CHAPTER SIX
( sweet, mourning lamb )

☆ content warning ☆
details of past/present abuse,
blood & gore, religious trauma

introducing
jake gyllenhaal as LIAM MARLOWE
& elizabeth lail as MARY WILSON

THE FLUORESCENT LIGHTS FLICKERED, AND NATALIE SHUT HER EYES.

With her hands gripping onto the edges of the sink, she leaned forward, allowing the blood to fall slowly down the drain and into the rusting pipes.

Her phone pinged twice—Natalie knew there was a case—but she couldn't move, lest the crimson fall onto her white turtleneck, instead. Her blazer had been left at her desk; if she was bleeding, everyone would know.

No one could know.

Not even Hotch, who'd been aware of the nosebleeds for the better part of twenty years, because it wasn't just a nosebleed, anymore.

Natalie had always bruised easily, but her father had always been careful of where he placed them. Upper arm, wear a long sleeve. Wrist, wear bracelets. Back of the head, her hair covered it. Rarely had he grabbed her by the neck; never had he left evidence so visible to outsiders.

This bruise hadn't healed, not even a bit.

It still ached, a dull pain constantly thudding behind skin and muscle. It wasn't her first, and it surely wouldn't be her last, but never had it caused such agony.

Or maybe, it was all in her head.

Everything was, lately, wasn't it?

The memories of her father turning out to be nightmares; the peace she felt with Spencer turning out to be the calm before the storm. All of it was fake, unreal, a lie.

At this point, she wouldn't be surprised to learn that she'd been the perpetrator of them herself.

The quiet drip, drip, drip of her blood in the sink slowly came to a stop, and she wiped her nose with a rough paper towel.

Her phone pinged again, and Natalie braced herself, halfway opening her eyes and reluctantly focusing on the hazy image in the mirror.

"Get it together," her reflection said through gritted teeth. Belatedly, she realized that the words had come from her own two lips; it wasn't in her head, that time. "Not today."

Birthdays had always been hard.

September 1st haunted her calendar each year, a seemingly innocent date marking a new month, which silently held such torment that Natalie couldn't stand to so much as look at it on paper.

Usually, she'd be able to suck it up.

Not today, though.

Twenty-eight wasn't just a number.

Natalie couldn't help but wonder if she'd die at this age, just like her mother did. Elaine never got to see twenty-nine; it would be a shame if the same fate was true for her daughter.

A shame, but fitting, somehow. As if dying together was the most natural thing in the world.

The bathroom door swung open, and Natalie rushed to toss the bloodied paper towels into the trash before the person saw.

When she saw it was only JJ, she relaxed, but that didn't save her from the other woman's suspicion. "Hey, uh, we have a case. Everyone's already at the roundtable."

"Oh," she nodded cluelessly, as if she hadn't heard her phone go off three times, "Go ahead, I'll... I'll be a second."

Reluctantly, JJ nodded, and left her alone.

Turning back to face the sink, Natalie gathered soap from the dispenser, scrubbing away whatever stains of red remained on her fingers. She pointedly did not look in the mirror, because if she did, she'd likely see the ghost of her mother looking back at her. 

━━━━━⭒━━━━━

"Sorry."

It was the first time Natalie had been late in over four years, and it didn't take a room full of profilers to notice.

On the outskirts of her vision, she saw JJ staring down at her sleeve; a spot of blood must've escaped the confines of the sink. Hastily, she pulled it down, covering the hem with her whitened fingertips.

JJ blinked at her, but said nothing.

"Let's get started," Hotch broke the silence, his dismissive tone a stark contrast to the way his eyes latched onto Natalie, watching closely while she hurried into the empty seat beside him. "Garcia?"

"Right, yes, let me just... find the clicky-thing..."

In the few seconds of silence, Natalie found herself searching for Spencer's gaze. It didn't take long for her to find it.

Perhaps it was nothing more than the sadness of this particular day, but she longed for him, just then. As if he were a safeguard made just for her, something she could cling to when the tide was threatening to take her under.

Their gazes met, and carefully, he smiled.

Natalie did everything in her power to return the sentiment, but it came across as pained, and her eyes quickly fitted away towards the front of the room.

"Alrighty, crimefighters, prepare yourselves, beccause this one's a bit of a doozy," Penelope introduced the case, as eccentric as ever. "You'll be headed to Maine, where police are requesting our help after discovering the body of 28-year-old Abigail Carter."

Natalie's blood ran cold.

On her left, Hotch straightened his posture. It was subtle, the way his back tensed, the way his jaw clenched and his teeth ground together.

A coincidence. That's what it was.

It had to be.

It was just a coincidence.

People die all the time. People get murdered, and go missing, and kill themselves, and kill others. All over the map, people die, and Maine was no exception.

Natalie knew this—she used to work in Portland's FBI Field Office, for God's sake—but still, she couldn't shake the feeling that, despite how desperately she wanted to believe it, a coincidence had nothing do do with any of it.

Penelope pressed a button, and the crime scene photos popped up onto the screen, slowly, one-by-one, and all of a sudden, Natalie couldn't breathe.

"Only one victim?" Rossi's voice echoed, but it seemed far away to her, as if she were underwater.

Penelope nodded, cringing.

Hotch shifted in his seat.

Natalie didn't blink.

"The cause of death was drowning, but the, uh... abnormality of the disposal method was what caught their attention."

A button clicked, and there was a new photo.

A pocket of air quickly became lodged in Natalie's abused throat, and she could not breathe.

The first thing she noticed was the church.

The second, was the human crucifix.

Purple-blue skin, green veins, hands drilled into wood, feet hammered together, head hung, eyes open, jaw dropped like it was in the middle of gasping for air; the corpse in the picture stared at her, and she stared back, feeling every inch of her body submerge into the lake which she thought she'd finally escaped.

It was cold, here, and she wanted to go home.

Natalie wasn't sure she had one.

"Crucifixion is extremely symbolic," Spencer stated the obvious, and even his voice held some degree of discomfort. "It was perfected by the Romans, until it was abolished by Constantine I in the 4th Century, although it can still be imposed by courts in Saudi Arabia. Of course, most common reference point of the crucifix is that of Jesus."

The sound of his voice was enough to force a quiet, strangled breath back into Natalie's lungs.

Emily let out a low whistle, shaking her head at the photos. Beside her, Derek pointed out, "Alright, so we should be looking at people who are either very religious, or have had problems with religion in the past."

Natalie spared a careful glance at Hotch, but similarly to her only a moment prior, his eyes were glued onto the screen.

With a false sense of courage, she looked back at Spencer. He was studying her, and she looked away before he could see through her completely.

"Oh, honey, it gets worse," Penelope continued, yet again clicking the remote, more images filling up the screen and subsequently forcing Natalie's blackened veins to finally frost over. "These are photos from a case twenty years ago, in the same town, with the exact same M.O. Five women were sexually assaulted, drowned, and displayed in a church like—that."

Natalie's eyes snapped away from the screen, a frenzied gasp escaping her lips. That time, the team seemed to notice.

It was cold, and she needed to go home.

But she couldn't, because her home was dead.

There were pictures of her home's slaughtered, beaten face displayed carelessly on the screen, the photos from her mother's murder used as nothing more than a reference point.

Natalie shivered.

The lake was cold.

A part of her was sure that she would freeze up entirely, until a hand touched her own, breaking through the thick layer of ice that had covered her body from head to toe.

Beneath the table, Hotch squeezed her fingers once, letting go only when Natalie hastily ripped hers away.

Without so much as an excuse me, she got to her feet, pushing away from the table and starting down the hall. The door to Hotch's office opened at her will, and she closed it behind her with a deafening thud.

If the others looked closely, they'd see her on the screen, as well; bloodied, wet, and cold.

━━━━━⭒━━━━━

Spencer knew something was wrong before Natalie even sat down.

He liked to think it was a sixth sense; that he could feel her pain as if it were his own. Of course, such a thing was improbable, aside from rare phenomenas where twins share matching pain receptors. But still, in a perfect world, it would be true.

Although, in a truly perfect world, Natalie wouldn't have to feel any pain at all.

He was the first to speak after she left the room. No one else even tried, as if they subconsciously knew that it was reserved for him.

"Is she okay?"

Spencer could've asked a more logical question, or maybe one with an answer that wasn't so obvious, but really, Natalie's wellbeing was all he cared about. The case could wait, but she couldn't.

Hotch swallowed while his eyes fitted around the room, a nervous tick Spencer had picked up on after only knowing the man a few weeks.

"This case may be a bit... personal."

It was vague, and any vagueness coming from Hotch of all people was enough to put the entire room on edge.

"Wait," JJ held a hand in the air, as if to stop him from explaining any further, "Nat's from Maine, isn't she?"

Isn't she?

Spencer cursed himself for not remembering sooner. For not remembering immediately. He knew just about everything about her, and he knew that, too. He supposed he must've been too caught up in the question of her odd behavior to think about it.

"Yes," Hotch answered simply, "She is."

The older man swallowed, again, and Spencer frowned at him, long enough to garner his attention. Hotch hardly spared him a glance.

Spencer's attention was drawn away when Rossi spoke. "Aaron, I remember this signature... Gideon handled this case back in, what was it, '92?"

"'91. I was the lead on the case."

Hotch was dancing around the subject, whatever it was. Walking carefully on shattered glass, as if one wrong step could incriminate him.

Or, could incriminate her.

Across the table, Spencer watched Emily frown, putting the pieces together at a faster pace than his own brain was capable of; he couldn't think, not with Natalie in pain, alone.

"You weren't at the BAU, were you?"

Hotch shook his head, jaw clenching as he began to say, "No. I headed the Field Office in—"

"Oh, God."

The team paused, all eyes moving towards Penelope, who'd said the exclamation with such palpable fear that it silenced every profiler in the room.

Her eyes were glued onto the screen of her laptop, facing her only, displaying something only she could see. Spencer was able to make out a trace view of tears building in her eyes, and he quickly craned his neck to try and see the screen, but it was angled too far away.

Another pause, and Penelope gasped.

"Garcia, what is it?"

Spencer asked the question with more urgency than he felt comfortable letting on. Every hair on the back of his neck had risen, and he started to wonder if he actually wanted to know.

Beside him, Derek seemed to have enough of the waiting; he turned the laptop to face him, eyebrows furrowing while he read whatever was on it. Penelope just sat there for a moment, unmoving, before looking up at Hotch, her skin as pale as a ghost.

"The victims, the—the original victims—"

"Guys..." Derek cut her off, but followed her lead, directing his gaze to an unwavering Hotch, who was still quiet. "You knew?"

Hotch moved his gaze to the ground.

He still said nothing, almost as if he didn't know if there was anything to say at all.

"I'm sorry," Emily interrupted, a light scoff escaping her lips, "What the hell is going on?"

A beat of silence, and Spencer took matters into his own hands. He pushed away from the roundtable, in a similar fashion to how Natalie had before, and moved to read over Derek's shoulder.

"Jess Parker, Alana Stevenson, Sophia Cruz, Nicole Larson, and—"

Oh.

The first name itself didn't ring any bells; Natalie had never said it, at least, not to him. The last name, though. That was one which he recognized.

"Elaine Blair."

The name left Hotch's mouth sounding garbled, like it had been silently choking him the entire time. 

Blair, as in Natalie Blair.

Oh.

"A bit personal?" Rossi echoed the statement from before, gently tapping his fingers against the table. "I'd say."

JJ flipped the page of her case file, revealing the same list of names in paper, and it was then that Spencer realized that if he hadn't been so distracted, he could've been the first to know. He could've said something, to her, rather than sit there open-mouthed like an imbecile who couldn't read.

"Natalie's mom?"

Hotch took in a breath, as if he were calming himself, and nodded once. With a look of resignation, he finally explained.

"The unsub was Liam Marlowe, a local police officer at the time. Gideon and I profiled that he was an Angel of Death, as he believed he was saving the women he killed."

Spencer couldn't connect the dots.

Something was missing, and he knew it.

"Saving them from what?"

Hotch looked at him, again.

There was a distinct sadness in his eyes, once that Spencer hadn't seen since—well, he didn't recognize it at all, actually. The sadness after Haley died was different; this was an entirely new feeling, and it put him on edge.

"Each of the women he killed were married with kids, and we later discovered that they..." Hotch paused to sigh, avoiding the team's inquisitive eyelines, "They were being physically and emotionally abused by their husbands. Marlowe responded to domestic disturbances at all of their households."

Households?

Spencer didn't miss the specific word choice, and when he finally understood the meaning, he was forced to choke down bile.

Physically and emotionally abused.

Households.

Married, with kids.

A memory of Natalie's first case at the BAU flashed in his mind; how they'd determined that the unsubs had been abused as children, and how she'd so carefully and skillfully talked them down from killing again. She'd impressed her new coworkers and simultaneously solidified herself as a vital member of the team, all in a day's work.

At the time, he assumed she was simply perceptive. That she was a young and intelligent talent, just as he'd been on his first day.

Now, he just felt like throwing up.

"Wait, Hotch," Derek's voice broke through the devastating path of his thoughts, "It says here there was another victim who survived, but there's no other info. No name, no nothing."

Spencer frowned.

("I... I almost drowned when I was a kid.")

He remembered every word she'd ever said to him. Of course he did. Even without his memory, he couldn't imagine doing anything else.

"She almost drowned."

Hotch's gaze snapped towards him, lips set in a straight line and eyes piercing, and Spencer had to remind himself not to be scared of the man.

JJ tilted her head, like she couldn't hear what he said. Or, like she needed confirmation. "What?"

His voice growing in strength, Spencer stood to his full height, his eyes snapping around the room but mainly focusing on the man who, for some reason, was making everything a million times harder than it needed to be by not just saying it.

"I almost drowned when I was a kid—Natalie said that, exactly. Garcia, how old was the unnamed victim?"

Penelope jumped slightly at the sound of her name, but only took half a second to compose herself and return her reluctant eyes back to her screen.

"It looks like... oh."

"What?"

"It's a sealed medical file," she continued, shrugging like she knew what she needed to do, but was too afraid to do it. "I can... Hotch, do you want me to—"

"No," The older man ordered, an odd sense of urgency in his tone. Penelope lifted her fingers from the keyboard altogether, as if to say okay, geez, and he sighed again. "Yes. It was Natalie."

Rossi, seemingly calm despite the other's growing confusion—and in Spencer's case, agitation—said in a smooth voice, "What happened, Aaron?"

But Spencer didn't want Hotch to tell them, he wanted to hear it from Natalie. He wanted to hear it from her, because he wanted to hear something from her. Not a word other than sorry had left her mouth all day, and now, he was beginning to understand why.

He hated the word. Sorry.

Natalie didn't deserve to feel sorry. The awful man, Liam Marlowe, was the only one who did.

Hotch crossed his arms over his chest.

"Elaine Blair wasn't just the last victim, she was the target. Marlowe had been having an affair with her, and before he could kill the woman he truly wanted to, he practiced on those who were similar. The first four victims were surrogates."

"But he didn't hurt the other children?" Emily questioned, now reading the file along with the others. "If they're surrogates, why not kill both?"

Nearly imperceptibly, Hotch winced.

"We didn't know."

Derek leaned back in his chair, dropping the pen which he'd been twirling between his fingers. "So what happened?"

"By the time we'd figured out that his secondary location was one of the four lakes in the area, myself and the other agents split up. I found him just as... just as he was pushing Natalie under the water. He claimed he was saving her."

"But you got him?"

The answer was obvious, but Hotch didn't seem at all irritated that Penelope had asked it. "We made an arrest but I... I didn't get there in time."

Silence ensued, and Hotch looked back at the ground, once again going quiet.

I didn't get there in time.

A gentle way of describing the manner in which Natalie's mother was murdered right before her eyes.

Belatedly, Spencer processed the fact that if Hotch had saved Natalie's life twenty years prior, that meant that he'd known her for twenty years.

It all made sense, now.

How devastated Natalie had been when Haley passed, or how excited Jack got whenever he'd see her at a rare team dinner. How Hotch always watched her closely when a case involved kids, or how Natalie subconsciously looked to him every time a male unsub raised his voice at her.

A part of Spencer, an extremely small part that he was ashamed to have, was angry that there were so many things he didn't know.

A bigger part, a much more important part, however, was grateful that Natalie could trust someone, even if it wasn't him. Even if he desperately wanted it to be.

It all made sense.

Any anger he may have felt dissipated within an instant, and he looked up at Hotch, trying and failing to push down the pity that was rising to the surface; he knew the man would hate it, even more than the sympathy. He knew Natalie would hate it, and that was enough to make him stop feeling it all together.

"Alright, guys, let's back it up," Derek broke the silence, the only one able to get of his head long enough to remember the active case, "We thinking this could be about Natalie? Really?"

"It's coming up on the anniversary of the original murders, and she's the only victim who's still alive," Emily shrugged, "Assuming it's a copycat, she could be his endgame."

Spencer couldn't help but to see what was right in front of him; Emily, by all accounts, wasn't wrong.

Copycat or not, this murder was a taunt.

Not to law enforcement, not even to the BAU; it was a taunt to Natalie, and from what he could tell, it was working as intended.

"Don't call me a victim."

Okay, so, maybe it wasn't.

All eyes turned to Natalie who stood in the doorway, reminiscent of the time Emily had appeared after being dead for seven months; Spencer shivered at the thought, but didn't let it distract him from her.

"Oh, I—I didn't mean—"

"I know," Natalie spoke softly, easing the other woman's fear that she was upset. Spencer thought she had the right to be, but then again, this was Natalie, who far too understanding for her own good. "It's fine. I get it."

Her stoicism was unnerving.

Before, she'd seemed as though she was about to burst into tears, or punch something, but now? Not a hair was out of place, not a single tear track on her cheeks, and if he didn't know better, he'd think she was completely fine.

"Natalie, you don't need to—"

Hotch's sentence was cut off before it even began, the woman in question taking a few steps forward so that she could once again join the conversation.

"I just put in a call to Maine State Prison, they're expecting us later today. The Warden was pretty certain that Marlowe hasn't had contact with anyone on the outside, but I'd like to fact check when we get there."

"Are you—"

"I'm fine. The copycat knows details about the original case that aren't available to the public, so we should be looking at local law enforcement or people connected to the original victims. Families, friends, anyone looking to prove a point."

The casualty in her demeanor contradicted the words she said. Natalie didn't even seem to notice.

People connected to the original victims.

None of the profilers missed the fact that she knew Hotch would tell them everything, nor the fact that she was going out of her way to seem entirely unaffected by her entire life story being out in the open.

It was a defense mechanism, Spencer knew; behave as if nothing is wrong, so people won't ask you if something is wrong.

He saw through it without even trying.

"Why didn't you tell us?"

He'd been trying to catch Natalie's eye since the moment she walked back into the room, and she'd successfully managed to avoid his efforts, until now.

They both knew the question was a cover for what he really wanted to ask; why didn't you tell me?

Natalie just stared at him, her face blank, not even a twitch of her eyelid that revealed how she truly felt. Spencer desperately wanted to pry her open, get her to be honest with him, but the glare he received told him that wouldn't be possible.

She wouldn't allow it to be possible. 

Natalie sighed, then, her gaze fitting away towards the others, who all had the same question in mind.

"I'll see you on the jet."

With that, she left once again.

━━━━━⭒━━━━━

Natalie, with vivid recollection, could remember the exact moment when she knew her mother was a cheater.

James was still at work, and would be for the better part of a day, but Natalie felt ill. With a simple forged sick note given to her teacher, she left school early, starting the mile-long walk home.

Elaine didn't have a job.

Her father thought was it best for his wife to stay home, to do the laundry, to clean, to cook, to raise his child. She wasn't allowed visitors, either; no friends, no family, no anyone. He feared that it would get in the way of her duties.

When a seven-year-old Natalie came home to see a cop car in her driveway, she knew something was going on.

Liam Marlowe was a nice man.

Or, so she thought, at the time.

He'd once taken her to the hospital after her shoulder had been dislocated, and he'd even paid for the medical bills on the spot. Liam didn't hurt her mother, not like her father did. He only ever made her bleed when he was stitching up one of her cuts.

Eventually, his presence in her home was no longer a surprise, and day by day, the cop car out front remained until minutes before her father arrived home.

Liam Marlowe was a nice man.

He was nice, up until the moment he decided to push her head under the ice cold water, making her choke down dirt and moss coupled with the raging tide that was subsequently forced down her throat.

Natalie blinked.

Absentmindedly, she pushed away the glass of water which sat idly on the tray table of the jet.

Despite her best efforts, she couldn't ignore the way her coworkers watched the action closely, psychoanalyzing her every little move.

Clearing her throat, Natalie looked up, and her team tried to make themselves look busy.

"What do we know about Abigail Carter?"

Hotch stared at her for a long while before he began speaking. Somehow, she'd escaped the building without being cornered by him, but she knew it was only a matter of time until they had a talk.

"Blonde 28-year-old female, single, lived alone," he read from the file in his hands, "She worked as a 2nd grade teacher at the local elementary school."

Natalie shifted in her seat.

Sitting on the edge of the couch, Spencer never looked away from her once, and she could feel it; the pity, the questions, the unwanted attention.

"Does that mean something to you?"

It was almost as if he spoke to her, just to get her to actually look at him. Still, Natalie kept her gaze focused steadily on the glass. "Jess Parker, the first victim, worked at the same school."

Beside her, JJ tilted her head. "Your school?"

Regretfully, she nodded.

"The drowning and crucifixion are both exact to the original M.O, but the victimology is different," Rossi observed, still holding the crime scene photos in his hand. "Marlowe killed married women with abusive husbands, but Abigail was single, and according to her coworkers, she wasn't attracted to men."

"Was she sexually assaulted?"

Emily asked the question, but something in Natalie's gut told her that she was uncomfortable with doing so.

"The water could've washed away the evidence, but the preliminary report says no," JJ answered, and all three women on the jet seemed to let out a simultaneous breath. "You know, this guy could be impotent."

"Or, the drowning is what gets him off," Derek shrugged, and Natalie had to force herself not to flinch. "Maybe he's copying Marlowe 'cause he idolized him, and information was local and accessible."

"The crucifixions weren't made public," Hotch shook his head, a troubled frown on his lips. Natalie looked back at him, and he continued to stare her down. "Whoever he is, he has inside knowledge."

"Or, he was involved in the original case," Emily shrugged, "It's unlikely, but it's possible. Marlowe was a cop back then, there's a chance somebody knew."

That seemed to put a damper on things.

It was the most difficult part of an investigation, figuring out who you could and couldn't trust; not being able to trust cops made their job that much harder.

"Alright, when we get there, Reid and Rossi, you go to the school and learn everything you can about Abigail," Hotch ordered, and Natalie almost protested, but kept quiet. "JJ, you, Morgan, and Emily set up at the local police station. Natalie and I will head to the crime scene."

The crime scene.

Natalie wasn't sure why Hotch assumed she could handle it, but his tone left no room for argument, and so she didn't say a word.

After a moment, the profilers turned their gazes to Spencer, who was the only one to not yet contribute something meaningful.

It was an unspoken rule, that they'd go in a haphazard circle and share their ideas, their questions, their findings. Spencer was more often than not the one to speak the most, which was precisely why his silence was deafening.

Natalie knew it was her fault.

All of it was.

(If Natalie had looked up, she would have seen Hotch's eyes bouncing between the two, his lips set in a firm line.)

"Reid? Anything you'd like to add?"

Spencer, after several minutes, dropped his gaze from Natalie, returning it back to the crime scene photos in his hand; Natalie noticed that he angled them away from her seat, so she couldn't see them.

"Why a crucifix?"

Natalie already knew the answer.

"Jesus was crucified for blasphemy," Hotch stated plainly, before adding with uncertainty, "At some point, Marlowe and this new unsub must've perceived their victims showing contempt for God."

"Sinners."

The quiet word left Natalie's mouth like a breath of air, and the others turned to look at her.

Hotch raised his chin. "What was that?"

Looking back at the glass of water, she crossed her arms over her chest, blinking slowly when she repeated, "Sinners. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. Come near to God and he will come near to you. Wash your hands, you sinners, and purify your hearts, you double-minded."

"James 4:7 through 8," Spencer recognized.

Natalie nodded. "He's killing sinners."

The words slipped before she could think about the implications of them. What she was supposed to say, was he's killing people who he believes are sinners; that's not what came out, though.

No one spoke for a while, after that.

━━━━━⭒━━━━━

Briefly, Natalie wondered if jumping out of a moving SUV would hurt less than being trapped in one with Aaron Hotchner.

Being with the rest of her team allowed her to think about something other than herself, for the time being. But now that it was just them, the sound of their breathing mixed with the loud highway beneath them, it was difficult to take her mind off the obvious.

A hand reached out to twist the knob connected to the radio, and at a low enough volume not to disturb Hotch's GPS, an old Fleetwood Mac song filled the car.

Just as quickly, Hotch turned it off.

Natalie stared at the radio, holding back a scoff, before turning to face the man driving, who had yet to say a single word.

After several long seconds of nothing, she turned back towards the window, watching the familiar trees pass by.

Bethel, Maine, was a rather insignificant town.

An hour and a half outside of Portland, surrounded by mountains and rivers and lakes. The warm toned leaves had begun to grow on the trees, and the air was crisp despite August only just passing by; to the untrained eye, it was quaint, and even beautiful.

But Natalie knew better.

As they drove to the church where Abigail Carter's body was displayed, they passed the elementary school she once worked at; the school where Natalie spent her childhood. They passed the other church in the town, the church that Natalie and her father would attend each Sunday.

When they passed the bakery where Elaine bought her daughter a birthday cake every year, Natalie turned way from the window entirely.

It had been just short of ten years since she'd been home. Now, she remembered why.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Natalie didn't look back at him.

"About what?"

Admittedly, the question was avoidant at best, and stupid at worst. But really, what was there to say?

Should she talk about how the memories of her mother were invading her every sense, making it impossible to think straight? Or how there was a man somewhere out there, perfectly copying the murders of a serial killer who nearly took her life? Or maybe, how her father was a mere fifteen minute drive away from their current position, and she still hadn't called him?

"Natalie—"

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Hotch tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he turned a sharp corner. Natalie braced herself on the dashboard, but he remained upright, almost as if he were a statue.

"That's not what I asked."

Natalie rolled her eyes, and though he couldn't see it, she hoped he could feel it. "No. I'm fine."

It was all fine. The corpse in the church, the photos of her dead mother, the purple bruise on her neck; every bit of it was utterly and completely fine.

(A lie, which was fitting, after everything.)

He didn't ask again, and it went quiet for a second time. Natalie stared at her shaking palms for the rest of the ride to the church.

Eventually, the SUV came to a stop in front of the yellow police tape, but both of them just sat there, as opposed to getting out of the vehicle. Natalie knew that Hotch knew she wasn't okay, but she couldn't find the words to admit it; after a few seconds, he finally faced her.

"I need you to be honest with me."

Natalie almost laughed, but her blank expression didn't waver. "Okay."

"What are you thinking?"

(What's going on?, was what he meant.)

It almost hurt to look at him.

He felt guilty, she knew, for the events that lead to her mother dying. That was the reason he checked up so often after the fact, and why he kept in touch with her all these years. He didn't have to, but he did, because he felt responsible.

Natalie didn't want him to feel responsible for her life. Not when she wasn't sure how long she'd still have it.

"I just want to catch this guy."

(I don't know.)

Hotch sighed. "Me too."

(Neither do I.)

Once they decided to go in, an officer met them out front, and Natalie squinted at her badge in search of a name; it was her hometown, so people were bound to be familiar, but she didn't recognize this woman, which she was grateful for.

"You must be the FBI. Officer Mary Wilson, thank you for coming down so quickly."

There was a country twang to her voice, so it was obvious she wasn't born in the state; Natalie would guess she moved from Alabama, or maybe Georgia, despite the fact that she couldn't be much older than herself.

Hotch nodded, introducing himself and Natalie with his typical frown. "I'm Agent Hotchner, this is Agent—"

"Natalie Blair," Mary smiled, shaking her hand with unbridled enthusiasm. Natalie frowned; she didn't recognize this woman, not at all, so she hesitated to shake her hand back. "Your James' kid, aren't ya?"

Natalie didn't miss the way Hotch bristled.

"Uh," she stuttered, "Uh—yeah."

"He's got your picture put up all around his shop. He just put on some new tires for me, even gave me a discount," Mary grinned, brushing away a stray blonde hair from her face. "Great man, that one."

Surely, she was seeing things, because Natalie swore Hotch rolled his eyes at that.

"Where's the body?"

The smile slipped from Mary's face, and she pointed inside. "Hard to miss it. I'm gonna ride back to the station, if it's alright with you. She was my daughter's teacher, it's just awful."

"Yes, it is," he agreed, snapping on his gloves and walking into the church. Natalie followed closely behind, only sparing the officer a quick half-smile.

Her feet froze at the door.

A part of her wondered why the fuck Hotch would bring her here, of all places. The dead woman staring back at her didn't just resemble her mother, or the four other victims; no, this woman resembled her.

Her eyes had been hazel, before they became a glossed over blue from death. Her hair was the same shade of blonde, but she also had the same dark roots, signifying that it was unnatural. Same age, same hometown. Any doubts Natalie previously had about this being connected to her washed away with one look at the corpse nailed to a cross.

All of a sudden, she knew the answer to her own question; Hotch brought her with him, because he needed her to be with him.

There was that responsibility, again.

But she couldn't think about that.

Natalie didn't want to allow her own issues to get in the way of the investigation; she didn't want to be babied, or treated like a victim. A noose had been tied around her neck, but she wouldn't let it choke her.

"He didn't kill her here," she stated the obvious, finally taking a step inside. Hotch had been circling the area, studying it closely, not saying a word to the other officers who still hadn't left. "There's no blood from her stab wounds, and unless she was drowned in Holy Water, he didn't do that here, either."

"She was nailed to the cross postmortem," Hotch agreed, squatting down to look closer at Abigail's feet, which were grotesquely hammered into the wood. "Look at this, ligature marks around her ankles. He definitely has a secondary location."

Natalie squinted at the sight before her; the pale human body adorned in a loose white dress; a dress, covered in blood, filled with holes where the knife had penetrated.

"He dressed her before the torture."

Hotch got to his feet, coming closer to Natalie's side to examine it for himself. "That's another variation in his M.O., Marlowe wanted them naked when he did it."

Natalie's fingers twitched, and she stepped away.

"How long was she missing?"

"Just over 24 hours, but she'd only been dead for roughly one hour by the time she was found."

With a sigh, she took another step back, willing her mind to treat this like any other case, even though it was the furthest thing from that.

"Okay, so, he abducts her, tortures her for a day, drowns her at dawn, and then breaks into the church and nails her to a cross before the morning service, all while leaving no DNA, and no evidence of a break in at all."

Natalie looked over at Hotch, and within a split second, they were thinking the same thing.

"This isn't his first kill."

"No," she shook her head, "It's not."

Hotch took out his cellphone, speed dialing Penelope. The line stopped ringing almost as soon as it started, and the ever so familiar voice sounded through the speaker.

"Saving grace, at your service."

"Garcia, I need you pull criminal records of men in the area between the ages of 25 and 50," he ordered, "Focus on both violent and sexual crimes, as well as breaking and entering. Pay attention to those who may be connected to the original five murders who still live in the area."

"You got it, boss." The telltale sound of fingers pressing against a keyboard filled the speaker, but after only a few seconds, Penelope spoke again. "So, is she okay? Come on, spill."

Hotch glanced up at the she in question, and she pretended like the other woman's worry didn't bother her. It did, tremendously, but Natalie didn't need to be obvious about it.

"Garcia—"

"I know, Sir, but... look, at the very least, one of you should give that sweet girl a hug, because I can't from all the way over here, but I know she needs one, okay? I can, like, feel it in my bones—"

"Hi, Penelope."

Natalie couldn't resist a smile.

"Hi—oh, I'm on speaker."

"Yes you are," Hotch deadpanned, before adding with more pressing urgency, "The list, please."

"Right, right, I'm sorry—seriously, sorry—okay, okay, looking for criminals... searching... loading... alright, I got 28 hits."

"Any of them connected to the original case?"

Natalie felt her heart drop before Penelope even responded. Because she knew one person with a record, one person who was bound to be on that list, one person she knew Hotch wouldn't let slide.

"Uh, just one, Sir."

Hotch narrowed his eyes at Natalie, and subconsciously, her hand moved to hover around her bruised throat.

"I need a name, Garcia."

The line went quiet.

"James Blair."

━━━━━⭒━━━━━

The longer Natalie stared at Hotch, the more she wondered if he was planning to shoot James in the face the second he opened the door.

They were back in the SUV, taking the fastest route to her childhood home; only this time, silence wasn't an issue.

"He didn't do this, Aaron."

Natalie spit out the words as if they offended her, which they did. Her father didn't kill this woman, because her father wasn't a killer.

Just two days before, he'd explained that she'd been wrong. That the memory of him carrying out a corpse was just a dream, a trauma response, fake. It was all in her head, and she knew that now.

Hotch didn't flinch at her tone.

"We're not making an arrest," he said, a level of annoyance in his voice that she'd never been on the receiving end of. "I just want to talk to him."

"Oh, yeah, I'm sure."

Though he kept his eyes on the road for the most part, he spared her a warning glance, reminding her that he was her boss, despite everything. At that moment in time, though, she didn't particularly care.

"He has a violent history."

"He was arrested at 18 for breaking and entering a liquor store, I'd hardly classify that as—"

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

With her left leg bouncing at an alarming pace, Natalie's entire body jolted, and she turned away towards the window before the man could see the look on her face.

Hotch raised his voice, just then.

It was fine, usually, because it wasn't directed at her. It was too embarrassing to ever admit, but even when he—or anyone else—yelled at an unsub, Natalie had to force herself not to react. Because yelling meant someone was angry, and someone being angry meant that somebody else was about to get hurt.

The bruise on her throat throbbed, and she belatedly realized that she needed to take ibuprofen again.

"I'm sorry," she whispered into the stillness of the car, and she heard the man next to her let out a sharp breath. For some reason, she was too scared to look back.

Hotch had been having a hard day, and he sounded angry, and Natalie wouldn't blame him if he needed to take it out on her.

He didn't, though; at least, not yet. He could've screamed, or hit, or called her a liar, but he didn't.

"You can stay in the car, if you'd like."

His voice was soft, that time.

Natalie almost missed the anger.

James would get soft, too. An inquiry into her day after calling her a whore, a brush of her hair after choking her out. Sometimes, the softness was more violent than the rage.

Natalie blinked, and they were parked in the driveway which she hadn't seen in a decade.

"No, he's my—" she cut herself off, "It's fine."

(Another lie, and they both knew it.)

By the time Hotch knocked on the door, Natalie had already taken two puffs of her brand new inhaler.

There were shoes to the right of the doormat, caked in dark, half-dried mud. The creaky porch swing to the left looked as though it hadn't been used since Natalie was a child, and maybe it hadn't. As far as she remembered, it came with the house.

Off-white paint chipped away from the wood, and the doorframe which was once painted a blood red now came off as a muted brick color. The lawn was freshly mowed, but dry, and the picket fence more closely resembled a haunted house than a single-family residence.

The door opened, and silently, Natalie choked.

James smiled at them, as if their presence was no surprise at all. "Natalie, Agent Hotchner. This is a surprise."

Hotch didn't say a word, and when Natalie finally gained the courage to blink away from her father, she recognized a hatred behind her boss' eyes which she hadn't seen in years. Probably, because the two men hadn't seen each other in twenty.

Natalie cleared her throat.

Absentmindedly, she wondered if the frayed rope of the porch swing could also act as a noose.

"Dad," she greeted him, feigning comfortability, "Could we come in?"

James stopped smiling, and Natalie was instantly reminded of what happened the last time that happened. Hotch wouldn't let him hit her, not right in front of him, which was the only reason she could still breathe.

"Manners, princess."

Natalie cursed herself. "Pl—"

"Please."

When Hotch said the word, it wasn't a question.

James looked up at the man once again, but this time, Hotch looked down. If her father felt insecure, she couldn't hold it against him; 5'9 wasn't short, but 6'2 was tall.

James placed another smile on his lips, a hundred times faker than the last, and allowed them inside.

Nothing had changed.

Not the faded paisley print curtains, or even the scrape on the floor of the kitchen where her father once threw a glass. The ceilings were low—Hotch nearly had to duck through a doorway—and the walls were yellow, smelling like a mixture of cigarettes the gentle, flowery air of Holy Water.

There were no photos of herself or Elaine, aside from one, which sat on the fireplace mantle. A family picture, taken twenty-one years ago to the day. Natalie had just turned seven, and James had just hit her for the first time in her life.

Well, he did so after the photo was taken.

In the picture, behind her cheesy grin and Elaine's crossed arms and delicate smile, James had a hand on each of their shoulders.

"So," James broke the silence, a grin still plastered on his face, "I'm assuming you're not here for... recreation. How may I help you, Agent Hotchner?"

Hotch stared him down for longer than necessary before he answered, "Can you confirm your whereabouts between 5 and 7 a.m. this morning?"

To his credit, her father looked taken aback.

Natalie watched him closely, arguably closer than Hotch did, looking for tells, wondering if he even had any to begin with.

"What's going on?"

He truly did sound concerned. There was a harsh cave of left eyebrow as he asked the question, a shocked twitch that would typically signify someone telling the truth. Natalie almost looked at her boss and said I told you so, but she knew it wasn't necessary, because he saw the same thing she did.

Natalie moved closer, strategically stepping over the creaky floorboard she knew was beneath her. "It's happening again."

From the inside of her jacket, she removed two of the least-vomit-inducing crime scene photos, which she brought with her, simply so she wouldn't have to explain it.

Again, she watched her father.

Just... to be sure.

Confusion, and then disgust, and then fear. His face passed through the emotions in that order, and however subtle they may have been, Natalie saw them.

"That's..." James began, handing the photos back to his daughter before he continued, "That church is the Protestant one, just up the road isn't it? Oh, may the Lord have mercy."

Hotch narrowed his gaze. "Where were you this morning, betweeen 5—"

"Princess, be polite and grab me a—"

"—and 7 a.m.?"

Natalie jumped at the escalation of Hotch's volume, and although she'd initially been embarrassed by the impending request to get her father a drink, she feared that if she stayed in the small room any longer, the walls would cave in around her.

The two men stared at each other, and once again, Natalie cleared her throat. "Coffee?"

"No need," Hotch shook his head, at the same time James ordered her with a sharp, "Yes."

They turned their gazes to her, now.

Natalie was in her father's house, and perhaps it was the way she was raised, but in his house, his word was law. Similarly to how when she sat in the church pews, she praised God, only answering to Him.

"I'll just... be in the kitchen."

It wasn't a far walk, or even really a different room altogether; only a thin wall separated them, not even a functioning door to block the noise.

It was almost routine, finding the rusty coffee maker and her father's favorite mug. The kitchen was really the only thing that had changed at all, now that she thought about it; the refrigerator was nearly empty, and nobody had cooked in a long while. James never cooked for himself, it was always her duty, and so she wasn't surprised.

"Answer the question, James."

Evidently, Hotch wasn't aware of the lack of soundproofing, or he would've at least tried to sound like he didn't loathe the man.

There was a scoff, one that made the hairs on the back of her neck raise, and James' voice followed. "I was at the shop finishing up a radiator repair for the Smith's next door."

"A bit early to work on a car."

"They needed it by 8 to drive to work."

"Can anyone corroborate your story?"

Natalie almost forgot that she was supposed to be making a coffee, and put down the mug which was previously grasped tightly in her hands. As the coffee slowly drained through the filter and into the pitcher attached to the machine, she listened with a careful ear.

"I work alone, Agent Hotchner," James practically laughed, "One of the perks of being my own boss."

"And convenient," Hotch added, and even with a wall between them, Natalie could hear the sarcasm in is otherwise stoic voice. "What about security cameras?"

Once the coffee was done brewing, Natalie poured it into the cup, no longer feeling comfortable with the two men alone in the same room.

As she came back in, James hardly acknowledged her, only snatching the coffee from her hands and taking a sip. He remained standing, but placed the mug on the edge of the coffee table at his side.

Hotch nodded at her, a silent are you okay, and she looked away in time for it to look like she didn't see it.

"There's one, but it's... old."

When he didn't say anything else, only standing there with an unpleasant smile on his lips, Hotch blinked at him. "Any day now, would be nice."

Her father laughed, and Natalie felt a chill.

"It's old, therefore, it's a physical tape. Do you still have those, up in DC, or do you prefer to have your government-funded corruption recorded digitally?"

Admittedly, Natalie should have seen that one coming. Her father had a distaste for all law enforcement, but specifically the higher government; he thought they liked to play God, which was ironic, coming from a narcissist.

Hotch didn't respond, only getting out his phone and—from what she could see—telling the team to go to the shop and check it out.

While he did, her father caught her eye.

There was something odd there, and before she could figure out what it was, his gaze drifted down to her neck, and his lips quirked at the edges.

Natalie blinked rapidly, and stared at her shoes.

"You're acting strange, princess."

She looked up in tandem with Hotch, although they wore wildly different expressions at the sentiment.

"What do you... what do you mean?"

For the first time since she'd gotten the news of the copycat, her heart began race. Pounding against her ribcage, pumping blood through her veins, rushing to her head, making her dizzy.

Had she been acting strange? It was possible. It made sense. It was her birthday. A copycat killer was haunting her while she was alive. Her father and Hotch were in the same room. Her—her Spencer—was at her old school, in her old classroom. Oh, and her father and Hotch were in the same room.

"Oh, princess, did you have something to do with this?" James asked, and suddenly, the world began to spin on it's axis. "All of those terrible images clouding your mind, finding all of those killers, talking with them... abandoning your Creator, even?"

"What—no, I didn't—"

Did she? Was it her?

"You told me you haven't going to church."

"I—I've been busy, but... no, this is a copycat, we know it. There's someone with insider knowledge—"

"And who could that possibly be?"

Natalie's breath caught in her throat, because she didn't do it, she was sure of it. Her father only wanted her to know how he felt, when they questioned him—bad, it felt bad—and he wanted to make her understand, he wanted her to learn.

"Dad, I'm sorry we had to ask you, but you're the only one with a record, and we had to cover our bases—"

"Really?" James laughed, facing Hotch again, who had been watching the conversation so silently that Natalie forgot he was even there, "Is that why you're here?"

Hotch tilted his chin upwards, surveying the man in front of him who was somehow calm and erratic simultaneously, and then he looked to Natalie, who was sure that she seemed like she was going to pass out at any minute.

"Yes."

"No, no, I don't think it is."

"Dad, please, just—"

James leaned forwards, a hint of a smirk on his lips when he told the older man, "You came to me, because you think that I know something about her—"

"Sit down and shut up."

Hotch said the words with such finality, Natalie actually wondered if he planned to pull out his gun.

Once again, she couldn't breathe.

James was nearly as disturbed as she was.

Her father scoffed a laugh, rearing back a step, but Hotch didn't flinch; at his side, his fist clenched, like he was prepared to punch the man out if nothing else worked.

And then, Natalie got a phone call.

Spencer.

It was impossible to answer it before James saw the screen, but still, she took it as a blessing in disguise. Without a word, she stepped back into the kitchen, answering it with a shaking fist.

"H—" an air pocket was jammed in her throat, and she coughed once, "Hello?"

"Nat, hey," Spencer's voice flooded her senses, enough for her to finally take in a full breath, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I, um, yeah, what's up?"

"Are you with Hotch?"

More or less, her mind supplied, and she began to grow suspicious of the continuous stillness in the living room. Disregarding that for a moment, she let herself revel in the absence of yelling, as well as the presence of Spencer on the line.

It wasn't until the urgency in his tone caught her attention, that the brief moment of solace came to an end. "What's going on?"

Spencer sighed, and Natalie held her breath.

"They found another body."

"What? Where?"

"That's the thing," Spencer continued, choosing his words carefully, his voice hushed, almost as if he was trying not to frighten her off, "It's not here. The body was found in Virginia."

It took a second for her to process what he said.

Two dead women.

Two dead women, killed in the only two places that she'd ever considered home.

Her father was right, as usual.

"Spence..."

"There's one more thing." There was a pause, and she dreaded what was going to be said. "The unsub left a birthday card at the dumpsite, and it's... Nat, it's addressed to you."

Natalie killed them.

Maybe not directly, maybe not by her own hand, but they died because of her. It wouldn't have made a difference if she tortured them, or drowned them, or nailed their limbs to a cross; it wouldn't have made a difference, because either way, it was her.

Spencer could've been speaking when she hung up, but she didn't notice, because she was a murderer.

"Natalie, we're leaving," Hotch said as he came around the corner, only to stop in his tracks at the sight of her. "What happened?"

She couldn't look at him.

She was a murderer.

author's note ━━━━━━━━━━━
natalie blair chapter 6 moodboard:

the next chapter is somehow even more
traumatic and also very bleid heavy, so
hold onto your hats, because i think that
one will get out a lot faster xx and also it
will hurt more xx