Would he feel anything at all? Did he even remember their names—the ones who came before her? Emma. Michael. Sarah.
Would he remember hers?
She blinked, forcing herself back into the warmth of the room, the sterile scent of ink and stale coffee grounding her. She could still breathe. That was more than they had.
Morgan exhaled sharply, arms crossed. “You think we don’t know the risks, Reid? Every operation we run is a gamble. But if we sit on our asses waiting for the perfect plan, another victim’s blood could be on our hands. And I don’t think you want that.”
I know I wouldn’t.
“It’s not about waiting, it’s about finding a safer, more effective strategy,” Reid shot back, his voice rising. “She’s new to the team. Brand new. She hasn’t been trained for undercover work—”
“I’ve been trained enough,” Evelyn cut in, each syllable honed to a blade. “I’m not a child, Reid. I knew what I signed up for. Maybe I lack significant field experience, but I can use that to my advantage. I won’t behave like your typical law enforcement.”
Something flashed across his face—quick, unreadable. He looked like he wanted to argue further, and Evelyn was more than ready to meet him blow for blow, but Gideon stepped in, his presence a quiet command. Maybe that was his talent: control. He wielded it effortlessly, an unshakable force in a room full of shifting variables.
“This isn’t about any one of us, Reid,” he said evenly. “It’s about stopping a killer. Agent Brooks is qualified, and she’s agreed. The rest of us will ensure she’s as prepared and protected as possible.”
Evelyn straightened, tugging at her sleeves, the fabric smooth except for the small toothpaste stain she had yet to scrub out. A reminder that, despite everything, she was still human. Still imperfect. The thought was oddly grounding.
Reid exhaled, though it did little to mask the frustration thrumming beneath his skin. His hair, unruly from absent-minded fingers running through it, briefly fell across his face, but it was his hands that caught her attention. His knuckles, pale with pressure as he gripped the edge of the table, the tension in his frame coiled tight enough to snap.
“Fine,” he muttered at last, the word clipped, reluctant.
Hotchner barely acknowledged the dissent, his attention shifting back to Evelyn. “What’s important, Brooks, is that you stick to the script. Do not, under any circumstances, let him think you know more than you let on. One wrong word could set him off. I don’t want to take that chance.”
She nodded. “Understood, sir.”
“Good. Now, I want all of you to get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day,” he addressed the room.
A long day indeed.
One by one, agents filed out, their footsteps a whisper against the tile. Evelyn lingered, scanning the haphazard notes she had scribbled during the briefing. Words blurred together, forming a tangled mess of strategy, risk, and cold reality.
Across the table, Reid hadn’t moved. His silence was heavier than any argument he could have voiced.
“You know,” he began without looking up, “the most successful undercover operations are executed by agents with extensive experience in behavioral monitoring. Helps build rapport, establish connections.”
She didn’t bother glancing at him. “Let me guess: that’s your way of saying I’m not qualified?”
He turned a page in one of the case files, his tone infuriatingly casual. “It’s an observation. Nothing personal.”
It was entirely personal. She could feel it in the deliberate way he chose each word, the measured cadence of his voice. Diminishing her intelligence seemed to be his new favorite game, and her, his most unwilling participant.
Evelyn set her pen down, meeting his gaze head-on. “Oh, it feels personal. You’ve made your stance on this pretty clear.”
He didn’t flinch, not that she’d expected him to. “It’s not a stance—it’s logic.”
“Right,” she folded her arms. “Because you’re nothing if not logical.”
He ignored the jab. “The unsub is unpredictable, which means the margin for error is practically nonexistent. Improvisation under those circumstances isn’t bravery; it’s recklessness.”
Evelyn bit back a sigh, adjusting her sleeves again, though there was nothing left to fix. She studied him, the shadows under his eyes deepening with exhaustion, the restless flick of his fingers against the file’s edge. For all his arguments, she wondered if it was logic driving him or something else entirely.
Concern? Certainly not for her, he made that quite obvious.
Jealously? Possibly, but it didn’t seem like the probable choice.
Or did he just hate her?
The last option seemed preferable. Anything else felt far too tangled to unravel.
“Improvisation isn’t always bad. Some of the best breakthroughs come from thinking on your feet. Or is spontaneity too much of a foreign concept for you?”
His lips twitched. An involuntary, honest reaction. Now, we were getting somewhere.
“Spontaneity is just another word for poorly planned chaos.”
“And yet,” Evelyn argued, “here I am, stepping up because the well-planned chaos wasn’t working. Funny how that happens.”
Reid closed the file with a soft snap, his eyes narrowing. He tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear as though tossing away an errant thought along with it. “You’re stepping up because you don’t know what you don’t know. Confidence is useful, but misplaced confidence is foolish. Arrogant. And dangerous.”
“And underestimating people is… what? A safety net for your superiority complex? Because if we’re dissecting personalities, we might as well start with yours.”
His jaw tightened. Good. So, she did irritate him as much as he did her.
Neither one of them had moved from their spots—Reid still lounging in the horrid plastic chair, and Evelyn still standing across the table, notes in hand. Yet, somehow, she felt like their proximity was much too close. Something about his eyes, the way they loathed her, had a way of tunneling Evelyn’s surroundings. The hum of the overhead lights, the muted shuffle of agents beyond the glass-paneled walls—it all softened, faded, dissolving into the background like the low, crackling static of an old radio.
“This isn’t about me.”
“Isn’t it?” She shot back. “You’ve stated several times you don’t believe I belong here, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why. But I’m not going anywhere. So, you can either keep throwing around your IQ like a weapon, or you can trust me to do my job. The one your boss hired me for.”
A tense silence lingered between them, taut and unyielding. His dark eyes locked onto hers—too dark, she realized. Not just shadowed, but consuming, endless. Pits of molten espresso, swirling with something volatile, something ready to boil over and scorch anyone who dared to look too closely. For a moment, Evelyn thought he might honestly undermine the decisions of his superior.
But he didn’t.
He just stood, grabbing the file from the table. And when he spoke, the timbre of his voice was softer, but no less pointed.
“Trust isn’t the issue,” he said. “It’s whether you’re ready to face the consequences if you’re wrong.”
Evelyn held his gaze, steadying her own expression. She didn’t need him reading into thoughts that weren’t there, feelings she didn’t have. She could do this, despite the doubt he had begun sowing into her mind. Perhaps that had been his plan all along—get her to doubt herself so she failed. So she made a mistake. So she would leave .
A heartbeat passed. Two.
“I know what I’m risking,” Evelyn told him. “Do you?”
Just like before, Reid seemed to consider a response. And just like before, he didn’t give one, turning on his heel and walking away. She watched him go, a mix of frustration and potentially misplaced perseverance simmering in her chest.
Whatever doubts he had about her, she was determined to prove him wrong.
01/20/2009—The Next Day
The morning light seeped through the thin curtains of her hotel room, painting the beige walls with streaks of pale gold. The stillness felt unnatural, like the quiet before a storm. Evelyn stood at the bathroom mirror, staring at her reflection as though the face looking back might’ve held some hidden answer. She had only brought one other blouse with her—a light cream that highlighted the pink undertones of her skin. Her hair fell in soft curls around her shoulders, makeup carefully applied to look effortless—natural, approachable. Vulnerable.
It was all part of the act.
Evelyn turned away from the mirror and leaned heavily against the sink, gripping its cold porcelain edges. Her hands trembled, the weight of the day ahead already pressing down on her shoulders. The scent of cheap hotel soap lingered in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of stale coffee from a cup on the counter. She hadn’t taken more than a sip; she wasn’t entirely sure it was meant for human consumption.
Working for the B.A.U. felt like chasing shadows, diving headfirst into the darkest corners of the human psyche. But this case—this unsub—felt different. He wasn’t just a shadow; he was the void swallowing everything around him. A walking absence, something hollow yet impossibly heavy, as though the air itself folded inward when he parted through it. Evelyn couldn’t stop thinking about the victims, their faces etched into the photos they’d analyzed in the conference room the night before. Emma’s wide smile, frozen in time. Michael’s shy, almost awkward grin. Sarah’s piercing blue eyes that seemed to stare straight through her.
Evelyn was supposed to be their voice today, their chance for justice. And yet, all she could think about was the tightening knot of fear in her chest. It wasn’t just fear of the unsub—it was fear of failure , of not being enough, of making the wrong move and adding her name to the list of lives he’d claimed.
Evelyn closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, drawing in the sterile scent of soap and faded fabric softener that clung to the hotel’s linens. The breath stilled in her chest, a fragile thing, before she let it slip past her lips in a shuddering exhale. Her team trusted her. Hotchner, with his calculated, unshakable presence, had placed her in this role. Morgan, solid and steadfast, had promised to have her back. Emily’s quiet resolve had been a lifeline, her subtle nods and knowing glances a silent form of reassurance. Even Reid, who scraped against her nerves like sandpaper on raw skin, had spent hours arming her with the knowledge she needed. They all believed in her.
So, why didn’t she?
Evelyn opened her eyes and forced herself to meet her own gaze in the mirror. It was a face she knew all too well, yet in that moment, it felt unfamiliar. The slight furrow in her brow, the set of her jaw—signs of unease that she couldn’t quite smooth away. She studied her reflection, searching for something—certainty, maybe, or a flicker of the competence she was supposed to embody.
“You’re Evelyn Brooks,” she murmured, her voice hoarse but solid enough. “You trained for this. You know what you’re doing. And you’re not alone.”
The woman in the mirror didn’t look convinced, but she straightened her shoulders nonetheless. Evelyn mimicked her, tugging at the hem of her light jacket, brushing away an invisible speck of lint—small, needless motions to quiet the storm in her mind. Her badge felt heavier than usual as she clipped it onto her waistband, its weight an anchor against the gnawing apprehension in her gut. She cast one last glance around the barren, impersonal room. No warmth, no comfort, just a stark reminder of where she stood and why. This wasn’t about comfort. It wasn’t about her at all. It was about stepping into the dark and pulling someone out—before the shadows swallowed her, too.
The conference room was a vacuum of sound, thick with the kind of silence that pressed against the eardrums, demanding to be filled. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting their artificial glow over the battlefield of scattered case files and half-empty coffee mugs. Evelyn wasn’t sure which was worse: the room’s oppressive stillness or the man sitting across from her, his presence taut with unspoken judgment. As always.
Reid was hunched over his notepad, pen gliding in fluid, unbroken strokes, a faint murmuring shaping his lips as he constructed invisible sentences. His entire posture was a study in efficiency—every moment distilled to its purest form, competent and intentional. He hadn’t acknowledged her beyond the smallest twitch of his fingers against the paper, the rhythm a metronome of calculated thought. Her own notebooks were clenched in her grasp, their corners softened by restless hands.
“You know,” Evelyn said, her voice carefully neutral, “if this guy is as unpredictable as we think, maybe the responses should be more open-ended. Something that lets him—”
“They’re open-ended enough,” Reid interrupted. A scalpel carving through her sentence.
She pressed her lips together, tapping her pen against the table’s edge in a constant, counted beat. The sound filled the quiet like a drip of water in a cavern, an insistent reminder that she wasn’t going to let him bulldoze over her.
“But if we make it too rigid, he might pick up on it. The whole point is to make him feel like he’s in control, right? Shouldn’t we—”
“Brooks,” Reid cut in again, that time glancing up from his notes. His tone was clipped, gaze dark with impatience. “I know what I’m doing.”
Heat coiled in her chest, her fingers tightening around the pen. His arrogance was grating, an unchecked force that threatened to smother any room he occupied.
“I didn’t say otherwise,” Evelyn replied coolly, though the restraint cost her. “I’m trying to help.”
“You don’t need to.” He said it simply, like it was a fact written into the fabric of the universe, an indisputable truth.
Evelyn inhaled through her nose, calming the bitterness threatening to creep into her expression. Reid’s ego wasn’t worth derailing the operation—but that didn’t mean she was going to sit there in silence while he dictated her role. She leaned forward, the space between them suddenly narrowing. His fingers paused against the paper. Good. He wasn’t the only one who knew how to command presence.
“Fine,” she muttered, letting her voice take on the same careful calm he wielded. “What if he asks why I’m on the app? That’s a pretty common question, right? What’s the answer?”
Reid hesitated for the briefest moment, his pen hovering above the page. “You’re on the app because you just moved to Houston and wanted to meet new people. It’s consistent with the profile Garcia created.”
“Okay,” Evelyn said, nodding. “But what if he presses for details? What if he asks why I moved here or what I do for work?”
A slow exhale of breath, as if he were weighing the importance of her question against his own irritation. “You moved here for a job opportunity—something generic and unremarkable. If he asks about your work, keep it vague. Administrative assignment, maybe. Something that doesn’t invite further questions.”
“And if he presses?” She asked again.
Reid’s eyes flickered to hers, searching for something—hesitation, doubt, uncertainty? She gave him nothing.
“If he presses, redirect,” he said at last. “Pivot the conversation back to him. Narcissists thrive on talking about themselves; let him lead the narrative. Your goal isn’t to engage deeply but to keep him feeling dominant.”
A small, satisfied smile curled at the edge of Evelyn’s lips. “See?” She said lightly. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Reid sighed, shaking his head as he picked up the pen again, muttering something under his breath. She’d only caught the tail end of it.
Smug.
She didn’t bother denying it.
And he didn’t seem to particularly care, ignoring her while his pen continued to scribble across the page. “If he asks about hobbies, stick to the profile: books, true crime podcasts, walking. If he presses for details, steer the conversation back to him. Ask him about his interests, his experiences.”
Reid’s voice was undisturbed, analytical. Detached. Evelyn jotted down notes, her own pen digging into the paper as though cutting out something tangible from his clipped instructions. Maybe he wasn’t entirely useless—when he deigned to be helpful.
“What about body language? Is there anything I should be doing—or avoiding—when we meet?”
Reid hesitated, betraying a fleeting moment of thoughtfulness. He was considering his words carefully, or maybe considering whether she was even worth answering. She didn’t want to need his help, but the truth was undeniable—his mind was an archive of cases and patterns, a library of knowledge she couldn’t afford to ignore.
“Be engaged but not overly eager,” he finally said. “Maintain eye contact, but not to the point of discomfort. Too much reads as aggressive. Too little, suspicious. Your tone should be neutral—curious, but not overly invested. Don’t sound judgmental, no matter what he says. Let him believe he’s leading.”
This wasn’t just a conversation they were scripting—it was a performance. A stage where every glance, every shift in tone, every pause would be dissected by a man who had learned to turn manipulation into an art form. The realization settled like iron on her shoulders, but her expression remained perfectly still.
They worked for another half-hour, Reid dictating while Evelyn reshaped his words, smoothing the rigid edges into something natural—something she could actually say. Despite his initial resistance, she noticed a slight shift in him, subtle but undeniable. He wasn’t warm—he would never be warm—but there was something else now. A reluctant concession to her persistence. A sliver of respect, perhaps grudgingly given. When they finally finished, he handed her the completed script, his expression impassive, unreadable.
“Anything else?” Evelyn asked, keeping her voice steady.
He hesitated before shaking his head.
“Just remember: this isn’t about convincing him you’re his ideal target. It’s about keeping him engaged long enough for us to intervene. Don’t overthink it.”
“Easier said than done,” she muttered under her breath. If he heard her, he ignored it. Gathering his papers, Reid stood, closing himself off once again.
Before he turned to leave, she called after him. She didn’t even know why.
“Reid.”
He stopped, glancing over his shoulder. “What?”
“...Thanks.”
The word was simple, perhaps intended as a white flag to cease their endless bickering. After all, they had gotten along for almost an hour.
A change, almost imperceptible, crossed his face. Then it was gone, replaced with a nod—short, professional—before he strode out of the room.
Evelyn looked down at the script in her hands, the words imprinting themselves into her mind. This wasn’t a case file. This wasn’t some carefully crafted puzzle for her to solve. This was stepping into the victims’ final moments, breathing their last hopes, their last fears—becoming them, if only for long enough to lure a monster into the light. This was a tether—her tether—suspended between life and death, between control and catastrophe. A script she had to perfect, not for clarity, not for persuasion, but for survival.
The parking lot stretched before her like a wound carved into the night, raw and exposed beneath the flickering streetlights. Cracks ran jagged through the asphalt, their dark veins reaching outward, mirroring the unease twisting in her chest. Shadows draped themselves over the parked cars, their silhouettes hunched and waiting, offering a thousand places to hide—not that she needed one. This wasn’t her hunt. It was his.
A quiet buzz crackled in her earpiece, the only reminder that she wasn’t truly alone.
“You’re in position, Brooks?” Hotchner’s voice came through. An unspoken command— stay vigilant, stay alive.
“Yes, sir.” Evelyn’s fingers ghosted over the hidden mic clipped beneath the collar of her blouse, a lifeline disguised beneath the fabric. “No sign of him yet.”
Morgan’s voice cut in, firm, reassuring. “Remember, Rookie, we’ve got eyes on you. Anything feels off, you call it.”
“Understood.”
But reassurance was a fragile thing. The knowledge that a dozen eyes were on her didn’t change the fact that, in that moment, she was alone. She could already see him in her mind—a man whose face remained unknown, a shadow waiting to solidify.
Evelyn let her heels click softly against the pavement as she moved near the strip mall’s rear entrance, feigning distraction, her phone casting a cold, bluish glow against her fingers. She’d practiced this. Casual but approachable. Vulnerable, but not too weak. A performance tailored for a single audience.
Reid’s voice threaded into Evelyn’s ear, cool and clinical, but something about it felt… strained…?
“When he approaches, keep the conversation centered on him as discussed. Allow him to lead, but don’t overcompensate. He’s likely to test you for inconsistencies.”
“I’ve got it,” Evelyn murmured. Her grip on the phone tightened, as though it could anchor her to that moment. A flicker of doubt stirred deep within, but she buried it; this wasn’t about her. It was about Emma Foster, Michael Reyes, Sarah Lawson. Names that had become the marrow in her bones. Names that she would force herself to remember until she joined them in the soil.
The air pressed against her, thick with an unspoken warning. A shiver crept beneath her skin as she let her gaze drift. She had been trained to spot anomalies, but that night, the entire world felt like one.
Garcia’s voice, gentle but urgent, whispered through the line. She’d been monitoring the security cameras in the parking lot. “Two o’clock. Dark jacket, ball cap. That’s your guy. I’ll lose him in about three seconds.”
Evelyn didn’t react immediately. Instead, she let her eyes shift naturally, unfocused, scanning as though simply taking in her surroundings. And then she saw him. A figure slipping from the edges of darkness, his stride purposeful and confident, shoulders hunched against the evening chill.
“He’s here,” Evelyn whispered. Her heartbeat roared in her ears, but she stayed planted. If she ran now, the game was over.
The unsub stopped a few feet away, close enough that she caught the faint scent of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes. God, he was tall , at least six feet with a stocky build. It made sense, given the strength required to subdue his victims, but to witness him in person?
“Evelyn, I’ve lost him,” Garcia’s voice wavered. “He's out of camera range.”
She didn’t blink.
His eyes—a deep brown, nearly black in the dim light—swept over her, lingering. Then down to her phone, the muted glow reflecting in his irises. Beneath his cap, she caught glimpses of sandy-blond hair.
“You Amelia?”
Her alias. The name Garcia had created on the dating profile.
Evelyn nodded, her smile small, tentative. “That’s me. And you must be…?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he steadied her for a beat too long, his lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. A silent evaluation.
“Kyle,” he said at last. “Kyle Harris. You’ve got a nice profile picture. Even prettier in person. Natural redhead?”
Her stomach curled. She didn’t know what image Garcia had used—she didn’t even know a picture had been attached to the profile.
“Yeah, I am. Thanks,” she said lightly, slipping the phone into her pocket. If that was his real name, Garcia would already be tearing through digital records, peeling back layers of his existence like old wallpaper. Evelyn’s hand itched to fidget, to betray her.
Keep him engaged.
“You’re braver than me,” she half-laughed, casting her eyes downward as if embarrassed. “I almost didn’t show up. Meeting strangers like this… I don’t do it often, you know? You can never be too careful. I suppose that comes with reading too many books.”
Kyle’s gaze sharpened, examining her. For a fraction of a second, Evelyn caught the darkness swirling behind his eyes, like a snake testing the air with its tongue.
“Life’s all about risk, isn’t it? Sometimes you’ve got to step out of your comfort zone.”
“I guess so,” she said, mirroring his tone, though every cell in her body was wound tight, coiled, ready to snap. The night swallowed the world around them, reducing everything to outlines and whispers.
The team was watching. They were waiting. And she’d been briefed on his tendencies, his cues. She’d read about men like him, studied them. She would know when to call it.
“I was really excited to meet you,” she gushed. “It’s hard to find someone with a real appreciation for true crime.”
Take the bait.
His lips twitched, and he stepped closer. A subtle shift in space, but it set her instincts on edge.
“You don’t seem too scared.”
He wasn’t behaving the way they’d hoped.
“Should I be?” Evelyn asked, letting a trace of humor slip into her voice, but it came out too thin. He could hear it, sense it, the way a shark sensed the barest drop of blood in an ocean. It was just him and her, a stage set in the back alley of nowhere.
The earpiece crackled faintly. “Stay calm, Brooks.”
Reid. Observing from the van. Could he see it? The tension tightening in her shoulders, the falter in her breath? If he could, then Kyle could too—
Evelyn begged her muscles to relax, just slightly.
And then Kyle reached out, catching a stray curl that had slipped forward, rubbing it between his fingers as if testing the texture. Evelyn’s stomach lurched.
“A little fear’s healthy,” he muttered, voice lazy, as if savoring the moment. “But too much? That’s when people make mistakes.”
She had no response to that. It wasn’t scripted, it wasn’t something they had predicted he might say.
“And you don’t strike me as the type who makes many mistakes,” she countered, letting the words settle between them.
Something shifted in his expression—not amusement, not annoyance. A calculation. Like a cat deciding whether the mouse was still worth playing with. He reached into his pocket, and she felt the entire world around her still. Every single cell in her body screamed at her to move. Even from afar, she could feel her team bracing for action.
A cigarette.
He pulled out a cigarette from the carton, tapping it absently against his palm before flicking a lighter. The flame carved deep shadows into his features, exposing the sharp angles of his face, the way his eyes gleamed just before they disappeared behind a curtain of smoke.
“What do you do, Amelia?”
“Administrative assignment,” she said, the lie slipping into place like a well-rehearsed line.
“No kidding?” He exhaled a plume of smoke, tilting his head. “You look like you’d be into something more exciting.”
“Not all of us can live on the edge,” Evelyn said lightly. “I guess I like playing it safe.”
Again, his lips curved without a hint of warmth. “Playing it safe… that’s no way to live.”
The earpiece hissed again. Morgan, instead. “He’s testing you. Hold steady, Brooks.”
Evelyn met his gaze, letting the silence stretch just long enough to feel deliberate, almost… seductive.
“Maybe I just need someone to show me how to take a risk,” she said, voice softer now. “You that someone?”
Kyle’s smile widened, but there was nothing human in it. It was hunger—raw, insatiable—a predator’s grin accompanied by something ancient and cold. She recognized it in her bones, in the primal whisper that told her to run . Run.
“Maybe you do. And maybe I am.”
From the corner of her vision, something shifted in the dark. Emily . Her team was preparing to close in.
“You ready to get out of here?” Kyle asked, his voice low, expectant. The buzzing streetlight above cast a fractured glow over his teeth as he smiled, reflecting something monstrous in his eyes.
Her pulse thundered, a relentless drumbeat against her ribs. One wrong move, one misplaced word, and everything would spiral beyond control. He wasn’t bluffing. He would take them somewhere else, but Evelyn wasn’t meant to be alive when they arrived. The only surprise was the length of their conversation; it had gone on far more than the others. The victims before her had barely drawn a breath before he struck.
Every instinct begged her to move. Every rational piece of her brain demanded she call it now.
She ignored them both.
“Lead the way.”
The air felt thicker, charged with a heaviness that made it harder to breathe, like she was drowning on dry land. Despite her words, he didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just loomed over Evelyn with a narrowed expression. She could feel him probing, testing the seams of her story, trying to uncover something that didn’t quite fit.
“Tell me again,” he said, voice colder now. Rougher. “What did you say you do? Secretary?”
Shit.
“I’m an administrative assistant,” Evelyn repeated, but she heard it that time—the tremor she hadn’t meant to let slip.
And so did he.
Kyle’s smirk deepened, carrying the weight of certainty. Of confirmation. His eyes trailed downward, over her stomach, her chest, her neck .
Talk about him, Evelyn reminded herself. Ask about him. Narcissists love to talk about themselves—
“You sure about that, Amelia?” He stepped closer, too close. She could feel the heat radiating from him, the dense scent of tobacco and something stronger—metallic, acrid—adhering to his skin. “Funny. You don’t look like an assistant.”
Had she given something away? He couldn’t possibly know.
Evelyn opened her mouth to speak, to recite any one of the prompts she’d been given. Something. But he cut her off with a darkened stare.
He knew. Somehow, he knew she was lying.
The voices in her earpiece overlapped, chaotic. Asking if she needed help. Asking if they needed to move.
His voice dropped even lower, a near whisper.
“You’re not who you say you are, are you?” He murmured. “You’re too calm, too docile. I can smell a liar; I’ve seen enough of true fear to know when it’s fake, and you’re holding back on me.”
Morgan, Hotchner, Garcia, Reid, even Emily. Too many voices, too many commands, all colliding in her ear.
Evelyn’s breath caught in her throat, a jagged inhale that scraped against her lungs, and she took a step back. A single misstep, but a damning one. The instinct to retreat had betrayed her, fracturing the illusion she’d maintained. And he saw it—felt it, recognizing the precise moment Evelyn realized she was cornered.
Fuck , she had to call it.
Violets. The code word.
“ Viol —”
The shift was instant. Kyle struck, his hand closing around her wrist with a force that sent a sharp jolt of pain up her arm. Evelyn barely had time to gasp before he wrenched her forward, his grip unyielding, his other hand tangling into her hair and yanking, hard. Her scalp burned, the tug lancing through her like a live wire. She twisted, kicking out, hoping to connect her free arm with any part of his body, but he absorbed the impact with unsettling ease, as if he thrived on the struggle.
Then came the cold.
The ligature bit into her throat before she could react, the cord rough and unforgiving, tightening with merciless precision. Evelyn’s breath cut off instantly, reduced to a choked, stifled wheeze. The initial burn of it was sharp— searing— before it dulled into something deeper, heavier, like being pulled beneath an ocean’s surface. Oh god, she was drowning.
Her pulse roared in her ears, a frantic, discordant drumbeat as her body revolted against the assault, lungs clawing for air that would not come. Evelyn scraped at the cord, at his hands, at anything , but he held firm. A sculptor molding his art with unwavering hands.
The world tunneled, sound warping into something distant and unreal. His breath was hot against her ear, still carrying the putrid stench of cigarettes. She could hear his voice, low and rasping, words curling around her senses like the smoke he exhaled, but they too blurred beneath the deafening static of her own desperation. The more she struggled, the tighter it seemed to get, sinking into her skin like it wanted to merge with her, to claim her.
Then, like a thunderclap breaking through a storm, the heavy sound of footsteps pounded against the asphalt. A blur of motion—a flash of Morgan’s broad frame, Hotchner’s voice slicing through the chaos.
“F.B.I., drop her! Now! ”
Done. It was done.
The cord—the pressure —vanished. Air flooded Evelyn’s lungs in a violent rush, tearing through her throat like shards of glass. She tumbled forward, knees and palms striking the biting asphalt as she coughed, each breath an explosion of pain that rattled her ribs. Her fingers clawed at her neck, instinctively trying to soothe the phantom grip that lingered there.
A struggle erupted behind her—a brutal cacophony of grunts, the crunch of fists meeting flesh, the scuffle of bodies crashing to the ground. She could hear Morgan’s voice, a growled command laced with fury, and then the metallic snap of handcuffs locking into place.
It was over.
A hand found her shoulder—steady, grounding. Evelyn hated the flinch that jolted through her.
Emily.
“Evelyn. Evelyn, look at me.” Her voice cut through the static, so gentle compared to the brutality from mere moments ago. “Are you with me?”
She couldn’t answer, not yet. The words were tangled in the raw, aching mess of her throat. Instead, she nodded weakly, her breaths still coming in uneven, ragged bursts.
“Keep breathing,” she said firmly, her eyes scanning Evelyn’s face with the thoroughness of someone who’d borne witness to devastation far too many times. “You’re okay. You’re safe now.”
Safe.
The word hung in the air like a distant promise. She could still feel his grip, the way he’d pressed into her, the cold, malevolent confidence in his voice. But as the sounds of the fight faded and the click of handcuffs snapped through the lot, Evelyn turned, just enough to see him pinned to the pavement, his face contorted in fury beneath Morgan’s unrelenting weight. The cord lay discarded beside him, harmless now, nothing more than a loop of nylon.
Another sharp cough tore from her chest, and Emily’s grip on her tightened.
“You did good, Evelyn. You did really good. You’re alive, okay? That’s all that matters.”
Evelyn nodded again, tears pricking her eyes not from weakness, but from the sheer force of what had happened. The victims—their names—she’d carried them with her into that moment. And with every gasp of air she took, she knew she’d carry them forever.
The ambulance lights pulsed in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, casting shifting pools of red and blue across the slick pavement. Every flash sent elongated shadows slithering across the ground, distorting figures into something almost inhuman. Evelyn sat on the edge of the open vehicle, its metal step cold beneath her, seeping through the fabric of her pants like an unwelcome whisper of reality. She clutched a blanket around her shoulders, the thin cotton meant to offer comfort that only felt insubstantial, its warmth incapable of reaching the chill that had settled deep within her.
An EMT hovered nearby, her gloved fingers clinical yet gentle as they skimmed along the bruises blooming across Evelyn’s throat.
“Any dizziness or trouble breathing?”
“No, just… sore,” Evelyn replied. Even that small admission felt like surrender. Her voice emerged strained, brittle—like the rasp of autumn leaves crushed underfoot.
The woman nodded, shining a beam of penlight across her pupils. She understood this was a routine vitals check, but she was honestly fine. Hotchner didn’t need to call an ambulance.
“Your vitals look good,” the woman told her. “The bruising might get worse over the next day or two, but I don’t see any signs of serious damage. Still, I’d recommend getting it checked again tomorrow.”
Evelyn nodded, barely registering the instructions. Her attention was elsewhere, tethered to a figure across the lot.
Kyle.
His wrists were bound, the silver bite of handcuffs gleaming under the lights. He no longer wore that smug smirk. Instead, his mouth curled into a snarl, dark eyes burning with a defiance that sent something rancid curling in Evelyn’s gut. She had wanted to feel victorious, to relish in the fact that they had won, that he hadn’t gotten away with his crimes. But exhaustion settled in her limbs like lead. It hadn’t felt like a win.
The EMT must’ve sensed her detachment. She stepped back, offering the rookie agent the space she wasn’t sure she needed but took anyway. And that’s when she noticed him.
Reid stood a few feet away, arms locked across his chest in a way that looked more like self-restraint than comfort. His gaze wavered, shifting from Evelyn to the ground and back again, as though he were assembling a puzzle whose pieces refused to fit.
He looked… awkward.
It was oddly as comforting as it was concerning.
He hesitated before speaking. “Can I…?”
Reid’s hand lifted in a vague gesture toward her, and the EMT glanced in Evelyn’s direction, awaiting permission to excuse herself. She gave a small nod, watching as Reid took a careful step closer, hands shoved into his pants pockets.
His disposition honestly freaked her out more than the unsub had.
“You should drink something warm,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “Preferably tea, like chamomile, green tea, or licorice root. The antioxidants will help reduce inflammation.”
A dry, humorless chuckle scratched its way from her throat. “Thanks, Doctor Reid. I’ll keep that in mind.”
His gaze flickered to her neck, where the faint red marks were beginning to darken into mottled bruises. Evelyn instinctively clutched the blanket tighter, as if the thin fabric could erase the spots on her skin. His jaw clenched, and for a brief moment, she thought he might say something cutting. But he only exhaled, lowering himself to sit on the step beside her, careful to leave plenty of distance between them.
“You shouldn’t have engaged with him like that,” Reid said finally.
His words weren’t barbed, but there was an edge to them—something clipped, almost controlled. Evelyn recognized it. It was the tone of someone trying too hard to sound detached. “We had a script—”
“Yeah, well, he didn’t exactly give me a choice,” she bit back. Was he blaming her ? Was he insinuating this ordeal had been her fault?
“You always have a choice,” he countered, sharper this time. “This could’ve ended a lot worse.”
Evelyn opened her mouth to argue, but something in his expression stilled her. His frustration was real, but underneath it, buried beneath layers of logic and aggravation, there was… concern.
And she didn’t think he even realized it.
You shouldn’t have engaged with him like that.
He wasn’t blaming her. He wasn’t suggesting it was her fault.
He was implying she should never have been put in that position—she should have said no, if only to spare herself from future pain. He had insisted she wasn’t capable, wasn’t qualified enough to pull off the sting… what if it had been an attempt to protect her?
No. No, she wasn’t going to think about it. It wasn’t worth analyzing, not anymore.
“I handled it,” Evelyn said, a whisper pulling from her throat. “And we got him.”
Reid shook his head, fingers worrying at the cuff of his shirt—a nervous tic she had seen before, though not from him. “That’s not the point.” He hesitated, then added, “You don’t—you don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Not to me, not to Hotch, not to the team.”
She frowned, the words burrowing deeper than expected. Was that what he thought? That it had been an indirect way to confirm her place on the team?
“Is that what you think I was doing? Proving myself?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. For a moment, their eyes met. And she hated it. She hated the way he looked at her, like he was trying to figure her out, like she was just another enigma to solve. Because next week, when the bruises had faded and the adrenaline had burned out, he would go back to arguing with her, to challenging her because he knew she would push back. That was their rhythm. That was what she understood.
She didn’t understand concern, his concern. It was unsettling. Inconvenient.
The hum of voices drifted across the parking lot, a low whirr beneath the distant wail of sirens.
“I wasn’t trying to prove anything,” Evelyn said after a pause. “I just… I had to do something. Those victims, they deserved better.”
Reid studied her, his brown eyes made amber in the ambulance’s glare.
“They did. But so do you.”
She blinked. The words struck something raw, something she wasn’t prepared to acknowledge. It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t an olive branch. It was just… a truth. A rare, unguarded glimpse into the person he was capable of being. And glimpses like those were difficult to ignore.
As was the flip in her stomach when he said it.
Before she could respond, the Unit Chief’s voice cut through the night air, calling for Reid from across the lot. He stood, his usual composure snapping back into place with mechanical precision. Even his hands stilled.
He hesitated, just for a breath, before saying, “You did well today. But don’t let it go to your head.”
A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, despite the ache in her muscles. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Reid lingered for a second longer, then turned on his heel, disappearing into the fray. Evelyn leaned against the ambulance, chill biting at her skin. For all his aloofness, for all the ways they clashed, Spencer Reid had a way of saying exactly what she needed to hear—whether she wanted to or not.
Notes:
Hi, my lovelies!
So, yes, I realize this is a longer chapter compared to what I've written, but I am prepping for classes to begin again and don't envision having much time to write in the near future...
And instead of splitting this chapter into two smaller ones, I decided to combine it :)But don't you worry, this has just barely started. We've still got a longgg way to go!
Let me know your thoughts!
<3
Chapter 6: Shaken, Not Stirred
Notes:
"all that is gold does not glitter." – j.r.r. tolkien
Chapter Text
01/21/2009
The rhythmic drone of the jet’s engines hummed in the background, a ceaseless vibration threading through the cabin. White noise for the exhausted, a lullaby for the battle-worn. The air was cool, soothing the slow-burning fire still simmering beneath Evelyn’s skin, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was.
Thank god she had packed a turtleneck. It was the only other top she had left aside from yesterday’s blouse, and there was no way she’d let the others see what lingered beneath. The remnants of last night’s violence were etched across her skin like a grotesque signature—jagged bruises and fingerprints that hadn’t yet faded. She didn’t need their pity. She needed armor. And for the time being, cotton and concealment would have to do.
The clinic visit had been a box to check, a hollow ritual Evelyn would’ve gladly skipped—if not for protocol’s persistent tug. The doctor told her what she already knew: bruises, but no lasting damage. Nothing broken. Nothing visible, at least, nothing that couldn’t be covered or swallowed down. Just the aftermath of a grip too tight, a struggle too close, a breath nearly lost.
Now, beneath the soft blue fabric of her turtleneck, the bruises had begun their quiet bloom—plum-colored petals spreading like ink dropped into water. She felt them constantly, even when her mind wandered elsewhere. Phantom fingerprints ghosted across her skin, hot with memory, cold with dread. Her own nails had torn across his flesh, had carved out some desperate proof of her resistance. She’d drawn blood. Fought like an animal. But it hadn’t been enough—not fast enough, not strong enough. His DNA still clung to her, buried under her fingernails like filth she couldn’t wash away. The thought of it made her stomach knot.
She wanted to dig it out. Scrape it clean. Set her hands on fire.
Kyle Harris was in custody. She knew that.
She had watched Morgan drive him into the pavement, watched the officers wrench his arms behind his back. She had seen the vacant cruelty in his eyes, the way his lips curled into a knowing smirk even as they shoved him into the squad car.
Knowing it should have been enough. But knowing didn’t stop the memories from clawing their way forward, sharp and relentless.
Evelyn curled her fingers against her knee.
Just a memory. Nothing more.
Hotchner had checked in before takeoff, his eyes flicking to the high collar of her sweater—just for a moment, but long enough. Too long. There was something in his gaze: quiet calculation, silent assessment. She felt the heat rise to her cheeks, a sharp, stinging flush that made her skin feel too tight, as if her own body was calling her out. I’m fine , she had said, voice steady, practiced. I’m just glad Harris can’t hurt anyone else. It wasn’t a lie. Not entirely. He hadn’t pressed, just gave a small nod—that unreadable look still in his eyes—and moved on.
None of them had. Not Rossi, not Emily, not Morgan, not JJ. They had asked once, then let it be. They had given her peace. She was grateful for that, for the mercy of unspoken understanding.
She caught her reflection in the cabin window—pale, drawn, freckles standing out starkly against the washed-out complexion of someone who had barely slept. For a moment, she didn’t fully recognize herself. Just five days ago, she had walked into the Behavioral Analysis Unit for the first time—anxious, eager, utterly unaware of what was waiting for her. Five days. Could a person really change in five days? Could such a short time shift the architecture of the mind and reshape the way someone viewed the world? Because she felt different. She just didn’t know how.
Quantico was an hour away.
An hour until Evelyn stepped back into the bullpen, back into the relentless march of cases, of death, of pursuit. An hour until she had to swallow down everything that festered beneath her skin and carry on, the way they all did. The way survivors learned to. They didn’t break in public. They unraveled in the solitude of dimly lit apartments, in the still silence of their homes where death couldn’t follow.
The jet hit a pocket of turbulence, just enough to jostle her seat, and Evelyn used it as an excuse to pull herself back into the present. Around her, the team had settled into their routines—Morgan, arms crossed, head tilted back as he tried to steal a few moments of sleep; Reid, flipping through a book at a pace that seemed physically impossible ; Hotch, scanning a file with unwavering focus. The world kept moving.
Elle caught her gaze from across the aisle.
She didn’t say a word—just watched, quiet and perceptive, reading Evelyn the way one might study an open case file, every detail noted, nothing overlooked. Then, without fanfare or fragile sympathy, she stood and settled into the empty chair beside her. Evelyn’s body tensed on instinct, bracing for the kind of well-meaning words she wasn’t ready to receive. But Greenaway didn’t offer platitudes. No soft pity. No grand declarations of comfort.
Just presence. Steady, unshaken.
The kind of silence that knew when to step in—and more importantly, when not to.
Evelyn wanted her to leave it alone.
She was grateful she didn’t.
For a while, they sat in silence, letting the hum of the jet fill the space between them. Evelyn caught the scent of her perfume—something subtle, clean. Bergamot and vetiver. The veteran agent tilted her head slightly in her direction, voice low enough that it wouldn’t carry beyond their seats.
“You holding up?”
Simple. Not heavy with expectation. Just an offering.
Evelyn rolled her shoulders, testing the tightness there, then gave a small, tired smile. “Yeah, just ready to get back.”
She swallowed, grimacing at the ache it left behind. Elle hummed, like she knew there was more to say but wasn’t going to force it from her. Instead, she stretched her legs out, propping them against the seat in front of her.
“First time tends to stick with you.”
Evelyn snorted, a quiet, startled laugh escaping before she could stop it. ‘First time’ implied there would be more, which was both grim and absurd. It also sounded vaguely suggestive, whether that was her intention or not. She had a feeling it was.
“Is that supposed to be comforting?”
Elle smirked. “Maybe. But hey, you’re here, and that’s more than I can say for the guy who did it. He may be alive, but that man will never live again.”
The words settled something in me—something silent, deep, and unspoken, yet wholly understood. Harris was gone. Finished. He’d never lay hands on another victim, never twist another life into something unrecognizable. It should have felt like closure. Like triumph. But it didn’t. It felt clinical, procedural. Just another line crossed out, another box checked in the endless ledger of the job. And yet… Elle’s words carried weight. Not in their volume, but in their truth. A quiet reminder: this was what survival looked like. Not neat or pretty. Just real.
The bond between those who had trekked through fire and continued walking unscathed.
Evelyn gave a shallow nod, the motion barely more than a dip of her chin, and exhaled. “Guess that’s one way to look at it.”
Elle didn’t respond right away. She stayed there beside the rookie agent, her body at ease but her eyes alert, weighing something unseen. She studied her like a familiar book with dog-eared pages and notes in the margins, trying to decide if now was the time to underline or simply turn the page. Then, with a gentleness that felt oddly earned, she reached out and tapped her arm. Barely a brush, like a ripple on the surface of still water.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” she said. “Just… don’t let it sit too long, okay?”
Not advice. Not quite comfort. More like a hand placed on the back of a chair, steadying, waiting—not pulling her forward, but reminding her that movement was possible.
Evelyn nodded again, slower this time. There was something in Elle’s phrasing that she appreciated—the absence of a solution. She wasn’t there to fix her, or probe, or chip away at the scaffolding she’d built just to get through the day.
“Yeah,” Evelyn murmured. “I got it.”
That seemed to satisfy her. She leaned back, settling into her seat with the effortless grace of someone who’d learned how to make herself at home anywhere—a crime scene, a coffee shop, a government jet cruising thirty thousand feet above the restless world. Her body folded into the upholstery like it belonged there, like it knew how to carry fatigue, wear it as a second skin. Like she knew exactly how to sit in the wreckage and still laugh.
“Good. Now,” she said, eyes already sliding shut, “wake me up if Reid starts monologuing about something weird. I’m still recovering from his thirty-minute thesis on chess strategy origins from the last flight. My brain almost imploded somewhere between medieval warfare and board symmetry.”
The corner of Evelyn’s mouth twitched. A half-smile, worn and a little brittle, but real enough to feel human. “No promises.”
Greenaway smirked faintly, but didn’t open her eyes again. Evelyn let her own head tip back against the headrest, eyes slipping closed once more. The seat creaked slightly beneath her, leather worn smooth by years of use, by agents just like her trying to pretend like the end of a case meant the end of something else, too. The ache in her chest hadn’t vanished—it pulsed there still, low and persistent like an echo in a deep cavern. The weight hadn’t disappeared, but merely shifted. No longer crushing. Simply… there. Manageable.
And for now, that would be enough.
Early 2002—Brooks' Residence, Oregon
The scent of coffee lingered in the air like a memory half-remembered—warm, bitter, comforting in a way that made her chest ache. It mingled with the sharp citrus bite of lemon dish soap and the ghost of something sweet clinging to the corners of the room. Chocolate chip cookies, uneven and soft, cooled on the counter in lopsided rows. The chocolate still glistened, sunken into pale, imperfect dough—just like always. Her mother had never waited for permission, never needed an occasion. She baked like it was instinct, like muscle memory. As if creaming butter and measuring flour could somehow rewind the clock. As if sweetness could do what words could not.
Patch the cracks. Fill the silence.
Evelyn wavered in the doorway, arms folded loosely across her chest, her shoulder resting against the familiar curve of the frame. The wood was smooth from years of leaning, from echoes of teenage sulking and quiet goodbyes. Her eyes followed the cadence of her mother’s movements—graceful but practical, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hips swaying with the rhythm of a song half-sung under her breath. Fleetwood Mac hummed from a weathered radio tucked between cookbooks and spice jars, the kind of song that lived forever in kitchens like this.
“You’re staring,” Lori said, voice low but edged with amusement. She hadn’t looked up from where she was stacking chipped ceramic plates beside the sink.
Evelyn smiled, pushing off the doorframe, stepping into the amber glow of the overhead light. “Can’t help it. Everything feels weird now. I never realized how… interesting big city people are. Or is that just college?”
Her mother snorted—one short exhale, sharp and amused. She tossed a striped towel over one shoulder that made even the small gesture feel rehearsed. Lived-in.
“Says the girl who probably uses the library as a second bedroom.”
“I do not sleep in the library,” Evelyn replied with the kind of protest that already admitted guilt. “I just… spend a lot of time there. It’s quiet. And my roommate’s not there…”
“Uh-huh.” Her mother poured herself a cup of coffee, steam curling up around her fingers like it wanted to stay. “And I suppose you hang onto every word of those life-changing lectures about Roman mosaics?”
Evelyn ran a hand through her curls, suddenly aware of the knots she hadn’t untangled since the drive home. Her voice dropped, a touch defensive, though she hadn’t meant it to.
“You say that like I made the worst decision of my life.”
“I don’t think it was a mistake, Ev,” she said, her expression softening. “I just…” She stirred her coffee absentmindedly, the ceramic spoon clicking gently against the rim. The color reminded Evelyn of Katie’s eyes—deep, dark, impossibly reflective. Her youngest sister always looked like she was about to ask a question too big for her age. Evelyn ached to see them again, to hear their school stories, their petty complaints, their laughter that filled up the hallway like it was meant to live there.
She missed her sisters.
“I know you love art,” Lori continued. “You always have. You love the why of it. The heart of it. And I love that about you. I just want to make sure that five years from now, it still feels like… yours. That you don’t wake up one day and realize the thing that brought you joy has quietly become something that cages you. You’re young, Evelyn. You’ve got time to figure it out.”
Evelyn exhaled through her nose, rubbing a thumb beneath one eye, smearing mascara she hadn’t bothered to check in the mirror. The exhaustion of the semester still clung to her, invisible but heavy.
“Mom, I just got to L.A. Can we not start planning my crash out until at least sophomore year?”
Her mother chuckled—an easy, unforced sound. She stepped forward and squeezed Evelyn’s arm, just once. No pressure, just a reassurance.
“I’m your mother,” Lori said with that maddening, comforting shrug of hers. “Worrying is the one thing I’ll always be good at.”
Evelyn shook her head, but the smile came anyway, soft at the edges. It curled under her ribs, bittersweet. Yet beneath the warmth of being home, there was still a quiet bite of displacement. A feeling she couldn’t quite name. Like she’d left some essential part of herself miles away, suspended between the sun-bleached sidewalks of Los Angeles and the hardwood floors of this house. She was here, yes—but she wasn’t whole. Not yet.
Because some days, no matter how hard she tried, nothing in that sprawling, glittering city made sense. And because some days, distance wasn’t measured in miles, but in meaning.
She missed Oregon’s pine-lined roads, those winding arteries of earth and shadow where forest pressed in like a secret. She missed how the sky seemed to breathe there—stretching wide and unmarred, staining in gradients of lavender and ochre, gold pooling at the edges like spilled light. The sunsets weren’t just beautiful; they were operatic, each one unfolding with a deliberate softness, colors blurring into one another as if reluctant to say goodbye.
The Pacific, too—how she missed its wild cadence, its salt-kissed breath. In her mind, it still rose to meet the dying sun like it had a pact with fire, catching each ember in its swell. Waves rippled with light—liquid copper, restless, burning, before being swallowed whole by dusk. And the valleys… oh , the valleys. Where morning and night traded hands in silence, and the mist rose like a sigh from the earth’s lips, curling above dewy grass in ribbons. A place between two heartbeats, where even time paused to remember itself.
She missed the kitchen most of all—not for its layout, but for the echo of her younger self slipping fingers across cool marble, stealing still-warm cookies while her mother’s voice tangled with the melody of some half-forgotten song from the radio. That kitchen had been less a room and more a refuge, scented with vanilla and something older.
Lori, without comment, turned back to the counter and reached for the plate. She broke the cookie in an attempted half and pressed the larger piece into Evelyn’s hand with the kind of tenderness that didn’t need explanation.
“Eat something,” she said gently. “You get mean when you’re hungry.”
The remark carried no bite, only history. A litany of late-night arguments and pre-dinner moods softened into a mother’s private joke. Evelyn let out a breath—half a laugh, half surrender—and took a bite.
It was warm still, the edges soft with butter, the center melting on her tongue. Vanilla bloomed first, chased by caramelized brown sugar and the faintest trace of salt, grounding it all. The chocolate had begun to set but hadn’t lost its heat, and the whole thing tasted like childhood—less a flavor, more a feeling. A visceral note in some long-lost chord of safety.
Maybe this was enough, these quiet offerings, this unsaid, unwavering affection. Maybe she would learn to love Los Angeles, with its impossible noise and blistering ambition. Maybe she would grow into its chaos the way her mother had grown into chalk-stained lesson plans and Monday mornings, the way people did when they stayed long enough for a place to shape them.
Or maybe not.
Maybe one morning she’d wake up to the sterile hush of her dorm and find herself aching for pine trees and cool mist and someone who knew when to hand her half a cookie without asking why she looked so tired.
But for now, there was this: her mother’s presence, hushed and sure, and the taste of something sweet passed into her hand.
Present Day—Quantico, Virginia
The familiar glow of the Quantico skyline bled into the windshield’s edges, a blurred, electric halo against the hushed indigo of morning. The Bureau rose into view like a monument half-remembered in a dream—rigid lines of concrete and glass, all angles and silence, stoic beneath the pale unraveling of dawn. It wasn’t beautiful, but it held the sort of comfort you don’t question—like a weathered coat pulled over your shoulders after the storm had passed.
The SUV rolled to a stop, tires rumbling against asphalt. Inside, the breath of the team had grown quiet, frayed at the edges. When the doors opened, they spilled out into the parking lot with a collective groan, stretching sleep-stiff limbs, shifting bags higher on sore shoulders.
Behind her, Reid stifled a yawn with the back of his hand, blinking as though unsure whether the world he returned to was solid. Morgan clapped him on the back with a grin.
“Come on, Einstein. Don’t tell me you’re finally hitting your limit.”
Reid’s reply was a string of words about hippocampal degradation and the mathematical patterns of microsleeps, but Evelyn didn’t catch the full thread—his voice just floating beyond her focus as Emily nudged her elbow and nodded toward the glass doors ahead.
“Welcome to the part no one talks about,” she murmured. “The return. No music, no glory. Just paperwork and bad caffeine trips until we do it all over again.”
She gave a low laugh under her breath and followed the veteran agent inside.
The lobby greeted them with its usual blend of too-cold air and institutional lighting. The smell of toner and overworked machinery clung to the walls, undercut by that ever-present trace of stale coffee. Lisa, the receptionist, looked up from her desk and offered a faint smile—one of recognition, not pleasantry. Something in her gaze suggested she didn’t need to know the case to know what they’d endured.
The elevator ride was short, quiet save for the distant whir of gears and the soft rustle of jackets. When the doors slid open, the bullpen waited—dim, nearly hushed, as if the building itself hadn’t fully woken. The carpet muted their steps. One by one, her teammates peeled away. Hotch disappeared into his office without so much as a backward glance. Morgan dropped into his chair with a grunt, pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to rub out the case still echoing in his mind.
Evelyn lingered. The air felt oddly still, like she’d returned to the ghost of a life she hadn’t quite re-entered. She drifted toward her desk, trailing her fingers across its edge. A quiet act of grounding. Proof that they’d made it back.
Then—
“Hark !”
The declaration shattered the stillness like glass dropped in a cathedral. Evelyn turned, startled, just in time to see a riot of color barreling toward her. There was no time to react, no moment to brace before she was wrapped in an exuberant, perfumed embrace that smelled of vanilla cupcakes and raspberry sugar and something uniquely indefinable.
“I have been waiting for this moment,” the woman declared, already halfway into a performance. “And lo, it is upon us! The great and powerful Penelope Garcia finally meets the elusive Evelyn Brooks!”
When she pulled back, Evelyn caught her breath and tried to process the figure before her. She was luminous in her own way—scarlet glasses perched on her nose like a cardinal on a branch, blonde curls cascading with theatrical flair, her dress a tapestry of color that seemed to burst with personality. Compared to the muted greyscale of the office, she was a beam of sun through a storm cloud.
“You—” Evelyn began, still recovering, “—really know how to make an entrance.”
She placed a bejeweled hand over her heart, and Evelyn noticed each nail was painted a different hue, like tiny stained-glass windows. “Oh, my sweet summer child, I am the entrance. You are the mystery I’ve been aching to decode. And now here you are, freckles and all. Oh, you’re adorable. ”
Evelyn laughed—an actual, unexpected laugh—and tried to gather her thoughts. “I, uh… it’s good to meet you too?”
Morgan, still sprawled across his chair, glanced over with an amused smile. “Careful, Garcia. You’re gonna scare her off before she even unpacks her bag.”
“Nonsense,” Garcia scoffed, waving him off. “She’s one of us now. She must be properly inducted into my kingdom of all things technological and fabulous.”
Reid, peering over a file, finally chimed in. “That’s not actually a Bureau-sanctioned process—”
“Shh!” Garcia cut him off, lifting one finger like a spell-caster. “Let me have my moment, Boy Wonder.”
There was a strange warmth in all of it. After the days they’d just endured—the bodies and ache and cold dread—her presence was disarming in the gentlest of ways. She was a reminder that not everything in that job was sharp edges and brooding silence.
Her expression shifted then, losing its dramatic tilt. She looked at Evelyn—really looked—and her voice dropped into something softer. “You doing okay, sugar?”
The question was light, but not shallow. An invitation wrapped in silk. Like Elle on the jet earlier—a gentle push, not a pry. Evelyn felt a flicker of self-consciousness rise, heat crawling up her neck as she resisted the urge to adjust her collar. It wasn’t the question itself. It was the company—Reid not far off, Emily within earshot, and Morgan very much listening without seeming to.
She nodded, rolling her shoulders. “Yeah. Just… adjusting.”
Garcia tilted her head like she could see through the half-truth, but then she brightened again, linking her arm through Evelyn’s with the enthusiasm of a technicolor world.
“Good! Now come, young grasshopper. To the kingdom we go.”
Before she could protest, Evelyn was guided down the hallway, Garcia’s bangles dinging with each step like wind chimes in a summer breeze.
Morgan called after us, voice laced with humor. “Good luck, Rookie. If you don’t come back, we’ll know where to look.”
Garcia gasped, scandalized. A bow in her hair bounced as she turned sharply. “Excuse you, Derek Morgan. Everyone who enters my domain leaves enlightened.”
And it must’ve been true. Anyone paying close attention could see it in the curve of his grin, the glint in her eye. There was something sacred in their banter. Not flirtation, not quite—something steadier. Trust, forged over time. A language just for them.
As Evelyn was swept away, she couldn’t help but think: in the strange, unpredictable life she’d stepped into, it was nice to know there were still people like Penelope Garcia—bright, unapologetically themselves, and unmistakably alive.
The bullpen’s soft clatter, the glassy-eyed espresso machine, the muted click of worn shoes on tile and carpet—all faded into the periphery as they veered toward another hallway Evelyn hadn’t noticed before. There was something theatrical about the moment, like stepping behind the curtain of an ongoing play.
Then, she opened the door.
The shift in the atmosphere was immediate, like plunging into the deep end of a dream. Color tumbled outward in joyful disorder. Warmth radiated from every surface, and the air smelled faintly of vanilla and something floral, perhaps the fabric softener of the rainbow throw draped over her chair. Her space wasn’t just a workspace; it was an orbit. An altar. A resistance against grey.
The glow of her monitors splashed across the room in hues of blue and green, painting the walls with murmuring digital ghosts. Screens flickered with scrolling code and paused games, each one a window into a mind that never slowed. A pink neon sign— Hacker Goddess —burned above her desk like a relic from a divine arcade. Fairy lights laced the ceiling in looping constellations. The shelves were an overflowing menagerie of Funko Pops, vinyl figurines, plush companions, and bits of ephemera that might have looked like clutter elsewhere, but here? They belonged.
It was chaos, yes, but a sacred kind. The kind that invited you to breathe. It was, to Evelyn’s surprise, her new favorite place in the building.
Garcia spun toward her like a magician at the end of her trick, arms outstretched in triumph.
“Welcome, young one, to my humble abode! Here, I wield the powers of justice and vengeance, all while looking fabulous.”
Evelyn stepped deeper into the room, eyes wide, reverent.
“This is… definitely not what I expected.”
Garcia gasped, hands to chest, glittering rings catching the light.
“Not what you expected? Oh, dear sweet Evelyn, how you wound me!”
A smile pulled at the rookie’s mouth as she crossed her arms. “I mean, I figured you wouldn’t exactly be… boring. But this? This is something else. This is next level.”
Her grin stretched wide, pleased. The room mirrored her joy.
“Why, thank you! Technically, there’s a Bureau policy against excessive personalization, but lucky for me, Hotch won’t set foot in here longer than sixty seconds. Something about migraines and overstimulation… I stopped asking him for details. Besides, I know he secretly loves it.”
A chuckle slipped from her. Evelyn’s eyes drifted toward the monitors. Some flashed open case files. Others appeared to be running background searches. And one displayed a paused game of Tetris, midway through a particularly precarious stack.
Multitasking made manifest.
She flopped into her chair, which responded with a squeak, and spun once before propping her chin on her hand.
“Alright, Red—can I call you Red? No? Too soon? Fine, I’ll shelve it… for now. But tell me, who is Evelyn Brooks? What’s your origin story? Do you like cats or dogs? Do you have houseplants? Do you talk to your houseplants? If not, you should. Emotional support doesn’t always have to be furry.”
Her words came in a brilliant rush, equal parts interrogation and welcome. Evelyn blinked, trying to keep pace.
“Uh… well, I moved to Virginia about seven months ago. Before that, Michigan. And before that , I lived in L.A. for my undergrad.”
“Ooooh, a California girl! Although… no. You give off more of a coastal forest vibe. Pacific Northwest?”
A small, surprised chuckle left her lips. “Good guess. Oregon, originally.”
Garcia snapped her fingers. “I knew it! You’ve got rain-lover energy. Moody woods. Overalls. I bet you think grey skies are romantic.”
Evelyn shrugged. “They’re comforting.”
She pointed at her as if she’d solved a riddle. “You and Reid need to start a club.”
The mention of Reid almost made Evelyn snort.
“Something tells me he’d reject my membership.”
The bubbly woman waved her off. “Oh, don’t mind him. He’s an acquired taste, like a citrus cupcake. A very weird, socially stunted cupcake. And we love him for it.”
Evelyn shook her head. “I’ll take your word for it.”
For a heartbeat, the analyst just looked at her. The moment shimmered, her performative energy dimming slightly, replaced by something… real.
“So… what made you want this job?”
Evelyn hesitated. The real answer bloomed against the back of her throat.
“It wasn’t part of the plan.”
“No?”
She shook her head, fingers skimming the edge of Garcia’s desk as if its clutter might anchor her. “I started in Art History. I was at UCLA, planning on working in museums, maybe curating exhibits.” She didn’t want to say the rest. She didn’t want to explain why her motivation had changed. So, she lied. Just like she’d lied to Reid.
“Somewhere along the way, that changed. I was… drawn into psychology, criminology. I guess I just realized I wanted to do something, you know? Something that mattered.”
Bits of truth injected into her fib, making the lie all the more convincing. The collar of her sweater felt too tight again.
Garcia nodded. “Yeah,” she said gently. “I get that.”
“So, now I’m here. First case down, and… I don’t know.”
Garcia didn’t speak, letting Evelyn sit with her thoughts. Because there was so much more she wanted to say… she just didn’t know how to.
“I thought I’d feel different,” Evelyn relented, vocal cords strained from the excessive talking. “More accomplished, more… I don’t know. Something. But the case is just over, and I don’t really feel anything.”
Again, she nodded. Slowly laced her fingers together. “That’s normal. This job doesn’t always hit you with meaning right away. Sometimes, it never does. Sometimes it just… stays quiet. Until one case doesn’t, the one that sticks. The one that makes every sleepless night and every horrifying moment worth it.”
Evelyn watched her face shift in memory, but Garcia didn’t elaborate. And she didn’t ask. They both respected the boundary.
Then, she clapped her hands together, brightening once more. “Right, enough soul-searching. You need a distraction.”
Evelyn lifted a brow. “Oh?”
The analyst turned to one of her monitors, typing with manicured precision, and spun the screen toward her. A spreadsheet blinked to life. Rows upon rows of colorful data.
“Behold: the B.A.U. betting pool!”
“The what?”
She positively glowed. “Oh, Evelyn, did you think the nation’s top profilers wouldn’t apply their statistical genius to office antics? We have categories: most likely to be late, number of times Morgan and Reid prank each other in a fiscal quarter, first to spill coffee each week... Spoiler: it was Gideon who ruined a case file with espresso. Gideon. ”
Evelyn stared at the chart, half horrified, half incredibly entertained.
“This is… wildly unprofessional.”
“And yet,” Garcia tapped the screen with her glitter pen, “wildly accurate.”
She shook her head, laughing in spite of herself. This job was not what she had thought it would be. It was so much stranger. So much more human.
“This is—”
“I know,” Garcia winked. “And that, my dear, is exactly why you’re going to fit right in.”
Chapter 7: My Color's Green. I'm Spring.
Notes:
"love, the poet said, is woman's whole existence." - virginia woolf
Chapter Text
02/11/2009—Quantico, Virginia
Three weeks in, and the bullpen no longer felt like an elaborate stage on which Evelyn mimed the motions of competence. It had softened around her like well-worn denim, losing the starch and stiffness it once held. Her desk—originally just another slab of government-issued austerity—had grown familiar, even companionable, as though it had absorbed something essential from her presence. There were faint rings where her coffee mug had lingered too long, phantom circles etched like tree rings in metal. Files spilled across the surface in messy layers of paper and ink, annotated in her own shorthand: part theorist, part cynic. The notepad beside her keyboard brimmed with half-coherent notes and barbed observations—most aimed (pointedly and with no small amount of satisfaction) at the man sitting next to her.
A Post-it clung to the corner of her monitor, crooked and aggressively cheerful. It read, in Garcia’s flourish of loops and stars: Smile, pumpkin! The security cameras are watching! Evelyn had kept it there longer than she liked to admit, a wry charm against the endless work. The ridiculous heart Garcia had drawn in the corner softened the paranoia of the message. Somehow, it made her feel seen.
Time had blurred, smearing days into each other like charcoal on newsprint—early departures, delayed arrivals, and the sour scent of motels steeped in industrial cleaner and anonymity. Places began to lose their borders, become stories instead of geography. And yet, within that restlessness, Evelyn found herself rooting into the soil of this life. Slowly. Imperceptibly. Like ivy coiling up a brick wall.
She’d learned the rhythms—the little secrets that made the machine move. The best coffee was hidden in a tin can in Rossi’s drawer, tucked behind cigars that smelled of old stories and war zones. The third chair from the left in the conference room pitched at a dangerous slant, waiting to betray the unwary (and, of course, no one wanted to sit in it). Most importantly, she’d learned the precise verbal calibration required to unravel Dr. Spencer Reid.
This, of all her discoveries, delighted her the most.
Evelyn leaned back in her chair, the woven mesh groaning beneath her. A pen spun lazily between her fingers, catching and bending the overhead light. Around her, the post-briefing bustle faded into the white noise of movement and low voices. Yet Reid remained anchored at his desk, bent over a case file with monastic intensity. His eyes flicked across the page as though decoding scripture, his lips faintly parted in concentration. He looked as if the paper might whisper back to him, if he only stared long enough.
She tilted her head, watching him with the kind of curiosity reserved for museum curios or dangerous animals.
“Hey, genius,” she called, her voice laced with idle malice, just light enough to plant a seed of irritation. “You left your coffee unattended for a full three minutes. Statistically speaking, I think that means I’m entitled to it now.”
She’d discovered, somewhere around week two, that Reid treated hygiene as a form of moral doctrine. He flinched at shared keyboards. He wiped down pens. She once caught him using a paper towel to open the break room fridge, which made her current ploy as unnecessarily cruel as it was utterly irresistible.
He didn’t answer right away, but the stiffening of his spine was its own small triumph. The pause. The tension. She imagined she could hear the click of his jaw.
“That’s not how statistics work,” he muttered, eyes still on the page, though his grip on it had subtly changed—more defensive now.
Evelyn smiled. “Oh? Then, by all means, educate me.”
Finally, he looked up. His gaze sliced across the space between them like a scalpel. “If anything, statistically speaking, you’d be more likely to spill it than successfully steal it.”
She gasped theatrically, pressing a hand to her chest. “Dr. Reid, was that an insult to my coordination? Because that sounds dangerously close to workplace harassment.”
“If I intended to insult you,” he said evenly, deadpanned, “I’d make sure there was no room for ambiguity.”
He was so easy to provoke, it was practically a gift.
Evelyn’s eyes narrowed, not with anger but calculation, her expression taking on the speculative focus of a profiler mid-interrogation. He wore his usual uniform—dark blue vest buttoned over a lavender dress shirt, the sleeves rolled to a mid-forearm precision that screamed habit over comfort. A plum tie hung slightly askew at the collar, loose enough to suggest fatigue, never rebellion. Everything about him was contained, measured, curated.
Except the fray.
The fraying edges of the tie. The faint shadows beneath his eyes. The weary slouch that overtook him when he thought no one was watching.
Was she wasting his time and her own? Absolutely, yes.
Was it worth it? Again, yes.
“So, what you’re saying is, if you did insult me, I wouldn’t even have to ask?” she said, tilting her head.
He sighed, a weary exhale that spoke volumes without committing to anything. He set the file down.
“Yes.”
Evelyn grinned, unable to help herself. It came too easily, an unguarded flicker of something warmer than mischief. She caught it too late, horrified it had been so easy.
Reid reached for his coffee, his hand slowing just before it made contact. He glanced at her, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
She raised both palms in exaggerated innocence. “I didn’t do anything.”
Which, for once, was true.
Still, he hesitated, as though considering the odds of sabotage. When he finally took a cautious sip, Evelyn watched his shoulders tense. Nothing happened.
Victory didn’t always require detonation. Sometimes, it was simply the whisper of doubt.
Evening crept in on muted footsteps, casting long, golden slats of light across the rows of desks and filing cabinets like an afterthought. Evelyn hovered at the edge of her latest task, red pen poised above a nearly-finished document Hotch had asked her to review, her focus fragile as spun sugar. The moment was fractured with a clatter from Garcia’s domain. Something toppled—maybe a mug or a stack of bangles.
Evelyn’s head snapped up, and sure enough, the technical analyst herself emerged like a tropical storm in the middle of an otherwise temperate forecast. Her glasses—glitter-drenched and peach-tinted—threw prisms across the ceiling lights as she strutted to Evelyn’s desk.
Hands on her hips, eyes narrowed with faux severity, Garcia declared, “Ladies’ night is happening, and none of you can weasel out of it. Do you know what happens to workaholics who refuse a proper night out?”
Evelyn blinked, caught mid-thought, still half-tethered to the bureaucratic sea of clauses and case notes. “Uh… they get promoted?”
“They get boring,” Garcia countered, wagging a finger. “And burnt out. And I refuse to let that happen to you. So, you, me, JJ, Elle, and Emily—we are going out tonight, and I will accept no excuses. Not even judicial ones.”
Evelyn glanced toward the open file on her desk like it might throw her a lifeline, but the words no longer made sense. They wavered on the page like reflections in a disturbed pool.
“I don’t know, Garcia,” she tried, her voice unsure even to her own ears. “We just wrapped a case—”
“Nope.” Garcia’s hands clapped once, sharply, as if to exorcise hesitation from the air itself. “Exactly. We wrapped a case. That means it is now legally required that we decompress. Mandatory joy. Evelyn Brooks, I have known you for eighteen work days and zero happy hours. That is a travesty.”
It wasn’t that Evelyn disliked the idea. She just didn’t know how to belong in it. The last time she’d held a drink, it was a syrupy daiquiri pressed into her hand by a college roommate who wore sequins like armor. She’d taken one sip, tasted artificial strawberries and regret, and passed the glass off to someone else.
“I’ve had drinks before,” she said defensively, folding her arms.
Garcia leaned in. “Prove it. Come with us.”
Evelyn opened her mouth, hesitated, then shut it. Somewhere beside her, Spencer Reid let out a quiet huff—barely audible, but unmistakably entertained.
Garcia whirled. “You laugh now, Junior G-Man, but don’t think I’ve forgotten about you.”
Reid stiffened. “I—I wasn’t laughing.”
“Sure you weren’t.” She pointed at her eyes, then at him, before turning back to the rookie agent with a triumphant grin.
“So, are you in, or do I have to forge an official memo requiring your attendance?”
Evelyn sighed. “Fine. But if I show up tomorrow exhausted and grumpy, I’m blaming you.”
Garcia lit up like a marquee. “Blame me all you want, sugarplum, as long as you’re there.” She spun on her heel and disappeared in a flurry of muttering.
Evelyn leaned back in her chair, fingers to her temples, then allowed herself a breath of laughter. “That woman is a force of nature,” she murmured.
“It’s best not to fight it,” came Reid’s voice.
She turned her head, narrowing her eyes. Casual conversation? Huh.
“Noted,” she replied.
Reid tapped his pen twice, glancing at her from over the rim of his file. His tone remained maddeningly neutral. “Though, based on everything I’ve observed about you so far, I’d say there’s a very high probability you’ll embarrass yourself at least once tonight.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?”
Never mind.
He shrugged, all nonchalance and razor-sharp smugness. “It’s just a logical conclusion. You’re inexperienced in social outings with this team, unfamiliar with their typical post-case dynamics, and you have a demonstrable pattern of impulsivity.”
Evelyn grabbed a paperclip—light, unassuming, and the only throwable object that wouldn’t result in paperwork—and flicked it at him. It bounced harmlessly off his vest. A satisfying, if small, act of rebellion.
And perhaps she did just prove his point…
He retrieved it without flinching, adding it to a tidy row of clips already resting beside his files.
“Well, that was mature.”
“More mature than whatever that was. Quit profiling me,” she shot back, rising and shouldering her bag. “But I’ll be sure to report any humiliations directly. Try not to miss me too much, yeah? I know that seems to be an issue for you.”
He didn’t look up from his desk. “Don’t flatter yourself, Brooks.”
She rolled her eyes and headed for the elevator, the evening already pressing behind her ribs. Something told her this night would stretch into the neon hours, and she wasn’t entirely sure if that filled her with dread, or something stranger. Anticipation, maybe.
By the time Evelyn reached the parking lot, dusk had woven itself into the city’s edges, softening concrete into shadow and sky into lavender. Her phone began to vibrate in her pocket, sharp and insistent, and she barely had it unlocked before Penelope’s voice burst through the speaker.
“Okay, Sugar, listen up because this is critical intel—what are you wearing right now?”
Evelyn blinked, thrown off by the abruptness. She’d expected something work-related, not a full-blown wardrobe interrogation. “Uh… still my work clothes?”
A dramatic gasp echoed on the line. Evelyn rolled her eyes, grateful Garcia wouldn’t see her expression.
“Oh, honey. No, no, no. That will simply not do. Tonight is about letting loose, embracing fun, and—most importantly—looking hot while doing it. I’m going home to change, so you are too.”
Evelyn leaned against the side of her car, the chill of the metal seeping through her blazer. The stars hadn’t yet made their appearance, but she could already feel the shift in the air, the promise of night curling around her like smoke.
“Garcia, it’s just a casual night out. I don’t need to ‘look hot.’”
“First of all, wrong. You are young, attractive, and single, and I refuse to let you waste all that on a button-up and F.B.I.-regulation slacks. This is an opportunity, Red.”
Evelyn pinched the bridge of her nose, a familiar ache blooming at the base of her skull. “An opportunity for what, exactly?”
“To try something new!” Garcia’s voice rose, exuberant, as though the answer should’ve been obvious. “You spend all day submerged in darkness—serial killers, case files, and conversations so dry they could sand wood. And that’s because my office is down the hallway. Tonight, you get to be off the clock. That means cute clothes, cute drinks, and possibly cute strangers—if you’re open to it.”
Another topic Evelyn had skillfully avoided for most of her adult life. Men.
She huffed, unlocking her car with a faint beep. “I’m open to a drink. That’s it.”
“Mm-hmm,” Garcia said, clearly unimpressed. “Tell me what’s in your closet.”
Once the door shut behind her, Evelyn slumped into the driver’s seat, phone wedged between her shoulder and cheek, her eyes cast toward the darkened ceiling like it held divine intervention. “Penelope—”
“Evelyn.”
She wasn’t getting out of this.
“Fine,” she exhaled. “I have… jeans?”
“That’s… a start. What kind of tops are we working with? And don’t say ‘blouses,’ because I will hang up.”
It was uncanny how much Garcia now sounded like Katie, her youngest sister, a force of fashion and unyielding opinions.
Evelyn gnawed her lip, mentally flipping through the meager contents of her closet. Button-ups and slacks dominated the collection. The only outliers were a few faded band tees that had survived multiple moves solely because they made good sleepwear.
“I think I have a black tank top somewhere?” she offered.
Cliché? Absolutely. But potentially salvageable.
“It’s sleeveless...?”
A pause. A sigh. A sound of pure, theatrical defeat.
“You’re killing me, Brooks.”
A small laugh slipped out before Evelyn could stop it. She fastened her seatbelt with one hand, phone still cradled to her ear. “Look, I’ll find something. I swear I won’t show up looking like I just walked out of a quarterly audit. Deal?”
“Good,” Garcia chirped, mood instantly elevated. “Because if you do, I will take it personally.”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
“See you soon, hot stuff. Don’t disappoint me!”
The line went dead, and Evelyn stared at her phone for a beat before placing it on the passenger seat. A sigh escaped her lips, heavy with acquiescence.
Try something new, huh?
She caught her reflection in the rearview mirror, where the amber spill of a nearby streetlight painted her face in stark relief. The light drew every freckle out of hiding, traced the delicate arc of her lashes, cast her expression in tension.
Maybe Garcia had a point.
The drive home was wrapped in a hush, the only sound a low rumbling of music seeping from the radio, all lyrics and aching chords. Outside, the city passed like a dream unraveling—taillights smeared into ribbons, neon signs bled across windows, and shopfronts blinked like distant satellites. Evelyn’s hands gripped the wheel tighter than necessary, fingers pale beneath the glow of the dashboard.
Garcia’s words looped in her mind, stubborn and persistent, weaving between the rhythm of her heartbeat and the soft click of the turn signal. It wasn’t just about clothes or cocktails. It was about choice. She could stay hidden behind the protection of professionalism, or she could, for one night, step into the blurred edges of something uncertain.
She parked, shut off the engine, and sat in stillness. The silence inside the car felt louder than the noise outside. Her gaze returned to the mirror. The harsh glare of the streetlamp continued to accentuate every angle—sharp cheekbones, the hollow crescent beneath her eyes, curls slipping free from her hair tie.
And there she was. Not pretty enough. Not striking enough.
Not enough.
The thought came unbidden, like a habit formed too young and held too tightly. But she exhaled and began to lock it away again. Calmly. Skillfully. Just as she always had.
By the time she made it inside, the apartment was submerged in a kind of quiet that pressed in from every corner. No lamps aglow, no hum from the TV, just the blinking red eye of the kitchen clock, keeping time like a metronome in a room meant for silence. Evelyn toed off her shoes, the click of heels against tile echoing faintly into the dim, and shrugged out of her navy blazer. Her shoulders relaxed beneath the release of it.
She moved to the closet, fingers tracing the hangers, skimming cotton, wool, polyester blends. The garments rustled—blouses with crisp collars, trousers with knife-sharp pleats, sweaters in shades of oatmeal and dusk. A graveyard of function. Katie once told Evelyn her wardrobe looked like it belonged to someone in perpetual mourning. She wasn’t necessarily… wrong.
Everything there had a reason. Each piece was chosen with a kind of meticulous detachment—what would draw the least attention, what wouldn’t invite commentary, what would allow her to disappear without quite vanishing. There were no pieces that flirted with color, no fabrics that clung or cascaded. Nothing bought for the sheer pleasure of wearing it.
She swallowed the lump rising in her throat and pushed past the practical. There, tucked near the back, lived the remnants of possibility. A black tank top—soft, ribbed, unremarkable. A pair of dark jeans with a frayed hem and a fit that flattered in spite of their age.
But then, something unfamiliar brushed against her hand. Lighter. Smoother. Like water caught in fabric. She pulled it from its hanger with cautious reverence.
A dress. Deep green. Silken. The kind of green that glimmered in low light, shifting with every movement between pine and emerald. The kind of green that didn’t belong in a closet like hers. The tags were still attached, curling slightly with age. She’d bought it on a whim during grad school, seduced by a rare flutter of boldness she couldn’t sustain. It had been waiting ever since.
Evelyn held it to her frame in the mirror, watching how it pooled over her hands like something alive. It wasn’t scandalous. No plunging neckline or thigh-high slit. But it shimmered with intent, with quiet daring. It was the kind of thing worn by someone who made entrances, who didn’t shrink from being perceived.
Someone Evelyn had never quite learned to be.
She set it down and leaned forward, bracing herself against the dress. The mirror stared back, impartial and cold. Her breath fogged the glass, and she pressed her forehead to it, letting the coolness ground her. The woman reflected there was a contradiction—youth still etched across her cheeks, but the eyes too old, too used to seeing what most would turn away from.
Twenty-four.
That was supposed to mean something. She was an adult. A federal agent. She had peeled back the layers of monstrous minds, stood steady in blood-slicked crime scenes. And yet, there she was, paralyzed by fabric and the idea of being seen differently, without the badge, the profile, the armor.
Because this wasn’t about danger. This was about risk.
She had no experience to lean on. No string of ex-lovers, no flirtatious glances traded across candlelit tables. She had kissed one person, years ago—an awkward collision of teeth and nerves at a party blurred by bad punch and louder music. It had meant so little it barely qualified as memory. That was it. That was the whole of her romantic history.
And at her age, people carried stories like souvenirs—tales of heartbreak, of first loves and mistakes and nights they could still taste if they tried. She had data. She had cases. She had silence where experience should have lived.
Evelyn curled her fingers around the edge of the dresser. The bitterness that rose in her throat was too familiar to flinch from. She didn’t want to be afraid. She didn’t want to be the girl who blinked away compliments, who ducked out of conversations that edged toward vulnerability. She didn’t want to analyze every gesture, every word, every look for hidden judgment.
She wanted to try. To catch up. To be curious. To be brave.
Try something new.
The bar pulsed with a restless energy, as though the walls themselves had learned how to breathe. Music coiled low in the background—something with a sultry baseline and no particular urgency—threading through the haze of pendant lights and the fractured blues and pinks of flickering neon. It wasn’t beautiful, not exactly. It was cluttered and loud and smelled faintly of tequila, old wood, and the last dregs of someone’s citrus perfume. But it was alive. And after a day spent submerged in sterile autopsy reports and psychological profiles scrawled in red ink, life felt like a rebellion.
Evelyn hovered at the threshold, the door shutting behind her with a quiet click. Inside, bodies moved in loose constellations—gathering around tables, elbows brushing at the bar, laughter punctuating the air. The fabric of her dress shifted against her legs as she breathed in, the silk cool and slick where it touched bare skin. Deep green, it clung delicately to a silhouette she rarely permitted to exist. It wasn’t tight, but it suggested; wasn’t bold, but it defied blending in. Every inch of it whispered of a version of her she didn’t quite believe in.
She had chosen minimal jewelry, more from lack than taste—small gold hoops, a slim chain around her throat that caught on her collarbone, and a ring she’d worn since college. It twisted now between her fingers like a worry stone. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been out like this.
Her hair, predictably, had its own agenda. Evelyn had tried—truly tried—to tame it into something manageable, curling iron poised like a weapon, bobby pins clenched between her teeth. But the strands rebelled with stubborn determination, unfurling themselves the moment she stepped away from the mirror. In the end, she let it fall in loose spirals around her shoulders, red waves catching the light with a kind of wild defiance. She hated how exposed she felt. But she also loved it, a little.
“Brooks!”
Garcia’s voice rang out like a trumpet blast above the noise. She stood near the corner booth, a vision in riotous color, both arms waving as though she could summon her with a spell. Evelyn exhaled and walked toward her.
They were all there—JJ, radiant and poised, her laugh lilting as she leaned into conversation; Elle, glass in hand, her sharp eyes scanning the room with amusement; Emily, legs crossed beneath the table, smirking behind her drink.
Garcia’s gaze swept over her, bright as a camera flash. Her eyes went wide.
“Oh. My. God. Look at you. You’re divine. You’re ethereal. You’re exactly what I envisioned when I said ‘hot girl renaissance.’”
Heat prickled Evelyn’s cheeks. “It’s just a dress,” she said, instantly regretting it.
“No,” Emily cut in, lifting her brows as if to accentuate the point. “That is not just anything.”
JJ tilted her head, the light glancing off her golden hair like a cathedral window. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen your hair down before. It really suits you.”
Evelyn’s fingers rose instinctively, brushing against a curl near her temple. “Thanks,” she mumbled. “I tried to style it, but it kind of… did its own thing.”
“Good,” Elle said simply, setting her glass on the table. “It’s about time something around here did. You look incredible. People are going to notice.”
She didn’t know how to answer that. Compliments still hit her like foreign currency—precious, but difficult to spend. She smiled, or tried to.
“I figured I’d try something different,” Evelyn said, clearing her throat. “Also, Garcia threatened me.”
“Damn right, I did,” she grinned, grabbing Evelyn’s hand and tugging her toward the booth. “And I, for one, fully support this era of Evelyn Brooks. Now, sit. Drink. Revel in your hotness. We have so much to discuss.”
Garcia’s warmth was infectious. It peeled away the tension, one stubborn layer at a time, and by the time Evelyn slid into the booth, she could feel something shifting in her, like the tide turning under moonlight.
Maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t pretending.
Maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad after all.
An hour unraveled much too quickly—laughter blooming across the table, glasses clinking in rhythms that felt ceremonial, the liquor uncoiling in her veins. At some point, time ceased to move in minutes and instead ebbed forward in pulses muddled in light, noise, and the heady glow of shared warmth.
Evelyn had arrived a skeptic, clutching a singular drink like it was a lifeline. But Garcia, master of persuasion, had other plans.
“We are not on the clock, pumpkin,” she declared, a fresh cocktail appearing in her hand like magic. Her painted fingers curled around Evelyn's as she passed it off, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Drink. Loosen up. The world won’t crumble just because you let yourself live a little.”
And, somehow, she was right. The first drink was a slow sip. The second eased into her with a hush. The third dissolved the restlessness coiled beneath her ribs. Evelyn laughed—really laughed. Not the clipped, professional sort that lived in hallways and post-case banter. This was different. This was unguarded. Her body sank into the curve of the booth, mind blissfully unoccupied by bloodstains or behavioral psychology.
They talked. Not just about work, though it made its usual appearances—Morgan’s dramatic one-liners, Hotch’s possible (mythic) ownership of jeans. But then the conversation slid, as it often did under the influence, into more primal territory: attraction.
“I mean, let’s be real,” JJ said, eyes glinting as she twirled the stem of her glass, “we all have types. Happy to say, I found mine.”
Elle raised a brow. “Tall, broad, and just arrogant enough to keep you interested.”
Emily snorted. “You just described Morgan.”
Elle shrugged, unbothered. “What can I say? He’s easy on the eyes, and he knows he is. Would I ever date him? Absolutely not. ”
The table rippled with laughter. Garcia sighed dramatically and placed a hand over her heart.
“Me? Nerds. Glasses. Smart enough to keep up but awkward enough that I get to corrupt them a little.”
JJ snorted. “So… basically, Reid.”
Garcia choked on her drink.
“No! Oh my god, no. My love for our resident genius is purely familial. That would just be—no. Besides, I need a man who knows he’s being hit on.”
More laughter. For a moment, Evelyn rode the current, let it lift her. But then eyes turned toward her, expectant but gentle.
“So,” Emily prompted, the word languid. “What about you, Brooks?”
Evelyn blinked. “What about me?”
JJ leaned in with a sly smile. “What’s your type?”
The question landed strangely, like a stone dropped in still water. Her type? Attraction, for her, had always lived in theory—an intellectual curiosity, not a personal pursuit. She fumbled.
“I… I don’t know.” Evelyn reached for her drink, the condensation slick against her fingers. “I’ve never really thought about it.”
A collective groan.
“Oh, come on,” Elle nudged her shoulder. “You have to have a preference.”
Garcia narrowed her eyes, her tone mock-suspicious. “Wait a minute. I’m getting a vibe.”
“A vibe? ” she echoed, wary.
Penelope pointed, smug smile on her lips. “You’ve never actually dated anyone, have you?”
Silence. A moment drawn tight with a held breath.
Evelyn’s stomach coiled, not with shame, exactly, but with the discomfort of being too clearly seen. She wrapped her fingers tightly around the glass.
“I mean… I’ve kissed someone,” she said, a little too quickly. “Once.”
Elle leaned forward. “Just kissed?”
Evelyn nodded.
Garcia looked like she’d been struck. “You mean to tell me that you, Evelyn Brooks, radiant redhead and certified badass, have never —”
“Garcia,” she cut in, heat rising to her cheeks, burning.
JJ tilted her head, her smile softening. “Huh. That’s… actually kind of endearing.”
The bright woman shook her head. “It’s tragic. Unless it’s a choice thing, in which case, power to you.”
Evelyn sighed, pressing a hand to her temple. “It wasn’t a decision, exactly. I was sixteen when I started college. It just never happened. I was focused—school, work, everything else… other things just fell to the side.”
Emily’s expression gentled. “There’s no shame in that.”
“Of course not,” Elle added. “But do you want to? Experience that?”
Did she?
Evelyn stared into the slow melt of ice in her drink, watching it fracture and fade. “I don’t know. I feel like I missed something I was supposed to have. All those messy, imperfect experiences—first heartbreaks, dumb hook-ups, bad flings. I skipped all of it. And now… it feels like I don’t even know where to begin.”
Garcia reached for her hand, hers warm and painted in rings.
“Well, lucky you. Because tonight, your fairy godmothers are here, half-drunk and fully determined to jumpstart your origin story.”
Evelyn frowned. “Jumpstart what?”
Elle smirked. “Experience, babe. We’re giving you a crash course.”
Her stomach turned. “No, no. That sounds like a terrible idea—”
“Oh, it’s an excellent idea,” Garcia countered. “Besides, we’re not saying you have to go home with anyone, just… flirt. ”
“I don’t even know how to flirt.”
“That’s the best part,” Emily said with a grin. “You don’t have to. You just have to be yourself.”
“I am myself. And myself is painfully awkward around attractive strangers.”
“Which is why we’re not letting you go alone,” Garcia smiled. “We’ll observe. Advise. Applaud. ”
Evelyn groaned, sinking lower into the booth.
“You love us,” JJ teased.
“You’re unhinged,” Evelyn corrected.
“Semantics.”
But underneath the protests, something began to stir. It wasn’t confidence, exactly, but a pull. A thread of curiosity, knotted with a hunger she hadn’t let herself name. Maybe it was the drinks. Maybe it was the light in their eyes when they looked at her like she was capable of more than she even believed. Or maybe it was the echo of that lonely thought—she wanted to catch up.
Evelyn took one last sip of her drink. Exhaled. Let it burn.
“Fine,” she said, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “Let’s do this.”
Garcia squealed, a sound too bright and delighted to ignore, like confetti thrown into the air with reckless abandon. JJ’s grin curved, amusement flickering in her eyes. And Elle—always composed, always a step ahead—surveyed the bar like a battlefield strategist sketching out a warpath. There was a sparkle in her eye.
“Alright, ladies,” Elle murmured, lips curling. “Let’s find our girl a target.”
Penelope practically levitated, the sheer force of her enthusiasm vibrating through the booth like a struck tuning fork. “This is going to be so much fun,” she grinned. “Now, remember, my lovely—this isn’t about forever. It’s not about fate or fireworks or cinematic longing. This is practice. Fieldwork. Think of it as… romantic recon.”
Evelyn let her forehead drop into her palm with a sigh, dragging her hand down her face as if it could somehow wipe away the growing heat there.
“Flirting is not an academic discipline, Penelope.”
She gasped. “Not with that attitude, it isn’t.”
JJ snorted behind her drink, eyes glinting over the rim of her glass. “Alright, what’s our strategy? Are we going for tall, dark, and handsome? Classic boy-next-door? A wildcard?”
Elle leaned back and propped her elbow on the table like everything was unfolding exactly as she hoped. “Honestly? I say we throw her in blind and see what happens.”
“Great idea, let’s not do that,” Evelyn deadpanned, though the rising panic made it come out too sharp.
Emily joined the fray, her voice lower, amused, as she inclined her head toward the bar. “What about him?”
Her eyes, traitorous things, followed the tilt of Emily’s chin.
A man stood near the counter, casually nursing a drink, the dim lighting casting sharp angles across his features. He was objectively attractive—brunette, broad-shouldered, well-dressed, the kind of guy who probably had an easy, practiced charm. He looked like he knew exactly what to say, exactly how to say it. The type of guy who could read confidence—or in Evelyn’s case, the lack of it—like a book.
Evelyn swallowed. “Next.”
Elle gave a low hum, scanning the room with all of the focus of a practiced profiler.
“Okay, okay. What about pool table guy?”
That one was mid-laugh, head tilted back, eyes crinkled at the corners as he handed a cue stick to his friend. There was something effortlessly charming about him—loose-limbed and sun-warmed, like he hadn’t known real stress in years. The kind of man who’d kissed strangers for the hell of it and remembered all of them fondly, even if he’d long forgotten their names.
She shook her head. “I’m not that brave.”
JJ smirked. “So, no smooth talkers. Got it.”
Penelope’s eyes flared. “Wait. Wait. I have it.”
She leaned in, delivering a sacred secret. Evelyn followed her gaze—and then she saw him.
He wasn’t flashy. Wasn’t lit like the others. No glow of laughter, no echo of charisma radiating outward like cologne. He sat at the far end of the bar, hands cradling a lowball glass, fingers absently tracing the rim. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, exposing forearms marked by the faint shadow of veins and maybe ink—maybe not, she couldn’t quite tell. His hair was dark, a little unkempt in a way that didn’t look manufactured. But it was his stillness that caught her—like he wasn’t waiting for anyone, wasn’t performing for the room. Just… inhabiting it.
He looked like someone who’d slipped out of a black-and-white photograph. Not brooding, not suave, just quiet. Present.
Evelyn’s breath caught before she could will it steady. JJ followed her line of sight and gave a slow nod.
“Not bad. He’s got a whole ‘lost in thought’ thing going on.”
“And he’s alone,” Elle added. “Minimal chance of immediate public humiliation.”
“Perfect,” Evelyn muttered. “A low-stakes train wreck.”
“Go,” Garcia grinned, nudging her out of the booth.
“What, now? ”
“Yes, now!” She grabbed her wrist. “He’s just sitting there, waiting for fate to tap him on the shoulder. And tonight, fate is wearing lipstick and a cute dress.”
Evelyn stared at the enthusiastic analyst.
“Pretty sure he’s just waiting for another drink.”
“Exactly! And you, my dear, are going to make that waiting time very interesting.”
Evelyn’s pulse surged, racing ahead of her like a frightened thing desperate to escape. It thudded in her chest, a frantic metronome counting down seconds she could no longer spare. Every instinct screamed in protest. The booth—cramped, dim, familiar—had become a sanctuary, a fragile cocoon of false safety. To leave it felt like peeling off armor, exposing malleable skin to whatever storm waited beyond.
But she had agreed. To try. To feel the edge of discomfort and lean in anyway. To look into the dark water and step forward—not because she wasn’t afraid, but because she was.
She let out a long, shivering breath and stood. Her legs felt insubstantial, like they belonged to someone else—someone far bolder.
“Fine. But if this ends terribly, I’m blaming all of you.”
“Fair,” JJ said, toasting her with the last of her drink.
Penelope was already clapping, vibrating with glee. “We’ll be watching!”
“Do not watch.”
“Oh, we absolutely will,” Elle said, raising her glass.
Evelyn sighed, rolling her shoulders back, trying to gather herself into something confident. It was just a conversation. A soft approach. Reading cues, adjusting accordingly. She’d done harder things. She’d stood in the homes of killers, kept her voice steady while unraveling their truths.
This was different. This was personal.
She smoothed her dress with trembling fingers and took the first step.
The walk to the bar counter felt longer than it should have, each pace an exercise in restraint, and she imagined she couldn’t feel the gaze of her friends pressing against her back—expectant, amused, thrilled, potentially placing bets on whether or not she’d chicken out. She didn’t dare turn around.
The man remained as she’d left him, carved into the corner of the bar, posture relaxed but composed, a stillness that suggested not boredom but contemplation. His fingers continued to move in a slow, circling dance around the rim of the glass, not unlike a pianist warming up in silence, each motion more meditative than absent. From this proximity, details began to unfold themselves to Evelyn: the sharp line of his jaw dusted with evening stubble, dark eyes shadowed by thought, unreadable yet not uninviting. His maroon tie hung loose at the collar of his button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow with that particular elegance men wore when they’d discarded formality but not care.
She claimed the empty barstool beside him before her nerve could falter, settling into it hesitantly.
He glanced at her, head tilting just enough to mark interest but not interrogation. His eyes weren’t piercing, but they saw her all the same. A slow-blooming curiosity. He didn’t speak, just waited.
Evelyn exhaled, smile sheepish and cheeks brazenly pink. “I’m gonna be honest—I have no idea what I’m doing.”
A flicker of amusement ghosted over his mouth. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Oh, trust me. This is a first.” Evelyn glanced down, thumb brushing the condensation from the glass she still carried. “My friends decided it was criminal that I’ve never approached a stranger before, so… here I am. Making a very brave, very ill-advised attempt. Although, in my defense, stranger danger is a thing.”
That earned a more visible reaction: the edge of his mouth curled into a subtle, knowing smile. The kind that made a person feel they’d just passed some sort of unspoken test. “So, this is practice?”
“Something like that.”
Fingers tapped idly against the glass. His eyes swept over her. “And how’s it going so far?”
Evelyn paused, considering. “Well, I haven’t humiliated myself yet, so… better than expected, I think.”
He laughed then, a low, velvety sound. “Sounds like a win to me.”
She smiled without meaning to. The tension that had wound itself into her shoulders eased, a delicate unspooling. He didn’t speak with the disarming charm of someone used to hearing yes. He wasn’t trying to sell himself. He was just there.
The bartender drifted by, and the man beside her gestured toward her glass.
“Can I buy you another?”
Evelyn hesitated. “You don’t have to.”
“I know,” he inclined his head. “I’d like to.”
There was no insistence in it—just simplicity. She nodded.
“Alright. Dealer’s choice.”
The bartender offered a half-smirk and retreated, leaving Evelyn alone once more. The man turned toward her slightly, knees angling in her direction.
“So, since this is practice, does that mean there’s a scorecard?”
She smirked, playing along. “Maybe. Depends on how well you do.”
His brows lifted with an amused intrigue. “And what exactly are the judging criteria?”
Evelyn tapped a finger against her lip in mock thought. “Hmm… well, there’s charm. Wit. Conversational stamina. And general… vibe.”
“And where do I stand so far?”
She looked him over, letting the moment stretch. “Suspiciously well.”
“Suspiciously?”
“You’re too smooth. Not overtly, just like… quiet confidence. Like you know exactly what you’re doing, but you aren’t in a rush to prove it.”
He considered that, the barest hum of thought curling in his throat. “Maybe I just enjoy good conversation.”
“Mm,” Evelyn murmured, squinting playfully. “Still suspicious.”
Before he could respond, the bartender returned, placing a new drink before her—amber, luminous, garnished with a coil of orange peel.
“And this is…?”
“Try it,” the bartender said, already turning away.
Evelyn took a cautious sip.
The flavor unfolded across her tongue with surprising complexity—warm, spiced, a whisper of citrus that lingered like an afterthought. It tasted like winter evenings and bad decisions. Perhaps she could learn to like alcohol if it always tasted like that.
She made an approving sound. “Okay. That’s dangerous.”
The man grinned. “That good?”
“If I have another, I might start making questionable decisions.”
He leaned in—not enough to touch, but enough to catch the faintest trace of his cologne—clean, warm, with some elusive note like cedarwood or something else she couldn’t name. She liked it. His voice dropped just enough to send shivers down her spine.
“And what kind of questionable decisions are we talking about?”
Evelyn’s skin warmed, but she didn’t look away. “See? That. That right there. You are too smooth.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “I think I like this game.”
She sipped again, using the glass to shield the blush that crept up her neck.
Then, with a subtle movement, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone. With one hand, he unlocked it and turned the screen to her—an empty contact page waiting like a blank line in a poem.
Her stomach tumbled.
She hesitated, fingers hovering. What would come of this? A name among names? A momentary thrill dissolved by morning? The rational part of her knew better than to romanticize bar strangers. But the moment felt unhurried, honest in its unsophistication.
Now, who was the one with expectations? She was overthinking it.
So, she typed in her number and handed the phone back.
His eyes scanned the name, the corners of his lips tugging upward. He slipped the phone away with the same ease he carried himself.
“Well, Evelyn,” he said, her name falling from his lips, suave as her new favorite drink, “I hope your friends are proud. You just successfully flirted with a stranger.”
“They might be more excited about that than I am.”
Shit. That’s not what she meant. And it was a lie, regardless. Every part of her was alight with disbelief that she’d done something so uncharacteristic. Something bold.
But it hadn’t seemed to bother him, that observant smile still resting on his face.
“Then I suppose I should let you get back to them.”
Evelyn hesitated before nodding, sliding off the stool with a grace she didn’t feel. Her glass was cool in her hand, the drink inside it still carrying the heat of possibility.
But she’d done it. She’d stepped into the unknown and found, to her surprise, that it didn’t bite.
She had done it.
And for a second, she thought that was it—that she’d return to the booth, shoulder the onslaught of Garcia’s inevitable squealing, let the night dissolve into the kind of memory that flickered dimly weeks later, a near-miss tucked in the folds of routine. But something flared sharp in her, electric and wordless, like a live wire brushing skin. It struck not from thought, but instinct, a current that pulled her off course.
Before doubt could slink in on its usual silent feet, before hesitation could complete its work, Evelyn turned. He was still there. Still watching, his eyes, darker than the room should’ve allowed. Not invitation. Not challenge. Just attention, as though he were waiting to see if the page would turn.
“Hey,” she said, and the word came out too faint, too exposed. Her pulse danced beneath her skin. “Can I—” Evelyn paused, inhaled, and let the air steady something within her. “Can I try something?”
His brow arched slightly. Another flicker of amusement curled at the corner of his mouth. The smirk didn’t rise to the surface so much as it rippled beneath it.
“That depends. What are you trying?”
“Something... new.”
That was the only warning she gave—barely a breath between confession and movement. Evelyn stepped forward, a single beat closer, until his scent twined in her senses, lodging itself somewhere near memory.
And then she kissed him.
It wasn’t practiced. It wasn’t planned. Just a brushing of lips, like testing the temperature of water before slipping in. It was brief, but not shy. Soft, but not uncertain. Her mouth found his and barely lingered there, just long enough for the spark of contact to ignite and vanish.
When she pulled back, it was with a breath suspended in the liminal space between laughter and disbelief, light and fragile, as though the wrong movement might shatter it. Her skin sparked, alive and electric. Her blood sang in her veins, a wild rhythm that whispered of danger, of divinity, of the exquisite ache of touching something sacred… or something that could burn.
His gaze didn’t waver. Those eyes, so impossibly deep, held fast, like he was still caught in the gravity of her. His lips remained parted, the spirit of her still hovering in the air between them, as if even the silence wasn’t ready to let go.
Evelyn huffed a breath of stunned laughter. “Okay,” she said to no one, not even him. “That was… yeah. That was new.”
He tilted his head, watching her like he was memorizing the moment. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, voice again dipping only low enough to send another rush of heat down her spine.
“I hope that wasn’t just for practice.”
The words melted against her.
She felt it, the gravitational pull of him, the suggestion of a yes she hadn’t yet spoken. There was a version of her—one from another life, maybe—who might have stayed. Who might have let that smirk evolve into something more.
But instead, she met his eyes, let the smallest smile lift the edge of her mouth, and stepped back. “Guess you’ll have to find out,” she said and turned.
She’d only taken a single step when something feather-light touched her wrist. Not a grip, just contact. Evelyn paused, heart stuttering, and there he was again—closer this time.
His lips hovered over hers, barely brushing, the air between them thick and charged. She could taste the ghost of whiskey on his breath, smell his cologne again, all cedar smoke and firelight.
And then, softer than the clink of a glass, he said it:
“Ryan.”
The name settled in her chest; something exchanged between them in shallow breaths and burning tension. She hadn’t ever asked him. She’d been so distracted she hadn’t thought to ask his name.
Ryan pulled back, slow and unhurried. The weight of him lingered in the air even as he stepped away.
Evelyn walked back to the table on trembling legs, her skin still singing with residual adrenaline. Everything in her buzzes, restless, like she’d been flung from a dream too vivid to fade. It hadn’t even been a proper kiss, the moment nothing and everything all at once, a fleeting thing that had somehow left her feeling like she’d stepped off a ledge and landed somewhere entirely new. Unexpected.
And then—
A chorus of gasps.
“Oh. My. God.” Garcia launched herself across the table, a storm in sequins, grabbing both of Evelyn’s hands. “I—we—just witnessed that.”
Elle blinked. “I’m sorry, was that you? Evelyn Brooks? The same woman who said she didn’t know how to flirt, like, an hour ago?”
JJ lifted her drink and aimed a half-serious glare. “You lied to us.”
Heat rushed to her face, not unlike the heat she’d just left behind. “I didn’t lie!”
It was slipping out of control again.
Emily leaned back, arms crossed, an amused smirk playing on her lips. “I don’t know, Brooks. That looked pretty intentional to me.”
Garcia gasped, eyes wide. “Oh my god. Did you plan that?”
“No!” Evelyn groaned, dragging her hands over her face. “I—I don’t know what happened—”
“We know what happened,” JJ said, grinning like she’d just won a bet. “You walked up to a hot stranger, flirted like a pro, let him buy you a drink, and then kissed him goodbye like it was the final scene in a movie. Honestly? I’m taking notes. Will’s not ready.”
Penelope fanned herself rather dramatically. “Legendary behavior, seriously.” She clasped her hands together. “She’s all grown up.”
Evelyn knocked back the last of her drink, the burn of it dwarfed by the afterglow still fizzing in her chest.
Emily watched her with narrowed eyes. “You know… now that I think about it, he kind of reminds me of someone.”
Evelyn blinked. “Yeah?”
She tilted her head, waiting for the rookie agent to catch on. “Someone you work with.”
Evelyn frowned, following her stare back toward Ryan, who was still effortlessly composed, still exuding that sharp, intelligent awareness. And then she laughed. “Please. If you say Morgan, I’ll cry.”
Garcia burst out laughing.
Elle snorted on her drink.
Emily just smirked. “Never mind.”
And for the life of her, Evelyn couldn’t figure out why.
The sole reason she didn't consume alcohol for pleasure.
Chapter 8: The Pen is Mightier (Than Her Self-Control)
Notes:
"the purpose of life is to be defeated by greater and greater things." – rainer maria rilke
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
02/12/2009—Quantico, Virginia
The first mistake had been tequila. The second was believing she could outdrink a pack of F.B.I. agents who’d clearly trained for this more thoroughly than they had ever trained in firearms or profiling. Evelyn knew better. She’d witnessed grown men unravel under the weight of poor choices and cheaper liquor. Still, when swept into the fervent eye of Garcia’s glittering enthusiasm, Elle’s brazen provocations, Emily’s dangerous streak of competitiveness, and JJ’s quietly terrifying ability to outdrink a frat house, she was helpless. Just a feather in the wind of their collective mischief.
It hadn’t helped that her body was still riding the aftershock of adrenaline. Dopamine. Oxytocin. Serotonin. The biochemical cocktail swirling through her bloodstream, igniting her neurons the second her lips grazed his.
Ryan. A stranger in the truest sense of the word. A first name and a face, no history. And yet, she had kissed him, and he’d kissed her back. It hadn’t been cinematic or smooth; it was clumsy, hungry, threaded with breathless laughter—but there had been something electric about it. Something that dug under the skin and fizzed there.
What startled her most was how easy it had been. How thrilling. As if she had simply shed the heavy coat of her own restraint and walked into a new version of herself.
Now, seated at her desk beneath the bleached glare of the lights, Evelyn clutched a coffee cup like it was a life preserver and stared down the consequences of her enthusiasm. The bitter brew barely made a dent in the throbbing pulse in her skull. She didn’t regret the kiss. The alcohol, maybe. The headache, certainly. But not the kiss.
“You look like hell,” Elle announced as she strode into the bullpen, her voice like a whip crack in the quiet space.
Evelyn didn’t need a mirror to know she was right. She wasn’t entirely sure when she’d arrived back at her apartment—somewhere between one and two in the morning if she had to guess. She could feel the disarray like a shroud—last night’s makeup half-smeared into her pillows, her curls now twisted into a messy semblance of a bun that was already giving up the fight, and a blouse she had resurrected from the chair in her room, bearing the light creases of forgotten ambition (though surprisingly, no toothpaste).
“Thanks,” she muttered, massaging her temples. “You look disgustingly alive. What are you, some kind of mutant?”
“Hydration and Ibuprofen,” JJ sang as she glided past, the very picture of post-party perfection. Her hair gleamed with unnatural sleekness, a curtain of light catching on every strand, and the garnet blouse she wore rendered her eyes into twin shards of sky. She offered a smirk over her shoulder, and Evelyn resisted the urge to throw something. “You should try it sometime.”
Garcia entered like a herald of chaos and sequins, practically sparkling with vitality. “Oh, my sweet baby agents. I did warn you—going out with me is a full-contact sport.”
“You also said you ‘barely drink,’” Elle reminded her, one brow arched in amused betrayal.
“If I said that, it was clearly a lie designed to test your judgment. You all failed, by the way.”
Evelyn groaned and let her forehead drop to the desk. The cold surface was surprisingly comforting. “Someone put me out of my misery. Please. Like, Old Yeller me behind the building.”
Elle leaned against her desk, swirling her coffee. “Tempting. But then I’d have to fill out your reports. And no offense, Rookie, I like you, but not that much.”
Evelyn was preparing a half-hearted retort about loyalty and friendship when the voice of Aaron Hotchner cleaved clean through the buzz of chatter.
“Conference room. Now.”
The fun snapped out of the air like a rubber band.
Of course. Nothing like the gravel scrape of Hotch’s voice to sober a room. Instant mood killer.
Was that technically a pun?
They fell into line like dominoes tipping one by one, professionalism washing over them like a second skin. Elle drained her cup and set it down, Evelyn following, clutching her mug like it might grant her strength. JJ bumped a shoulder into hers as they walked.
“Come on, Brooks. Walk of shame’s over. Time to work.”
If only that had been the worst part of the morning.
Evelyn had almost—almost—made it into the conference room unscathed. She hadn’t stumbled. She hadn’t screamed when the sunlight reflected off the glass and into her eye sockets. She’d even downed enough coffee to soften the razor edges of her nausea.
And then Garcia, like a psychic with an ill-timed sense of humor, spoke.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, tapping her chin as she settled into a chair. “I still can’t believe you actually did it.”
Evelyn frowned. “Did what?”
The analyst turned toward her with mock scandal painted across her face. “Oh, don’t you dare play innocent. The kiss. You! Kissing Mr. Tall, Dark, and Mysterious last night! I knew you had a streak of chaos in you, but I didn’t think you had that much.”
Her stomach pitched. Suddenly, the coffee seemed like a bad idea.
From the corner of her eye, Evelyn could see JJ biting the inside of her cheek to hide a smile. Elle raised her eyebrows in delighted disbelief, and Emily sighed, not in judgment but grim anticipation—as if she had already known that was bound to happen.
“Garcia,” Evelyn said under her breath, low and edged with a warning.
Not there. Not now. Not with him across the table. Dr. Intellectual would find some way to weaponize her inexperience, to mock what should’ve remained private.
But the buoyant analyst was mid-monologue. There was no saving her now.
“I mean, I expected many things last night: poor decisions, maybe a dramatic karaoke number, a bar fight at most—but you making the first move on Mr. Law and Order? Iconic.” Her eyes lit up with sudden curiosity. “Wait. Did he text you afterward?”
And just like that, the air shifted, as if the oxygen itself had stilled.
Evelyn felt it before she saw it—Reid’s body, no longer moving with casual disinterest. His fingers froze mid-flip in his notebook, the pages halted mid-turn. He didn’t look up, but the set of his jaw, the quiet intensity that suddenly rolled off him in waves, said enough.
The silence was no longer casual.
She wished for invisibility. For divine intervention. For teleportation.
Because she knew he’d bring it up later. She knew he’d make it awkward. He’d find a way to take it from her and corrupt it, the one good thing she’d felt in… a while.
Garcia’s expression faltered as realization began to dawn. Her eyes bounced between Evelyn and Reid, her grin dimming.
“Oh,” she breathed. A beat. “Ohhh.”
Evelyn swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep her face still. “Can we please focus?” Her voice came out too fast, too clipped. “We’ll talk about it later, yeah?”
Hotch, who had been observing the abnormal exchange, finally intervened with the commanding nod of someone long resigned to working with chaos. “Yes. Let’s.”
Relief flooded her, bitter and ill-tasting as medicine.
JJ, graceful as ever, began the debriefing with a professionalism that pulled the room back into order. The team shifted in unison, well-trained muscles snapping into place. An oiled machine.
All except Evelyn.
And Reid.
His presence was a pressure on her skin. Cold where it had once been warm. She risked a glance. His hands were steeled atop the file, shoulders tense, his mouth pressed into a flat line. It was not the polite disinterest he typically wielded. It was not the neutral irritation he kept in reserve for her. This—this was something far more volatile.
Evelyn refused to meet his gaze.
No. She wouldn’t do it. Not then. If Spencer Reid had a problem with how she chose to spend a Wednesday night, that was his burden to shoulder, not hers. His cross, his fire, his thorny little knot of resentment. So what if she kissed a stranger beneath the glow of neon and impulse, a spark flung into the dark just to see what might catch? That moment was hers. Hers to hold, to savor, to tuck behind her ribs like a flicker of defiance. A reckless delight, yes—but chosen. And entirely her own.
She turned her attention back to JJ, clinging to her voice like a buoy in storm-tossed waters, pretending that the burn in her cheeks was just the caffeine. That the silence wasn’t alive with something heavily unspoken. That she wasn’t already bracing for the fallout.
“Two bodies have been found in Kansas City, Missouri,” JJ began as she clicked a button on the remote. The projector screen lit up, casting a cold brilliance across the room and illuminating the first crime scene photo. A man, late forties, sprawled across a grime-stained motel bed. But Evelyn’s eyes weren’t drawn to the setting.
They were drawn to what was missing.
His eyes.
Nausea bloomed like smoke in her gut. That coffee had been a mistake.
JJ pressed on, steady. “The first victim, Gerald Whitmore, was a traveling insurance adjuster staying at a motel just outside city limits. He was found by housekeeping early yesterday morning, approximately three days after he was killed. Cause of death was determined to be asphyxiation, but as you can see, the unsub post-mortemally removed both of his eyes.”
Evelyn resisted the urge to shudder.
Fantastic.
Beside her, Reid shifted, fingers beginning to tap an erratic rhythm against the tabletop. Then his voice—soft, clinical—broke the silence. “We’ll have to examine the body to be sure, but it looks like the removal was done with surgical precision. Eyes are extremely fragile organs. There’s no sign of hesitation or jagged incision marks, which means the unsub likely has some degree of anatomical knowledge.”
Evelyn nodded, even though her discomfort clung stubbornly to the edges of her mind. She forced herself to focus. She was focused. She had to be.
“No other mutilation or signs of torture?” Elle asked, leaning forward, her expression grim.
“None,” JJ confirmed, flipping to the next slide. “Which makes this next victim even more disturbing.”
The second image flickered onto the screen. Another man, younger this time—mid-thirties, business casual. Arranged carefully, almost reverently, on a similarly shabby motel bed. Arms at his sides. And his eyes—
Gone.
“Richard Palmer, thirty-five, an IT consultant from Wichita,” JJ continued. “Killed two nights after the first victim. Same M.O.—asphyxiation, body positioned on the bed. Both crime scenes were wiped clean of any DNA or trace evidence. Kansas City P.D. is concerned this unsub will continue to escalate, that’s why they called.”
“Two days between kills suggests he’s either growing more confident or losing control,” Gideon observed, arms crossed tightly. “Either way, he won’t stop.”
Evelyn’s hand curled against the table’s edge.
The lack of hesitation. The eerie precision of the extractions. The quiet, calculated staging of the bodies. None of it felt impulsive. It felt deliberate. It felt wrong.
And Reid, naturally, was already unraveling threads Evelyn hadn’t yet found.
“The precise nature of the eye extractions indicates the unsub values them beyond a typical signature or calling card,” he said, tone laced with intellectual curiosity, maybe even unease. “In fact, in some rare cases, ocular specimens have been collected for symbolic or ritualistic reasons. Certain ancient cultures believed eyes were the window to the soul, and modern-day offenders can fixate on that same metaphorical meaning.”
Morgan leaned back, brow furrowed. “So, the question is, does he see them as trophies, or is there a deeper significance? Is he keeping them? Disposing of them? Or worse—”
“Repurposing them,” Evelyn finished before she could stop herself.
Silence rippled across the table. Heads turned, curious, horrified, intrigued. Reid looked at her—really looked at her—his lips parting slightly, like her mind had surprised him.
“You thinking medical experimentation?” Morgan asked.
“Possibly,” she said, sitting up straighter. “If this guy has a background in ophthalmology or even just a fascination with ocular science, he could be trying to do something with them. Study them. Preserve them. Hell, even implant them onto something else.”
Elle shook her head. “That’s a real comforting thought.”
Garcia’s voice crackled, her skin paler than it had been just five minutes ago. “Okay, I just got chills and not the good kind. That’s beyond serial killer creepy, that’s horror movie villain creepy.”
But Evelyn barely registered the words. Because across the table, Reid was still looking at her, not with that usual sharp edge of aggravation or superiority, but something quieter. Curious. Conflicted. Like he was trying to reevaluate a piece of a puzzle he’d once thought solved.
She didn’t know what to make of it.
By the time Hotch called the team to prepare for departure within the hour, Evelyn had missed a handful of other voices, her thoughts already winding down corridors the unsub might’ve walked before them.
The flight to Kansas City was too quiet, a gnawing whisper. Engines thrummed beneath her shoes in a mechanical lullaby Evelyn could not find rest in, a persistent, bone-deep vibration that carved into the headache blooming at the base of her skull.
A case file lay open in her lap, an array of snapshots and neatly typed despair. The dead stared up from each page—mouths parted in surprise, eyes vacant or, in this case, missing. Their final moments distilled into paragraphs of forensic detachment. She should’ve been parsing it, digging into the rhythm of the kills, finding the missing heartbeat in the noise. But the words kept sliding off the page like oil on glass.
Evelyn’s mind wandered backward, pulled not by logic but by memory. The strum of bass that echoed like a second pulse beneath her skin. Laughter slurred into shared secrets over half-empty glasses. A room spun gold under low lighting. The heady aroma of perfume, heat, and something recklessly human.
And Ryan.
His name came with a flush of sensation. The taste of spontaneity on her tongue. A stranger. A decision made in the moment, not regretted. His mouth had been warm. His hands, reverent—nothing desperate, just present. A whisper of pressure at her waist. Real.
It had been a long time since anything had felt like that—uncomplicated, undeserved, alive.
Her fingers curled tighter around the file, paper crinkling beneath her grip.
And then, there was Reid.
He hadn’t said much. But when Garcia let her offhand comment fly, Evelyn caught it—that minute shift in his posture. The freeze between heartbeats. The stuttered turn of a page that his hands hadn’t meant to betray. His knuckles had gone white where they wrapped around the edge of his notebook.
She wasn’t making it up. She knew what she saw.
But why had she seen it?
Not that it changed anything.
“Brooks.”
The sound of her name cracked the haze. Evelyn looked up, pulse leaping.
Hotch stood across the aisle, eyes steady. Impassive. Always a man built of granite, carved with discipline. But she recognized the note in his voice—he knew she hadn’t heard a word in ten minutes.
“We land in twenty.”
She nodded, spine snapping straight in the beige leather seat. The sting of shame was familiar. A necessary correction.
Time to refocus. Time to bury whatever noise had taken root inside her.
The Missouri cold hit with teeth.
The air was a damp, metallic breath, the kind of chill that slipped between the threads of your coat and into your bones. Wind sliced through the tarmac as they descended the jet stairs, Evelyn’s scarf flapping against her chin. The sky hung low, smeared in gunmetal grey, and the light had that bleak, colorless tone winter loved to wear in cities like these. The ground bore remnants of old snow—matted, brown-edged slush mounded in the gutters like chewed-up dreams.
The field office greeted them with flickering bulbs and the stale tang of recycled air, walls washed in jaundiced light. People moved fast. Purposeful. There was an urgency to the room, the kind that grew legs when bodies dropped fast and answers came slow. No pleasantries. No pause. No time to stop, to breathe. Rossi, Reid, and Evelyn were already ushered toward the coroner’s office.
It was colder there.
A sterile cold, unyielding and bone-pale. It crawled into her lungs, coiled around her ribs. Stainless steel lined the walls like the inside of a machine. The tiles were too white, the shadows too exact. Bleach tried to disguise the truth, but death had its own scent. Sweet and sour and iron-tanged, seeping into the grout.
Evelyn tightened her coat as they approached the table. The sheet draped over the corpse was crisp, the man beneath what remained of Richard Palmer. An IT consultant. A husband. A father. Now, only a body.
The coroner barely looked up as he gestured to the exposed face.
The face.
The eyes were gone. Evelyn knew they would be. She had read the report. But no words could prepare her for the quiet obscenity of it. The empty sockets stared back at her—not gaping, not brutalized, but hollowed with a surgeon’s care. The lids had caved slightly inward, a visual whisper of the vacancy below.
“They were removed with remarkable precision,” the coroner intoned. His voice was paper-flat, a man dulled by repetition. “Clean cuts. No collateral damage to the surrounding orbital bone or soft tissue. The optic nerves were severed with such care that I’d wager microsurgical tools were used—something you’d find in ophthalmic or neurosurgical procedures. Whoever did this needed anatomical knowledge and an incredibly steady hand.”
Rossi nodded. “So, a medical background. Or someone with hands trained to be deliberate.”
Evelyn heard them, she had, but the words floated. Detached.
She couldn’t look away. The face was so still. A canvas wiped clean. Not mutilated, but edited.
“They’re taking something intimate,” she said, softly, more breath than voice. “The eyes, they’re not just features. They’re a language. We use them to see, yes, but also to be seen. To be known. This isn’t just anatomical… it’s personal.”
Reid stirred beside her.
“You think it’s symbolic?” He wasn’t looking at her, which somehow made the question sharper.
“Don’t you?”
His lips parted. Something moved behind his eyes, but he didn’t answer, gone before Evelyn could dissect it. And then Rossi’s phone rang, as he excused himself with a quiet grunt, disappearing down the corridor.
Reid and Evelyn lingered, drawn into an adjoining break room lined with vending machines and metal chairs, far from the frigid chill of the morgue. Evelyn leaned back against the counter, folding her arms as the air clung to her. Everything only seemed to add to the nausea still simmering in her gut; it had not been the day to work hungover. Reid scribbled furiously in his notebook, unruly waves falling into his eyes.
She watched him for a moment. Let the silence stretch.
Perhaps it wasn’t the most appropriate moment for an intervention, but it was the only private one she’d be afforded. She wasn’t going to waste that chance.
And it was a distraction from the images she couldn’t escape from.
“You know,” she began, “for someone who’s made a career out of untangling human behavior, you’re pretty lousy at hiding your own.”
The scratching of his pen stopped.
Bingo.
“You’ve been on edge since we boarded the jet,” she continued, eyes narrowing. “Jaw clenching, pen tapping in a pattern of threes—classic self-soothing behavior. And you haven’t made eye contact with me once.”
His fingers tightened around the pen.
Evelyn risked a step closer, ready to goad him into talking. “So, what is it? Are you mad at me? Disappointed? Jealous?”
His head jerked up at that last word, but his expression remained blank. Controlled. All except for his eyes…
“Maybe I just don’t appreciate being subjected to one of your amateur psych analyses,” he said, clipped.
It didn’t sting the way he’d meant it to. Not anymore. She’d developed a resistance—a callus, smooth and thick—from too many of his offhand remarks, his sharp little barbs dressed up as intellect. She’d learned to let them slide off her skin like rain on glass. Let them fall. Let them vanish. Because you only bled if you let the blade sink in.
“Wow.” She lifted a brow. “So much for subtlety.”
“It wasn’t meant to be subtle. It was a statement of fact.”
Evelyn crossed her arms tighter. “Right, because lashing out is rational. You’re deflecting.”
“I’m not.”
“Then talk to me.”
“Not everything is about you, Brooks.”
She blinked. “I didn’t say it was. But considering your attitude shifts the moment I enter a room, I figured I was relevant.”
“Stop.”
He exhaled sharply, the sound rough and jagged, as though the air itself had become too concentrated to breathe. His pen came down with a force that spoke volumes—slamming onto the counter, the impact sharp, louder than any frustration he’d ever shown before. It clattered against the surface, echoing through the room.
Evelyn stilled.
He raked a hand through his hair, messy and unthinking—a gesture that betrayed him. Nervous, unwilling. For once, the façade cracked, just enough to show a glimpse of the rawness beneath.
“Just… stop,” he repeated. “You always have some sort of response, some clever remark or counterpoint to continue the pointless argument. Do you ever—do you ever just let things be?”
For the first time… she had nothing, said nothing. Not because she agreed, but because something in his voice—it didn’t sound angry. It sounded tired.
Had she been overthinking it? Had she manufactured their strained working relationship? No, no, that wasn’t it. It wasn’t.
“You don’t treat JJ like this,” Evelyn said suddenly. “Or Prentiss. Or Garcia. Or Morgan, or anyone else on this team. You don’t snap at them when they question you, or shut down when they look at you the wrong way. And you certainly don’t nonconsensually profile them.”
His mouth opened—closed.
She stepped back. “You think I haven’t noticed? You’re so open with everyone else. Me? You treat like a thorn under your skin, and you have since I first got here.”
Reid didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. The silence was answer enough.
Evelyn swallowed hard, her throat gone dry.
He retrieved his pen in one sharp motion, turned, and walked out of the room.
She stayed rooted to the spot, eyes fixed on the countertop like it held the answers she couldn’t find in him.
Only then did she notice the ache in her hands—how tightly she’d curled her fists, how her nails had carved tiny crescents into her palms. Slowly, she unfurled them. One finger at a time.
It didn’t matter, she told herself. Whatever his issue was, it wasn’t her problem.
She just needed to focus.
Focus.
By the time she spotted Rossi, he was exactly where she imagined he’d be—leaning against the hood of their SUV like it was a fixture of the landscape. He was flipping through his pocket notepad, same absent precision she’d seen applied time and time again.
Evelyn stopped short a few paces away, arms drawn tightly across her chest, more from hesitation than from the creeping chill. Suddenly, she felt… small. Like a child approaching a teacher’s desk, second-guessing every scribbled answer. This wasn’t her—she didn’t run to people when things got uncomfortable. She endured. She managed.
But something in the past twenty-four hours had shifted, tilted the axis of her self-assurance until it wobbled beneath her feet. She couldn’t trace the origin point—couldn’t rewind to the precise moment things went wrong. And Reid’s disdain, cool and sharp as frost on glass, had begun to creep into her thoughts, an unnecessary distraction.
Rossi looked up before she made a sound, the barest quirk of his brow betraying awareness.
“I leave you kids alone for two minutes, and you can’t play nice?”
“How did you—?”
“I’m older than you,” he said with a chuckle that rustled low in his chest. “Believe me, I can tell. And Reid stormed out right before you did.”
Evelyn huffed a breath, not quite a laugh. “Yeah, I—” Her voice caught somewhere between deflection and confession, fingers twisting at the fabric of her sleeves. She almost turned away, abandoned the entire thing.
What was she doing?
“I need to ask you something,” she said at last, carefully. “And I need you to be honest with me.”
Rossi shut his notepad with a soft snap, folding his hands over it. Dark eyes met hers, steady. Open. “Go on.”
She hesitated again, then exhaled hard through her nose, the breath blooming white in the cold. The wind needled its way down the collar of her coat as she chased what little warmth still lingered in the seams. This wasn’t about comfort, though. This was clarity. If she couldn’t shake the noise out of her head, it would follow her into every room, every profile. And they couldn’t afford blind spots. Not now.
“Did I do something wrong?” Evelyn asked, the words shivering into the space between them.
He frowned. “In general, or are we talking about something specific?”
“Reid,” she said, quieter than she meant to. The name tasted acrid. “I mean—I know we’ve never exactly gotten along. He’s always had that… thing, that cerebral superiority complex. But this? This feels different. Like, I actually offended him or something. And I don’t know how. I don’t know what I did.”
There was a pause, long enough for doubt to crawl up her spine.
“Look,” she said, a half plea, “I can handle… whatever that is. I’ve worked with worse. But it’s getting in my head. I can’t afford to be second-guessing myself when we’re dealing with this case. If I crossed a line I didn’t see, just tell me. I’ll fix it. Please.”
He reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder. The gesture was simple, but it landed with a startling kind of gravity—like he was pinning her in place before she could drift too far from herself.
“Reid’s… complicated,” he said slowly. “He doesn’t process things the same way you or I do. Emotions get tangled. Misdirected.”
Evelyn raised an eyebrow, lips quirking despite herself. “Yeah, no kidding.”
“He probably hasn’t figured it out himself, whatever it is.” Rossi’s mouth curled into something between amusement and understanding, a smile tempered by time. “But if I had to guess… he’s not used to being thrown off his game.”
She blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He didn’t answer, not directly. Just gave her shoulder a light pat, that maddening father-figure exit cue, before letting his hand fall.
“You’ll figure it out.”
Evelyn groaned, letting her head fall back with a frustrated sigh as the clouds above drifted like thoughtless witnesses to their conversation. That was not helpful. He knew that wasn’t helpful.
His laugh was deep and warm, something she wouldn’t otherwise expect from the senior profiler. “Look, kid. If you’d done something wrong, I’d tell you. But from where I’m standing? You didn’t. This one’s on Reid to work through. Don’t let it slow you down. You’ve got a job to do.”
The conference room hummed with friction—voices layered voices from the room beyond, the sharp squeal of a dry-erase marker dragging across the board, case files rustling like restless paper wings. The problem, as always, was absence. No fingerprints. No viable DNA. No stray fibers. The unsub didn’t just cover his tracks, he erased them. Fastidious. Ritualistic. They weren’t looking at someone who made mistakes. They were looking at someone who trained himself not to.
“Okay,” Morgan said, exhaling sharply through his nose. He leaned in, forearms braced against the table, eyes fixed on the board as if willing it to reveal something new. “We’re dealing with someone who knows the body—at least enough to do this much damage without hesitation. The real question is, are we looking at formal medical training? A surgeon? EMT? Pathologist?”
Reid didn’t glance up from the papers in his lap, but his voice cut through regardless. “Not likely. The incisions are deliberate, but there’s just enough asymmetry to suggest a lack of clinical precision. There’s tremor evidence—slight hesitations in the lateral cuts around the orbital rim. It’s controlled, but not sterile. If this were someone actively practicing medicine, we’d expect cleaner margins, more anatomical consistency.”
“So, he’s an amateur,” Elle offered, brows furrowed as she tapped the table with the butt of her pen.
“Not an amateur,” Reid corrected, finally looking up. “A self-directed practitioner. Likely someone who’s spent years studying ocular anatomy, but outside of institutional settings. Think obsessive autodidact. Medical textbooks. Online forums. Maybe even anatomical models or animals before moving on to humans.”
Evelyn grimaced as she flipped through the crime scene photos again—victims frozen mid-expression, sockets hollowed with a disturbing meticulousness. “He’s not killing for thrill. This isn’t spontaneous violence. It’s structured, purposeful.”
Hotch, who had been standing silently near the board, stepped in. “What kind of purpose are we talking about? Could this be tied to trafficking?”
Morgan frowned. “Doesn’t fit the typical pattern. Organs taken for sale are usually harvested cleanly and quickly. These extractions are… obsessive.”
“It could be symbolic like Reid mentioned before,” Evelyn said, tucking a stubborn curl behind her ear. She hated having to credit him. “The eyes are a metaphor, they always have been. Clarity, truth, perception, and even guilt. If he’s fixated on them, it’s not entirely anatomical. It’s psychological. He could see them as corrupted or powerful.”
“Could point toward a psychotic disorder,” Reid added. “Delusional ideation. He may believe the eyes hold memories or truths that need to be purged. There are parallels to syndromes like delusional misidentification, where patients believe entities have been replaced by an imposter, and in this case, that could apply directly to the eyes themselves.”
Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Wait, that’s real?”
“It’s rare,” Reid acknowledged. “But not unheard of. In extreme cases, especially when paired with untreated schizophrenia or neurological trauma, patients may develop a belief that their eyes are vessels of corruption. False witnesses. Removing them becomes, in their mind, a form of purification. Of truth reclamation.”
Elle looked vaguely sick. “That’s… horrifying.”
Reid blinked. “To us, yes. But to him? It’s moral. Rational. He’s not just killing, he’s cleansing.”
“Could be trauma,” Evelyn offered. “Maybe something physical, even visual. Witnessing something he wasn’t supposed to see or thought he saw. A distorted reality he never recovered from.”
“Childhood neglect, abuse, prolonged sensory deprivation, neurological damage to the occipital or temporal lobs. Any of these could serve as a foundation, especially if combined with isolation or obsessive-compulsive traits. If no one ever corrected his perceptions, they became his truth.”
Morgan’s shoulders relaxed as he shuffled in his chair. “So, he’s not seeing this as murder.”
“No,” Evelyn said, eyes flicking toward the evidence board. “He’s seeing it as salvation. As necessity. If the ritual’s accelerating, either the delusion is deepening, or something in his current environment is destabilizing him. But if the eyes are the objective, why strangle them first? Why not sedate, or use blunt force?”
“Strangulation takes times,” Morgan said, voice low. “It’s intimate. Personal. You have to stay close, stay engaged. And it increases risk. They could fight back or scream. It’s messier than it needs to be.”
Reid’s brow furrowed, almost imperceptibly. “Unless the killing itself isn’t part of the ritual. It could just be a way to control what comes before the extraction.”
“Control being the operative word,” Evelyn said, fingers tightening on the photo. “This isn’t about efficiency, the way he kills them. It’s about domination. About erasing whatever defiance they might show—stripping them of voice, breath, sight.”
Her jaw clenched when her voice caught at the end. Pieces of the profile sounded entirely too familiar.
Hotch took a long breath, then turned toward the speakerphone at the center of the table. “Garcia, you get all that?”
Her voice crackled, perky despite the grim content. “Heard every word, and I already don’t like where this is headed.”
“Run a search,” the Unit Chief instructed. “Focus on males aged twenty-five to thirty-five in the area with documented psychiatric history, particularly anything involving delusional ideation, visual hallucinations, or trauma associated with the eyes. Cross-reference with medical purchases—textbooks, surgical tools, even taxidermy equipment.”
“You got it, bossman.”
He turned back to the team. “Morgan, Elle, comb through missing persons files from the past two weeks. See if you can find anyone who vanished under circumstances that suggest they could have been a victim before the first confirmed kill. I’ll meet with Gideon and Prentiss at the latest dump site,” he continued. “I want fresh eyes on it. If there’s any evidence we missed, we’ll find it.”
“And us?” Evelyn asked, already dreading the answer when Reid hadn’t yet been assigned.
“You and Reid stay here,” Hotch said. “Reconstruct the timeline. Reexamine the victimology. If we know what they represent to him, we can predict what comes next.”
Evelyn nodded, trying not to let the tension settle too deeply in her shoulders. On one hand, she was relieved not to be heading back out into the cold to examine another bloodstained motel room. On the other hand, she was stuck here. With Reid. He hadn’t reacted to the assignment, hadn’t argued. But he hadn’t looked at her, either, and that’s what worried her.
With the rest of the team gone, the room collapsed into a peculiar quiet, the kind that didn’t soothe so much as press in from all sides. They’d laid the puzzle out in full view, hoping that proximity might conjure meaning. Photos fanned out across the table like playing cards mid-spread, all slit eyes and vacant, bruised flesh. A timeline bled across the whiteboard in frantic, arterial red. Notes formed a disjointed chorus across every inch of available space—field reports, autopsy summaries, hastily scribbled behavioral patterns. The sheer amount of documentation suggested they knew something. But they didn’t. Not really.
Across from her, Reid flipped through another file with relentless, mechanical precision. His fingers moved with compulsive grace of someone who lived in data, knee jerking in staccato rhythm beneath the table. His pen tapped out a sequence on the notepad—three quick clicks, a pause, then three again. Morse code for madness. Evelyn’s skin prickled.
She tried to ground herself. Forced her gaze down toward the photographs, each one a window into something sunken and hideous. High-resolution images of bodies preserved by the cold hands of forensics. No eyes. Just raw, scooped hollows where identity had once rooted itself. Evelyn swallowed back the instinctive revulsion and redirected her attention, narrowing in on the subtler violence: the ligature marks etched into each victim’s throat like grotesque jewelry. Deep grooves. Frayed abrasions. The unmistakable aftermath of something tightening, tightening , until the fragile structure beneath gave way.
The pressure hadn’t been brief. It had lingered. Intentionally drawn out.
This wasn’t mercy.
It was endurance tested by brutality.
She touched the edge of the photograph, fingers brushing cool gloss. It felt harmless, smooth, unassuming. But sensation played tricks. She wasn’t touching paper, she was touching a memory. Not hers, not yet, but something dangerously close. Her throat constricted in tandem. She told herself it was psychosomatic, just an echo of the image. It wasn’t real.
And yet—
There it was again. The phantom bite of cord against flesh. A presence behind her, faceless and enormous. Fingers twisted in her hair, yanking her head back, the stretch of tendons taut with the sharpness of animalistic terror. The burn of breath gone thin. The moment her body realized it could not reason its way out of death. Her own fingers carving blindly at skin, tearing whatever she could reach.
She remembered the blood, vivid as war paint, smearing his cheek in small, defiant streaks. His DNA buried beneath her nails. The bruises had bloomed like sick flowers across her neck, yellowing with time, a fading crown of survival. But healing skin hadn’t erased the memory of pressure.
She blinked hard. No.
No. Not now.
Not here.
She’d been so good, why now?
Evelyn set the photo down. Her fingertips left indents in the paper, and she hated that the evidence of tension was written into something so clinical.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
A textbook exercise.
It was just ink, just pixels, just a picture.
Just ink, just pixels, just—
“Brooks.”
His voice, quiet and without inflection, still cracked through the silence like a match to dry tinder.
She looked up. Reid had stopped moving. No pen. No bouncing knee. He had been watching her, though she couldn’t say how long he’d been doing it. The knowledge slid along her spine like ice.
Evelyn shifted, trying to suppress the tight knot that lodged somewhere between her lungs and throat. “What?”
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked toward the photograph— that photograph—and back again. She felt the instinct rise, irrational and sharp, to snatch it up, to tuck it beneath something less personal. But it was too late. He’d seen it. Of course, he’d seen it. He always saw. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what she’d stumbled over, and he was a genius.
“Nothing,” he said finally, voice flat but no longer cold. His eyes dropped to his notes, though the tension in his fingers betrayed him, a white-knuckled grip around his pen, as if control lived in the lines of his palm.
He knew. Not everything, not the full shape of it, but enough. And Evelyn couldn’t bear to see what that knowledge had etched onto his expression. Pity? Judgment? Something worse ?
She stood. The chair’s legs screeched against the tile, loud enough to make him flinch.
“I’ll be back.”
She didn’t wait for a reply.
She walked. Her limbs felt like borrowed pieces, stiff and disjointed, carried forward by momentum alone, but she couldn’t stop focusing on each step. Again and again and again until she was far enough away from the conference room that Reid couldn’t see. She just needed a second. One second.
Evelyn pressed her back against the cool surface of the beige hallway wall, inhaling. Counting her breaths. Five in. Hold. Five out. Breathing techniques were supposed to calm a person, to quell their panic. It wasn’t working. Hands still pulled at the base of her skull, tighter and tighter until she had no choice but to remove her hairband and pins. It was taking too long , the pins secured to her curls, each one tugging at the individual strands of hair until finally, finally , they were all free.
The pulse in her head slowed, the pressure in her throat loosening.
God, she could breathe .
What was wrong with her?
It was fine.
She was fine.
Was she fine?
She was, right?
Just another few seconds. She’d find a bathroom, fix her hair, and return to the conference room, to the profile that lay waiting. She’d straighten her spine, walk in with a face arranged like a mask. In five seconds. That’s what she kept repeating, over and over like a never-ending mantra. Five seconds, and then she’d go.
And yet, when seventy-five came and went, she still found herself plastered to the beige, as if the wall itself longed to keep her.
When Evelyn stepped back into the conference room, it was like nothing had changed.
Reid was still there, seated exactly as she’d left him, posture poised at that specific angle he always seemed to favor, like he’d been carved from the furniture. His pen resumed its rhythmic tapping, as if it had never stopped. The same stack of files lay open before him, though the pages had shifted slightly, his progress marked by a new dog ear. His expression, like always, remained studiously impassive, pointedly unconcerned.
For a moment, she lingered in the doorway, letting the artificial light wash over her. Her skin felt thin beneath it, translucent almost, like someone could peel her back with a glance and find the truth pulsing beneath.
Evely moved wordlessly back to her chair. Sat. Began adjusting some of the bobby pins in her hair, tight enough to hold the strands in place, but not tight enough for the pressure to return. Straightened a sheet of notes that didn’t require straightening. Let the weight of the case settle over her shoulders once again like a familiar, unwelcome coat.
“I wasn’t watching you,” Reid suddenly said. No greeting. No acknowledgment of the minutes she’d spent outside the room trying to breathe herself back into coherence. “I mean, I wasn’t just watching you.”
Her fingers paused over the paper. Slowly, she turned to look at him. “Okay.”
He didn’t seem to register the flatness in her tone. Or if he did, he ignored it.
“There’s a physiological explanation for what happened,” he continued, already slipping into the safety of lecture cadence, that subtle tilt of voice that made it sound as if he was quoting a textbook lodged behind his eyes. “What you experienced isn’t uncommon. It’s called a somatic flashback, different from a visual one, as it’s rooted in the body’s physical memory of trauma. Smells, textures, sounds—the nervous system stores fragments, even if the conscious brain tries to suppress them. It’s completely normal.”
Normal . Like grief. Like night terrors. Like scars that only appeared under certain lighting.
Evelyn stared at him. “Is that what we’re doing now? Profiling me?”
Again?
He blinked once. “No. I’m explaining.”
“Explaining,” she echoed, then nodded to herself as she turned back to the files. “Right.”
The silence that followed was not quite uncomfortable, but it wasn’t gentle either. It sat between them like a third presence at the table, pressing at the seams of the air.
Her fingers reached for the next file and found something more grounded to grip—paper, ink, the uncomplicated texture of the case itself. “They asked us to look at the victimology again,” she said, pulling Richard Palmer’s folder toward her. “See if we missed anything.”
Reid adjusted his posture. “Palmer was thirty-five. IT consultant. Lived in Wichita, but the motel was in Topeka.”
“Room was paid in cash,” she added, reviewing the facts. “Driver’s license and wallet found inside the nightstand drawer. Door locked from the inside. No sign of forced entry.”
Reid nodded. “Gerald Whitmore was older—forty-eight and a traveling insurance adjuster. Their motels were two hundred miles apart, but both men were alone, transient, and off-grid for almost seventy-two hours before they were found dead.”
Evelyn flipped through their photos again, each one framed by sterile motel wallpaper and bedspreads that hadn’t changed since the late ‘90s. Palmer’s mouth was slightly parted in the image, his skin discolored and bloated, even as he lay almost peacefully in the bed.
“Two men, different cities, similar circumstances,” she murmured, eyes narrowing. “Both out-of-towners. Both in rooms no one would notice right away—they were paid for in advance for at least five days. No immediate family close enough to report them missing.”
“They could’ve been chosen for their isolation,” Reid offered. “Less risk of someone knocking on the door. Less risk of being interrupted.”
“But why them?” Evelyn asked. “What made them the right choice?”
Reid’s brow furrowed. He leaned forward slightly, hands steepled. “Professionally, they’re unrelated. But their routines might be similar. Both traveled often. Ate in diners, booked short-term rooms, moved from one city to the next without much of a trace.”
“People on the fringes,” she said softly. “Drifting just far enough outside the lines to disappear.”
He glanced over at her, and for a fleeting second, Evelyn thought he might say something real. Something not memorized, not pulled from the vat of knowledge contained within his head. But instead, he settled back, nodding once. “That would make them ideal for an unsub who needs time and privacy.”
“It also makes sense if our unsub is drifting himself. If he’s experiencing manic states or within some sort of psychosis, our victims could’ve simply been at the wrong place at the wrong time.” She closed the file. “We could look for others like them. Men who live alone, travel frequently, have gaps in their timelines. We’re missing something—there has to be something else to it.”
“I can run a geographic overlay,” he said. “Compare other motels with similar incident reports or suspicious deaths.”
Evelyn nodded, already scribbling down potential cross-references. “Let’s do that.”
And just like that, they fell back into a rhythm—synchronized not in trust, not in ease, but in necessity. Because if the unsub was indeed fracturing, it would only be a matter of time before he shattered beyond repair.
It was only later, when Evelyn was reviewing a potential suspect list with Garcia, that she realized photos were missing from her copy of the file.
Photos of the crime scene. Of the victims. Of the very images that had resurfaced buried memories.
Photos only one person could've touched.
Notes:
Aaaaand we're back!! Guys, I promise I really really really wanted to release this sooner, but you would not BELIEVE the time I've had.
I'm lowkey starting to think the ao3 curse is real tho... cuz like... no way... ANYWAYS!
Thank you SM to those who've stuck around, I literally love you. I'm so happy I finally finished this AND revised the other chapters because I read through them again and was like... eww, girl what are we doing?? So, I fixed it :)
Thoughts?? Ideas?? Critiques?? I'm hoping to get another chapter out within the next couple of weeks (but literally I'm a liar, so no promises).
Also, if anyone's interested, I might've made a pinterest board for ECE... (etherealmuse25)
**Beware, there could be potential spoilers, so look at your own risk!!**
Anyways I love you so much okay byeeeeee
<3
Chapter 9: Victimology and Other Fun Party Tricks
Notes:
"the strongest man in the world is he who stands most alone." — henrik ibsen
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
02/12/2009—Kansas City, Missouri
The room hadn't changed.
Not in the way rooms sometimes felt altered after you broke inside them, after you shed too much of yourself into the carpet, the walls, the stagnant air. The conference table still bore the same scuffs along its edge. The crime scene photos still fanned across the surface in grim stillness. Reid sat diagonally from her, head bowed over a file, pen stitching frantic, useless lines into the margin.
And yet.
And yet.
Something inside Evelyn felt misaligned, like a clock wound just slightly off its rhythm, ticking a beat too fast. Her body obeyed her, arms moving, hands gathering pages, fingers sliding notes into neat, mechanical stacks. She could almost believe she was functional, from the outside. But beneath the shallow movements, beneath the brittle structure she'd thrown over herself like a net, her pulse still stuttered in her throat, thin and rabbit-quick.
The worst part wasn't the panic.
It was the shame of it.
There was no logic to her trembling muscles, no reason to the way her vision tried to blur at the edges whenever her fingers brushed too close to the photographs. The unsub hadn't touched her, hadn't even known she existed, and still her body betrayed her, flinching at ghosts sewn into the fabric of the room.
Across the table, Reid's pen slowed. His brown eyes—sharp, hawk-like—flickered up once, brief as a camera shutter.
Evelyn didn't flinch this time.
She refused to.
Instead, she flipped another page, threading her motions with a surgeon's precision. If she couldn't be invulnerable, she could at least appear composed. She could build herself into something he wouldn't pity. Something he wouldn't look at and think fragile.
Outside the glass walls, officers moved in tides—consulting, debating, the choreography of bureaucratic urgency—but their voices dulled into meaningless background chatter. Evelyn barely registered them. The unsub's file lay open in front of her, the victim's hollowed gaze turned eternally upward, and somewhere deep inside her chest, Evelyn tightened her jaw and dared her own heart to keep beating.
She would not fall apart again.
Not here.
Not where he could see her do it twice.
The door creaked open with a weary groan, letting in a draft of stale hallway air and the others with it. Morgan was first, shedding tension from his broad shoulders like a man too tired to keep carrying it. Elle followed, a sheaf of notes tucked under her arm, eyes sharp and predatory. Hotch brought up the rear, still radiating that unnerving kind of focus that made a person sit straighter. They filled the space easily, all grim purpose and clipped conversation, and Evelyn let the tide of their presence rush over her.
Safety in numbers (disregarding that they were presently missing three agents and a Communications Liaison).
Or at least the illusion of it.
The redhead kept her head bent over the files, absorbing the fragments of their low-voiced exchange: a potential name from Garcia's cross-referencing, a narrowed timeline built from motel registrations and credit card gaps. Confirmation that Reid's geographic overlay had flagged several smaller motels along a two-hundred-mile corridor, perfect hunting grounds for someone slipping between sanity's crumbling seams.
Men who lived transiently.
Men whose absences wouldn't register until it was far too late.
The picture was sharpening. The horror of it, too.
Somewhere to her left, Morgan made a dour noise in his throat—part frustration, part realization. Reid answered without looking up, his voice a quiet blade sliding between syllables. They were getting closer.
Closer to someone who didn't see murder as violence, but as necessity.
Closer to someone who thought salvation could be carved from tissue and fear.
Evelyn's fingers tightened imperceptibly around her pen, knuckles pale with the pressure she refused to ease. She could feel the pieces moving into place, could almost taste the jagged edge of the truth they hadn't fully uncovered yet. But the more they saw, the worse it would get. The worse it always got.
She straightened the papers in front of her, needing something small to control.
Stay here. Stay useful. Stay sharp.
The vibration came in the next breath—a low hum, sudden and insistent, rattling across the table from where her phone sat facedown. The screen buzzed again, haloed in the weak overhead light.
Unknown Number.
She stared at it, a beat too long, something cold spiraling up from the base of her spine. Nobody good ever called from a number you didn't recognize. Still—habit, training, stubbornness, maybe all three—she answered.
"Hello?" she said, voice steady despite the way her pulse stammered behind it.
There was a crackle, another moment of silence too long to be casual.
And then—
"Evelyn?"
The voice was low, warm, achingly familiar.
Ryan.
Her grip on the phone slackened slightly, enough that she almost dropped it. She blinked, as if the sound of his voice had pulled her half out of her own skin, yanking her backward into another life—one washed in neon lights and the reckless thrill of choosing joy, if only for a night. Excusing herself from the room, she kept her hand wrapped tight around her phone.
"Evelyn, hey," Ryan said again, softer now, like he wasn't sure he was allowed to say her name at all. "I—sorry if this is weird. I just... I was hoping you'd pick up."
A thousand instincts flared at once—guardedness, guilt, some small, stubborn ember of happiness—and Evelyn had to scrape together every ounce of composure just to stay standing still.
"No, it's—" she cleared her throat, glancing toward the glass wall, caught the unmistakable slant of Reid's gaze darting away. "It's fine."
There was a beat, full of static and unsaid things.
"I was just..." Ryan hesitated, then rushed on, words stumbling over themselves. "I was wondering if maybe you wanted to grab dinner sometime. You know. Without all the tequila and bad karaoke lurking the background."
The corners of her mouth tugged upward before she could stop them.
Dinner.
Normal.
Something real, something safe.
For a dizzying second, Evelyn forgot where she was. Forgot the morgues and motel rooms and hollowed-out corpses waiting for her on the other side of the glass. She ducked her head slightly, tucking in a strand of hair behind her ear—a shy, almost awkward gesture she hadn't worn in years.
"I—" she started, then stopped, blinking hard as if words had become an unfamiliar language. "Yeah. That sounds... nice."
God, was that her voice? Breathless? Hopeful?
Ryan chuckled quietly, the sound smoothing something rough in her chest. "Cool. Cool. No pressure. Just—text me when you're free, alright?"
She nodded, even though he couldn't see her. "Yeah. I will. I'm just—umm, I'm working right now. But I'll—I'll reach out soon."
"Stay safe, Evelyn," he said, the words heavier than they should have been. Like he knew the monsters she hunted by name. But that was ridiculous. She had never mentioned her job, nor what dangers awaited her daily.
"You too," she murmured, and then, softer: "Bye, Ryan."
She ended the call before she could second-guess herself, thumb hovering for a moment over the darkened screen. The hallway around her felt colder now, the sterile air curling up her sleeves like unwelcome fingers. When she turned back toward the conference room, it was to find half a dozen sets of eyes studiously not looking at her. The way people don't look at a wound they can't heal.
She slipped back into her chair without comment, sliding her phone under a folder as if she could bury the conversation along with it. Across the table, Reid's pen resumed its mechanical tapping.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
Three taps. A pause. Three again.
Like he needed the rhythm to keep from snapping.
Evelyn forced herself to focus, to listen, as Hotch stood and smoothed his tie with the mechanical precision of a man winding a clock. Gideon gathered the notes. Rossi, Morgan, Elle, and Emily shifted into place around the table. Chess pieces knowing their inevitable move.
It was time.
They would present the profile. Lay bare the bones of a man none of them had yet seen, only imagined through his brutality. They would offer Kansas City a map made of blood and brokenness and hope it was enough.
Evelyn straightened her spine, willing her hands to still. The taste of the phone call still lingered in her mouth, sweet and tentative and dangerous.
Later.
Later, she would figure out how to breathe around it.
For now, there was work to do.
The briefing room smelled faintly of burnt coffee and tired ambition, but Evelyn forced herself to focus, pressing the file tighter between her fingers as Hotch stepped forward to command the room.
"We believe you're dealing with a white male, late twenties to mid-thirties, operating under the influence of a severe psychotic delusion," Hotch began, voice clipped and clear.
A quiet shuffle of boots and papers answered him. Kansas City's finest—lined up in muted blues and greys, weary-eyed and ready for a miracle they didn't quite believe in.
Gideon spoke next, his tone measured, even gentle. "This unsub isn't killing for pleasure or profit. He believes he's performing an act of necessity—'cleansing' his victims. Likely rooted in trauma connected to visual distortion, sensory misperception, or religious delusion."
Morgan stepped into the current seamlessly. "He's methodical. Selects victims who won't be missed immediately. Men living transient lives—travelers, loners, people drifting under the radar. He stalks them before striking."
Reid, standing with his arms crossed but his mind a live wire behind his eyes, added, "The removal of the eyes is symbolic. He likely believes the eyes are corrupted. That by excising them, he's purging some perceived impurity. It's possible he's preserving them, but we have no confirmation yet."
Evelyn's voice surprised even herself, steady despite the tension coiling beneath her ribs.
"He's strangles first," she said, stepping forward just slightly. "It's deliberate, personal. He forces his victims to experience the loss of breath before death, exerting complete control. The extraction comes after."
A few detectives shifted uncomfortably. Good. It should make them uncomfortable.
Elle picked up the thread smoothly. "He's organized. He plans ahead, wipes scenes meticulously. That kind of preparation means he's stable enough to function day-to-day—at least on the surface."
"And if he's already escalating," Prentiss added, "we have a limited window before he strikes again."
Hotch let the final words settle like ash over the room.
"We'll provide a list of known motels fitting the pattern. Patrols need to sweep these areas, discreetly. The unsub's psychosis could make him hypervigilant. If he senses law enforcement closing in, he may accelerate."
The room rustled again, men and women exchanging grim glances. They could all feel it—the timeframe winding tighter.
Hotch nodded once. "Questions?"
There a few—the usual ones, the ones Evelyn could have written herself by now. Clarifications about the unsub's background, about how much of a threat he posed to civilians. Rossi and Gideon fielded most of them with patient efficiency. Evelyn watched the map behind them, red pins blooming Missouri like wounds left to rot. She forced herself to stand still. To breathe evenly. To not think about how Ryan's voice still echoed faintly in the hollow of her ear.
Focus.
Focus.
Eventually, the meeting broke. Officers and detectives funneled out in pairs, off to chase shadows the B.A.U. had named. The team gathered their materials quietly, the exhaustion starting to fray at the edges of even Morgan's resilient frame. They retreated back toward their temporary conference room, moving like a pack regrouping after the first charge into battle. Evelyn tucked her paperwork under her arm and walked beside Elle, feeling the slight static of nerves still sparking under her skin.
Inside the familiar beige walls, the rookie agent broke the silence first, voice low but determined.
"If we layer Garcia's list of recent check-ins with Reid's motel overlay," she said, tapping a corner of the whiteboard absently, "we might be able to identify secondary clusters the unsub hasn't struck yet. Especially if we account for distance traveled during manic highs—"
She didn't get to finish.
Reid cut across her, dismissive in a way that turned the temperature of the room cold.
"Or, we could waste more time chasing theories based on guesswork instead of evidence," he said flatly, not even bothering to look at her.
The words hit harder than they should have.
Not a disagreement.
Not a correct.
An execution.
Heat lightly prickled under her skin, shame blooming wild and fast, choking out every practiced defense she thought she'd built. She hated how easy it still was, even after almost a month—how a single careless blow from him could leave her stripped bare in front of everyone.
Evelyn blinked, momentarily stunned, the echo of her voice hollowing out inside her. Her hands curled tighter, nails pressing crescents into her palms. Morgan looked up sharply. Elle's mouth twitched, like she wasn't sure whether to jump in or not. Even Hotch—stoic, unshakable—narrowed his eyes slightly at the young doctor, a silent reprimand brewing behind the dark glint of his gaze.
Fine. If Reid wanted a war, he could have one.
But not here. Not now.
Instead, Hotch began assigning field teams, tapping out orders like a surgeon charting an operation. Morgan and Elle were slated to canvass the motels on the east side. Gideon and Rossi would pull witness statements from local patrols. Emily was running point on covering flagged motels.
Evelyn listened, scribbling quick notes, willing her hands not to shake. It would've been easy to pretend the earlier slight hadn't happened. Easier still to let it rot into the silence. But she wasn't built that way. She cleared her throat, quiet but insistent, and found her voice again.
"If we triangulate the unsub's likely comfort zone," she said, gesturing lightly toward the map pinned to the whiteboard, "we might be able to anticipate where he'll go next. Especially if he's following a—"
"You're not even looking at the right patterns," Reid interrupted, voice slicing through her mid-sentence. "You're confusing comfort zones with escalation zones. They're not the same thing, Brooks. Basic profiling."
The words were light on the surface. Deceptively light. But they were weighted underneath, barbed and honed and aimed for the softest part of her. Evelyn's mouth opened, but nothing coherent came out first, just a scrape of breath against her teeth. Her cheeks burned now, a sharp, unmistakable flush rising up her neck so fast it felt like drowning.
She tried—god, she tried—to rally, to defend the thought she hadn't even finished forming.
"I—I'm not confusing them," she managed, her voice cracking at the edges. Her previous confidence was shot. "I meant if his behavior's fragmenting, the lines could—could blur—"
"You meant?" Reid said, arching an eyebrow without even bothering to look fully at her. His voice was detached, the kind used for classifying insects under glass.
Something inside Evelyn twisted, sharp and white-hot, a hair away from snapping loose. But she never got the chance.
"Reid," Hotch said, cutting clean through the room—not raised, not angry, but final in a way that left no room for argument, "step outside."
It landed harder than any yell could have. A cold command. Authority wrapped in a velvet voice.
Even Morgan looked up from his notes he was pretending to read, tension pulling tight across his shoulders and thick brows. Emily's expression froze in a grimace she didn't bother to disguise. Elle let her pen fall to the table with a soft, well-timed clatter.
And Reid—
He actually flinched.
For a fraction of a second, he looked like a boy caught with a premature sweet treat. And then he schooled it away, jaw tightening, pen snapping shut with a muted click. He didn't say a word, just turned and left, the door swinging back into its frame with a soft, accusing thud behind him.
The silence he left behind was a living thing, stretching between them all. Evelyn swallowed around the raw knot blooming in her throat, blinking furiously down at her notes, even though the words had all but blurred into nonsense.
Morgan cleared his throat after a moment, demonstrating the awkward tension they were all feeling.
"Uhh. Guess I'll have Garcia pull up the satellite maps," he muttered, a blatant mercy.
Hotch only nodded once, curtly, before stepping out of the room himself. No doubt to confront the tense doctor.
What was with him today? Not an hour earlier, they seemed to at least tolerate each other. Evelyn thought that they had actually managed to find a groove amongst their workload. They had flown the white flags, allying just long enough to catch a killer. But now...? It didn't seem to matter what she did. He dismissed her regardless, discarded her thoughts as if they were too juvenile for his genius.
She wasn't sure which wound carved deeper—the words he'd used to humiliate her, or the fact that he hadn't even flinched afterward. No apology. No hesitation. As if she were collateral damage in a war he never paused to question.
The team dispersed, a polished chaos of practice routine—papers snapped up like crackling wings, maps folded with impatient precision, sidearms checked and re-checked with muscle memory that had long since replaced fear.
No one looked at her.
No one said a word.
But the tension hung thick in the air, swamp-like and suffocating. The kind of weight that clung to skin and bones, that pressed against ribs and made the act of breathing feel earned.
Hotch returned not long after Reid had left, his face stone, lips a thin line beneath days-old stubble. Evelyn didn't need to ask what had happened in the hallway. The silence clinging to his shoulders told her everything. Whatever passed between Unit Chief and resident genius was locked behind the subtle muscle of Hotch's clenched jaw. And Evelyn... she knew better than to expect translation.
His tone, when he spoke again, was clipped. Professional to the point of coldness, clearly designed to avoid anything too human. Orders came quick, clean.
Rossi and Gideon: witnesses. Timelines.
Morgan and Elle: east side motels, boots on gravel.
Prentiss: Garcia's overflow list, every sleazy roadside dive marked with an asterisk and a red flag.
And Evelyn?
Hotch didn't even blink when he paired her with Emily. He didn't need to explain. The meaning was obvious.
You will not be paired with Reid.
Not today. Not after this.
The doctor, meanwhile, was being stationed in the safe, sterile heart of the operation. Left behind to coordinate with Garcia and JJ—surrounded by his facts, firewalls, and just enough distance to ensure no further damage could be done. According to Emily, Garcia had already promised him a stern talking-to.
Good, Evelyn thought. But the word felt hollow.
The group dissolved around her like mist, shoes echoing down the corridor, voices fading into the white noise of strategy and motion. But she stayed.
Not by accident.
Not because she'd been dismissed late.
She stayed because she needed one moment. Just one.
Her hands moved on instinct—papers straightened, notes stacked. She wouldn't remember later what she'd gathered. It didn't matter; they were props, distractions. Something to hold so she wouldn't start shaking.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him.
Reid sat rigid, neck hunched like he could fold himself into the pages he held. His pen hovered over a case summary he wasn't reading, eyes glued to a margin as if the ink might start whispering absolution. Every line of his body screamed avoidance. He didn't see her until she was already there. Close enough to shatter the illusion that he could pretend her absence meant safety.
She reached out and curled her fingers around the cuff of his sleeve. Not a pull. Not a demand. Just enough pressure to say you will not ignore me again.
He flinched. Then looked up. And the pulse in his neck twitched when their eyes met. Whatever he'd built to protect himself cracked, just a little.
"Come with me," Evelyn said. Her voice was flat. Even. Devoid of anything resembling emotion. It didn't sound like her at all.
And it wasn't a request.
He hesitated—of course he did. Then, wordless, he followed.
She led him down a hallway that pulsed with that same fluorescent silence that seemed to follow them everywhere. Past an empty office. Past a bulletin board layered in faded photos and flyers. Past the watchful eyes of a vending machine with stale snacks and broken buttons. Until they reached it, an alcove tucked into the ribcage of the station. Half-sheltered. Quiet. Dim.
Evelyn didn't speak. Not at first. She let the hush stretch just long enough for Reid to shift. Barely. His discomfort sang from every nerve ending, and still, she waited. Watched.
When she finally spoke, her voice was iron wrapped in silk. Her Unit Chief would've been proud; it was from his demeanor she acquired her inspiration.
"Was that your goal?" she asked softly, almost curious. "To humiliate me? To discredit me in front of the team?"
Reid didn't answer immediately. His eyes slid sideways, the way a man might watch for exits without meaning to. Evelyn tilted her head, studying him. Unblinking.
"The first time, maybe it could've been chalked up to frustration," she said, tone never wavering. "But twice? Twice in the span of ten minutes?"
She smiled then, a small, sharp thing that never touched her eyes. It honestly scared her.
"You want to make sure everyone in that room knows exactly how little you think of me, right?" She continued, her hands loose at her sides. Her breathing was even, but the words came faster now, scraping at her bones.
For a second, something almost human flickered across Reid's umber eyes—uncertainty, maybe, or regret trying too late to resurface. He opened his mouth, breath hitching on the start of some pitiful defense—
And Evelyn didn't let him speak. She cut across him without hesitation.
"No," she seethed, low and cold and blistering. "You don't get to interrupt me. Not after what you pulled in there."
His mouth snapped shut, but his eyes—those endlessly analytical eyes—narrowed in a reflex he probably didn't even know he had. Evelyn felt the words unspooling faster now, rushing forward, almost outpacing her own pulse. She didn't have time to do this carefully. Didn't have time to be merciful.
"You walk into every room acting like you're above the rest of us." Not physically, of course. He was perhaps the least intimidating-looking of them all. "Like you're already bracing for everyone to disappoint you. Is that what I did? Did I disappoint you?"
Mockery in her tone.
His shoulders flinched the smallest bit, but he stayed silent as she demanded.
"And god forbid someone doesn't measure up to whatever impossible standard you've buried in your head, right?" she went on, stepping closer, crowding into his protected space. "You tear them down before they can get close enough to see you're scared. Terrified, actually."
Reid's mouth opened again, but Evelyn steamrolled forward. Relentless.
"You're afraid someone might see you're not invincible. That you don't always have the answers. That excessive knowledge doesn't always protect you." Her hands were shaking now, not with fear, but with fury barely leashed.
"You're a coward. Because you think if you cut first, you won't have to bleed."
The words hit the air like a slap.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Just left the hollow space between them, vibrating with everything they kept sealed behind chapped lips. Evelyn exhaled another faulty breath, backing up a single step. Not because she was scared of retaliation, but because if she stayed that close, she was afraid she'd throw every ounce of professionalism she had left into the roaring fire.
She shook her head.
"I don't know what I did to make you hate me, Reid," she almost whispered, quieter but no less vicious, "but I hope it was worth it. Enjoy your research."
And before he could muster whatever half-assed apology he might have stitched together, Evelyn turned on her heel and left him there, alone in the empty hallway.
The ride out to the flagged motels stretched ahead of them, the city bleeding past in muted golds and indifferent shadows. Evelyn kept her gaze trained on the windshield, watching lamplight flicker across the dashboard in long, stuttering lines.
Emily drove like she did everything else—controlled, precise, never wasting a single unnecessary movement. She didn't speak at first, and Evelyn was grateful for it. The quiet felt earned.
Still, she couldn't let it last.
"I've been thinking about what to look for," Evelyn said, fingers smoothing over the edge of her notebook. "Not obvious scenes, but... signs he's losing control. Maybe places where rituals shifted—like the layout was different, or the sequence of actions changed. If he deviates from his pattern, it might mean the psychosis is fragmenting."
Emily glanced over, just briefly, but enough to register interest.
"Disorganized evolution," she said. "Yeah. That's good. If the delusion's destabilizing, we'll see that in the ritual inconsistencies."
Evelyn nodded, relieved. "We might also catch something in the physical layout—like if he stayed longer than usual, or left behind items he normally wouldn't."
"And if he's experiencing sleep gaps or memory disruption," Emily added, "he might not even realize what he's leaving behind."
Evelyn let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. The steady rhythm of back-and-forth, hypothesis and response, grounded her more than she wanted to admit.
"You're thinking in the right direction," Emily said after a pause. "Your instincts are solid, you know."
Evelyn blinked once, then nodded again, slower. Her throat felt oddly tight. She glanced out the window as they turned past a set of flickering neon motel sighs. And just as she opened her mouth to suggest checking against older travel records, Emily spoke again.
"And how are you doing?"
The words were gentle. Unassuming. And yet, Evelyn hesitated.
"I'm... managing."
She didn't believe it. Neither did Emily. Weren't profilers supposed to be good at lying?
"I just," Evelyn sighed, eyes still fixed out the window, "I don't want to make this harder for anyone else. Especially not when things are already tense."
"Do you want to talk about what happened with Reid?"
She'd been avoiding the subject since they'd gotten into the car. It came as no surprise to anyone on the team that Reid and her verbally tussled, but despite that, they'd always maintained some sort of vague professionalism when required. And as ridiculous as it was, Evelyn had truly begun to think that maybe, just maybe, he'd been a little softer for a few short moments. That he'd been a little... understanding. But clearly, her observations were wrong.
It was awkward, hating a coworker that everyone else seemed to adore.
"I don't know how to talk about it. I don't know where to start," Evelyn admitted, voice barely audible.
"Then don't start," Emily said. "Just talk. Whatever comes out."
Evelyn didn't speak for a while. The lull of the road returned, stretching between shady gas stations and warehouses, fast food signs and church parking lots. The kind of scenery that began to blur if you stared too long. She stared anyway.
Then finally, her voice broke the silence, quieter than she would've liked.
"I don't get it."
She didn't mean to say more, but from the first word she spoke, she knew she wouldn't be able to stop.
"I really don't. I've done everything I'm supposed to do. I work late. I study. I ask the right questions, keep my head down, try not to get in anyone's way—hell, I've practically rewritten half my instincts just to keep up. And still, somehow, I'm the one he goes after."
Her hands curled slightly in her lap, twisting against the fabric of her coat.
"I say one thing, and it's like I've declared war. He hears my voice and automatically assumes I'm wrong. Doesn't even think about it—just dismisses me. Cuts me off. Makes me feel like an idiot in front of everyone."
She stopped, breath shaky.
"I don't know what I did to make him hate me. But it's starting to feel personal, and I'm... I'm sick of pretending it doesn't get to me."
The raven-haired agent didn't respond. Didn't nod. Didn't shift. She simply drove, gaze forward, silence wide enough to hold the weight.
"I know I'm new," Evelyn added, her voice thinning. "But I'm not incompetent. I don't deserve to be treated like I'm some... liability just because I wasn't born with a PhD shoved up my ass—sorry."
Another silence. Evelyn let it settle, not sure what else she could possibly say that wouldn't undo her completely. They still had a case to focus on, something that needed their full, undivided attention.
"You're right," Emily finally said. Gently. "You don't deserve that."
She paused, the car turning onto a narrower road. The buildings grew smaller, farther apart. The motel in the distance loomed closer now, a long, low structure with faded signs and plastic blinds drawn too tight.
"What Reid said to you was unprofessional. And it wasn't the first time—not that there should've been a first time."
Evelyn's jaw clenched, bracing for what came next. She forced herself to let go of the jacket bundled in her fists.
"But," Emily continued, "I don't think it's about you."
Evelyn frowned. "What does that mean?"
Emily gave a faint shrug, still watching the road. "Reid's spent most of his life being the smartest person in every room. That's not arrogance, it's just... fact. But he's also spent most of that time being isolated because of it. Misunderstood. Talked down to, or held to impossible standards."
A soft exhale. Hadn't Evelyn accused him of doing the same thing to her?
"He doesn't always know how to handle someone who gets him. Who might actually challenge him in a way he can't explain away with some textbook."
Evelyn looked at her, a half glare. "So, what? He's mean to people he... respects? That's slightly backwards, don't you think?"
Emily glanced over, just briefly. "No. He's mean when he's scared. His intelligence is his shield, and if you can see past it..."
She looked away then, heart ticking somewhere beneath her ribs like a metronome left too long in the quiet. Emily didn't elaborate further. Didn't try to spin it into something redemptive. She just let it sit there, a truth without a verdict.
She had been right. Everything she threw in Reid's face, she'd been right. And as much as wished the thought comforted her... it didn't.
As they pulled into the first motel parking lot, the tension in the rookie's chest hadn't quite eased, but it had lessened from before. She wasn't sure if it was clarity or just another weight to carry, but it was something. And for now, that would have to be enough.
Notes:
Okay lovelies... I may have posted this a tad later than I said I would, but IN MY DEFENSE, I did have finals/packing/work/etc.
Did I also procrastinate a bit? Perhaps. But that's neither here nor there. Point is—the chapter's here!!I literally cannot guarantee when I'll post the next one. I'm like... really bad at following my own deadlines, so I'M SORRY. Maybe if someone threatens me I'll get it done sooner hehe ;)
ANYWAYSSS I hope you enjoyed!! PLZ let me know what ya'll are thinking.
And I PROMISE I have a plan for Ryan, so plz don't be mad at meee :(<3
Chapter 10: Professionalism is a Pretty Little Liar
Notes:
"the worst moments in life are heralded by small observations." – andy weir
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
02/12/2009—Somewhere Outside of Kansas City, Missouri
The motel looked like every other ghost Evelyn had chased. Sun-bleached siding blistered with age, curling at the corners like paper left too close to flame. The building stretched out in a tired, single-story sprawl, each faded teal door peeling like old paint on forgotten playgrounds—childhood relics gone to rot. Cigarette butts carpeted the concrete in lazy constellations, stale remnants of passersby who never meant to leave anything behind. A vending machine buzzed near the office, its tired hum an artificial heartbeat beneath a flickering ICE COLD sign that lied with neon conviction.
The parking lot was nearly empty. Just two cars: one with a dented bumper, the other blanketed in dust so thick it blurred the make and model. The rear window was spiderwebbed with cracks, sharp lines etched like veins beneath translucent flesh.
Evelyn stepped out of the SUV with the same practiced cadence she used when approaching a body. Chin high. Shoulders squared. Breathing carefully measured. It came easier than expected. Or maybe that wasn't quite true. Maybe it wasn't ease at all, just the illusion of it. A hollowed-out calm stitched together by muscle memory and a desire to move on. Her body had learned the choreography by now: enter the scene, assume control, shove everything else beneath the metronome of routine until her focus narrowed to the work.
Cold needled her cheeks. She adjusted the collar of her charcoal coat (purchased from a thrift store and a size too big), the wool pilled at her elbows. A copper strand slipped from the knot at the nape of her neck and stung her lip in the wind.
Her fingers curled around her notepad as her eyes swept the row of units, every door a copy of the one before it. Plastic numbers nailed into splintered wood. Curtains drawn tight, the edges yellowed and puckered with age and mildew. Above each threshold, an overhead bulb dangled from a rusting fixture, swinging lazily in the wind like a drunken pendulum. Room 16. Room 17. Room 18.
The numbers meant nothing.
They weren't here for chaos, not for gore or broken furniture or a mattress soaked in rust-red. The unsub wasn't careless. He didn't leave messes. If he'd touched this place, it would be in the tiniest fracture, followed by a morbidly picturesque body. And as much as she knew they needed to catch him, Evelyn was glad they hadn't found anything.
She crossed toward the nearest unit, footsteps tapping rhythmically against the concrete. In a window to her left, her reflection flickered, framed in grime etched with faded fingerprints and fly wings. For a moment, she didn't recognize herself. Just a silhouette, all angles and shadows. Not the woman who'd vented to her coworker mid-case. Not the girl who'd sat in the back of an ambulance, wondering if she'd made the worst mistake of her life.
Just a shadow. A mold to be filled.
She blinked, and the image dissolved.
Focus.
The manager's office reeked faintly of ammonia, the overhead light casting everything in a tired yellow hue. Emily stepped forward, taking the lead with the casual precision of someone who'd done this a thousand times. Her voice was calm, steady, diplomatic. Meanwhile, Evelyn flipped through the motel's logbook on the counter, its cover warped and furred at the corners. Ink bled in spots where moisture had lingered too long. Guest names, dates, durations. Most paid in cash. No IDs, no copies.
Ghosts checking in and slipping back into the dark.
She jotted down three names: two with awkwardly shortened initials, the third just "R." Initials were shields. People used them when they didn't want to be known. But that wasn't their guy. The unsub didn't want to disappear—he wanted to blend in. Or, his madness did.
The desk clerk didn't glance her way. People rarely did, not once the badge came out. They always looked at Emily—not that Evelyn minded. It made her invisible, and invisibility had its uses. It gave her room to watch. To listen.
The pressure in her chest hadn't vanished. It had simply sunk lower, coiled tight beneath her ribs. That was the real trick, wasn't it? You didn't silence the nerves, you simply taught them to sit down and shut up.
She closed the logbook—still nothing. But something in her gut shifted as her gaze slid back to the line of rooms outside. At the end of the row, the porch light above Room 19 pulsed. Another flicker. Dying, restarting, dying again. She didn't move toward it, there was no evidence. No trail, nothing that warranted investigation. All she had was instinct, that humming thing in her mind that whispered when the math didn't quite add up.
But in the bureau, instinct was always on a leash, waiting for permission to bite.
Emily wrapped up the conversation with a clipped thank-you and turned toward the door. Evelyn followed. Wind tugged at her coat, keeping her rooted to the threshold. They moved on, room to room, constructing their profile out of what wasn't there. Started with Room 12 and crept downward, armed with a jangling ring of rusted skeleton keys handed over by the manager—no digital locks or security cameras.
Most of the rooms were what Evelyn expected: stale air, wrinkled bedspreads, floral wallpaper yellowing at the corners. A TV remote sticky with fingerprints, Bibles untouched in drawers. If she concentrated, she could smell bleach thinned with cigarette smoke. She moved through the first two rooms, gaze sliding over the scuffed linoleum and chipped sink basins in bathrooms barely large enough to stand in. Each space was hollow in a different way.
But Room 19 pulled at her. An odd feeling, like a thread caught in a door hinge, tugging faster with every step away. She stopped just outside it. One hand hovered near the key buried in her coat pocket, the other clenched at her side. Her stomach had gone tight, breath catching in a way that didn't quite make sense.
Emily was already moving down the walkway, boots crunching softly against the cracked pavement. Evelyn stayed where she was.
There was nothing remarkable about the door—the room. The paint was weathered like all the others, blinds shut, the room number itself slightly off-kilter as if someone had bumped it years ago and no one cared to fix it. The lock showed signs of wear, but no forced entry. No blood. No scorched-clean smell of stronger chemicals.
Still—
Her fingers twitched toward the key again.
It's nothing. Pattern first, superstition second. You're not a psychic; you're a profiler in training. Keep moving.
She turned half a step behind Emily. The lot stretched wide and dim, cold wind pricking her coat. They searched three more units. All quiet and wholly unremarkable.
One room's trash can held a takeout container—grease-stained cardboard folded in on itself, a receipt crumpled inside. Evelyn turned it over in her gloved hand. Burger, fries, soda, dated three days ago. Not exactly a disturbed man's food of choice.
She logged it anyway.
The next motel on Garcia's list was fifteen minutes out, past the highway, wedged between a boarded-up diner and a sagging tire shop swallowed by weeds. The kind of place that clung to the edge of relevance, unnoticed and unwanted.
Evelyn slid into the passenger seat while Emily started the car.
Two more dead ends.
Every room was clean, occupied by travelers who didn't know they'd narrowly avoided becoming names in a report. A backpacker, a pair of truckers, a family making their way across the country for their annual roadtrip. One elderly man with a bad knee and a stack of gas station scratch-offs. Nothing in the way of evidence, nothing that would suggest a match in their pattern.
Just silence, and the slow, creeping suspicion that they were still two steps behind a man who didn't plan on stopping. Who didn't even have a plan in his deluded mind.
Emily didn't say much as they left their last site. Her phone buzzed once, and she stepped aside to take the call—Hotch, checking in. Evelyn could faintly make out the clipped phrases: "No signs," "Minimal activity," "Still canvassing." Not much to say beyond that.
Back on the road, Evelyn finally exhaled. The air had grown cooler since sunset, a light frost brushing against the corners of the windshield as the raven-haired agent turned down a narrow back road toward the next motel.
Evelyn had half a mind to review her notes again when Emily's phone buzzed in its cradle—louder this time, rattling the console.
"Can you grab that?" Emily asked, eyes on the road. "It might be Garcia."
Evelyn answered without looking at the screen, thumb sliding across the green button.
"Brooks," she said automatically, pen already hovering near her notebook.
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
"...It's Reid."
Her hand stilled, pen tip ghosting the margin as she moved the phone to glance at the display—too late. His name glowed up at her in thin white text, smug in its timing.
Of course, it would be him.
Not that their petty drama mattered at a time like this.
"Go ahead," she said, as even as she could manage. Professional, like the call was no different than any other update (because it wasn't). Like he hadn't humiliated her—and himself—in front of the team just hours ago.
He seemed to do the same, setting aside personal feelings for the sake of their work.
"I ran Garcia's motel list against known transient offenders and hospital admittance logs. Kansas City ERs, mostly. In the last week, there's a report of a male patient treated for severe conjunctivitis and ocular abrasion. The description is vague, but the admittance happened less than three miles from one of the motels you canvassed."
He paused. "It could be unrelated. But—"
"But it's close enough to flag," she finished, writing down his update. "Do we have the ER's address?"
"I already sent it to Emily's phone."
"Thanks," she said. A beat. Then, quieter, still without wavering: "I'll let her know."
Silence feathered the line. Had it been her phone, she might've hung up already. Might've thrown it out the window and let a pothole claim it.
"...You're welcome."
And that was that. Not that she had expected some grand, heartfelt apology about how he'd been a dick... but... oh well. It wasn't the time for such things, and maybe Reid knew that.
She ended the call, set the phone gently in her lap, and turned toward Emily, already returning to her notes.
"Reid ran the motels against ER logs," Evelyn explained, channeling the woman beside her. "There was a patient treated for an eye injury a few miles from one of our earlier canvasses. He sent you the hospital address... 2525 Glenn Hendren. It's in Liberty," she said, reading off the address on Emily's phone.
The woman nodded, flicking on the turn signal as they approached a bend in the road. "Right, then."
Just when Evelyn thought—hoped—they'd moved on, Emily hummed softly under her breath, a smile curving on her lips.
"So..." she started, voice edged with amusement, "Reid called you."
Evelyn made a point to keep her eyes on her notes. "He called you. He didn't intend to talk to me. I don't even think he has my number—"
"Mhm," Emily mused, one brow arched. "And yet, you didn't hand it off the second you realized it was him. Very professional. I'm almost impressed."
"You were driving," Evelyn said, flipping a page. "Would you rather I'd thrown the phone out the window?"
"Not saying that," the older agent smirked. "I don't feel like explaining that to Hotch. But it would've been dramatic." Emily laughed—low and rich with that faint wickedness she carried.
Then, softer, more sincere: "You handled it well."
Her grip on the pen eased slightly, but she didn't let her smile reach her mouth.
"Yeah," Evelyn relented, "Well. I'm getting good at pretending."
Emily didn't push. She just drove, letting the road unspool beneath them for another quiet mile. Outside the window, the hospital began to appear in the distance like a slab of concrete pressed into the skyline—narrow windows, washed-out signage, a parking lot pitted with age.
Evelyn followed Emily through the sliding glass doors, where a gust of overcooled air slapped the little heat she had from her skin. The lights above them threw a jaundiced tint over the polished tile. It made the white walls look bruised, the cleanliness clinical in a way that felt almost hostile.
Or maybe she just didn't like hospitals.
At the front desk, the nurse didn't bother to look up until the flash of badges flicked in her peripheral. Then came the perfunctory gum snap, a muttered room number, a lazy flick of fingers toward the elevator.
Room 407. Patient under observation. Name flagged in emergency logs only as "J. Miller."
He'd arrived with a torn cornea and chemical burns scoring the conjunctiva. The report had been vague, a flurry of ER shorthand, but what stood out was the line near the bottom of the intake sheet.
Patient claims he was blinded by a 'light too bright to be real.'
The elevator shuddered as it climbed. Evelyn reviewed the file again. Chemical agents? A homemade solution? Why only one eye? And if this was their unsub, why leave the man alive?
Emily stood beside her, arms folded, gaze pinned on the glowing floor numbers as if willing them to move faster.
"You think he's connected?" Evelyn kept her voice low, as if the answer itself might unsettle the air.
"If he's not," Emily murmured, "then someone else out here's playing with eyes."
The elevator sighed open.
The fourth-floor corridor was quieter than the rest of the hospital, a hush padded with insulation that seemed to swallow the noise from below. Room 407 sat close to the elevator, its door half-ajar. Inside, a man slouched in the bed, face half-lit by the flicker of a muted television. The left side of his head was swaddled in gauze; the other eye tracked them instantly, sharp and rimmed red. The rest of him sagged inward—shoulders rounded, hands drawn close like a bird tucking its wings.
A styrofoam cup sweated on the tray, the dregs congealed to a bitter sludge. His hair, streaked unevenly with grey, stuck up at odd angles as though he'd been combing his fingers through it. Evelyn clocked the nervous repetition: thumb and forefinger twisting the blanket hem, over and over, as if busy hands could stop a looped memory.
His gaze flicked from their badges to their faces, then back again, as though he didn't quite trust any of it.
The dark-haired agent gave a nod to her teammate. Evelyn crossed first, deliberate in her pace, careful not to trigger whatever defenses he had left.
"Mr. Miller?" she asked calmly. "I'm Agent Brooks. This is Agent Prentiss. We're with the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit. We'd like to ask you a few questions, if that's alright."
The solitary eye stayed fixed on her.
"You're not in trouble," she added quickly. "We think you might have encountered someone we're trying to stop."
Miller's throat bobbed around a swallow, but no words followed. Evelyn watched the tremor in his fingers, the half-chewed state of his lower lip. Fear, raw as a skinned knee.
But fear meant memory. Fear meant there was something to dig out of the dark, as horrible as it was.
She pulled a chair closer, hoping to distance herself enough not to feel cornering.
"When you came in," she began, "you told the nurse you'd been attacked. That someone hurt your eye. Can you tell us what happened?"
The monitor beside him beeped softly—two, three times—before his voice rasped.
"I didn't see his face."
"That's okay," Emily said, stepping closer to the foot of the bed. "Anything you can remember helps."
"I was walking," he said. "Not far from the motel. I didn't... I didn't see him coming. Just—hands. On my face. And something cold. Then it burned—like... acid."
The words scraped something unpleasant across Evelyn's ribs. She kept her expression still.
Don't move. Don't flinch. Let him speak.
"Did he say anything?" she asked.
Miller shook his head. "When I screamed... he let go. He ran." His eye lifted to hers, and for a moment, a child stared back—terrified, cornered, helpless. "I thought I was going to die."
Outside, winter wind shouldered the window. If this was the work of their unsub... they should all be afraid. Very afraid.
Because this was an error. This was evidence of a slip, a deviation from a rigid pattern. Their unsub had made noise, drawn attention to himself.
The door to Room 407 shut softly behind them. Emily exhaled, already fishing her phone from her jacket. Evelyn fell into step beside her, the squeak of her shoes on the linoleum far too loud in the empty corridor.
Her head had been throbbing since late afternoon—a dull ache that pulsed harder now with every beat of her heart. Coffee stopped helping hours ago. She couldn't remember when she'd last eaten something that wasn't a vending machine snack. And somewhere under the physical fatigue was the pang she'd been trying to ignore all day: the sharp, unyielding sting of what happened with Reid.
She'd managed to keep it from spilling over during the motel canvass. Managed to keep her voice calm when she answered his call. But every time her mind quieted, it slipped back in. The look on his face, the tone of his voice, the way the room had gone still. She didn't have the energy to keep shoving it aside forever.
Emily stopped near a vending alcove and dialed Hotch again, giving him the short version of Miller's statement. Evelyn half-listened, bracing a shoulder against the wall, focusing on the hum of the soda machine to keep her eyes from closing.
What time was it?
"Potential victim," Emily said into the phone. "Matches part of the M.O., but not the full sequence. Burns to the eye, ran before the attack could be completed. Yeah... I agree. He's escalating." A pause. "We'll keep canvassing. Let the others know."
When she ended the call, she glanced at Evelyn. "You holding up?"
Evelyn forced a nod. "We've had worse days. You?"
It wasn't a lie. It just wasn't the whole truth.
Before Emily could reply, her phone buzzed again, this time with Garcia's name splashed across the screen. She swiped to answer and hit the speaker.
"Tell me you've got something, Garcia," Emily almost pleaded.
"Ohhh, do I ever," the Analyst's voice crackled back, bright and breathless. "Remember that coroner's office you visited this morning, Brooks? Well, guess who finally found something worth my time?"
Evelyn straightened. Had they really visited the morgue just this morning? It felt like days ago.
"What did they find?"
"One partial print," Garcia said. "Belongs to a Martin Dawson—male, thirty-four, former janitor with a history of petty theft, breaking and entering, and a very weird incident involving stolen lab equipment three years ago."
"That fits," Emily exhaled.
"Oh, it gets better," the bubbly tech continued, words tumbling over each other. "No family, no close friends, bounced between jobs, long stretches of unemployment—oh, and he lives less than ten miles from one of the earlier motel crime scenes. So... ding ding ding, ladies, I think we have a winner."
Evelyn traded a look with her companion—relief braided with steel.
"Address?" Emily asked.
"Already sent it to your phones. Be careful, okay? This guy ticks every box and then some."
The call ended abruptly, the two agents rushing toward the elevator. Because after hours and hours of dead ends, they finally found something solid. Concrete. Real.
A name.
An address.
A place not to start, but to finish this.
The GPS led them off the main road and into a pocket of trees. Martin Dawson's house hunched at the end of a thin gravel drive, a narrow rectangle of cracked paint and sagging eaves, not hidden so much as hoping not to be noticed. A metal mailbox leaned at an angle. The yard itself was a patchwork of frost-burned grass and bare dirt, interrupted by a tilting tool shed crouched behind the house.
Emily parked out front and killed the engine. For a beat, neither of them moved. Evelyn felt the long day pressing down and rolled her shoulders back, set her palms flat against her thighs, and let her expression settle where it needed to be.
"The rest of the team isn't far behind," Emily said, eyes on the house. "But I don't want to wait any longer. If he's here, he won't stay for long. Stay close to me, alright?" A look, pointed but not unkind. "You're unarmed."
"I'll be right beside you," Evelyn said, and she meant it.
They approached the porch with their badges ready (not that they were expecting a civil chat). Emily rapped hard, voice carrying: "FBI! Martin Dawson—we just have a couple of questions for you. Open the door, please."
They waited. Nothing moved past the curtain. Emily tried the knob—locked. She glanced at the side window, plastic sheeting taped over the glass from the inside. She knocked once more, louder. Silence.
The decision came and went across Emily's face in a single breath. "Exigent circumstances," she murmured—more for the record than for either of them—and drove the heel of her boot into the lock. The door shuddered, then gave with a brittle crack.
Inside: stale air and the thin, medicinal sting of old cleaner. The living room was mostly empty, a mattress on the floor in place of a couch, a milk crate stacked with dog-eared medical textbooks and two battered Bibles. The television, unplugged. A poster of the human eye tacked crooked on the wall, edges curling. Every glossy iris on it had been inked over in thick black circles.
Emily lifted a hand—stay with me—then moved forward. They cleared it slowly, every action meticulously planned, not a single thing touched or moved out of place. In the kitchen: bare counters, a metal bowl and a cheap digital scale, a tangle of tubing in a mixing bowl, a lined notebook splayed open to a page of cramped notes—measurements, rations, scripture references threaded in between them. In the bathroom, the mirror was covered by newspaper, articles about blindness and "vision restoration" taped in overlapping squares, every face on the page scissored across the eyes. And in the bedroom—a single cot, a folding chair, a shoebox of motel soaps sorted by brand, a child's plastic magnifier lying on its side, its handle worn smooth.
At the back door, a draft slid under the threshold. Through the pane, Evelyn could see the shed: sheet-metal roof, padlock hanging open. She told herself she'd point it out, wait for Emily to finish the room. She told herself she'd stay close.
She lied.
Emily didn't even notice she'd left.
The night air was sharper than she'd expected, despite the fact that they'd already been out all evening. Frost crisped under her soles as she crossed the yard. Up close, the shed was bigger than it looked from the window, long enough to hold a workbench and then some. The padlock really was unfastened. She slid it free and eased the door open with her shoulder.
The smell hit first—something chemical sweetness threaded with disinfectant. Her stomach tightened. She stood still until her eyes adjusted.
Shelves. So many shelves. Recycled jars in rows—mason jars, pasta sauce jars, brown glass bottles—each half-filled with cloudy fluid. Labels lifted from cleaning supplies stood in a cluster: hydrogen peroxide, ammonia, glycerin, saline, denatured alcohol. A cracked plastic tub of sea salt. A pack of sterile syringes half-open, splayed like bones. Stainless instruments laid out on a tray that didn't match, a thrift-store buffet of clamps and scalpels and forceps. And on the far wall, above the doorframe, a wooden crucifix. The eyes on the carved face had been blacked out with thick strokes of marker, and ink bled into the grain.
Her mind registered the rest a beat later with a dizzy, vertiginous lag that made her brace a palm against the workbench.
The jars weren't empty.
Oh, god. Oh, fuck.
Pale ovals hung behind the glass like moons caught in bad weather. Some floated cleanly; others drifted clouded with sediment. A matchstick cross had been dropped into each—thin wooden slivers wired together or a tiny metal pendant on a loop of thread, sinking among the tissue and glare. No catalog, no dates. No order that made sense.
Next to them sat a carless stack of index cards with verses paper-clipped to their edges: Matthew 6:22, Luke 11:34. The ink smeared where a thumb had dragged.
She needed to call Emily. She needed to leave. Now.
Evelyn half-turned, ready to call out to her teammate—
A hand clamped down on her shoulder instead.
Evelyn jerked so hard her elbow knocked the workbench, instruments rattling. She spun, heart in her throat, and found Morgan's face filling the doorway, expression a mix of relief and something oddly patronizing.
"Jesus, Morgan—"
He released her shoulder the second she turned and kept his hands visible, whatever joke he'd come in with dying in his throat.
"Damn," he breathed. "A little spooked there, kid?"
"I know," she sighed, smoothing the sleeve of her jacket down. "I was going to call for Emily—"
"You can't peel off solo, Brooks. Not at a scene like this. I don't care if it's thirty feet or three. Especially not unarmed. You got that?" He didn't bark it. He wasn't angry, she could tell. But he wasn't happy either, and honestly? Evelyn knew better.
They had no idea where their unsub was, and here she was gambling he wouldn't just pop out of the trees. She was lucky it was Morgan and not Martin.
Evelyn didn't have an older sibling. But if she did, she imagined it to be something like this. Getting scolded without really getting yelled at. It was a situation she had no desire to repeat, to say the least.
"Next time, wait for someone or call it out and plant your feet. Okay?"
She let out a breath, the brief rush of adrenaline dying down. "Okay. Any luck on tracking Martin?"
From the yard, a shout snapped the air—one voice, then another. Hurried and urgent. Morgan's head lifted as they heard a crash from the side of the house. He quickly turned toward the younger agent.
"Stay with me, alright? Eyes up," he said, already moving for the shed door.
Evelyn pivoted after him, pulse kicking hard as the noise outside climbed. They rounded the siding into a tight knot of movement—agents and uniforms drawn in close along the narrow strip of yard, muzzles down but ready, shoulders squared. Evelyn found the source in a single, awful tableau: a man wedged against the clapboard, one arm locked around another figure's chest, the other hand jamming something hard against the captive's throat. The object caught a smear of moonlight—glass? metal?—and then shifted out of view behind the hostage's jaw.
"Martin Dawson," Hotch called. His voice cut through the tangle of warnings and radio hiss. "My name is Aaron Hotchner. I'm with the FBI. Look at me."
Martin's head jerked. Evelyn saw a face hollowed by months (maybe years) of bad sleep and worse ideas, a mouth pulled too tight over teeth, eyes rimmed raw and glistening. He breathed through his nose heavily, fingers digging into the stranger's collarbone.
"You don't want to do this," Hotch said, steady. "No one needs to get hurt. Put the glass down and step away, and we can talk."
Behind him, Rossi had found a lane; she could practically see Gideon calculating the hostage's weight, waiting for a shift. An officer whispered ready into a shoulder mic beside her. Somewhere to the left, Emily slid into place, body angling to keep the house at Martin's back, cutting off retreat.
"Farther back," Morgan murmured over his shoulder. He lifted one palm to ward her off a step. "Perimeter, Brooks."
Evelyn gave ground, two paces, then another. It felt like stepping into cold water and telling herself she was not, in fact, freezing.
Her eyes drank in the details that might matter later: the stain across Martin's sleeve, the tiny tremor in his wrist, the way his pupils seemed to swim, never quite fixing in one place.
"Martin," Hotch tried again. "That person is not your enemy. You're in control right now, okay? But you have to put it down."
Martin's mouth worked. A sound like a laugh split out and went wrong halfway. "They look at me," he said, gravely and crackling. "They see. Liars. All of them. Eyes full of rot—"
"Eyes down, everyone," the Unit Chief interrupted. "No sudden moves."
The object at the hostage's throat glinted again, closer to skin. The captive made a thin noise, hand twitching uselessly against the iron grip across their chest.
"Martin," Hotch tried again, lower now. Urgent. "You're overwhelmed, I know. I know you're trying to fix something that feels broken, but this is not the way."
Something inside him pulled a notch tighter. "They're liars," he hissed, saliva frothing at the edges. "They see filth and disease and I can cure them—"
"No—" someone breathed, maybe the officer on the far side, maybe Elle. The sound hadn't finished leaving the air when the night snapped.
A single shot. Short and flat.
Martin lurched, the object skittered away from the hostage's neck as his shoulder bucked. Hotch was already moving, closing the last steps to seize Martin's wrist and wrench it down. Morgan went high; Elle and JJ (where had she come from?) gently led the hostage into the dark jaws of the yard, out and clear. Emily's hand cut the air, directing uniforms to the porch rail, to the gate, to anywhere that made this moment safer by inches.
"Weapon," Morgan called; an officer scooped it—jagged glass bound in duct tape, a makeshift blade glittering in the moonlight.
"We have him," Hotch called through the radio. "Medic to the side yard. We have a superficial shoulder wound."
Evelyn let her lungs find air in small, measured sips. Her head rang, a dull bell. Someone's radio crackled. The hostage vanished into the cluster of blue and black like a pebble dropped into a pond.
She should check on them—
"Brooks." Emily's voice found her from the side, her hand reaching for Evelyn's sleeve. She stood close enough that Evelyn could see the faint sheen along her hairline. Relief lived there. So did censure. "You good?"
"Yeah," the younger agent replied, though her heart was still trying to escape her ribs.
Emily's mouth tugged at one corner. "Don't do that again," she murmured, another careful scolding. "Not without telling me, got it? Out in the field, you're my responsibility. You're not a supervisory agent—you don't even have weapons clearance. If something were to happen—"
"I know," Evelyn said, flush creeping under the cold. "I know, and I'm sorry. I just—I got ahead of myself and took a risk when I shouldn't have and... I'm sorry."
Today was not her day, it seemed.
Emily sighed, brushing a lock of raven hair out of her face as the wind blew it up. Her shoulders eased a fraction as she holstered. "You're twenty-four, Brooks. You haven't been here long. Of course you're going to make mistakes—everyone does. I have, Hotch has, Reid has... the problem is, in our world, the mistakes are expensive. They don't serve to just bruise egos; they get people hurt." Her gaze flicked toward the shed, then back to Evelyn. "So you can't freelance. If your gut drags you somewhere, you have to say it out loud, and we can go together. Use your team, alright? Trust us."
Evelyn swallowed, the heat in her face cooling a fraction.
"I'm not angry," Emily continued, and the softness made her words land harder. "I'm... relieved. You were brave. And you were useful. But both are only worth anything if you get to go home." She squeezed Evelyn's sleeve. "Come on. We'll debrief at the station, and then you can finally rid yourself of that hangover headache."
"Oh, god. I'm never going out with you guys on a weekday again," Evelyn muttered, and Emily huffed a laugh.
They funneled Martin toward the cruiser, Hotch at his shoulder, Rossi clearing a path with one sharp look that discouraged curiosity. Evelyn kept to the edge of the group, feeling the tension lessen in her gut.
And then Martin's head turned. His stare hooked into her and held, a slow smile peeling up as if he'd been saving it. It sent shivers down her spine.
He began to snicker—small at first, a sputter of sound that wasn't humorous in the slightest. The cut of his mouth climbed. "Pretty," he said, soft enough to make people lean in. "You have very pretty eyes."
The smile thinned. "Shame they're diseased. All that filth you let through."
"Oh, jeez," Emily muttered under her breath, equal parts disgust and weary fury.
She wouldn't let it bother her. She wouldn't. He was a deranged man, and his words were nothing more than his delusion slipping into reality. That was it. It didn't bother her...
But it was Reid—Reid—who moved from across the yard to yank the cruiser door open. "Get in," he snapped at Martin, cutting across Martin's line of sight with his body. "In the car, now."
Reid flicked a quick glance at the nearest officer, jaw locked. "Get him out of here," he said, clipped and icy.
He didn't look at Evelyn. He didn't look at anyone but Martin. She didn't even know he was there—just assumed he was back at the station. She hadn't even thought about him, too distracted by the chaos of the scene—
The words wouldn't leave her. Diseased. Filth. Everything threading back through the shed, through the jars and their little matchstick crosses tapping against the glass. Lids and nails and brown liquid and unblinking eyes and—god, she was going to be sick thinking about it. She felt her throat lock and forced it open, forced air to pass, forced her eyes to stay dry and unblinking. She'd already lost it once today—she didn't need to do it again, especially now.
Evelyn pressed her tongue to the back of her teeth until the taste of metal steadied her, until the world once again narrowed to the scrape of gravel under the tires as the car carried him away.
Only when the taillights were gone did she realize her hands had curled into fists, nails biting familiar crescents she couldn't feel.
Notes:
Holy shit... this chapter should not have taken me as long to write as it did. Between school, work, and planning for my upcoming year, I definitely fell into a bit of a writer's slump. (And it was so hard to write this because I have the next few chapters planned out a bit already, so I'm just so excited for them!!) Thank you to all of you who stuck around and have been so patient!
Lots of things happening in this chapter, that's for sure. If you guys couldn't tell, I was heavily inspired by S5E6, "The Eyes Have It." Idk, I guess that episode just creeped me out or something (to be fair, what CM episode doesn't??). Plus, it was an excuse for some Reid and Evelyn tension. Just wait until the next chapter hehe...
Let me know what you think! I LOVE to read comments (literally the best part of my day).
<3
love4ldr on Chapter 1 Fri 30 Aug 2024 01:19PM UTC
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