━━━━━━━━┛ ♱ ┗━━━━━━━━

𝙑𝙊𝙇𝙐𝙈𝙀 𝑰𝑽.  ──────────  RUIN!

❛ the old bear can      no longer hunt. . . ❜
─── chapter fifteen! ❫

015.  ╱    ❝ you 𝖉𝖎𝖉𝖓'𝖙 𝖆𝖘𝖐 for 𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖕. . . ❞
❝ how could i? how could i? 𝖍𝖔𝖜 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉 𝖎? ❞

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

TW  /   please read below :
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
discussions    of   graphic   violence +
murder depictions of blood + gore.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

﹙ 𝕱RIDAY ━ 𝕬PRIL 3RD, 2015 ﹚

     THE MORNING SUN CAST VARIOUS SHADOWS ACROSS THE SCARED LANDSCAPE OFF 1-95, ITS WARM LIGHT AT ODDS WITH THE GRIM SCENE BELOW. Yellow police tape fluttered in the breeze, a boundary between the mundane world of passing traffic and the grotesque tableau of violence frozen in time.

     Dr. Spencer Reid crouched low to the ground, his lean frame folded awkwardly as he peered at the debris scattered along the grass. Shards of glass glittered like cruel diamonds in the sunlight, catching the rays and throwing them back in prismatic bursts. Twisted chunks of metal—once part of an SUV—lay strewn about, their jagged edges telling a story of impact and destruction.

     However, it was the blood that drew one's eye. A large patch of grass was stained a deep, rusty crimson. The once-vibrant green blades were now brittle and dark, marked by the brutality that occurred there. Reid's gloved hands hovered over the stain, his mind racing with countless calculations and probabilities.

      "Did you know," he began, his words carrying easily in the quiet morning air, "that approximately 6% of car accidents are intentional? That's about 1 in 16." He paused, scanning the ground. "Of those, nearly 40% are linked to insurance fraud or attempted murder. In cases of intentional wrecks, the perpetrator often targets the rear or side of the vehicle, much like what we see here. It's a method that maximizes damage while minimizing risk to the attacker."

     Reid's fingers drifted to a twisted piece of metal and picked it up, bending it in the light. "Given the angle of impact and the force required to push a government-issued SUV off the road, we're looking at a vehicle of similar or greater mass. Probably a truck or large SUV."

     He fell silent, his gaze fixed on a particularly large shard of glass, its edge tinged with dried blood and thin orange fabric that reminded him of the orange long-sleeve top Parker was wearing yesterday. It likely belonged to her.

     David Rossi stood at the edge of the woods, his salt-and-pepper hair ruffled by the breeze. His eyes, sharp despite the early hour, surveyed the treeline where Parker had been found.

     The border between grass and forest was unnaturally disturbed, small branches snapped and undergrowth trampled. In an unsettling way, it almost mapped the outline of a human body. A second, smaller bloodstain marked the spot where Parker had collapsed.

     Rossi's gloved hand brushed against the rough bark of a nearby tree, his mind reconstructing the scene. The terror of the chase, the desperation of a wounded teenager, the cold determination of a killer hidden behind a mask of legend and nightmare.

     Shaking away the disturbing images and scenarios his brain conjured up, he sighed. His leather shoes crunched over scattered debris as he made his way back to his and Reid's shared workspace—the hood of their FBI-issued SUV. He pulled out a thick file, its edges already worn from constant use. Crime scene photos fanned out, each picture a snapshot of the violence that had unfolded there.

     His eyes darted among the photos and the scene before him, cataloging every detail. The twisted guardrail, the deep gouges in the earth where the vehicle had rolled, the scattered personal effects of the victims—all matched the photographic evidence. Save for the absence of the wrecked SUV and the bodies, the scene remained eerily unchanged, as if time had stopped at the moment of impact.

     "Rossi," Reid's voice broke the older agent's concentration. "Any idea when we'll get the ME's preliminary report?"

     "Should be sometime today," Rossi answered, the lines on his weathered face deepening. "They're expediting it given the high-profile nature of the case." He closed the file with a light thud. "CSIs didn't find anything out of the ordinary. Seems like a straightforward vehicular assault."

     Reid stood, brushing grass from his knees. "But it's what happened after that's concerning. Parker told Hotch she was running through the woods when she called. You think Olivia caught up with her? There could have been a struggle that resulted in Parker being stabbed."

     "Hotch seems to believe so," Rossi nodded, his line of sight drifting to the tree line. The woods loomed ominously, holding secrets just beyond their reach.

     Opening his mouth, a comment about Hotch's growing connection to Carson sat on the tip of Reid's tongue. At the last second, though, he thought better of it. Some observations were better left unsaid, especially in a case this personal.

     The chirp of Rossi's phone cut through the tension. He fished it out and looked at the screen. "It's from Hotch. Parker gave her statement." He kept reading, soaking in the information. "Looks like your theory was right, kid. Olivia caught up to her in the woods. There was a struggle, and Parker was stabbed."

     Usually, Reid liked being proven correct. However, at this moment, part of him wished he wasn't. His face paled a shade lighter, and a question came to mind. "Did she see Olivia's face?"

      Rossi shook his head grimly. "No. The last thing Parker remembers clearly is the mask—the face of the Willamette Wraith. Hotch believes Olivia dragged and left her at the edge of the woods to ensure she was found."

     "The staging would make sense given the profile," Reid commented, sliding his hands into his pockets.

     The two shared a look, the consequence of the new revelation settling over them. The quiet of the roadside stretched, the rustling leaves and distant traffic a discordant backdrop to the spectacle they were enduring. The Willamette Wraith was no longer just a legend—it had been there, flesh and blood, continuing to leave a trail of bodies in its wake.

── 𐀔 ──

     THE WILLAMETTE RIVER WAS DUSTED OVER WITH MIST, OBSCURING THE WATER'S SURFACE AND LENDING AN AIR OF EERIE STILLNESS TO THE SMALL CITY OF WEST LINN. A government-issued rental car wound its way through the quiet streets. Inside sat JJ and Morgan who peered out the windows, observing the quaint storefronts and manicured lawns. The city seemed frozen in time, a Norman Rockwell painting come to life, but with an undercurrent of unease that set JJ's nerves on edge.

     "It's hard to believe this picturesque place could be the setting for such horror," JJ murmured, barely audible over the car's engine. Her fingers absently traced the outline of her sister's necklace.

     Morgan gripped the steering wheel, turning the vehicle to the right. The muscles in his forearms tensed, betraying the tension he felt. "Small towns, big secrets," he replied, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror. "You'd be surprised how often places like this harbor the darkest stories."

     The car rounded another corner, revealing a street lined with modest homes. Each house held its breath, as if aware of the tragedy that'd befallen one of their own. Perfectly trimmed hedges and cheerful flower beds stood out in the somber mood that clung to everything. At the end of the block, yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze, a jarring splash of color against the muted tones of the neighborhood.

     Morgan eased the car to a stop in front of a small, well-maintained house. It resembled some of the tiny homes he'd renovated in recent years. It was no more than 400 square feet with the nearest house hundreds of yards away. Its pale blue siding and white trim spoke of care and pride. Unfortunately, now it was tainted by the tragedy that'd occurred within. A police cruiser was parked in the driveway.

     "So," JJ began, her tone shifting as she unclipped her seatbelt, "what's your gut telling you about this? Olivia Hart—you still think she's our UnSub for all of it? The family murders, Reeves' death?"

     Considering the question, Morgan's hand paused on the door handle. "My instincts are screaming that it's her," he admitted, glancing at her. "The timing, the MO, the personal connection to Carson—it all fits. But..."

     "But we can't rule out other possibilities," JJ finished for him, nodding in agreement. Her eyes met his, understanding passing between them. "I'm with you, though. Something about this feels deeply personal like we're watching the final act of a tragedy that's been decades in the making. You know?"

     "Yeah," he agreed, "let's just hope that "the making" can be stopped in time or never comes."

     With a synchronized nod, the pair exited the vehicle. The doors closed with a muted thud that nearly echoed in the quiet street. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of recent rain and something else—a faint metallic tang they recognized all too well.

     Approaching the house, their shoes crunched on the gravel driveway. At the top was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a rumpled suit emerging from behind the crime scene tape. Deep lines scattered his face, speaking of long nights and stress.

     "Agent Jareau, Agent Morgan," he called out, his voice gravelly with exhaustion. "Detective Quentin Adler. Welcome to West Linn." He extended a hand, his grip firm when he shook with both agents. "Wish it was under better circumstances."

     JJ forced a smile. "We appreciate your cooperation, Detective. We know these cross-jurisdictional cases can be... complicated."

     Adler's lips twitched in a humorless smile. "Complicated is one word for it. This case... it's like picking at an old wound. Whole city's on edge."

     Morgan surveyed the surrounding houses, noting curtains twitching from curious neighbors trying to catch a glimpse of the new arrivals. "We'll need full access to all your files on the Crest family murders, as well as everything you've got on Detective Reeves' death."

     "Already pulled them for you," Adler replied, pulling his hands out of his pockets. "They're at the precinct. Also, fair warning for the house. It's not a pretty sight in there."

     Ducking under the crime scene tape, JJ and Morgan allowed Detective Adler to lead them up the short path to the front door. The weight of what awaited them settled in. The cheerful and prideful exterior of Sara Reeves' home belied the horror within. It wasn't hard to understand that evil could touch even the most peaceful places.

     "Crime scene cleanup did their best, but some things you can't scrub away..."

     The front door creaked open, releasing a wave of stale air tinged with the acrid smell of luminol and the underlying metallic scent of blood. JJ's hand instinctively went to her nose, her eyes watering slightly. The door swung inward, revealing a world frozen in time and violence.

     "Sorry about the smell. We've had the windows opened a couple of times, but it hasn't done much."

     JJ and Morgan stepped over the threshold, immediately scanning the compact space. The entryway opened into a small foyer no more than ten feet wide. To the left was a closed light brown wooden door—presumably leading to Sara's bedroom—untouched by the chaos that'd unfolded in the main living area.

     The wall directly ahead bore the brunt of the struggle. A human-sized dent marred the sage green paint, surrounded by a constellation of blood spatter. A single, crimson handprint stood out against the muted background, its fingers dragging downward.

     Morgan looked to the right, taking in the devastation of the combined living room and kitchen area. The cream-colored couch lay overturned, its once-spotless fabric now stained with dark, rust-colored patches. Burnt orange and peach-pink throw pillows were mottled with blood and strewn across the floor. A lamp lay shattered near the couch, its base marked with dried blood.

     The pink and white patterned carpet, visible in patches between overturned furniture, told its own story. Dark stains, some smeared, others perfect droplets, created a macabre trail from the living room to the kitchen area.

     "Watch your step," Adler warned. "We've cleared most of the room, but there might still be evidence we haven't cataloged."

     JJ nodded, her eyes drawn to the bookshelves lining one wall. True crime novels and case law texts stood in neat rows, interspersed with police commendations and awards. A life dedicated to justice, now ended in violence.

      "Detective Reeves was well-respected in the community," she observed.

      "Sara was one of the best," Adler muttered, swallowing hard. He'd known Sara since he joined the force in '89. "Dedicated her whole career to serving this city."

     Morgan raised a brow, noticing what JJ had. "Looks like Detective Reeves never really let go of her work, even at home."

     "It was her life," Adler confirmed. "Some folks thought she was too invested, but Sara... she always said she owed it to the victims to keep fighting for justice." There was an awkward pause. "We think this is where the initial confrontation took place," he added, gesturing to the debris. "Sara put up one hell of a fight. Defensive wounds on her hands and arms suggest she didn't go down easy."

     JJ moved toward the kitchen, fixed on the small table pushed against the wall. A dark stain marred its surface, the wood grain raised and warped where a liquid had seeped in. Then, she looked at everything else.

     The kitchen, a compact U-shaped design, bore the heaviest signs of the cleanup efforts. The tile floor, a pale light green, still held a faint pinkish tinge. Near the refrigerator, a larger stain resisted removal, its edges feathering out in a pattern that spoke of significant blood loss.

     "And the kitchen is where..."

     "Where we found her, yeah," Adler finished, walking to where JJ was. "She was sitting upright against the wall." He gestured to the left wall where the bathroom door stood. A human-shaped bloodstain marked the spot, its edges crisp and clear against the sage green paint. "Eyes open with fear, staring at the stove."

     Morgan crouched down, staring at the spot near where Sara's feet would have been. "The fabric was found here?"

     "Small piece of black cloth. Lab confirmed it had blood from the Crest family on it. Mary, Cyrus, and Malcolm."

     JJ moved closer to the kitchen area, noting the full-size appliances that seemed at odds with the consolidated space. The counter above the cooktop was bare with potential for shelves or cabinets never installed. It was a life interrupted, plans left unfulfilled.

     "Detective," Morgan began, his approach cautious. "You mentioned neighbor statements in your email last night?"

     Adler nodded and led them back to the living area. "Yeah, the Whitmans across the street. They saw something interesting: a specific car in the driveway."

     "A specific car?" JJ prompted, her interest piqued. She leaned forward, her blonde hair catching the light streaming through the tiny home's windows.

     Adler nodded, his countenance filled with disbelief and grim certainty. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply. "A 1976 Purple Volkswagen Beetle Convertible. Not exactly your run-of-the-mill vehicle. In this town, it stands out like a sore thumb."

     Morgan's brows shot up. "That's... oddly specific. You're sure about this?"

     "Jasper Whitman was pretty clear," Adler confirmed. "He's a classic car enthusiast. Notices every vintage vehicle that rolls through town. Said he spotted it parked in Reeves' driveway when he and his family were heading out for dinner with the in-laws. Arrived around 5 PM, gone by 7. He and his family moved in about eight months ago, so he hasn't been around long enough to recognize it as belonging to the former mayor, Olivia Hart."

     "It's Olivia's car?" JJ asked slowly, unsure if she was hearing him correctly.

     Adler's lips pressed into a thin line, the creases around his mouth deepening. "Bought it shortly after she officially adopted Carson Crest in '85. It's been a fixture in town for years. Kind of hard to miss, you know? That purple... it's like a bruise on wheels."

     Morgan's mind was racing. "The year of the car—1976. That's not a coincidence."

     "Sharp eye, Agent," Adler nodded approvingly, a glimmer of respect in his tired eyes. "That's the year Carson and Olivia's daughter, Cadence, were born. Nosy folks always assumed purple was one of their favorite colors. Olivia used to say it was 'royal and regal, just like her girls.'"

     The tiny home suddenly felt even smaller, the weight of history and tragedy pressing in on them. The cheerful decor—bright throw pillows on the small couch, colorful magnets on the fridge—almost mocked the solemn conversation taking place.

     JJ moved to one of the windows and peered out at the quiet street. Her reflection ghosted in the glass, overlaying the peaceful suburban scene outside. "So we have Olivia Hart's car at the scene, within the likely time frame of the murder."

     "It gets better," Adler said, his tone laced with dark irony. He pulled out his phone. "Or worse, depending on how you look at it. Reeves had a doorbell camera installed last year. Paranoid, a few officers said. Turns out she had reason to be. We finally got the footage this morning."

     He tapped the screen a few times before holding it out to the agents. The video quality was surprisingly clear, showing a view of Reeves' front porch and part of the driveway. The scene was mundane—a typical suburban evening—until it wasn't.

     A purple Volkswagen Beetle pulled into view, the setting sun glinting off its polished surface. A woman emerged—average height with a slender, graceful build, an oval-shaped face with high cheekbones, expressive brown eyes, elegant, with sleek and curled black hair cascading over her shoulders. Even through the camera, her presence was commanding, dignified. She moved with the confidence of someone used to being obeyed.

     "Olivia Hart," Morgan murmured. The name practically echoed in the house, taking on a presence of its own.

     The video showed Olivia approaching the door, her hand raised to ring the bell. Her posture was relaxed, almost friendly. Moments later, Sara Reeves appeared. Her expression was hidden and out of sight.

     "Olivia!"

     "Sara! Oh, it's so lovely to see you."

     "And you. Please, come in. I'm finishing getting ready."

     At that, Olivia stepped inside and disappeared from view. The lock could be heard clicking.

     "They had dinner reservations at 6:30 PM." Adler fast-forwarded the footage, the world on screen moving at an unnatural speed. "Olivia briefly steps out about an hour later at 6:14 PM."

     The three watched the woman exit the house with perfect posture, shoulders squared back, her composure intact. If anything, she looked more relaxed than when she arrived. She went to her car, the trunk popping open with a click. From it, she retrieved a large, black duffel bag.

     "How much you wanna bet the Willamette Wraith costume is in there?" Morgan muttered, eyes narrowed.

     JJ and Detective Adler didn't respond.

     In the video, Olivia returned inside with the bag slung casually over her shoulder. Eleven minutes later at 6:25 PM, she emerged again. This time, she moved with purpose, her stride long and confident. She got into her car and drove away, the purple Beetle disappearing from view as quickly as it had appeared.

     The video concluded and a heavy silence fell over the trio. The evidence was damning. The cheerful buzz of a passing lawnmower outside sounded surreal in contrast to the gravity of what they witnessed.

     JJ was the first to break the silence. "That bag... it probably contained cleaning supplies and the costume. There were no prints, DNA, sign of forced entry, clearly—nothing."

     Morgan nodded in agreement, running a hand down his face. "It's like she's not even trying to hide it anymore. She's flaunting it, daring us to catch her."

     Pocketing his phone, Adler's expression was grim. "So, we've got Olivia Hart on camera here, a murder that mirrors the Crest family murders in '84, a piece of evidence that ties it all together, a string of other murders that've happened across the country that are tied to the two cases in West Linn, and according to Penelope Garcia, financial and travel records connecting Olivia to each murder. Please tell me that's enough to bring her in."

     "It's damning. I believe it is," Morgan admitted, placing his hands on his hips. "But Olivia Hart's in Virginia. The best we can do on our end is work on Reeves' murder and find further evidence implicating Olivia. Meanwhile, the rest of our team is working on locating her."

     JJ nodded in agreement. "Yes, and we need to wait for the ME reports to come in."

     While they stood in the living room, the tiny home, previously a haven for a dedicated captain, felt like the first domino in a long line about to fall. Soon, when the three went to leave, each felt the anticipation of what was to come. The Willamette Wraith was no longer just a legend—it was alive, in flesh and blood, and the hunt was on.

── 𐀔 ──

     THE PRIVATE CONSULTATION ROOM IN MEDSTAR HARBOR HOSPITAL PROVIDED BARREN COMFORT. Bland beige walls stretched upward to meet acoustic ceiling tiles, their pockmarked surface absorbing the faint hum of electricity. A large window dominated one wall, its blinds fully drawn, blocking out all slivers of watery sunlight.

     In the center of the room, a rectangular table of fake wood grain stood surrounded by padded chairs, their blue upholstery showing signs of wear. It was in one of these chairs that Carson Crest sat, her usual poised demeanor crumbled under the weight of insurmountable grief and exhaustion.

     Carson's knees were pulled tight to her chest, one arm wrapped around her legs as if trying to hold herself together. Her other hand clutched her iPhone, knuckles white with tension. Bloodshot eyes, freshly rimmed red from the heart-wrenching call she'd just completed, stared unseeing at the screen. The echo of Melanie's fathers' anguished sobs still rang in her ears, their grief compounding her own. Telling them had been one of the hardest things she'd ever done, each word feeling like glass in her throat.

     She was fixed on an email sent by Melanie mere minutes before the accident occurred. The timestamp mocked her, a cruel way of proving how quickly life could change.

     The words blurred as she read them for what felt like the hundredth time:

"Hey, boss lady!

I want to let you know I've got everything locked down for Parker and I in NY. Security's tighter than Fort Knox (but hopefully less gold and more fabulous).

I know you, Carson. Sometimes I know you too well. And I know you're not going to rest until this whole mess is sorted out. So I've taken the liberty of clearing your schedule for next week. Monday through Wednesday, you're officially off the clock. Gallagher & Lang have given their blessing without a second thought (I may have name-dropped a certain FBI team for good measure). You can pick things back up on Thursday.

Take care of yourself, okay? Kick ass (Olivia's ass) and come back to us. The world needs Carson Crest at her best. We need you. Not to mention the firm because Lord knows the billable hours will go down without you.

Love you more than the moon loves the sun,
Melanie"

     A fresh wave of pain washed over Carson, her face contorting while she fought to maintain composure. Finally giving in, she buried her head in her knees and her shoulders shook with silent sobs. The ache in her chest was physical, a gaping wound where Melanie's vibrant presence used to be.

     As the tide of grief receded, leaving her hollow and spent, Carson's mind drifted to various memories of her and Melanie. Flashes from over the years played until they eventually settled on one from 2004.

     The relentless June sun beat down on the tar-paper roof of their apartment building. The heat was shimming in waves that distorted the Manhattan skyline across the Hudson. Carson and Melanie sat side by side on a faded plaid picnic blanket, their legs dangling over the edge of the roof. The scent of sunscreen mingled with the aroma of cheap beer and even cheaper pizza.

     Melanie's brunette curls were piled high on her head, stray tendrils clinging to her neck in the humid air. She took a swig from her bottle, condensation dripping onto her cutoff shorts, and turned to Carson with a raised eyebrow. "So, you're really going to do it, huh? Leave all this behind?" Her hand swept out, encompassing the urban sprawl before them that was Jersey City.

     Carson nodded, her own bottle dangling precariously from her fingers. The setting sun caught the amber liquid, turning it into liquid gold. "I have to, Mel. There's nothing left for me here. I have to take advantage of this opportunity and my potential. This is what I've been working toward, you know that." Her tone was soft yet determined, a steel core beneath the gentle exterior.

     Melanie's laugh was sharp. "Nothing left? Carse, you're kicking ass at the firm. Partners are already whispering your name and you haven't even been there for a year. And what about me, huh? Am I nothing?"

     The hurt in her voice made Carson wince. She set her beer down and turned to her friend. "Hey, now. You know that's not what I meant at all. You're... you're everything, Mel. My best friend. My family. Nothing will ever change that."

     Melanie's eyes softened, the anger draining away. "I know it's selfish of me to say this, but I don't want you to leave. I don't want you to not be around."

     Carson reached out, taking her hand in hers and their fingers intertwined. "I'm not leaving you. At least, I don't want to." She took a deep breath, the news and words she'd been holding back for weeks spilling out. "Come with me. To New York. We'll take on the city together, just like we talked about."

     Immediately, Melanie's eyes widened. A mix of surprise and hope flickered across her face. "Carson, I... I can't just up and leave. My job, my apartment..."

     "Your job that you hate?" Carson interjected, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "Your shoebox apartment with the leaky faucet and the neighbor who plays death metal at 3 AM?"

     A reluctant laugh escaped Melanie. "Okay, point taken. But New York? It's so... big. Overwhelming."

     "And Jersey City isn't?"

     "Okay, point taken again."

     Carson squeezed her hand and took on the persuasive tone that'd already made her a formidable presence in the courtroom. "It's an opportunity, Mel. A chance to start fresh, to become who we've always wanted to be. No more shadows from the past, no more small-town gossip following us around."

     She paused, her next words more vulnerable. "And I need you there. You're the only one who really knows and understands me. I can't do this alone. I'm also talking to someone at Gallagher & Lang about making you my secretary so you have a job when we get there. You can have it until you find something you love and then quit."

     Melanie sat silent for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the distant skyscrapers of Manhattan. When she spoke, her voice was thick with emotion. "You really want me to come?"

     "More than anything."

     A slow smile spread across her lips. "Well, then. I guess we're going to New York, boss lady."

     "Hell yeah, we are!"

     The memory faded and left Carson alone in the consultation room. The weight of loss settled over her once more. She lifted her head, eyes burning with fresh tears. The future they had dreamed of on that rooftop had come true, but now it lay in ruins, shattered by the very past she'd tried to escape.

     Carson's stare drifted to her reflection in the window. The woman staring back at her was a stranger—brown eyes sunken with exhaustion, skin pale and drawn, chestnut hair falling in messy strands around her face. This wasn't the polished, confident lawyer who commanded courtrooms and boardrooms alike. This wasn't who she was used to seeing and hadn't been around in decades. This was a woman stripped raw by trauma, loss, and guilt.

     Her mind, usually laser-focused and analytical, spiraled with self-recrimination. If she hadn't dragged Melanie into her world and involved her so deeply in her past... The thoughts chased each other in endless circles, each a dagger to her heart.

     The rational part of her brain tried to interject. You couldn't have known, it argued. You took every precaution. This isn't your fault. Olivia is responsible for this, not you. There's nothing you could have done, and you couldn't have predicted this. But the voice of reason was drowned out by the roar of grief and guilt.

     She was the common denominator in all of this. That fact was indisputable. On top of involving Melanie so deeply in her life... if Carson hadn't adopted Parker and exposed her to the dangers of her past...

     Carson's hand trembled when she reached for her phone again. Parker's face smiled up at her from the lock screen, the sight simultaneously comforting and terrifying. Her daughter was alive, but at what cost? And what dangers still lurked in the shadows? How could she protect Parker when she couldn't even protect Melanie?

     With a deep breath that did very little to steady her nerves, Carson typed a quick text to Parker: "Be back soon, stinker. I love you." Her thumb hovered over the send button for a moment before pressing down, the message disappearing with a soft whoosh.

     The sudden click of the door opening broke the silence. Carson's head snapped up, her body tensing instinctively. She hastily wiped at her face with the sleeve of her sweater, a gesture so uncharacteristically vulnerable for her. Averting her line of sight, she placed her phone on the table. She already knew who it was before he even spoke. There was something unmistakable about his presence, a quiet strength that filled the room.

     "Carson?"

     The deep, familiar voice sent a conflicting wave of relief and anxiety through her. She didn't turn, not ready to face him in this state, but she knew she would have to soon enough.

     "Do you mind some company?"

     Carson shook her head, not trusting her ability to talk. She heard rather than saw Hotch move across the room, the soft scrape of the chair next to her being pulled out. The cushion deflated slightly as he sat down. He was close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him, but not so close as to crowd her.

     For a long moment, silence reigned. It wasn't uncomfortable, exactly, but rather a shared understanding of the weight of the moment. The gentle ticking of the wall clock was loud. The only other audible sounds were the muffled noises of the hospital beyond the door and their quiet breathing.

     Eventually, Hotch spoke again, his question careful and measured. "How are you holding up?"

     The question, simple as it was, threatened to unravel the tenuous control Carson managed to regain. She swallowed hard, forcing back a fresh wave of tears. When she finally turned to meet Hotch's gaze, the compassion she saw there nearly undid her.

     Hotch's dark eyes met hers and softened, they were filled with an empathy that threatened to break her entirely. For a moment, Carson considered deflecting, falling back on the professional mask she'd perfected over the years in the courtroom. But something in Hotch's steady stare made her reconsider.

     The usual stern set of his jaw relaxed and he leaned in closer. "Carson, I want you to know I'm here for you. Not just in a professional capacity, but as someone who... cares." He paused, weighing his wording carefully. "You don't have to carry this burden alone. If you want to talk, I'm here to listen. No judgment, no agenda. Just a friendly ear."

     His sentiment hung between them, a lifeline thrown into the stormy sea of Carson's emotions. She felt the lump in her throat tighten, touched by his genuine concern. For a moment, she wrestled with the instinct to maintain her poise, to keep the walls up. But the events of the past days had left those walls crumbling, and Hotch's ongoing presence offered a safe harbor she desperately needed.

     Carson took a shaky breath before speaking. Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her dress pants. "It's my fault, Aaron. Melanie, Parker... I brought this danger into their lives. If I hadn't involved them in my past... if I had just left well enough alone..."

     She trailed off, her hands clenching into fists on her knees. The guilt that'd been simmering beneath the surface now boiled over, spilling out in a torrent of confessions. "Melanie is dead because of me. Parker is lying in a hospital bed because I couldn't protect her. I'm a brilliant lawyer, always three steps ahead of my opponents, but I didn't see this coming. I should have known Olivia would do this, should have done more to keep them safe."

     Each sentence was one of self-recrimination. Carson felt the facade of control she'd been desperately clinging to disappear. Tears welled up in her eyes again, and this time, she didn't try to hold them back.

     "I don't know how to fix this, Aaron," she admitted, her voice breaking. "I don't know how to keep the people I love safe. And I'm terrified of Olivia and what she's going to do next."

     Hotch listened, his countenance a mask of empathy. Once she finished, he leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees.

     "Carson," he began, maintaining eye contact with her, "I understand the guilt you're feeling." There was a vulnerability in his eyes that she recognized. "There was a case in Southern California a few years back. A spree killer was targeting women on the highway, shooting them from his car." His jaw tightened. It was clear the memory was a sore one. "We had a profile, but we needed to draw him out. I decided to use one of our own as a decoy on the highway."

     Listening intently, Carson's grief was momentarily overshadowed.

     "It was a calculated risk and things didn't go to plan. The UnSub spotted the trap, and members of the team ended up in a dangerous high-speed chase. For a few terrifying moments, I thought my decision might cost them their life. In the end, we caught the killer, but the weight of that decision stayed with me for a while. I questioned whether I'd made the right call, whether I'd unnecessarily put my team in danger."

     He reached out, hesitating before gently placing his hand over hers. The warmth of his touch sent a jolt through Carson's body, reminding her that she wasn't alone.

     "But I learned something crucial: we can only make decisions based on the information we have at the time. Second-guessing ourselves, letting guilt consume us—it doesn't help the victims or loved ones or make us better at what we do or who we are. You didn't bring this danger into their lives," he said firmly. "Olivia did. She chose to pursue this course of action. You've spent years protecting Parker, building a life for both of you. You've spent years loving and being with Melanie. You couldn't have predicted this."

     Carson subtly shook her head, tears falling freely. "I should have. I deal with worst-case scenarios every day. How did I not see this coming?"

     Hotch's grip on her hand tightened a tad. "Because you're human, Carson. And sometimes, our desire for normalcy and peace can blind us to potential threats. It's not a failing; it's part of what makes us who we are."

     A chilling hush fell between them, broken only by the soft hum of the hospital beyond the room. Carson's mind whirled, trying to reconcile Hotch's words with the guilt gnawing at her core.

     After a moment, Hotch resumed. "You know, trauma has a way of shaping us, often in ways we don't realize." He searched her face, searching for something he couldn't name. "It's okay to feel overwhelmed, Carson. What you're going through... it's more than anyone should have to bear."

     Carson wiped away her tears with the sleeves of her sweater, trying to steady her breathing. Then, she tucked her hair behind her ears. "How do you do it?" she asked barely above a whisper, meeting his gaze. "How do you face this kind of trauma every day and not let it consume you?"

     Hotch leaned back slightly, his brow furrowing in thought. "It's not easy," he admitted. "Trauma changes you. As a profiler, I've seen it countless times. It can make you hyper-vigilant, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. It can affect your ability to trust, to form connections. But it can also make you stronger. More resilient. It's about how you channel that experience."

     Nodding slowly, there was a flicker of recognition appearing. "Jason used to say something similar," she murmured with a combination of fondness and sorrow. "He informed me of the trust issues I might develop over the years, how they might affect my work, my relationships."

     She let out a soft, humorless laugh. "I thought I had it under control, you know? However, now... I'm scared, not for myself, but for Parker. I keep wondering how is she going to come back from this. She already didn't have a great childhood before I adopted her, and I might have made it..." A soft sigh escaped her before she finished.

     Hotch's expression softened. "Kids are incredibly resilient, Carson. More than we often give them credit for." He shifted in his chair, inclining forward. "I remember when Jack was younger, just after... after we lost his mom. There was a time I thought he'd never smile again. But then one day, at the park, he saw a dog that looked like his aunt's. And just like that, he was laughing, chasing after it with all the joy in the world."

     He squeezed her hand. "Parker has you. She has a support system. It won't be easy, but she'll find her way back to laughter too."

     Carson felt a new lump form in her throat, moved by his sincerity and the comfort of his hand still on hers. "Thank you," she whispered, absentmindedly tracing the tiniest features on his face. "But how do you do it? Day after day, case after case? I deal with corporate takeovers and intellectual property disputes. It's high-stakes, but it's not... this. Not literal life and death."

     Hotch's thumb traced a small, comforting circle on the back of her hand. "It's about finding balance," he answered honestly. "Having a support system, people who understand. And most importantly, finding moments of joy, no matter how small. It's not always easy, but it's necessary. We carry this weight so others don't have to."

     As they held eye contact, something shifted. Suddenly, Carson found herself acutely aware of the warmth of Hotch's hand on her skin, the subtle scent of his cologne, and the depth of compassion in his dark eyes.

     For a heartbeat, time stood still. Neither moved or wanted to. Then, almost reluctantly, Hotch withdrew his touch and cleared his throat. "You're not alone in this, Carson. The team—we're here for you and Parker. And..." he wavered, thinking his sentence through before saying, "I'm here. Whatever you need."

     Carson nodded, a small smile touching her lips for the first time in what felt like an eternity. "Thank you, Aaron. That means a lot." She glanced at the clock on the wall across from them, noticing the time. She'd been gone too long. "I should get back to Parker. She'll be wondering why I've taken a million years to make a phone call."

     Immediately, Hotch reciprocated the nod. "Of course." He stood, the movement fluid despite the weariness evident in the set of his shoulders.

     Carson followed suit, smoothing down her sweater in an unconscious gesture.

     Hotch's hand brushed against Carson's arm when they moved toward the door, a fleeting touch that sent a shiver down her spine. When they reached the door, he held it and gestured for her to go first. Stepping into the hallway, she was welcomed by the sounds of the hospital—the distant beep of monitors, the constant squeak of rubber-soled shoes, the muffled conversations.

     Their eyes met one last time, a look that lingered just a moment too long to be purely professional. Then, they parted ways, each glancing back at the other before disappearing.

── 𐀔 ──

     THE DIGITAL CLOCK ON THE CONFERENCE ROOM WALL TICKED TO 7:30 PM, ITS RED DIGITS SHINING BRIGHTLY. In the cavernous BAU office, now emptied of its usual bustle, the conference room stood as an island of activity. While the team connected across two time zones, their faces illuminated by the harsh glow of screens, the weight of recent events settled over them like a shroud. The hunt for the Willamette Wraith had taken a deadly turn, and time was running out.

     Garcia's fingers flew over her keyboard, making final adjustments to the video call. On the large monitor, the faces of the team materialized: Morgan and JJ in a conference room at West Linn PD, Hotch in his home office, the collar of his white shirt open without his tie, and Kate in a comfy set of pajamas at her house.

     Leaning forward, Rossi's elbows rested on the round table. "So, to recap for Morgan and JJ, we've had a car accident, Parker chased and stabbed by our UnSub in the Willamette Wraith costume, two agents and Melanie dead, and Carson arrested in a set-up by Olivia in Front Royal. Did I miss anything?"

     Reid shook his head, animated and wide awake, unlike his fellow team members. "No. That covers the main points unless someone wants to get into the specifics again."

     "That's all right, Spence,"  JJ said, giving him a polite smile through the screen.

     Morgan's voice crackled through the speakers, disbelief and frustration evident. "Hold up. We haven't even been gone a full day, and everything's gone to hell? I thought the saying was 'nothing ever happens in small towns'."

     "Not according to Baltimore and Front Royal," Kate muttered, rubbing the sleepiness from her eyes.

     Hotch cut through the tension, a pen visibly in hand. "Morgan, JJ, what have you discovered in West Linn?"

     "We've got confirmation of Olivia at Reeves' residence," JJ said, her blue irises intense. "An eyewitness spotted her car, and it's backed up by doorbell camera footage. Garcia, can you play the video for everyone?"

     The entire team fell into an uneasy silence as Garcia queued up the footage. The video footage appeared on the main screen, drawing everyone's attention.

     "Here we go," Garcia murmured, her usually chipper voice subdued.

     Everyone watched a purple Volkswagen Beetle pull into the driveway, its polished surface catching the last rays of the setting sun. A woman emerged—Olivia Hart, her presence commanding even through the digital medium. Her sleek black hair cascaded over her shoulders and she moved with the confidence of someone accustomed to authority.

     "Olivia Hart," Rossi spoke through gritted teeth, hardly containing his anger.

     They observed Olivia approach the door, her posture relaxed, almost friendly. Sara Reeves appeared, her face and body hidden from the camera's view. Their brief exchange was audible:

     "Olivia!"

     "Sara! Oh, it's so lovely to see you."

     "And you. Please, come in. I'm finishing getting ready."

     At that, Olivia stepped inside and disappeared from view. The lock could be heard clicking.

     Morgan quickly explained, "As we know, they had dinner reservations at 6:30 PM." The footage fast-forwarded, and he continued, "Olivia briefly steps out about an hour later at 6:14 PM."

     The team watched Olivia exit the house, her composure intact, looking even more relaxed than when she arrived. She walked to her car and retrieved a large, black duffel bag from the trunk.

     Reid's brow furrowed and he tilted his head. "What's in the bag?"

     "We suspect cleaning supplies and possibly the Willamette Wraith costume," JJ answered, grabbing a piece of paper off-screen. "The lab reports came back on the black fabric found at the scene and confirmed what everyone assumed—it's got DNA matches for Mary, Cyrus, and Malcolm Crest."

     A collective intake of breath could be heard across the video call.

     "The ME's final report confirms that Reeves had the same ultimate cause of death as the Crest family and the other family murders—stab wound to the heart, with several other stab and defensive wounds on the body. Time of death was between 5-6 PM. The weapon was determined to be a butcher's knife."

     "Jesus," Kate muttered, running a hand through her hair.

     Morgan continued, "Adler's got a contact at Portland International Airport. We've got footage of Olivia boarding a plane to Virginia at 8:41 PM."

     Reid cut in, rapid-fire as always. "The timing checks out. It's approximately a 27-minute drive from Reeves' place to the airport via I-205. With the two-hour recommended arrival time before a flight, Olivia would have made it easily."

      "What else have you found in West Linn?" Hotch glanced up from presumably a desk or table on his end of the call.

     JJ and Morgan exchanged a glance before JJ responded. "We've been on what amounts to a Crest family tour of West Linn—schools attended, the church the family frequented and Cyrus preached at, Cyrus's old accounting office, Mary's soup kitchen, City Hall including Olivia's old mayoral office, the site of Olivia's family's car accident, even the meeting point of the Willamette and Tualatin Rivers where the Wraith legend originated. Nothing new or significant."

      "What about the Crest family home?" Rossi, Hotch, and Kate asked almost simultaneously.

     Morgan shook his head, pressing his lips together. "No go. It's private property with strict security. Fence, barbed wire, electric—the works. According to local records, Carson owns it. Bought it years ago, added security, even had some remodeling done. No one lives in it."

     "Remodeling?" Rossi repeated, confused.

     "The exterior only vaguely resembles the original crime scene photos," JJ nodded, sharing another look with Morgan. A strand of hair fell in her face. "Adler says there was construction a few years back, but we're not sure about the interior."

     Tilting his head to the opposite side, Reid fiddled with his pencil. "That's odd and a lot of work for just a house, especially one that's unoccupied."

     Hotch's stare narrowed at something in the distance as he processed the information. "JJ, Morgan," he turned to the camera, "have you seen the original crime scene photographs from '84 yet?"

     The question caused JJ to look down at her lap, a frown appearing. Morgan inhaled deeply, steeling himself.

     "Yeah, Adler's uploading them to our server now. He'll email them to Garcia." He hesitated, his expression darkening. "Guys, I've got to say... these are some of the worst I've seen in a while."

     JJ hummed in agreement. "It's heartbreaking, to say the least."

     Before anyone could respond, Garcia's fingers flew across her keyboard and her eyes widened behind her colorful glasses. "Oh, my gosh, guys. I just refreshed Olivia's financials." A hand flew to her heart. "She rented a truck shortly after arriving in Virginia yesterday. A black 2014 GMC Sierra 1500."

     Reid's head snapped up. "That matches the description of the truck Parker gave to the Baltimore PD. The one she saw before the accident."

     Garcia nodded vigorously. "Exactly. And it gets worse. I traced the rental company's records. Olivia purchased gas at a station just half an hour from the accident site. Security cameras confirm she was there with the truck shortly after the accident occurred. She wasn't in the Wraith costume, just normal clothes, but... the front of the truck was dented and scraped up."

     Dragging a hand down his face, Morgan let out a huff. "So we've got her on camera at Reeves' house, renting the truck that likely caused the accident, and at a gas station near the scene. How is she not in custody yet?"

     Rossi's voice was filled with vexation. "Because she's always one step ahead. I'm sick of this fucking cat-and-mouse game. We need to find her, and fast. Before anyone else gets hurt or something worse happens to Carson or Parker."

     Hotch nodded, his jaw set. "We will. We're closing in."

     "Do we think Olivia's been back to the original Crest house?" Kate suddenly asked, her expression thoughtful. "Given all the security Carson's put in place..."

     Reid shrugged. "It's possible, but without access to the property or its security footage, we can't be sure."

     "Hold up," Morgan quickly sat up as a realization struck him. He felt stupid for not thinking of it sooner. "Carson owns the place, so she must have access to the security system, right? We should ask her to check the footage."

     Immediately, Hotch volunteered. "I'll call her and ask."

     At his unprompted offer, Kate and Morgan shared a knowing glance on the video call. Only Garcia caught the exchange and bit back a smile.

     JJ cleared her throat. "Guys, with all this new information, how does this change our profile of Olivia? We're dealing with someone who's methodical, patient, and capable of extreme violence. But she's also taking huge risks now, operating in broad daylight."

     The team fell quiet, each member considering the implications of her question.

     Reid was the first to bounce back. "The accident site on I-95 near Baltimore is significant, but not for its equidistance to other locations because there is none. It's actually strategic. I-95 is a major artery connecting multiple states along the East Coast. It's a high-traffic area, which paradoxically makes it easier to stage an accident without arousing immediate suspicion.

     "More importantly, it's within striking distance of New York, where Carson and Parker live, and Washington D.C., where we're based. Olivia chose this location to send a message. She's showing us she can operate on our turf, close to both her primary target and the team hunting her."

     Morgan nodded, understanding dawning. "So she's not just expanding her comfort zone, she's deliberately encroaching on Carson's and ours."

     "Exactly," Reid confirmed. "This isn't random. Olivia's making a statement with her choice of location. She's demonstrating her reach and her willingness to bring the fight to us."

     "And she's escalating, that's for sure," Rossi added, rubbing his goatee. "The murder of Reeves, the attack on Parker, Melanie's death, tricking Carson into thinking Parker was buried alive, and having Carson arrested—Olivia's making this more personal than before."

     "It's about Carson," Hotch said quietly, his eyes distant. All attention was drawn to him. "Everything Olivia's doing is designed to draw Carson out, to force a confrontation." Blinking, he appeared to snap out of a daze and looked at the screen, scanning the faces of his team members. "We need to move quickly. Morgan, JJ, I want you to get your hands on all of West Linn PD's case files on the Crest family murders. Leave no stone unturned. Also, obtain a search warrant for Olivia's residence. We need to know what she's been up to in her home base."

     In unison, Morgan and JJ nodded.

     "We're on it, Hotch," Morgan affirmed.

     Next, Hotch turned his attention to the technical analyst. "Garcia, I need you to arrange for an agent to be assigned to Carson and Parker at the hospital. With Olivia's proximity, they're in immediate danger. Also, alert the hospital about Olivia—they need to be on high alert."

     Garcia's fingers were already flying across her keyboard. "Consider it done, sir. I'll have the best protection detail on them faster than you can say 'binary code'."

     "Good," he said, then addressing everyone else. "Rossi, Reid, Kate, and I will work on refining our profile of Olivia and locating her. We need to anticipate her next move before she makes it." His gaze softened almost imperceptibly as he added, "I'll also keep in close contact with Carson. She might remember something that could help us, and she needs to be kept in the loop."

     Rossi leaned back in his chair, fists clenched. "We're dealing with a killer who's had decades to plan this endgame. We can't afford any more surprises."

     Kate nodded in agreement. "We're racing against time here. Olivia's escalating rapidly, and I'm scared things are going to get worse."

     "We should also consider the psychological impact on Carson," Reid mentioned, shifting in his chair. "Olivia's actions are designed to destabilize her. We need to ensure Carson's mental state doesn't compromise her safety or Parker's."

     Hotch unconsciously tensed at Reid's words. "Agreed. We'll need to tread carefully there." He looked over his team a final time. "All right, everyone knows their tasks. Let's bring Olivia Hart in before she can cause any more harm. Stay safe, and stay in contact."

── 𐀔 ──

     MEDSTAR HARBOR'S MAIN LOBBY WAS BUSTLING WITH NOISES AND FILLED WITH AN OVERFLOW OF PEOPLE WAITING TO SEE THEIR LOVED ONES OR WAITING TO BE SEEN BY A DOCTOR. It was more crowded than Carson anticipated when she left Parker's side to meet with a delivery driver. Near the front doors, she was paying for the sushi she had delivered. The scent of antiseptic mingled with the aromatic whisper of sushi emanating from the paper bag in her hand. She smiled tiredly at the delivery driver, passing over a handful of bills.

     "Keep the change," she murmured, her voice husky from exhaustion and a recent nap.

     As Carson turned away, clutching the bag of food like a lifeline, she felt the weight of the past few days pressing on her shoulders. The lobby was as loud as ever, encouraging her budding headache. 

     Beginning the journey back to Parker's room, her sneakers padded gently against the floor. The sound was hardly audible in the wide space. After she rounded a corner, she found her attention innately drawn to a figure standing near a payphone, partially obscured by a pillar.

     Something about the person's stance, the tilt of their head and body language, sent a chill down Carson's spine. They were of average height with a slender build that seemed achingly familiar. Carson's steps faltered, her heart rate picking up speed. A group of nurses breezed past her, muddling her attempts to get a better look at the figure's face and clothing.

     Before she could make out any distinguishing features, her phone began to vibrate in her pocket. The sudden buzz caused her to jump. Carson fumbled for the device, her eyes still locked on the mysterious figure. When she finally fished out her phone, she glanced at the screen for a split second.

     Looking back up, her breath caught in her throat. The figure was gone, vanished as if they had never been there. And maybe they hadn't, she thought. Only the individual using the payphone remained, engrossed in their conversation and oblivious to Carson's presence or growing unease.

     Taking a deep breath, she pulled it together. With a practiced hand, she answered the call, calm and collected.

     "This is Crest."

     "Carson," Hotch's deep, reassuring voice came through the line, grounding her. "How are you holding up?"

     A subconscious smile tugged at her lips and she gradually let it show. For a moment, she pushed aside her anxiety and disregarded how fast her heart was racing. "Aaron, hi. I'm all right. Just had some dinner delivered for Parker and I."

     Resuming her walk, Carson couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. The shadows in the corners of the lobby seemed to stretch and twist, and every reflection on the gleaming floor made her heart skip a beat.

     And even at the height of her growing paranoia, she still didn't see the figure hidden behind a vending machine. They watched her intently as she disappeared down the hallway, their eyes narrowing the further she got.

     "Good. That's good to hear," Hotch replied. His tone was gentler and held no semblance of professionalism. "How's Parker doing?"

     Carson's fingers unnoticeably curled around the paper bag, the smell of sushi wafting up to her nose. "She's... managing. Still in discomfort and pain, but her spirits seem to be lifting a bit. I'm hoping some comfort food might help."

     "I'm happy to hear her mood's improving. I know having you there plays a large role in that."

     A light blush slowly crept up Carson's neck, and she tried to ignore it. Clearing her throat softly, she attempted to pull herself together again. As she continued down the quiet hallway, her curiosity got the better of her. Her lips quirked into a small smile as she asked, "Not that I don't appreciate the concern or enjoy talking to you, Aaron, but is there a specific reason for this call? Or are you just checking up on us?"

     There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Carson could almost picture Hotch's expression—that slight tilt of his head, the barely perceptible softening around his eyes. When he spoke again, there was a hint of amusement.

     "Does there have to be a reason?"

     Carson loosely rolled her eyes. "Given the ongoing case that's turned our lives upside down, yes, I'd expect there to be a reason."

     Hotch's low chuckle sent an unexpected warmth through her. "Fair enough," he conceded. "I wanted to ask you about your family home in West Linn."

     The effect was immediate.

     Carson faltered and her body instinctively tensed at the mention of her childhood home. Her pace slowed and she found a quiet alcove to step into. "What about it?"

     "Have there been any security issues there recently?"

     "No, nothing," she said, growing confused yet deeply concerned. "I haven't had any security problems since I bought the property. Parker and I visited nearly a week ago, I informed your team of that earlier this week, but that's it. Why do you ask?"

     There was another pause, longer this time. It wasn't reassuring and she despised it. Carson could hear Hotch's measured breathing and knew he was carefully choosing his next words.

     "As you know, JJ and Morgan are in West Linn, working with local PD on Reeves' murder. They've been to all the locations tied to your family's history and Olivia's past, but they haven't been able to access your family home."

     Carson's grip on her phone tightened. "They won't find anything there, Aaron. Everything from the original home has been destroyed, burned, or removed. The inside has been completely redone—it's empty now, no furniture, nothing. Whatever secrets that house held, they're long gone."

     She could hear the rustle of papers on his end and vividly picture him taking notes. "I understand," he said softly. "If JJ and Morgan have any questions, they'll reach out to you directly."

     Opening her mouth to agree, Carson hesitated. Her unaddressed and potentially misplaced feelings for Hotch coupled with her desperate desire to end this nightmare, made her reconsider. "Aaron..." she called, soft but urgent.

     "Yes?"

     "If they insist on seeing the property, Sara Reeves had an extra set of keys and the security codes for emergencies." She could almost hear him straightening in his chair, his full attention captured. "She kept them in a safety deposit box at Advantis Credit Union on Willamette Drive."

     There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. When Hotch spoke, it was with undertones of surprise and admiration. "Carson, that's... that would be incredibly helpful. How do you know that?"

     Carson leaned against the cool wall, closing her eyes briefly. "I had a locksmith give them to her once the house was finished being remodeled and had someone from the security company hand deliver the codes to her. I didn't go to town during that time. I trusted Reeves to take care of everything and keep Olivia out of it...

     "We weren't close, but Reeves always looked out for me. She knew about my relationship—or lack thereof—with Olivia. Knew I didn't trust her after undergrad and didn't trust her either. Keeping a set of the keys and codes was her way of trying to protect me and what happened to my family, I guess."

     Taking a deep breath, she pushed off the wall and resumed her walk to Parker's room. "I'll review the security footage from the past six months and see if there's anything unusual."

     "Thank you, Carson," Hotch said with gratitude and a hint of something more. "I appreciate you trusting me with this. I'll inform Morgan and JJ."

     "You're welcome."

     Approaching Parker's door, she felt a strange mix of emotions—relief at being able to help, anxiety about what the team might find, and an odd sense of comfort from talking to Hotch. And when the call ended and Carson reached for the door handle, she still couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching her. So, peering over her shoulder, she looked both ways.

     There was no one but her and the ghosts of the past.

━━━━━━━━┛ ♱ ┗━━━━━━━━

╱ 𝕬UTHOR'S 𝕹OTE. . .

⁰⁴ 𝕽𝖀𝕴𝕹. . . RUIN !
━━━━━━ ♱ ━━━━━━
written by CARDIIAC © 2024.
破滅 . ݃♱ .

     the plot thickens... like always.

     we've got three more chapters left! i am eagerly looking forward to seeing everyone's reactions in the last three chapters... got a lot planned.

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

     thank you for reading <3

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

˒⠀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!

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

˒⠀𝑪𝑶𝑷𝒀𝑹𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻. . . ▬⠀⤸

❝ All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be
reproduced, distributed, or transmitted
in any form or by any means, including
photocopying, recording, or other
electronic or mechanical methods,
without prior permission of the author,
except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical reviews and
other noncommercial uses permitted
by copyright law. ❞

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━