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𝙑𝙊𝙇𝙐𝙈𝙀 𝑰𝑰𝑰.  ──────────  RUIN!

❛ living with the      butchering hand. . . ❜
─── chapter ten! ❫

010.  ╱    ❝ you've got 𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉 on your
𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖘. . . you're the one that saw
me in the 𝖉𝖊𝖛𝖎𝖑'𝖘 𝖉𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊. ❞

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TW  /   please read below :
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
discussions of religious + child abuse
implied torture             descriptions +
depictions of blood + gore     murder
and death  implied graphic violence
religious trauma    direct references
to religion and christianity      horror
ptsd episode                anxiety attack.

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﹙ 𝖂EDNESDAY ━ 𝕬PRIL 1ST, 2015 ﹚

     THE HUM OF HOTEL AIR CONDITIONING PROVIDED A STEADY BACKDROP TO THE BUSTLING MORNING ROUTINE OF ROOM 1156 OF THE HYATT REGENCY QUANTICO. With its modern decor in shades of grey and navy, the spacious room bore the signs of three people trying to coexist in a temporary space.

     Two queen-sized beds dominated the space, their crisp white linens rumpled from sleep. A collection of designer suitcases stood sentinel by the door. At the same time, various clothing items and personal effects were strewn across the room's surfaces—a silk scarf draped over a chair, a pair of heels kicked off by the television stand, and a laptop cord snaking its way to the nearest outlet.

     The air was thick with a mixture of scents: the lingering humidity from recent showers, the rich aroma of room service coffee, and the subtle notes of high-end toiletries. Occasionally, there was the ping of a cell phone receiving messages.

     Carson stood in front of the full-length mirror mounted on the closet door curling her hair with an iron. She was still wearing her robe from after her shower, her outfit laid out on a bed. That morning, after going to a nearby park and doing some tennis practice early with Parker and Melanie, she allowed Parker to do her makeup. Her olive complexion was complemented by a subtle, natural makeup look that Parker was very proud of. In her humble opinion, it was perfect.

     Melanie was perched on the edge of one of the beds, her tablet balanced on her knees. She was already dressed for the day in a navy blue sheath dress, her hair neatly styled. Her fingers flew across the tablet screen with practiced efficiency, managing the day's ever-changing schedule.

     "So, you're heading back to the BAU today?" Melanie asked, glancing up from the tablet, her voice cutting through the room's ambient noise.

     Carson nodded, and her reflection in the mirror mimicked the motion as she released a strand of hair. "Yes. Parks and I will be consulting further on the case. There's still a lot to go through." Her response was controlled, but there was an undercurrent of tension that Melanie, having worked with Carson for years, easily caught.

     Melanie's fingers stilled on the tablet, its screen dimming from inactivity. She set it aside and the mattress dipped when she shifted her weight. "Carse, I want you to know that everyone at the firm has your back. Whatever you need, we're here for you."

     Turning away from the mirror, Carson raised a brow, her earthy-brown eyes sharp and inquiring. "Who exactly knows about this, Mel?" She released another strand of hair and grabbed the final piece.

     "Just the partners," Melanie assured her, hands clasped in her lap. "Everyone else believes you're still on spring break with Parker, which you are. Austin emailed me and said either Gallagher or Lang will reach out to you today." She paused, her expression softening. "They wanted me to tell you that you can take more time off if need be."

     Switching the curling iron off and unplugging it, Carson set it on the nearby dresser. Then she reached for a set of pearl earrings. The jewelry box they came from was open, its velvet interior standing out against the polished wood of the hotel furniture. "That won't be necessary," she said firmly, fastening the first earring. "We'll be back in New York before or by Sunday. I have meetings and court next week that can't be rescheduled."

     Melanie's brow furrowed with concern, creating fine lines across her forehead. She leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting on her knees. "Are you sure? This is a lot to deal with, Carse. Nobody would blame you if you needed more time."

     "I'm fine, Mel," Carson insisted, her tone leaving no room for argument as she fastened the second earring. The pearls gleamed softly in the artificial light. "The best thing for me right now is to keep moving forward."

     The sound of running water, which had been a constant background noise, ceased. The abrupt silence was almost jarring. Moments later, the bathroom door opened with a soft click, releasing a cloud of steam that billowed into the room, momentarily fogging the mirror Carson had been using.

     Parker emerged, wrapped in a fluffy white towel with her curly hair dripping onto her shoulders and leaving damp patches on the towel. Droplets of water trailed down her arms as she padded across the carpeted floor, her wet footprints leaving temporary impressions in the short fibers.

     "Hey, Mom?" she called out, her voice bright despite the early hour and the weight of their situation. "I have two questions for you."

     Immediately, the lawyer and professional in her was gone. Now, she was herself and a mom. "What's up, stink?" she asked, grabbing her clothes off the bed.

     Parker grinned at the nickname, water still beading on her skin. "One, hair up or hair down today?" She gestured to her hair with raised brows. In unplanned unison, Carson and Melanie stared at her for a moment and tilted their heads to the right. Then, they pointed downward. "Thank you, and two," she continued, a mischievous glint in her eye, "have you told Annie about Agent Hotchner yet?"

     The question hung in the air, the atmosphere in the room shifting. Melanie's head spun, her eyes widening with interest. "Agent Hotchner? What about Agent Hotchner?"

     Carson's composure faltered and a light blush crept up her neck. "I... what? There's nothing to tell about Agent Hotchner," she said, holding her tailored pale pink, sleeveless, and halter jumpsuit up to her body in the foggy mirror.

     Still dripping water onto the carpet, Parker's grin indicated she was unconvinced. She went to her suitcase, leaving a trail of damp footprints. "Uh-huh," she hummed, rummaging through her clothes. "That's why he couldn't take his eyes off you during the entire briefing yesterday, even when I was presenting."

     Jaw slackening, Carson almost dropped the jumpsuit. "Parks!" she exclaimed, visibly flustered. "It's not... we're..." Outside of being a lawyer and mom, Carson had a soft side that showed itself on rare occasions. Whenever it did, it always reminded those around her that she was, indeed, human, and how much they loved her. "Agent Hotchner is a consummate professional, and we're in the middle of a serious investigation."

     Melanie, her interest thoroughly piqued, leaned forward on the bed. The mattress creaked under her shifting weight. "Hold on," she said, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Are we talking about the same Agent Hotchner who delivered Gideon's envelope in February and has been trying to contact you the past few days? The one you mentioned? The one I said was oh so handsome?"

     Their eyes met in the full-length mirror, and Carson's blush deepened. A look passed between them. "Yes," she ultimately admitted, turning to face her best friend and daughter. "But it's not what you're thinking. It... it's not like that. We barely know each other, and our interactions have been purely professional."

     Parker, now holding a bundle of clothes, raised an eyebrow in a perfect imitation of her mom. "But you'd like to get to know him better, wouldn't you, Mom?" she teased gently. "I mean... he wasn't wearing a wedding band."

     Carson opened and closed her mouth, at a loss for words. The room fell silent for a moment, the only sound the soft drip of water from Parker's hair onto the carpet. She looked at the pair with amused disbelief.

     Finally, she sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Can we please focus on what's important?" she asked softly and vulnerable in a way she rarely was. "We have a busy day ahead of us at the BAU, and this... this is not a priority right now."

     Melanie nodded, her countenance sobering when she remembered the gravity of their situation. "Of course," she said, reaching for her tablet again. "But don't think this conversation is over, Carse. I want details later. Even if it's just about how he said good morning to you."

     "You're ridiculous."

     "And you're insane if you think we're not going to make you ask him out when this investigation is over and we're done consulting," Parker quipped, disappearing into the bathroom with a smirk.

    Carson's jaw dropped again, and Melanie laughed. "The hell I am!"

── 𐀔 ──

     THE RAPID-FIRE CLICKING OF GARCIA'S ACRYLIC NAILS ON HER KEYBOARD PUNCTUATED THE TENSE SILENCE IN THE BAU'S CONFERENCE ROOM. Six sets of eyes darted between the evidence boards and the scattered files on the table, each team member lost in their thoughts about the complex web of cases before them.

     Hotch stood at the head of the table, his dark gaze intense while he surveyed his team. The weight of his role seemed to press down on his shoulders, more pronounced than usual. "All right," he said, cutting through the quiet, "let's review what we know."

     Reid's head shot up, a pencil twirling between his fingers. "Actually, I've noticed something in the case files that I think might be significant," he said, meeting his boss's stare.

     Leaning back in his chair, Morgan crossed his arms. "Hit us, Pretty Boy. What's that big brain of yours come up with?"

     Right as Reid opened his mouth to share, Rossi held up a hand. "Before we dive in, I've got copies of my notes from the original Crest case for everyone." He began passing out folders, the paper rustling as it changed hands. "It's everything I remember, plus some observations I made at the time that didn't make it into the official reports."

     Flipping through her folder, JJ's brow furrowed while she scanned the first page. "Rossi, this is... incredibly detailed. How did you remember all of this after so many years?"

     Rossi's face darkened slightly. "Trust me, JJ. Some cases, you never forget, and seeing Carson has made everything come flooding back."

     The other team members exchanged glances, becoming more and more aware of how much the Crest case had burdened him.

     Kate cleared her throat. "So, Reid, what were you going to tell us?"

     "Right, so I've been analyzing the dates of each murder, and I've found something I don't think is coincidental." Pushing out of his chair, Reid moved to the evidence boards. His fingers traced over Parker's timeline, stopping at the gold and red stars marking Boise, Idaho. "The Idaho murder in 2006," he said, his speech quickening with excitement. "It's the only one that doesn't correlate with a major event in Carson's life."

     Hotch's brow bunched together, the lines around his eyes more pronounced. "I recall that being established yesterday. What are you getting at, Reid?"

     "Well, I did some digging," he continued, his words tumbling out rapidly. "It turns out that Boise, Idaho is where Avery Hart, Olivia's deceased husband, was from. And the date of the murder? It's exactly 25 years after Avery and Cadence's death in that car accident."

     A collective intake of breath filled the room. Morgan's brows shot up. "That's one hell of a coincidence."

     "If it is a coincidence," Rossi muttered, his stare narrowing.

     JJ sat up, her blonde hair catching the light. "So this could be our strongest link to Olivia yet? A murder that seems more connected to her past than to Carson's life?"

     "It certainly appears that way," Hotch nodded, his expression grave. "Good catch, Reid."

     All grew quiet as they processed this information. Kate's pen tapped nervously against her notepad, the sound unnaturally loud.

     Garcia's voice, uncharacteristically subdued, broke through the lull. "I might have something to add to this." All attention turned to her as she pulled up a file on her tablet. "I finally got the complete case files from West Linn PD, and I spoke with Captain Sara Reeves, the original detective on the Crest case."

     Hotch's brows raised an inch, and he sat down. "What did she have to say?"

     "According to Captain Reeves, Olivia Hart was unusually involved in the investigation from the start," she said, her fingers flying across her screen. "She was present for most of Carson's interviews and seemed to have an almost... possessive attitude towards her. Also, she was the mayor and had lots of influence and pull."

     Nodding, Rossi sighed and ran a hand down his goatee. "That tracks with what I remember. Olivia was always there, always hovering. At the time, we thought it was just a protective instinct, but realized there might be more to it than that."

     People exchanged confused glances. Morgan placed his forearms on the table. "What do you mean, Rossi?"

     "We only ever spoke to Carson once without Olivia present. It was days after the murders. That was when Carson told Gideon and Reeves about the 'cleansing' rituals and how her parents hurt her and Malcolm. They didn't get much though," Rossi said, frustration evident. "Olivia left during my conversation with her to get Carson. She invoked her rights as Carson's guardian; all of our questions had to be directed to their lawyer after that."

     Reid's lips twisted to the side, his mind racing. "So Olivia effectively shut down any chance of getting more information from Carson? That's highly suspicious behavior."

     "It gets worse," Garcia added sadly, a troubled frown appearing. "When I brought up the case, Captain Reeves suggested for us to reach out to Gideon and Rossi if they were still around. She said, and I quote, 'Those two saw things the rest of us missed. If anyone can make sense of this after all these years, it's them, especially Gideon.'"

     The inclusion of Gideon cast a somber pall over the room. JJ's hand moved unconsciously to her necklace. Morgan's jaw clenched, a muscle ticking visibly. Reid stared at the floor.

     Hotch turned to Rossi, his eyes searching. "Dave, it seems your instincts about Olivia weren't unfounded. What else do you remember about her behavior during the investigation?"

     Rossi sighed again, both hands on the table. "It was the little things, you know? The way she'd answer for Carson sometimes. How she'd steer conversations away from certain topics. And her eyes... they'd get this look when Carson would open up to Gideon or me. Like she was jealous."

     "So," Morgan drawled out, eyebrows lifting, "are we all in agreement that Olivia Hart is our prime suspect?"

     Collectively, the team exchanged glances. No one answered.

     Kate puffed out her cheeks, deciding to respond first. "I think we need to consider all possibilities. While the evidence against Olivia is compelling, we shouldn't narrow our focus too quickly," she said, not wanting to blind herself by the belief Olivia did this in the off chance she didn't and the UnSub got away with these murders.

     Nodding in agreement, Hotch sat up taller. "Kate's right. We need to build a profile based on all the evidence, not just our suspicions about Olivia. Let's review everything we have and see where it leads us."

     Reid walked back to the round table, taking his seat between Morgan and Kate. "Well, we have a UnSub who demonstrates an unusually high level of patience and planning. The gaps between murders suggest someone who can control their urges, only acting at specific triggering moments. Also, the murder locations require careful planning and observation. Our UnSub isn't choosing targets at random."

     "And they're meticulous," Morgan added, flipping through the files. "Clean crime scenes, no DNA left behind except for that piece of fabric in the latest case. This isn't some disorganized killer acting on impulse. This person knows how to cover their tracks."

     JJ brushed her hair out of her face. "The UnSub also shows a clear pattern in victim selection," she said, scanning her notes. JJ nodded, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Families of four, always with a young daughter, four or seven, who survives. It's specific. The evidence suggests that the UnSub targets families who appear perfect on the outside but have hidden issues which goes with what Reid said about the targets not being chosen at random."

     "Don't forget the positioning of the bodies and the ritualistic elements," Rossi interjected. "It's like they're recreating something. Given the fabric... I'm thinking the Crest murders."

     Hotch's gaze swept across the team. "So we're looking at an UnSub with a connection to Ms. Crest, likely a history of trauma, an apparent obsession with 'saving' young girls, and the resources and intelligence to carry out these murders across decades without getting caught."

     Garcia, who'd been silent throughout all of this, spoke up. "I know we're not focusing on Olivia right now, but I found something," she said, peering over the lid of her laptop. "Remembers those aliases Carson's colleagues found? The ones used for various rental properties near each murder location that were paid for using pre-paid credit cards purchased in West Linn? Turns out they're all variations on Olivia's full name: Olivia Meghan Overman Hart."

     Immediately, everyone was all ears.

     "What kind of variations, Garcia?" Reid asked, his interest piqued.

     "Well, boy wonder, we've got some real doozies here," she replied, her fingers flying over the keyboard. "So far we got 'Megan Hartlov', 'Amelia Rose Thorne', 'Vivian Hartmore', 'Meg Oliverheart', 'Evelyn Grace Martin', and 'Anna Vigor-Helmet'."

     Morgan's brows shot up, and he snorted. "Anna Vigor-Helmet? That's a stretch."

     "Not to mention it sounds stupid," Rossi commented, shaking his head.

     "But it's an anagram of her name," Reid pointed out, meeting their eyes. "It's like she wanted to leave a trail, but only one that someone who knew her well would recognize."

     Hotch nodded, pursing his lips. "This is more than circumstantial evidence. These aliases, combined with the financial records and travel logs Ms. Crest's team provided, paint a very clear picture."

     "And it's all legal evidence," JJ said, a note of admiration present. "Carson's colleagues did an impressive job putting this together without crossing any lines."

     Kate flipped through the file again. "The overlap between Olivia's documented trips and the murder locations is undeniable. And those cash withdrawals before each murder... It's damning."

     "You know..." Morgan ran a hand over his face and sighed. "The more we dig into this, the more all roads seem to lead back to Olivia."

     After a few seconds, Hotch said, "We need to be absolutely certain. We can't afford to miss anything." He paused, drowning in thought. "I think we need to go back to the beginning. We need to understand exactly what happened the night of the Crest murders."

     Morgan leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "If that's the case, then I think we need to consider a cognitive interview with Carson," he suggested, gesturing in the air with his pen lightly. "It might help uncover details she's forgotten over the years that she wasn't able to give as a child."

     Nodding in agreement, JJ pulled her hair into a slick ponytail. "I agree with Morgan. A cognitive interview could be our best shot at getting new information."

     "It's been thirty-one years since the incident," Spencer mentioned, glancing around at his teammates. "The reliability of memory decreases significantly over time, but a cognitive interview technique could still yield valuable results."

     Rossi rubbed his goatee thoughtfully. "I was on the original case," he shrugged, masking how much he'd rather do it than anyone else there. "I remember how traumatized Carson was back then. Are we sure putting her through this is the best course of action?"

     Kate's forehead creased with concern. "I understand the hesitation, but if there's even a chance it could help solve these current murders, tie Olivia to it, and bring Carson some closure, shouldn't we try?"

     Nodding in agreement, Hotch made his decision. "I agree. The question is, who should conduct it?"

     Without hesitation, Rossi straightened in his chair. "I should do it. I was there back then. I know the details, the players involved. I might pick up on something others would miss."

     A particular silence settled over the group and everyone else swapped looks. Garcia pretended to busy herself with something on her laptop, not wanting to be the one who told him hell no.

     "I don't..." JJ awkwardly cleared her throat, choosing her words delicately. "Carson doesn't seem to have to most favorable opinion—"

     "You're too close," Morgan put in bluntly, twirling the pen in his hands. He shrugged. "We need someone with fresh eyes, unbiased."

     Reid's fingers tapped rapidly on the table, a tell-tale sign that his mind was all over the place. "Statistically, cognitive interviews are most effective when conducted by someone the subject trusts but who isn't emotionally invested in the event being recalled."

     Throughout the conversation, Hotch had been quiet, his line of sight shifting from one agent to another. Finally, he straightened in his chair. "I'll do it."

     All the chattering stopped and multiple sets of eyes averted to the Unit Chief.

     "Hotch..." Kate was the first to speak, her approach cautious and respectful. "Are you sure? You've had the most direct contact and conversations with Carson since this case reopened. You might be a little too... involved."

     Hotch's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I'm aware of the potential issues, but I believe I can remain objective. Ms. Crest knows me, but not so well that it would compromise the interview."

     Crossing his arms, Morgan inaudibly sighed. "Hotch, we all respect your judgment, man, but we need to be sure we're not compromising the integrity of the investigation."

     "Sir," Garcia said quietly, fidgeting with one of her colorful pens, "we just want to make sure we're doing what's best for Carson and the case."

     Opening his mouth to respond, Hotch was cut off by Rossi. "Aaron, I know you want to do this, but Kate has a point. Your connection with Carson..."

     "Is purely professional," Hotch interrupted, his tone leaving no room for discussion. "And that professionalism is exactly why I should conduct this interview. I can maintain the necessary distance while still providing a comfortable environment for Ms. Crest to recall traumatic memories."

     A noiseless conversation played out amongst the other agents through glances and facial expressions. They all knew Hotch well enough to recognize when his mind was made up and when not to push it. They could also tell when he was emotionally invested in a case, and this was definitely one of those times.

     "I'll conduct the interview after Ms. Crest and Parker arrive. Kate, can you keep Parker company during that time?"

     "Of course," Kate replied, a small smile appearing. "I'd love to. I'll show her around the BAU, too."

     "Good. JJ, I want you, Rossi, and Morgan to finish building the profile based on what we know and with Rossi's case notes. Reid, work with Garcia to dig deeper into Olivia's background. I want to know everything about her movements over the past three decades."

── 𐀔 ──

     THE MID-MORNING SUN STREAMED THROUGH THE VERTICAL WINDOW BLINDS OF AARON HOTCHNER'S OFFICE, CASTING LONG STRIPES OF LIGHT ACROSS THE POLISHED WOODEN DESK. The room hummed with the quiet efficiency of a new day at the BAU. A wall clock ticked steadily, marking the passage of time.

     Since yesterday had been a whirlwind nobody anticipated, Carson and Parker hadn't fully taken in the surroundings of Hotch's office. The BAU, yes. Hotch's office where they kept finding themselves? No.

     It wasn't until Hotch left them alone to speak to someone that the two women studied everything. To Parker, it was perfectly fine to "visually examine the office of a handsome F.B.I. agent she wouldn't mind her mom getting to know more in a non-professional, maybe romantic, capacity." When Carson heard that, she quickly nudged her in the arm and gave her a playful glare. Still, they examined all they could.

     Hotch's office was a study of understated professionalism—similar to Carson's. Dark wooden bookshelves lined one wall, filled with neatly arranged law books and F.B.I. manuals. It sat directly behind Hotch's dark wooden desk. The center bookshelf held different awards and a single picture of Hotch and what looked to be his son from years ago.

     Hotch's desk dominated the center of the office, a large piece of furniture that spoke to the gravity of his position as Unit Chief. It provided ample workspace while maintaining a sense of order and efficiency. Made of rich, dark mahogany, its surface gleamed under the morning light.

     On the main surface, a closed laptop sat centered. To the right, a stack of case files was neatly arranged, their edges perfectly aligned. A silver pen set rested in a leather holder next to a legal pad, its yellow pages crisp and ready for notetaking.

     The right corner of the desk held a framed photograph of the little boy again—the personal touch a reminder of what he fought for every day. Next to it, a small, discreet clock kept precise time, its quiet ticking barely audible. Behind it was a black lamp that was turned off.

     On the left side, a desktop organizer kept various office supplies in order—paper clips, push pins, and sticky notes all had their designated spots. A few reference books were stacked neatly underneath, their spines facing outward for easy identification.

     Under the desk, a compact shredder stood ready for sensitive documents, while a small safe was tucked into one of the lower cabinets.

     The desk's drawers, all fitted with discrete locks, hinted at the confidential nature of much of Hotch's work. The top right drawer, slightly ajar, offered a glimpse of more personal items—a spare tie, a protein bar, and what looked like a small bottle of aspirin. The sight made Carson's lips curl. She had the same items, minus the tie and instead, a pair of heels, in one of the bottom cupboards on her bookshelves.

     Two comfortable visitor's chairs faced the desk, one was currently occupied by Carson's purse and pristine, white blazer.

     Framed certificates and commendations hung on the wall to the left, testaments to years of dedicated service. On the wall opposite the desk were his educational degrees and diplomas framed. Underneath and against the wall was a brown leather couch where Carson and Parker now were.

     Carson sat with perfect posture, a habit ingrained from years in courtrooms. She was focused intently on her daughter, a mix of love and amusement evident.

     Next to her mom, Parker lounged comfortably with one leg folded under her—the casual posture noticeably different compared to Carson's. Her warm brown skin glowed in the morning rays, and her expressive eyes sparkled with mischief.

     "Ha! Got you again, Mom!" she crowed triumphantly, pinning Carson's thumb down in their latest round of thumb wrestling.

     Carson laughed and her whole face lit up, revealing a bright smile her daughter was very accustomed to. "I swear, those field hockey and tennis practices give you an unfair advantage. My poor lawyer thumbs can't compete!"

     "Oh, I know they can't. You sucked at tennis this morning," Parker grinned, her smile a mirror of her mom's. After all the years of knowing her, she'd adopted the same, goofy and lopsided grin Carson sported. "Face it, Mom. You're just getting old."

     "Old?" Carson gasped in mock offense, placing a hand over her heart. "I'll have you know, I'm in my prime despite tennis this morning. I was tired, all right? Now, hand over that phone. Let's see if I can beat your Tomb Runner score."

     "Okay, sure," Parker said, sitting up straighter. She reached into the pocket of her pants and pulled out her iPhone. It was encased in a well-worn purple protective cover adorned with stickers from her favorite bands and TV shows. "Let's see if you can beat my Tomb Runner score."

     Her fingers danced across the screen and entered the day she was adopted for the passcode. Navigating through her apps, she finally found and tapped on the Tomb Runner icon. The game's dramatic opening music filled the office, causing Carson to glance quickly at the door, worried about disturbing the busy agents. Parker quickly switched it off.

     "Here," she said, leaning to the left. The motion caused her ponytail to swing forward, the curls catching the light. "Watch how I do it first."

     She held the phone between them, her brown eyes focused intently on the game. Her thumbs moved with lightning speed, guiding the pixelated adventurer through a maze of traps and treasures. Carson watched, her brow furrowing as she tried to keep up with the rapid movements.

     After successfully navigating a particularly tricky level and intentionally crashing into a wall, ending the round, Parker held out the phone. "Your turn," she said with a challenging grin. "That's my current high score at the top. Think you can beat that?"

     Carson took the phone, her manicured fingers a noticeable difference to her daughter's chipped purple nail polish. She held it somewhat awkwardly, clearly less comfortable with the device than her teenager.

     "Okay," Carson breathed, a determined glint in her eye. "How hard can this be? I argue complex legal corporate cases for a living. I can handle a simple phone game."

     Parker snorted, settling back into the couch to watch. "Sure, big shot. Just remember—swipe up to jump, down to slide, and tap the sides to move left or right."

     As Carson started the game, she lightly bit on the inside of her cheek in concentration, a habit she'd had since childhood. Parker watched with affectionate amusement, ready to offer advice or playful teasing. Her gaze flickered to the phone screen and she deadpanned when she saw how her mom held the phone.

     "Dude, you're holding it wrong. Here, let me—"

     Right when she reached out to help, Carson's character stumbled into the first obstacle. Parker burst out in laughter and fanned her face dramatically as it heated up.

     "Oh, my God. You just ran straight into that boulder!"

     Carson shot her daughter a mock glare. "I'm warming up. You know, in my day, we played real sports and games. None of this finger gymnastics."

     "Uh-huh," Parker teased, "and I'm sure you walked five miles to school, uphill both ways."

     Jaw-slackening, Carson retorted, "Don't sass me, stinker. I'll have you know I was quite the athlete in college and am a master at Clue." Her lips twitched with suppressed laughter, refusing to give in and admit she sucked at digital games.

     "Yeah, yeah," Parker grinned, remembering exactly what extracurriculars her mom did at NYU. She didn't want to give her the satisfaction that she was, indeed, a master at playing Clue. "Debate team doesn't count as a sport, Mom."

     Carson gasped in feigned offense. "I'll have you know debate requires incredible mental agility and stamina."

     "Sure, but can it help you dodge that spike pit?" Parker pointed at the screen just as Carson's character plummeted to its doom.

     "Oh, for fuck's sake!" Carson grumbled, tossing the phone back to her in frustration. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, either from the challenge of the game or the silliness of the conversation. "I demand a rematch. This game is clearly rigged."

     Smoothly catching the device, Parker's shoulders shook with laughter. Her eyes brimmed with tears. "Face it, Mom. You're just not cut out for the high-stakes world of mobile gaming."

     "High stakes? Please," Carson scoffed good-naturedly, waving a hand. "I'll stick to high-stakes courtroom battles and settlements, thank you very much."

     Just as her daughter was about to retort, her fingers already moving to restart the game, a knock at the door interrupted the playful banter. Hotch entered, followed by Kate. Both agents paused momentarily, taken aback by the casual, lighthearted scene in the usually somber office.

     "Ms. Crest, Parker," Hotch greeted, a small smile disrupting his traditionally serious countenance. The sunlight caught the silver at his temples and Parker noticed, giving him a once-over. Oh, yeah. She wouldn't mind seeing him with her mom some more after this. "I hope we're not interrupting anything important."

     Brushing her hair over her shoulders, Carson smiled back at the agents. "Not at all. Parker has been teaching me the finer points of modern gaming. And for once, I'm sad to say I'm a bit out of my depth."

     Kate's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Don't feel bad, Ms. Crest. I can barely keep up with my daughter's games either." She leaned casually against the doorframe, her posture open and friendly.

     Parker grinned, and Hotch noted the similarities between her and Carson. They both had dimples on their left cheek when they smiled and sported identical lopsided grins. "It's not your fault," she shrugged, pocketing her phone. "You guys are just from a different era."

     "Different era?" Carson echoed, raising a brow and turning to her. "I believe you mean we're seasoned professionals with more pertinent matters to attend to."

     Hotch cleared his throat before Parker could respond. There was a hint of amusement in his gaze. "Speaking of which, we do have some matters to discuss. I'd like to speak with Ms. Crest privately for a bit if that's all right." His deep voice carried a note of gravity that instantly changed the atmosphere in the room.

     Parker sat up straight, her earlier mirth fading. Her expression turned into one of concern. "What's going on? Is everything okay?" Immediately, her hand reached out and landed on her mom's thigh protectively. Carson placed hers on top and squeezed reassuringly.

     Stepping forward, Kate's voice was kind and optimistic, clearly aiming to dispel the sudden tension. "Everything's fine, Parker. I thought you might like to hang out with me for a while. I have a teenage daughter, too—Meg. She's a little younger, but going to be in high school soon."

     With her concern shortly forgotten, Parker's face lit up, her quick mood change typical of her age. "Really? That would be awesome! Does she play field hockey or tennis by chance?"

     "Soccer, actually," Kate replied, breaking into a smile at the mere thought of Meg. Her whole demeanor seemed to lighten. "But I'm sure you two would have plenty to talk about."

     "That sounds great," Carson said, relieved at the natural and smooth distraction. It would be best to keep Parker occupied rather than focusing too heavily on the budding case. "Thank you, Agent Callahan." She met her with a grateful smile, the pressure in her shoulders easing. The corners of her eyes crinkled, betraying the stress she'd been under.

     Kate's features softened, and she shook her head. "Please, call me Kate. We're all on the same team here."

     Carson's smile widened, appreciating the sincerity in Kate's tone. The professional mask she often wore as a lawyer appeared to slip a little, revealing the woman beneath. "Kate it is, then. Thank you."

     Looking between the women, Parker's keen gaze took in the interaction. She knew they made the right decision to go to the BAU. "See, Mom?" she raised a brow. "Even F.B.I. agents are cool with first names. Maybe you should loosen up a bit too."

     Playfully rolling her eyes, Carson met her stare with exasperation and affection. "I'll have you know I can be very cool and loose when the situation calls for it."

     "Sure," her daughter teased, squeezing her hand. "like when you're arguing a motion in limine?"

     Kate laughed at their banter. "I have a feeling you two keep each other on your toes."

     "That we do," Carson agreed, sweeping her attention to the agents. Her expression became more serious yet there was still a warmth present. "You can call me Carson. No need for formalities."

     "Carson it is, then. Thank you," Kate said, then motioning to Parker. Her voice took on an enthusiastic tone. "We've got lots to discuss. I want to hear all about your field hockey and tennis career."

     Nodding eagerly, Parker stood up and stretched her limbs. She took a step toward her mom, her dark eyes filling with concern and affection. Leaning down, she wrapped her arms around Carson in a quick but fierce hug, inhaling the familiar scent of her mother's perfume—a comforting blend of vanilla and jasmine. She pressed a kiss to the top of Carson's head.

     "See you later, Mom," Parker said lowly, filled with a worry she couldn't quite hide. "Don't push yourself, okay?"

     At the reminder, Carson's face visibly softened—touched by her concern. She reached up and squeezed Parker's hand, her fingers intertwining with hers. "I'll do my best, stinker," she promised, pulling back. "I'll see you later. Have fun with Kate."

     Parker nodded, understanding passing between them without the need for more words. She gave her one last squeeze before reluctantly letting go. As she stepped away, she squared back her shoulders.

     Kate gave Carson a reassuring smile before leaving with Parker. Their voices faded the further they walked into the main floor of the bullpen, already deep in conversation about something she couldn't hear.

     After the office door closed with a click, Carson fixed her focus on Hotch, her lawyer's intuition kicking in. The playful atmosphere from moments ago evaporated, replaced by a palpable tension that thickened the air. She studied Hotch's face, noting the subtle tightening around his eyes and the almost imperceptible straightening of his shoulders.

     "This isn't just a chat, is it, Hotch?" Carson asked, smoothing out the fabric of her jumpsuit. Usually, she would straighten her suit jacket, but she'd taken it off.

     Hotch's features softened slightly, catching the anxious mannerism. "No, it's not," he admitted, taking a step forward. He gestured to the couch and raised a brow. "Do you mind if I sit?"

     "Not at all," she replied, scooting so there was more than enough space for both of them.

     When he sat down, he maintained a respectful distance but was close enough to create a sense of intimacy and support. "Carson..." he began, shifting to face her, "we need to conduct what's called a cognitive interview."

     He paused to give her a moment to process the information. Carson's face remained impassive, but he noticed her fingers tightening on the satin fabric of her pants. Despite suspecting that Carson, as a lawyer, might already be familiar with the concept, Hotch was compelled to explain thoroughly.

     "A cognitive interview is a technique we use to help witnesses recall details of an event," he explained, his tone gentle but matter-of-fact. "It involves guiding you through the memory, asking you to focus on different sensory details—what you saw, heard, smelled, felt. The goal is to recreate the context of the event as much as possible to trigger associated memories."

     Carson nodded slowly, her earthy-brown eyes never leaving his face. She remained silent, allowing him to continue his explanation.

     Hotch leaned against the couch, his body language open and non-threatening. "I know it's been over thirty years since... since that night," he said, choosing his words carefully. "But even small details that might seem insignificant to you could be incredibly helpful to our investigation. Memories you might not even realize you have could surface during this process."

     He watched Carson's gaze dart to the photo of Jack on his desk across the room. A flash of quiet understanding unknowingly passed between them. They both knew the weight of childhood trauma and the long shadows it could cast.

     "Normally, we conduct these interviews in one of our designated interview rooms," Hotch continued, taking on a slightly warmer tone. "But given the nature of the memory and the murders, I thought my office might be more comfortable. Less clinical, more personal."

     Letting out a slow and controlled breath, Carson glanced away from him. "I appreciate that, Hotch," she said quietly. Everything was fine. Another day, another obstacle she had the privilege to overcome. "When do we start?"

     Hotch shifted again, angling his body more toward her. "Whenever you're ready," he said, providing a tiny smile of encouragement when she met his stare again. "But before we begin, I want you to understand something, Carson... This process can be emotionally taxing. You'll be revisiting a traumatic event in detail. If at any point you need to stop or take a break, just say the word. Your well-being is the priority here."

     A lump formed in her throat at Hotch's transparent concern. She didn't know if she was becoming emotional because someone, practically a stranger, appeared to care this deeply about her or because she was about to face horrors she had long ago repressed. There was a reason why she didn't remember a lot of her childhood. Her brain had suppressed it to protect her.

     Before Parker's spring break started, it'd been years since she had a nightmare or thought about that period of her life. It took a long time to move on as best she could, and now she had to go back. She knew she could do it and she would. If she had it her way and wasn't in the situation she was in right now, though, she wouldn't go back.

     Swallowing hard, she forced herself to remain unperturbed. "I understand. I appreciate your consideration, Hotch."

     Hotch offered another small, reassuring smile. "We're in this together, Carson. You're not alone in this process."

     For a second, they sat in silence, the anticipation of what was to come hanging between them. Despite the professional context, there was an undeniable connection forming—a shared knowledge of loss, of duty, of the burdens they both carried. Both of them felt it but didn't address it.

     Finally, Carson broke the spell. "All right," she said determinedly. "Let's do this. The sooner we start, the sooner we can put this nightmare to rest."

     Hotch nodded and reached for a notepad and pen on the nearby coffee table. "Okay," he said, shifting into his professional F.B.I. manner, but still holding the comfort and support he'd established. "Let's begin by having you close your eyes and take a few deep breaths. Try to relax as much as you can..."

     As Carson settled onto the couch, she felt fear and resolve coursing through her. She glanced at Hotch, taking in his steady presence beside her. Despite the professional context, she found herself drawn to his dark eyes and the subtle furrow of concern in his brow. In that moment, Carson realized she was about to share the most vulnerable parts of herself with this man—parts she'd kept locked away for countless years. And in that moment, she made the impulsive decision to trust him.

     "Hotch..." she muttered, quickly grabbing his attention, "I want you to know that I am choosing to trust you with this. With all of it—whatever it entails." Her eyes locked with his, conveying the immense weight of her words.

     It was clear to him that this wasn't a woman who trusted others with her past easily. So it was important for her to know she wouldn't regret trusting him. "Thank you for choosing to trust me," he replied just as quietly. "I promise you, it's not misplaced."

     She believed him.

     Carson took a deep breath, steeling herself. "Well, like I said: Let's do this."

     "All right, Carson... I want you to close your eyes and take a few deep breaths. Try to relax as much as you can." He paused, watching her follow his instructions. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and he could see the tension in her shoulders as she tried to relax. "Now, I want you to think back to that night. Don't try to analyze or interpret anything yet. Just let the memories come."

     With her eyes still shut, her brow formed a jagged line. A small tremor passed through her body.

     "It's nighttime. You're in your childhood bed. Can you describe what you're experiencing?"

     It wasn't a nightmare that jolted her awake. No. It was the frigid autumn breeze whispering through the open window between her and Malcolm's beds. It crept under the floorboards and blankets, licking at her exposed ankles.

     Carson took a shaky breath before speaking. Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her jumpsuit. "I had a nightmare, but it was interrupted. I wake up freezing. It's cold," she began, her response small and vulnerable. "There's... there's a breeze. It's coming from the window between my bed and Malcolm's. It's open."

     "Good," Hotch encouraged gently. "Was the window open when you fell asleep?"

     "No."

     "What else do you notice? What does it smell like?"

     Blinking several times, she waited for her eyes to adjust. The small bedroom was pitch black, save for the faint glow of moonlight. The space smelled of decaying leaves and something she didn't recognize, overpowering the house's natural lavender smell. Shivering, she pulled her blanket around her shoulders tighter.

     "The room is dark, but there's some moonlight. It smells..." Carson's nose wrinkled as if she could smell it presently. "Decaying leaves, and something else I can't place. Something... wrong. The house usually smells like lavender."

     Hotch nodded, making a note. He could see Carson's eyes moving rapidly behind her closed lids. "What do you see in the room?"

     The crucifixes above the twin's bed cast long, ominous shadows across the walls, seeming to twist and writhe in the dim light. The cherubic faces of angels in the pictures nailed to the walls now appeared distorted, their once-comforting smiles transformed into grotesque leers.

     Sometimes she forgot how scary their bedroom became at night.

     Carson's face contorted with a mix of fear and sadness. "The crucifixes above our beds. They're casting shadows. They look like they're moving." Her breath hitched. "And the pictures of angels on the walls... their faces look wrong. Distorted. They're not comforting like Mother and Father say. They're scary."

     "You're doing great, Carson," Hotch reassured her, his voice a soothing anchor in the storm of her memories. He jotted down the way she referred to her parents. "Now, what happens next?"

     "Malcolm?" she whispered shakily.

     Nothing.

     She flipped to the other side to look at her brother's bed. Squinting through the darkness, her eyebrows furrowed when she saw it was empty. Mr. Flopsy, the stuffed rabbit Malcolm had slept with since they were three, was gone. So was the glass of water from his bedside table.

     Her breathing became shallow for a split second, but it evened out. Her eyelids fluttered as she delved deeper into the memory. "I call out for Malcolm, but he doesn't answer. His bed is empty." Her fingers twist in the fabric of her jumpsuit again. "Mr. Flopsy, his stuffed rabbit, is gone too. And his water glass."

     Hotch leaned forward, his words gentle but probing. "So what do you do?"

     She rubbed her eyes, trying to shake off the tendrils of sleep still clinging to her mind. After a few seconds, she reluctantly slipped out of bed. Her feet easily found her pink slippers on the cold wooden floor, and she padded to the ajar bedroom door. She was still too groggy to notice how it'd been closed when she and Malcolm fell asleep earlier.

     "I get out of bed and put my slippers on to look for him."

     Wait...

     "The door... The door is open, but it was closed when Malcolm and I went to bed."

     Hotch paused at this. According to the case notes he read earlier, Rossi wrote that the twins went to bed with the door open. Perhaps it was an assumption rather than a fact at the time.

     In preparation for the cognitive, Hotch took the liberty of reading Rossi's entire file and the West Linn PD files while his team worked. That way, he'd have a baseline understanding of how it was believed the murders occurred. He also briefly learned about the Willamette Wraith and its role in the Crest family murders.

     The hallway outside their room was darker still. Her arm was outstretched and her fingers traced the wall to her right as she moved. The tips of her fingers brushed against the painted, raised letters of Psalm 23:4: "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me." The words, usually a comfort, now felt like a taunt.

     "I go into the hallway and it's dark. I have to touch the wall to guide myself, I'm too tired to remember where to go."

     "Do you feel anything on the wall?"

     "There's... there's a Bible verse with raised, painted letters from my father. Psalm 23:4," she answered slowly and uneasily. "'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.'" A shudder ran through her body and her fingers spread across her clothed thigh. "It doesn't feel comforting now. It feels like a taunt."

     Hotch nodded, making another note. "You're doing well, Carson. Keep going. What happens after you leave your room?"

     The floorboards creaked beneath her, each sound unnaturally loud in the suffocating quiet. The staircase that led directly downstairs came into view and she sighed. With each step taken, the temperature gradually dropped. By the time she reached the first floor, her breath almost misted in front of her face.

     Since the stairs led directly into the living room, that was the first place she searched for her brother. Slowly, still sleepy, she moved around. The family Bible lay open on the black mahogany coffee table, its pages ruffling in a breeze she didn't register. The leather cover seemed to gleam wetly with freshly spilled blood, but she failed to notice. The couch behind it was empty.

     "Malcom?"

     Silence.

     Carson's face contorted with remembered fear. "I go downstairs and into the living room. It's so cold; I can see my breath." A series of creases break along her forehead. Somehow, this interview was more intimidating and stressful than visiting her childhood home had been. The next sentences were pushed out in a rush. "The living room is empty. The family Bible is open on the coffee table and the pages are ruffling in a breeze I didn't notice at the time. There's blood on it. The couch behind the table is empty. I call for Malcolm. No one answers."

     Hotch almost leaned forward to place a hand on her arm, but he didn't. "Carson... Breathe. Take your time. What do you see next?"

     Letting out an audible sigh, she nodded.

     The den was next, usually a warm and inviting space for friends and members of the Church. That's the only time the Crest family could be found in there.

     Suddenly, a bone-chilling sense of terror struck her. A sharp gasp echoed and she tried to swallow the panic. It was almost all-consuming and came out of nowhere.

     The change in her body language wasn't lost on Hotch, and he frowned. "Carson..."

     Her breathing became more erratic, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead, and her fingers shook while clutching the pale pink jumpsuit. The grip was so tight her knuckles turned white.

     Darting his eyes from her hands to her face, Hotch quickly asked, "What do you see next, Carson?" His tone was low and steady, trying to provide stability in this distressed moment.

     Carson's response came out in a strained whisper as if she was struggling to force the words past her lips. "I... I go to the den. It's... it's not right. Something's wrong."

     "Can you describe what you're seeing?" he prompted, his gaze never leaving her face.

     It was decorated with bookshelves that loomed ominously, the spines of religious texts and family photo albums blurring together in the dark.

     Carson's body started to shake, her words coming out in short, panicked bursts. "The bookshelves... they're towering over me. Growing. The spines of the books are... they're moving. Writhing. Religious texts, family albums... they're all blending."

     She paused and a small whimper escaped her lips. Hotch fought the urge to stop the interview because he knew she needed to work through this memory.

     Along with the decorations, the cross-stitched Bible verse above the black couch seemed to blur. It shifted as she passed, forming words she didn't want to read. All it delivered were promises of damnation rather than salvation.

     Carson's eyes darted under her closed lids, her features contorting with remembered fear again. "The cross-stitched Bible verse above the couch. It's... it's changing. The words are shifting and rearranging themselves. They're not comforting anymore. They're... they're cursing me. Damning me."

     "There's something else," he said softly, but firmly. "What is it, Carson?"

     If she'd been paying attention and searching for anyone other than Malcolm, she might've noticed the movement in the empty corner of the room.

     Suddenly, Carson's body went rigid, her back arching slightly. It was like she was trying to retreat from something unseen in the memory. Her eyes flew open, wide with unbridled terror, but unfocused—still lost in the petrifying memory.

     "I'm not alone. There's someone in the corner of the room."

     "What?" Hotch deadpanned, his head shooting up and eyes widening. This, one hundred percent, wasn't in the case files. This was new. "Who is it, Carson? Can you see them?"

     Carson shook her head violently, her dark hair whipping around her. "No, no, I can't... I didn't see them then. I was too focused on finding Malcolm," she choked out, staring aimlessly at the bookshelves. "But they were there. Watching."

     "How do you know?" Hotch asked, his hand now hovering near Carson's arm, ready to pull her back if she became too lost in the memory.

     "I can feel them," she whispered, her voice cracking with fear. "Their presence. It's like ice creeping up my spine. And that smell... river water and decay. It's stronger now—overwhelming." A look of dawning realization and terror crossed Carson's face. "It's the Wraith," she breathed. "The Willamette Wraith. It was there, in my house, watching me. Waiting for me to find... to find..."

     The unfinished sentence trailed off and she blinked, snapping back to reality. A tear fell down her cheek and she let go of her clothes, wiping it almost as quickly as it fell. Blinking more rapidly this time, she turned her head away from Hotch and tried to gather herself. They hadn't even scratched the surface of the real tragedy.

     "I'm sorry. I apologize for the emotional break," she said, clearing her throat. It was the lawyer in her speaking now, not her. A shift took place with her posture and she sat up, squaring back her shoulders. "I didn't mean to get so worked up."

     Hotch noticed the change immediately and recognized it as a defense mechanism. He leaned back to give her space. "Carson, there's no need to apologize," he reassured her. "What you're doing here is incredibly difficult and brave. It's natural and completely understandable to have an emotional reaction."

     Carson shook her head, a wry, self-deprecating smile tugging at her lips. "In my line of work, we're taught to keep our emotions in check. To present a strong, unshakable front no matter what. I've always done that." She straightened her jumpsuit, hands still trembling. "I should be able to handle this better."

     The logic she expressed made complete sense to him. He operated the same way but had his fair share of moments when he broke. So, he understood where she was coming from. "This isn't a courtroom, Carson. And you're not here as a lawyer. You're here as a survivor, recounting an incredibly traumatic experience that happened to you and your family. There's no shame in showing emotion."

     For a moment, Carson's professional mask slipped and revealed the vulnerability beneath. "I know," she said softly. "It's just... I'm not used to feeling this out of control. This... exposed." Especially with someone she didn't know well.

     Hotch nodded, scanning her body language. "It takes a great deal of strength to allow yourself to be vulnerable. What you're doing here, it's not a sign of weakness. It's a testament to your courage."

     As Carson absorbed his words, she became acutely aware of his intense gaze. Years of courtroom experience had honed her ability to read people, and she recognized the look in his eyes. He was profiling her, dissecting every movement and nuance with a trained eye.

     In any other circumstance, she would have bristled at such scrutiny and called him out on it. Her instinct was to guard herself, to present only what she wanted others to see. However, she made a conscious decision not to shield herself from Hotch's assessment. After all, she'd chosen to trust him with the most vulnerable parts of herself. This, too, was part of that trust.

     So she allowed herself to be seen, really seen, perhaps for the first time in years. She didn't try to still the tremor in her hands while she smoothed her jumpsuit out, or mask the tightness around her mouth as she fought for composure. She let Hotch see the way she squared her shoulders, preparing for the battle ahead, and didn't hide the brief, longing glance she cast toward the door.

     Carson knew Hotch would be noting all of this—the contrast between her vulnerability and strength, the layers of her personality—the vulnerable child still haunted by that night, the fiercely protective mother, and the sharp, ambitious lawyer—vying for control in this moment of crisis. She could almost see the wheels turning in his mind while he pieced together the puzzle of her psyche.

     What surprised her was how oddly comforting it felt to be seen so thoroughly from only a few interactions. There was no judgment in Hotch's countenance, only keen observation and a depth of understanding that she found reassuring.

     Their eyes met, and a silent communication passed between them. Neither spoke. Carson saw the admiration in Hotch's deep brown eyes, tinged with concern, and felt a surge of gratitude for his ongoing presence.

     Taking a deep breath, her posture relaxed slightly. "Thank you, Hotch. I... I appreciate that." She paused, seeming to gather herself. "Shall we continue?"

     Hotch studied her for a moment longer, recognizing and respecting her willingness to be vulnerable. He nodded with a tiny smile of encouragement. "If you feel up to it. But Carson, if it becomes too much, we stop immediately. This isn't about pushing you past your limits."

     Carson nodded, her perseverance returning. "I'm ready."

     "Let's pick up where we left off," he started, calm and steady. Carson's eyes shut and she leaned into the couch, hands in her lap. "The Willamette Wraith in is the den. What does it look like?"

     All was quiet.

     "I don't know," she finally replied, sounding conflicted. "It's like trying to describe a shadow-given form. A nightmare made flesh. It doesn't make sense. It shouldn't exist, but it does. It just stood there, completely still and soundless. I don't notice it and leave the room."

     Wandering down the hall, she yawned.

     Finally, she reached the kitchen. The hardwood floor was ice-cold against her feet, even through her slippers, and seemed to stick slightly with each step, as if reluctant to let her go. Her attention was drawn to a glint on the floor—Malcolm's glass of water. It was shattered into a thousand pieces. The shards sparkled in the moonlight like teeth.

     And like a light had been switched, she was fully awake.

     A small pool of water spread out from the broken glass, reflecting the dim light streaming from the curtain in front of the sink window. It reflected in a way that made it look deeper than it should be as if it might swallow her whole if she got too close.

     And again, her brother was nowhere to be seen.

     "I wander down the hallway. It feels colder."

     Hotch reached for his notebook to write a note. "Good, Carson. What do you see when you reach the kitchen?"

     Carson's hands clenched in her lap, balling up the satin fabric for the umpteenth time. The other day, she wasn't able to remember this, but now she could. "There's... there's broken glass on the floor and water. Malcolm's water glass. It's shattered into a thousand pieces." The volume of her words dropped. "The shards are sparkling in the moonlight. The water looks like it might swallow me if I get too close." Her breathing quickened. "And Malcolm... he's still not here."

     "What do you do next?"

     "Malcolm?" she called again, her voice cracking like thin ice this time. "Where are you? This isn't funny!"

     Only the hollow echo of her own voice answered. It bounced off the walls and returned to her, distorted and mocking.

     A sliver of fear slithered down her spine and she swallowed harshly. The air seemed to thicken and she backpedaled out of the kitchen. She turned to the left and entered the dining room.

     "I call out for him again; I'm scared. Only an echo answers me."

     Hotch could see the tension building in Carson's body. "You're doing well, Carson. Remember, you're safe here." His knee brushed against hers when he shifted on the couch. "What happens after you leave the kitchen?"

     At the dining table, her mother and father's assigned chairs were pushed back at odd angles, as if her parents had left in a hurry. Half-drank chalices of wine still sat on the table, a testament to her parents' nightly drinking routine.

     Unconsciously, Carson let her knees fall against his. The touch was comforting and helped ground her.

     "I go to the dining room. The chairs are pushed back at odd angles, kind of like my parents left in a hurry. There are half-full wine glasses on the table. It's part of my parents' nightly drinking routine."

     Nodding, Hotch briefly glanced at their knees and back up. "And then?"

     Wrinkles appeared along her forehead, giving away the approaching anguish. This was when it happened.

     Out of habit, she glanced at the prayer closet, which was connected to the other end of the dining room. Perhaps Malcolm was in there. Whenever either of them had a nightmare, they went to the prayer room. It's where they were conditioned to go.

     "I look at the prayer closet out of habit. Whenever we have a nightmare, we go and pray." This was an old habit Carson had forgotten about. After moving in with Olivia, she stopped going to church and cut off all her ties to religion. The only thing that kept her tethered to God was the cross-shape scar on her left palm and the religious trauma that occasionally popped up every few years. "I think Malcolm could be in there if he had a nightmare, too."

     She trod across the dining area and toward the prayer room. For no reason, something deep within her screamed not to open the navy blue double doors, but she didn't have to.

     Immediately, her breath grew shallow and she involuntarily reached for the scar on her palm. Hotch's eyes followed the movement and finally caught a glimpse of the scar he'd heard about. It was faint, but it was stuck to her like superglue.

     It was already cracked open.

     Carson almost dug her nails into the scar, but quickly stopped herself. No. Don't itch or scratch at it. That habit was long gone.

     "I walk to the closet. The door is cracked..." she inhaled sharply, her chest heaving up, "cracked open." The shallow breathing turned quick the closer she approached the closet. A strand of dark hair fell across her face, but she didn't move to brush it away, too lost in the memory.

     Hotch inclined forward, intensely focused on Carson. The corners of his mouth tightened, a subtle sign of concern. "What do you see, Carson?"

     She shook her head violently, eyes still closed tightly. More hair fell. A small crease appeared between her brows, a physical manifestation of her internal struggle. "I don't want to... I can't... I can't look."

     "You're safe here, Carson," Hotch reassured her. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch her hand, maintaining his professional demeanor despite his growing concern. "Remember, this is just a memory. You can step back from it at any time."

     All she had to do was tug on the gold, hand-carved handles.

     Carson nodded jerkily, taking a shuddering breath. "There's... there's something seeping out from under the door. It's dark. Thick."

     "Can you describe it more?" he prompted gently. The notepad in his lap was long forgotten for he was focused entirely on the woman beside him.

     Swallowing harshly, Carson felt like she might be sick. "Blood. It's blood," she choked out, shaking her head again. Her features twisted in pain and she wet her lips, trying to keep from crying.

     Hotch noticed how her body began to tremble, a fine shiver running through her frame. His jaw clenched imperceptibly, and he felt sympathy for her. "You're doing well, Carson. Take a deep breath. What do you do next?"

     "I... I have to open the door. I don't want to, but I have to find Malcolm." Her words were small and frightened. The polished, professional lawyer was gone and replaced by the terrified seven-year-old girl she once was. "My hand is on the handle. It's cold."

     It swung open with a low, mournful creak.

     At the movement, a thick substance that she recognized all too well grew toward her. Her eyes followed the pool to its source and her heart stopped. The air leaving her lips became ragged and harsh as she struggled to process the scene before her.

     "The smell hits me first. Copper and decay. It smells like death."

     "What do you see, Carson?" Hotch remained calm, a constant anchor in the storm of her past.

     There, sitting motionless on the floor, were Cyrus and Mary Crest's corpses. Their bodies were positioned opposite each other, leaning against the once pristine white walls. Now, the four walls were covered in streaks of red. Long lines were drawn on their arms, leaking blood everywhere. In their chests, there were multiple stab wounds.

     Then, in each of their hands, they held a bible. However, Mary held a bibile and a knife. It was the same one she used to carve crosses into her and Malcolm's hands. She recognized it immediately.

     A sob escaped her, the sound was raw and painful. Immediately, her hand flew to her mouth to hold back the cries and horror of what she was witnessing. "Mother and Father. They're... they're sitting on the floor. There's blood everywhere. On the walls, the floor... everywhere."

     "Can you describe their positions?"

     Carson's words came out in short, panicked bursts. Her hands gesticulated wildly, painting a grotesque picture in the air. "Mother's on one side. Father's on the other. They're holding Bibles. And Mother... she has the knife. The one she used to carve crosses into our hands."

     At those words, Hotch felt a surge of quick anger hit him. His jaw clenched tightly, and a muscle twitched in his cheek. The reminder of the ritualistic child abuse she went through struck a chord deep within him, but he had to push all that to the side and focus.

     "You're doing great, Carson. What else do you notice?"

     Her watering eyes trailed up and found that her parent's faces were frozen in an emotion she didn't believe they were capable of having—terror.

     "Their faces," she murmured, a tear slipping down her cheek. "They look... terrified. I've never seen them look like that before. I didn't think they were capable of being scared of anything."

     "Is there anything else in the room that stands out to you?"

     Between them, Mr. Flopsy sat in a pool of their mixed blood, his once-soft fur matted and dripping. The rabbit's button eyes seemed to stare directly at Carson, accusing and sorrowful.

     Carson's breath caught for a moment. "Mr. Flopsy—Malcolm's rabbit. He's... he's sitting between them. In the blood. His fur is all matted and... and... Where's Malcolm? Where's Malcolm?"

     Hotch couldn't take it anymore and reached out, placing a steadying hand on her arm. His touch was firm but tender, his fingers warm against her chilled skin. "Hey. Stay with me, Carson." Thankfully, the act seemed to calm her down a bit. Her body wasn't shaking nearly as bad now. "What happens next?"

     "No, no, no," she whimpered through tears, backing away. Her slippers left bloody footprints on the hardwood floor. "MALCOLM!"

     As fast as she could, she sprinted to the front of the house with her heart threatening to burst from her chest. The shadows seemed to chase her, nipping at her heels while she fled. Panic spread throughout her body. If mother and father were dead... was Malcolm?

     "I'm petrified. I'm calling for Malcolm. I... I sprint to the front of the house. I'm beginning to panic because if Mother and Father are dead, does that mean..." She trailed off and went rigid. "The foyer."

     When she rounded the corner into the foyer, she skidded to a stop. Her slippers skated into something warm and wet, and she nearly fell over. Quickly, she regained balance and blinked.

     A gasp shattered the atmosphere.

     "What do you see in the foyer, Carson?"

     A lump rose in her throat, threatening to choke her out.

     Malcolm lay sprawled in the middle of the foyer, his limbs bent at impossible angles. His eyes, wide and glassy, stared unseeing at the ceiling. Blood—so much blood—redder and darker than any blood Mother of Father ever drew from the twins, their deceased pets, or woodland animals—pooled around him, soaking into the ornate rug Grandmother Abigail Crest had given the family last Christmas.

     Carson's composure, which she'd been desperately clinging to, ultimately shattered. Her shoulders began to shake uncontrollably, and she hunched forward with her elbows resting on her thighs. She held her head in her hands and was trying to stop crying. None of her efforts worked. Tears streamed down her face.

     As she broke down, Hotch's demeanor dropped subtly. The stern, professional F.B.I. agent role faded, revealing glimpses of the compassionate man beneath. His eyes held a depth of empathy that few were privileged to see. The lines around them deepened, not just with concern, but with a hint of shared pain—a recognition of the trauma Carson was reliving.

     "Malcolm," she coughed out, her voice breaking. "There's so much blood. It's everywhere... soaking into the rug. He's... he's on the floor. His eyes are open, but he's not..."

     She paused, struggling to breathe. Hotch's hand on her arm tightened, grounding and reminding her that she wasn't alone.

     "I can't... I can't do this," she gasped, her eyes flying open. They were wild with panic and grief. Her head shook vehemently and she sat up. "T-That's why I blocked this out. I can't see him like that again. I can't..."

     Hotch leaned forward, his broad shoulders hunching as if to create a protective space for Carson. His tie had loosened during the session—a rare sign of his emotional investment in the cognitive interview.

     When he spoke, it was lower than usual and acted as a gentle rumble that filled the space between them. "Carson," he said, his hand still on her arm, "take a moment. Breathe with me."

     Hotch demonstrated by taking a slow, deep breath. His chest rose and fell steadily, offering Carson a rhythm to follow. As he did this, a flicker of something—perhaps a memory of his own loss—passed behind his eyes, there and gone in an instant.

     "That's it," he encouraged as Carson struggled to match his breathing pattern. She bit on the inside of her cheek in concentration, doing her best to copy him. "You're doing well. Remember, you're here with me. You're safe."

     Soon, a slow and steady breath left her lips and her shoulders dropped. Success. "Thank you," she whispered, offering him a feeble smile.

     "Of course," he responded instantly. "What you're doing is incredibly difficult. It's painful, and we can take as many breaks as we want or stop altogether. What would you like to do?"

     A flare of determination flickered in her tear-filled eyes, and she shook her head. She'd never once given up in life so far, and she wasn't going to now. "I want to continue. I need to. For Malcolm."

     Hotch nodded slowly, silently admiring her resilience throughout this process. A lot of people would've tapped out by now. "Okay. Take your time. What do you see in the foyer, Carson?"

     Carson closed her eyes again, visibly steeling herself. "As I'm running, I round a corner and enter the foyer. My feet land in a puddle of blood and I almost fall."

     When she rounded the corner into the foyer, she skidded to a stop. Her slippers skated into something warm and wet, and she nearly fell over. Quickly, she regained balance and blinked.

     A gasp shattered the atmosphere.

     Malcolm lay sprawled in the middle of the foyer, his limbs bent at impossible angles. His eyes, wide and glassy, stared unseeing at the ceiling. Blood—so much blood—redder and darker than any blood Mother of Father ever drew from the twins, their deceased pets, or woodland animals—pooled around him, soaking into the ornate rug Grandmother Abigail Crest had given the family last Christmas.

     "Malcolm is... He's sprawled out. His limbs are bent and his eyes..." Carson's voice broke again, and she took a breath. "He's staring at nothing. Blood is everywhere."

     Her legs gave out, and she collapsed to her knees. A wordless wail of grief and horror tore from her throat, shredding her vocal cords. The sound echoed through the house, rising to a fever pitch before dying away, leaving behind a silence so profound it rang in her ears. Suddenly, she became aware of a cold breeze on the back of her neck, carrying with it that familiar scent of river water and decay.

     "My legs give out and I drop next to him. I scream and that's when I feel it. There's... there's a breeze on the back of my neck. It smells like river water and decay."

     Slowly, trembling, she crawled around to face the window near the front door.

     "I crawl around. One of the front windows is open—the one to the left of the front door. That's where the breeze has been coming from."

     There, standing mere feet away from the opened window in the front yard, was a face—if it could even be called a face. It was a smeared, writhing mass of shadows and mist, with eyes and a mouth that glowed like dying stars. The Willamette Wraith had come just as the twins summoned it to, but not to protect them.

     "And what do you see outside the window, Carson?"

     "It's..." Her eyes flew open. They were wide with terror, the earthy-brown almost swallowed by her dilated pupils. "The Willamette Wraith. It's there, just standing in the yard. But it's not... it's not really a face. It's like a mass of shadows and mist with glowing eyes."

     As she stared, paralyzed with terror, she saw her own reflection superimposed over the creature's form. In that moment, she realized the truth: the Wraith hadn't brought death to her home.

     She had.

     "It's all my fault," she muttered, staring into the middle distance with tears welling up. "I convinced Malcolm to do the chant with me earlier that day. We thought the Wraith could protect us from Mother and Father, and stop them from hurting us. Instead, it did the opposite. The Wraith came and killed my entire family, leaving me, the one who wanted to do the chant in the first place, alone. If it weren't for me... Malcolm would be alive."

     The room fell deadly silent, the weight of Carson's words hanging heavily. Hotch's expression grew grave and he set aside his notepad.

     "Carson," he began firmly, letting go of her arm. "I want you to listen to me very carefully." He waited until her tear-filled eyes met his. "You were a child. What happened that night, what you saw and experienced—none of it was or is your fault. You are not responsible for the deaths of your family. Do you understand?"

     Carson almost surrendered under his unwavering gaze, her heart swimming in uncertainty. "Hotch, I—"

     "You are not responsible for the deaths of your family, Carson. I need you to hear that. To believe it."

     She tilted her head and wiped away what was left of the tears, erasing any smeared makeup. "How can you be so sure?"

     Hotch's features softened and he allowed himself to be open and honest with her. He briefly let go of his professionalism. "Because I've seen real monsters, Carson. I've looked into the eyes of people who are truly capable of such heinous acts. And when I look at you, I see a survivor. A woman who has carried an unimaginable burden for far too long."

     Carson felt her chest constrict against her every breath. Her eyes, still glistening, searched his face for any sign of doubt or insincerity. Finding none, she felt something inside her begin to unravel—a knot of guilt and self-blame that'd been tightly wound for decades.

     Taking a shaky breath, her shoulders slowly dropped when she exhaled. The office around them came back into focus—the muted beige walls, the neat stack of files on Hotch's desk, the law books on the bookshelves, and the soft hum of the air conditioning. The scent of coffee lingered, a reminder of the world beyond this moment of vulnerability.

     "I... thank you, Hotch," Carson said quietly, releasing the pink satin fabric from her fingers. Her knuckles faded from white to her natural olive complexion.

    Nodding, he was still fixed on her face. The normal stern set of his jaw had disappeared and his walls were lowered. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

     Carson let out a mirthless chuckle, running a hand through her hair. The silky strands slipped through her fingers, a few catching on her pearl earrings. "Honestly? I feel like I've been hit by a truck. I probably look like I got hit by one, too."

     A ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of Hotch's mouth. "That's not uncommon after a cognitive interview, especially one as intense as yours," he said, taking in her physical appearance. He noted the slight puffiness around her eyes and the faint mascara smudges she hadn't quite managed to wipe away. "By the way, you look fine. I wouldn't worry about that."

     Flashing her stare to his, she lifted a brow. The familiar gesture brought life back into her, a glimpse of her usual self peeking through the emotional exhaustion. "Now, you're just being overtly nice to keep me from crying more."

     An actual smile broke out on Hotch's face, and he chuckled. The sound was amiable and rich, filling the office and easing the lingering tension. "I am, but it's true. You look fine."

     Carson shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. She leaned into the couch, the leather cool against her skin. Her gaze drifted to the window, where the early afternoon sun cast long shadows across the BAU bullpen. "It's strange," she mused. "I've spent so long trying to forget, and now..."

     "Now it's all come flooding back," Hotch finished for her. He shifted, angling his body more toward her. The movement caused his tie to brush against the couch, a whisper of silk on leather. "Carson, what you did today was incredibly brave. You've given us valuable information that could help solve this case."

     She looked back at him, a flicker of hope appearing. The light from the window caught the green flecks in her brown irises, making them shine. "Do you think so? It's been thirty-one years—"

     "I do, regardless of how much time has passed," Hotch affirmed. He paused and studied her. The air between them felt charged and filled with unspoken understanding. "Would you like me to get Parker? I'm sure she's worried about you."

     Carson hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Her hand unconsciously went to her necklace, fingers tracing the delicate sun pendant. "Yes, I'd like that. Thank you."

     Hotch stood, his movement causing the leather couch to creak softly. He moved to the door, his steps measured and quiet on the carpeted floor. Opening it, he caught sight of Rossi passing by.

     "Dave," he called, his voice low. "Could you ask Kate to bring Parker to my office?"

     Nodding, Rossi's line of sight darted to the office and back to Hotch. It was a silent question of how it went and how Carson was doing. Hotch knew that and pressed his lips together. And that's all Rossi needed to know.

     "You got it."

     Hotch closed the door and returned to the couch. The leather cushions dipped under his weight and when he sat down, their knees brushed.

     "Carson," he began smoothly, "I want you to know that what you're feeling—the guilt, the pain—is normal. But it doesn't define you."

     Glancing at him, her brows raised subtly. The mascara stains under her eyes were gone and she'd pulled it together. Her lawyer's instincts, never fully dormant, picked up on the personal note. "You sound like you're speaking from experience," she observed, her tone gently probing.

     Hotch was quiet for a moment, his gaze dropping to his hands. When he looked up, there was a vulnerability that Carson wasn't familiar with. The usual walls he kept up, even around his team, crumbled for this brief moment.

     "A few years ago," he trailed off, inhaling deeply, "I lost my ex-wife to a serial killer we were hunting. His name was George Foyet. He... he attacked Haley in our home while our son Jack was there."

     Some color drained from Carson's face, and she swallowed hard. She was used to hearing and receiving bad news as a lawyer, so she knew how to react and control her physical reactions. So even though this news made her breath hitch and want to reach out, similarly to how she did with family and friends, she didn't.

     "I'm so sorry," she whispered sincerely, leaning her knees into his as a gesture of support.

     He nodded, his jaw tightening at the memory. A muscle twitched in his cheek, betraying the emotion he was working to contain. "It was the darkest time of my life. I felt... responsible. Like I'd failed to protect them."

     "How did you cope?"

     "One day at a time," he answered truthfully. "I focused on Jack, on being there for him. And on my job, on making sure no one else would have to go through what we did."

     Carson nodded. "You channeled your pain into purpose. I'm familiar with that."

     "Yes. It wasn't easy. There were days when the guilt was suffocating, but I had to keep going for Jack's sake." His gaze was intense as he stared at her. "That's why I understand, Carson. I know what it's like to carry that weight, to feel responsible for something beyond your control."

     Tears blurred her vision, but this time, they weren't tears of grief—there was a glimmer of understanding, of shared pain. "How do you... how do you let it go?" she asked weakly, unsure if an answer even existed to this question. She'd let go of a lot in her lifetime, but she knew this was different. This was buried trauma and grotesque images that wouldn't disappear after a few years. She was going to live with this and she knew she could, but any advice was welcomed.

     Unexpectedly, Hotch reached out and covered her hand with his, which rested in her lap. The touch was warm and comforting. "You don't, not completely," he admitted. "But you learn to live with it—to use it as a driving force rather than letting it consume you."

     "Thank you," Carson said much steadier now. "For sharing that with me."

     Hotch nodded, a small and genuine smile on his face. "We're not so different, you and I," he mentioned, nudging his knees against hers. "We've both faced darkness, and we're both still fighting."

     Just then, a soft knock at the door broke the moment. They both turned, their hands separating as the outside world intruded once more.

     "That must be Parker," he said, standing up. As he moved toward the door, he paused and looked back at her. "Remember, you're not alone in this. We're here to help, in whatever way we can."

     The door to the office opened, revealing Parker and Kate standing there. The young teen's eyes were wide with concern and darted past Hotch, landing on Carson.

     "Mom?" Parker took a hesitant step into the office, her curls bouncing with the movement. Whatever happened, whatever her mom and Agent Hotchner discussed, had left her upset. She could tell.

     Carson straightened immediately, the lawyer's mask slipping into place. But Parker, knowing her too well, saw right through it. The tiny tremble in Carson's hands, the redness rimming her eyes—these were tells Parker learned to recognize over the years.

     Nothing was said. There was no need.

     Rushing to her side, Parker sat down and pulled her mom into her arms. She held her tight, feeling the tension Carson was carrying in her body. The scent of Carson's perfume—a mix of vanilla and jasmine—enveloped Parker, familiar and comforting.

     Carson's composure almost crumbled at her daughter's touch. She buried her face in Parker's curls, her shoulders shaking with sobs that screamed at her to be released, but she didn't let them. Her fingers clutched at the back of Parker's quarter zip, holding on as if her daughter was an anchor in a storm.

     Hotch stood quietly by the door, giving them a moment of privacy. He exchanged a glance with Kate, who nodded and soundlessly excused herself. The door closed with a faint click, leaving the three of them alone.

     After a few minutes, Carson lifted her head and pulled away. Her eyes were still red-rimmed but clear. She cupped Parker's face in her hands, thumbs gently wiping away the tears on her cheeks. "I'll be okay, stink," she reassured her hoarsely. It was rare that she saw her this upset, and Carson didn't want to scare her. "It was just a lot to remember."

     At that statement, Parker's brow furrowed and she searched her mom's face. "What happened, Mom? What did they make you do?"

     Carson took a deep breath, her gaze flickering to Hotch before returning to Parker. "They didn't make me do anything. Remember when Jason told you about the cognitive interviews he'd conducted in the past?" Parker nodded. "That's what we did. It'll help the investigation."

     "You went back to that night, didn't you?" Parker asked, already knowing the answer. Carson nodded. "First, we visited the house, and now you remember all of it... I'm so sorry, Mom. I wish... I wish you didn't have to and I wish I could make it better."

     A watery chuckle escaped Carson and she pressed a kiss to Parker's forehead. "Oh, lovie. You do make it better. Every single day."

     Hotch, who'd been watching the interaction with admiration, cleared his throat. Both Carson and Parker looked up and remembered his presence.

     "Carson," he said, stepping forward with his hands in his pants pockets. "You and Parker are free to go for the day. If we need anything else today, I'll call you." Wait... Dammit. "That is if you're comfortable sharing your contact information."

     Smooth, Parker thought, fighting the impulse to smirk.

     Carson stood up and smoothed out her jumpsuit. "Of course," she said, walking to one of the chairs in front of Hotch's desk. She reached for her purse and pulled out a business card. "You can reach me anytime."

     As Hotch took the card, their fingers scarcely brushed. A spark of something passed between them, gone as quickly as it came. Parker, ever observant, didn't miss it. Her eyes darted between the two, noticing the minuscule shift in their interactions.

     "Take care of yourselves. Both of you," Hotch said, his gaze lingering on Carson. "And Carson... thank you. For everything."

     After they had gathered their things to leave and Carson had put on her white blazer, Parker slipped her hand into hers. She squeezed gently and Carson returned the gesture. Each of them was drawing strength from their presence.

     At the door, Carson hesitated and glimpsed back at Hotch. "Thank you," she said softly.

     Hotch nodded without a second thought. "Always," he replied, the single word carrying a weight of promise.

     Once the pair left his office, he watched them exit the BAU. A complex mix of emotions played across his features. Deep down, he knew what transpired today would have an effect—on the case, on Carson, and perhaps, on him as well.

── 𐀔 ──

     THE LOBBY OF THE HYATT REGENCY QUANTICO BRISTLED WITH QUIET ACTIVITY WHEN CARSON AND PARKER STEPPED THROUGH THE REVOLVING DOORS. The cool air inside was a welcomed respite from the humid Virginia evening they'd left behind. The polished marble floors reflected the glow of the chandeliers overhead, creating an illusion of walking on light.

     Each step Carson took echoed ominously in the cavernous space, the click of her heels announcing their presence to unseen watchers. Parker walked beside her, their hands still intertwined. She couldn't help but notice the slight tightness and redness around her eyes—a lingering sign of the emotional toll the day had taken. A surge of protectiveness washed over Parker and she squeezed her mom's hand.

     As they neared the front desk, the receptionist—a young woman with a neat blonde bun and a crisp white blouse—looked up with a bright smile. "Good evening, Ms. Crest, Miss Parker. Welcome back."

     Carson returned the smile, momentarily ignoring the emotional turmoil still churning inside her chest. "Thank you, Paula. I hope you've had a good day."

     "I have! I hope you have as well," Paual's smile widened. Milliseconds later, she gasped. "Oh! These were delivered for you about an hour ago." She quickly reached behind the counter and produced a stunning bouquet.

     Both Carson and Parker's brows rose in surprise. The arrangement was a riot of colors—deep purples, vibrant pinks, and soft whites artfully arranged in a crystal vase. Carson reached out to take the flowers, but something itched at the back of her mind.

     Something felt... off.

     Parker leaned in to smell them, her nose wrinkling. "Mom, aren't those your favorite flowers? The purple ones?"

     Carson nodded slowly, her eyes narrowing as she examined the bouquet more closely. "Yes, they are. Lisianthus. But who..." She trailed off, thinking through all the possibilities of who they could be from. The only person who came to mind was Melanie. No one else knew what hotel the three were staying at.

     "There's a card," Paula offered helpfully, holding out a small envelope.

     Carson took it with a murmured thanks, her fingertips tracing the edge of the envelope as they made their way to the elevator. Once the doors closed behind them, she finally opened it and Parker took the bouquet. She peered over her arm to read along.

     The card inside was simple and the text was printed in perfect cursive:

Carson,
     Your strength today was inspiring. Thank you for your trust and cooperation.
     If you need anything, call (571) 703-7075
David Rossi

     Parker's brow furrowed. "How did Agent Rossi know your favorite flower and where we're staying?" Something didn't feel right.

     A feeling of unease settled in Carson's stomach. "I have no idea. Perhaps he or Ms. Garcia reached out to Mel and asked?"

     The elevator dinged when it reached the fifth floor. Side by side, they walked down the hallway. The plush carpet muffled their footsteps. Carson couldn't shake the sense that something was amiss. The flowers, beautiful as they were, seemed to mock her with their perfection.

     When Carson and Parker entered, the hotel room smelled of Greek food. Melanie was in her pajamas and unpacking takeout containers on the small dining table.

     "Hey, you're back!" she greeted cheerfully, but her smile faltered when she took in Carson's tentative expression and light red eyes. "What's wrong? And... where did those flowers come from?"

     Paker set the vase on the table, her movements careful and controlled.

     "Mel, did you by any chance mention my favorite flowers and where we're staying to anyone on the BAU team?" Carson asked, shrugging off her blazer and draping it over her arm.

     "No, of course not," Melanie said, her features pinching in confusion. "I haven't spoken to anyone since their analyst called the other day. Why?"

     Carson exchanged a look with Parker, the unease in her gut growing stronger. "Because these arrived an hour ago, supposedly from David Rossi. However, I never told him either of those things or anyone at the F.B.I. And when it comes to the flowers, only a handful of people know my favorite. Three of which are in this room."

     Without hesitation, Melanie stood tall. "I'll get to the bottom of it first thing tomorrow," she vowed, shortly adding, "Speaking of something odd and unsettling, I got a call this afternoon from a random Virginia number. When I answered, there was only silence. Then, the call dropped."

     A chill ran down her spine and Parker frowned, moving closer to her mom. "So, what does this mean? Do we think the two are connected somehow?"

     "Well, you know what I say about coincidences—"

     "—Never believe that shit," Parker and Melanie quoted in unison.

     "Precisely."

     Taking a deep breath, Carson pursed her lips. A decision was crystallizing in her head. "I agree," she said, walking to the table and tossing her purse on the nearby couch. "Tomorrow, we'll go to the BAU and let Hotch know. From there, we'll see what else they'll need and if we need to stay in town for a few more days. If not, I say we leave and go to Universal as planned."

     "Okay..."

     As night fell outside the hotel windows, casting dark shadows into the room, Carson couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched. Throughout the night and dinner, something still felt amiss. The flowers, seemingly innocent, now felt like a warning when she glanced at them from her bed. Or perhaps, they were a threat.

     The hunt for Olivia was far from over. And Carson was beginning to suspect they weren't the hunters anymore, searching for Olivia with dimly lit flashlights. They might very well be the hunted.

     And little did she know... that phone number was just the beginning.

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╱ 𝕬UTHOR'S 𝕹OTE. . .

⁰³ 𝕽𝖀𝕴𝕹. . . RUIN !
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written by CARDIIAC © 2024.
破滅 . ݃♱ .

     i am sorry for the emotional damage i might have caused anyone <3

     this sounds crazy, but this chapter was so much fun to write. chapter one was intentionally written and designed with this chapter in mind. if you go back, you're able to see what carson didn't that night and understand fully. i love this!

     also, this was my first time writing a cognitive interview (shocking, i know, considering i've already written another criminal minds book). how was it? was it easy to follow along?

     (buckle up for the insanity in the next two chapters... big plot twists head.)

     i hope you enjoyed chapter ten! and i hope you have a beautiful day!

     thank you for reading <3

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˒⠀𝑹𝑬𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑫𝑬𝑹. . . ▬⠀⤸

Thank you all for taking the time out of your day to comment on this story. It means a lot and helps the story be spread to a broader audience &&& allows me to grow as an author. All I ask is that people vote on each chapter, please. As a creator, it takes time to write and develop stories. So please, vote on every chapter. It means a lot more than I could ever express.

Don't forget to vote & comment!

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˒⠀𝑪𝑶𝑷𝒀𝑹𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻. . . ▬⠀⤸

❝ All Rights Reserved.
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