𓏲· flora ˚𖦆

────୨ৎ────

[floraisunwell]

welcome to my blog!

𓍼flora, she/they, english/portuguese, minor, criminal minds, anime and books enthusiast, certified hobby hopper

𓍼requests: open ⌇ masterlist ⌇ guidelines ⌇ save the world!!!

𓍼side blog: @m00nbunss

𓍼divs by: @esote-rika

[mythmagicetc]

my mutual will post “i just blocked one of my mutuals” and i’ll be reading it on my own dash with my own eyes directly from their blog thinking “it was probably me………….😔”

[redstonedust]

i hate ai generated photos but especially of things that we already have hundreds of actual photos of. why would you need ai generated images of the eiffel tower people have been taking pictures of the eiffel tower since its construction. you have unlimited eiffel tower photos already. why are you making fake ones. for what purpose.

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

fanfiction is a rare gem and a solid, living proof that, in a world of tiktok, influencers and content posting, not everything is about money and going viral. art can still be art just for the sake of the artists’ pure love, joy and passion for the art they create. fanfic writers write 100k words and more about the characters they love for free. just because they love these characters and the art of writing so much. art is not dead and the world is still beautiful.

shoutout to fanfiction and fanfic writers

[justdrowthings]

Thank you to all the authors who give me such wonderful treasures I can not take to all the therapy I'm avoiding.

[sugaryewscythe]

me completely by myself in my room: alright everybody just calm down

[darkmatilda-deactivated20260208]

matilda come back home, the kids miss you (srsly where are u bbg 😔)

you don't get it it's not clocking to you that im standing on buissnes? 😒

[darkmatilda-deactivated20260208]

also new theme eatsssss (idk if it's new I'm just seeing it now so it's new)

THANK YOU um glad you appreciate my work cause it was really exhausting i had to basically nail myself to the cross just to make that background pic cause everything on my blog is #authentic

[floraisunwell]

bled for the blog

[ryan-wulf]

More elite 6 BAU

I completely forgot to post this last week oops

(i had finished the lineart for this ages ago and decided to finish it)

[floraisunwell]

this is so cooooooooooollllllllllll

[esote-rika]

Once Upon a Dream | Spencer Reid

i. parting is such sweet sorrow | prev chapter | next chapter | series masterlist

Contents: mentions of sleepwalking, spells and potions, infidelity A/N: This is set after season 15, so no real cases, but it will make references to certain plotlines so be careful with the spoilers if you haven’t made it that far! Please leave a comment, I love reading them and interacting with you guys! Thank you for reading <3 bisous.

For as long as she can remember, Jet has shared a bed with her little sister. It had never been discussed or contested. From the moment Lenore was old enough to be out of her crib, she slept next to her big sister. 

Nobody batted an eye, really, because despite the age gap of four years, the sisters moved almost like twins. They used to do everything together, went to the same schools, got the same teachers.

They could even be mistaken for twins, with their matching dark hair and round, girlish faces. The only noticeable difference is Leni's blue eyes in comparison to Jet's dark brown ones.

However, even as they grew up, even as the differences between them grew more pronounced and Jet began to fry her hair with bleach (at first it had been a dare, but then she had grown to like how it looked) which further distinguished their appearance from each other, they continued to share a bed.

It’s one of those things that just is. 

Like the way Jet can pinpoint someone's exact mood and temperament, or the way Leni always knows if it's going to rain. 

The practice was partly for practical reasons. It helped with their sleep talking—somehow, whenever one of them starts talking in their sleep, the other wakes up and puts a stop to whatever words are being mumbled in that hazy, subconscious state. 

—Stopping the sleep talker is important, for whatever they utter in their dreams, in this state of in-between, might be made manifest in the real world. The girls had almost a sixth sense for each other in these moments. 

Admittedly, this made sleepovers awkward; Jet's peers didn't always want to hang out with a younger girl, and without Leni to put a stop to the sleep talking, it’s difficult to explain why sometimes the group having the sleepover would wake up covered in chicken feathers (Jet had a phase of dreaming about flying, specifically flying with wings, and her childlike magic manifested that into different sorts of feathers.)

Jet took matters into her own hands; she simply stopped going to sleepovers where Leni isn't welcome. 

Their sleeping habits only strengthened during the death of their parents, an unfortunate car crash that left them orphaned. Sent off to live with their eccentric aunts in a small town in Massachusetts where everything is new and baffling, the girls found solace with each other. 

Unfortunately, their small haven only lasted so long. At eighteen, Jet got accepted into a university in the city, with a scholarship offer that was too good to pass up. And so she packed her bags, armed with a citrine crystal and a sleeping concoction of chamomile and a secret ingredient Leni refused to name in order to make sure Jet sleeps deeply. 

Without sleep talking.

It was difficult, being so far from each other, but Jet was diligent, always, always telling Leni where she is, so that in case something happens to her, there would be a trail to track. Leni, for her part, lit Jet’s favorite candle every night, the one that smells of cinnamon and amber, and mutters a few words of safety for her older sister.

The year is 20─ and Jet has finally learned how to use Uber. And by that, it means she’s found a way around the protection curse. In the past, she had tried to book a ride, but her location just would not show up on her phone, as it had always done for basically her entire life.

Until recently. The idea had come from a colleague at the law firm she works in, who had been (rightfully so) paranoid about putting her address out into an application. Instead, she would pin a location at least two streets away, and when the driver is nearing that street, she’d walk the short distance to meet her ride there.

Jet is a little annoyed she herself hadn’t thought of that sooner. 

But she did learn it at a perfect time, because on the 18th of August, she had driven to this penthouse party with Lucas, but she was going to be leaving without him. 

Because, you see, decent people will stop flirting once they find a partner. Especially when they declare exclusivity.

Jet had thought she and Lucas were exclusive.

That is, until his wife had cornered her at this penthouse party, screaming bloody murder.

Jet had been too stunned to even defend herself, even though she’s been working around enough lawyers to know exactly what to say during a confrontation like this. But the complete betrayal of the situation had rendered her completely speechless. He made her the other woman, the rat bastard.

She couldn’t explain that she didn’t know because the wife had grabbed the bowl of cheese dip and hurled it straight at Jet. It spilled everywhere, even got in her left eye which promptly watered and gave off the impression that she’s crying. As if she would ever cry for a man. The last time she did was for her father, several months after the funeral. But it looked like she was crying on that night, the 18th of August, cheddar flavored tears burning down her face in ugly streaks.

What a humiliating affair. 

Jet had run down the stairs as fast as she could, and Lucas, the treacherous rat, had run after her. Go back to your wife, she had wanted to scream at him, don’t chase after me, I’m not taking you back. And for her sake, I hope she doesn’t either.

It only took her hiding in the fire escape to lose him. (Or perhaps he gave up quickly; Jet isn’t sure if that’s the work of her curse, or Lucas’ own pitiful attempts.)

With trembling hands, she had managed to book a ride. The Uber driver had been sympathetic, but he also eyed her cheese stained blouse warily. 

“Just don’t get it all over my seats, all right, miss?” the man had said with a chuckle, as though the whole thing was a joke. Jet certainly feels like it is. The universe playing a long, cruel joke on her for six goddamned months. 

Okay, so maybe her favorite candle had refused to light whenever she invited Lucas to her apartment, and she had always dreamed of him with another woman. But he’d said she was just paranoid, and Jet had to admit she had a tendency to be paranoid. And that she liked that he knew she was paranoid. 

She liked that he knew her, from the specific shade of blonde dye she used to the sizes of her shoes (it was a women’s six in open sandals, but a 7 in closed shoes and boots.) And so she had ignored the signs, and continued to date him, liking the fact that finally, a man had taken enough time to get to know her.

In the meantime, she didn’t know him.

She isn’t sad about the revelation; sadness would have ached in her stomach, made her chest feel hollow. But that night, Jet had felt as though she would burst. She was angry. So angry that the car’s speed would not go below 20 mph, despite whatever attempts the Uber driver made to slow down.

No, she didn’t want to slow down. She wanted to get home as fast as she could, open up whatever book of curses she could get her hands on, and begin one for Lucas, the fucking rat’s asshole.

When they had arrived at her building, she had thrown a crisp bill at the driver, apologizing for her rudeness and telling him to keep the change, then rushed all the way up to her apartment on the third floor. Jet had every intention of cursing Lucas at that moment, but when she reached her bed, the emotional exhaustion of the night finally took a toll.

Instead of finding the spell book, she had stripped off her cheesy clothes, murmured a spell to make sure the dip and color didn’t stain, and crawled under the covers, missing Leni. Leni would have stayed up and cursed Lucas for her. Something silly and inconvenient, like Lucas never finding his matching socks. He had a perfectionist streak, and liked things to be orderly, and mismatched socks would have made his everyday life miserable.

But she was so tired that she promptly fell asleep even without drinking the tea to keep herself from the habit of sleep talking. She wonders if she’d see her sister in dreamland.

Instead her dreams are filled with mismatched socks and a pair of scruffy converse.

[floraisunwell]

lucas you fucking rat how dare u make my girl the other woman

[esote-rika]

Once Upon a Dream | Spencer Reid

o. introduction and prologue | next chapter | series masterlist

Extended Introduction:

In the soft, fleeting hours of the night, Spencer Reid finds love.

It comes in flashes. 

Honeyed hair and a low, feminine voice. The scent of cinnamon and amber, deep and dizzying. In his dreams, she feels real. How else would he be able to hold her or know that her hands are cold?

He sees her in dizzying detail, from the roots of her hair (which is growing back brown), to her nails (painted a different shade of pastel), down to the crescent birthmark on her ankle. The detail deceives him into believing she is real. 

At one point, he thought she was Maeve, because of the blonde hair. However, he has heard Maeve before. For months, the sound of her voice was the only thing he truly knew about her. 

This ephemeral being in his dreams does not sound like Maeve.

Certainly, she reminds him of Maeve, with the way she slips away before he can get a good look at her face.

Oh, the things he would do to get a glimpse of her face, to see her beyond his dreams.

New York City is loud. 

Everyone is doing their own versions of spells here, prayers and meditations and manifestations late into the night. Everyone is trying to be something, someone, and it all rings in a near painful cacophony of desperation and drive.

Jet Clarke has learned to tune it out, learned that surrounding her bed with salt and wearing black tourmaline helps give her a moment of peace, especially in the night when she's trying to get some sleep.

Somehow, he still manages to slip through. Who? She doesn't know. She's more concerned over the fact that he keeps getting past her protective spells than she is about his identity.

Sure her defenses weren't top notch (she had never truly paid attention to the defense lessons from her aunts), but for the most part, they work. It had been able to block the coven of overeager teen girls down the street who are still testing the limits of their gifts. 

So she doesn't understand why she continues to dream of eyes that look like liquid gold, and flashes of purple fabric.

When Jet's sister becomes a person of interest in a series of murders, she goes back to her quaint hometown in Massachusetts, only to find herself face to face with one of the FBI agents handling the case. 

The very same man who's been haunting her dreams.

Face claims (because I'm extra and I already made them, might as well post. feel free to ignore though lol)

Matther Gray Gubler as Spencer Reid "If your spells always feel like this, then never stop casting them on me."

Carey Mulligan as Jet Clarke "It's not fair, Spence, having eyes like yours; they're their own kind of magic."

Claudia Jessie as Lenore Clarke "For a couple of smart people, you're both pretty idiotic."

Prologue:

Once upon a time—or so how most fairy tales begin. With a princess, fair and lovely, in a castle. Or some small children in the woods. Fairies. A talking animal. A witch in an old cottage.

—A curse.

Ah, yes. Gamble your name, your first born child, your very soul, in order to escape a marriage, or for a chance at gold and riches. Maybe you've been cruel to an old crone who's harboring a secret power, and got turned into a frog, or a strange beast. 

Maybe you were the unfortunate girl tasked to save the creature, change them back into a handsome young man through your love, or, a simple but pure kiss.

Or, perhaps your parents pissed off a powerful fairy, or your beauty threatened a witch and one wrong move would send you into a hundred years of sleep.

—But the eldest Clarke daughter isn't cursed in that way, oh no. Hers had begun as protection, passed on through the eldest child of every generation of their family. 

A cloaking spell, given to one of their ancestors centuries ago, to keep the young maiden from being tracked down by a rich man who wanted her for his wife. The woman grew paranoid and desperate, elevating the spell until she became undetectable unless she herself gave up her location. 

(Because, contrary to some belief, consent is, and will forever be, attractive.)

So strong was the spell that she inadvertently passed it onto her descendants, the oldest child in each family, for she too was the oldest among her siblings. 

A spell given with no ill intentions, merely to protect. 

In the modern world, it meant that Bridget Clarke can't ever be pinned on location tracking apps, nor can she be stalked. Which would be helpful if she were ever susceptible to stalking, but between her and her sister Lenore, the younger one was more likely to have stalkers, being as popular as she is. 

But it also meant the Jet could escape whenever she needs to, without the fear of someone ever finding her when she isn't ready to be found yet. 

(Once upon a time, there was a little girl who forced herself to stop hiding out of the fear that everyone would eventually grow tired of looking.)

A/N: I adore this story, but the initial idea for a practical magic inspired Spencer Reid fic is from my beloved @g4rvez-r3id <3 finally found the time to post it on here as well. I'm going for some magical realism, so there's no complicated magic systems, just some cozy witchy vibes with magic that simply exists in-world. If you're not into that or believe in it, please be respectful, I don't want anyone disrespecting the practice. If there ARE people who practice witchcraft in any shape or form, and see that I've written something inaccurate, please let me know. I'm doing research as well, but it won't be super in-depth, so any kind corrections are welcome Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think :)

[floraisunwell]

hehehe

[pmpknreid]

Don't make me spank you when I get back 🔥

[aurora-sadprose]

put down that c.ai thing and read y/n fics like god intended.

[darkmatilda-deactivated20260208]

what’s diva and spencer’s fave outfit on each other??

they like each other the most without outfits

[darkmatilda-deactivated20260208]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐫 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: a series of young women are being murdered in your town, and you — the host of a true crime podcast — are determined to investigate the case yourself, even if it means constantly getting in the way of a team of profilers and putting yourself in danger once or twice.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x podcast host female!reader, criminal minds typical violence, case details, mention of sexual violence, abduction, addiction, and drug use, season 2 bau team [DISCLAIMER] this part contains content that is darker and more intense than the rest, so please proceed with caution

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 14.7k

𝐚/𝐧: we’ve reached the shore! thank you all for reading this series and for your engagement, i hope the final part lives up to your expectations!

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟒/𝟒

The absurdity of the entire BAU team being in your bedroom reached you even despite the seriousness—the complete and undeniable seriousness—of the situation.

Maybe it was even necessary. The absurdity, you meant.

The only thing keeping you from going insane or curling up into a ball in the middle of the room, on its dark floor, while the recording was played back once again above you. Agents leaning over the desk where you used to do your homework and draw X-Files characters, band posters hanging above it. One of them sitting on the duck-patterned bedspread, resting his chin in his hand as he listened to the recording in silence.

Of course, you immediately told Reid about the tape that had been planted on you, though you had to admit you’d had your moment of doubt. A brief one. The message was clear. You were supposed to include it in the podcast or else…you didn’t want to think about what would happen to Keasy.

The thought crossed your mind, that question, whether the BAU would even allow you to publish it. It wasn’t an unfounded fear, but that’s something we’ll learn later.

Since you had already heard the recording, they didn’t seem to care about your presence. Maybe because of the breakthrough brought on by the new lead, the recording, they forgot about you standing behind them, almost completely still.

“Garcia, we need you to check if the voice modulation on this recording can be reversed,” Hotch instructed, addressing the woman they were speaking to on speakerphone, the one who had introduced them to your podcast. “Elle, come over here for a moment.”

She stepped up to the desk to help analyze the recording, at the same time Reid turned over his shoulder and met your gaze. He looked once more toward the tape recorder, then walked over to you, giving a small nod. “It might be better if you go downstairs now,” he suggested in a gentle, quiet tone.

The team had already secured the package the tape had come in, along with the note that had been attached. Now their full attention was on the recording. Despite his polite tone, you gave him a slightly sharper look, folding your arms across your chest. “The Executioner sent this recording directly to me. I want to know what happens to it next.”

He furrowed his brows at you slightly. “What happens to it next? We take it with us, analyze it again, or probably, knowing the nature of this job, ten more times, and…”

“Then I’ll be able to post it on the podcast,” you finished for him.

Reid only looked at you, as if hesitating, and before he could say anything, Morgan appeared at his side. Your room wasn’t some castle corridor that stretched endlessly out of sight. It was small, of course he had heard your entire conversation.

“That’s not even an option,” he stated, addressing you.

It felt like the air caught in your chest; you wanted to both let out a bitter laugh and scoff. How could it not be an option when a victim’s life depended on it?

You were already opening your mouth, ready to argue. But Hotch beat you to it, turning away from the tape recorder, holding the cassette in a plastic evidence bag.

 “No part of this recording can be made public. That’s exactly what he wants, and the most important rule when dealing with perpetrators who try to play games to gain control over law enforcement is not to engage with those attempts.”

You shook your head slowly, in disbelief. That was really what mattered more to them, not letting The Executioner feel like he had power over them, instead of Keasy’s life?

You looked at Spencer, hoping to see any sign of disagreement on his face. Then at Elle, searching for the same. You found neither.

 “I’m starting to think I was the only one who actually read that note,” you said, stepping back from all of them in one furious movement. “He kidnapped Keasy. He literally sent a recording of her and told me to put it on the podcast. It seems pretty clear to me what’ll happen if I don’t. And that’s what you should care about. Saving the victim.”

One by one, the entire team exchanged looks. Something was off, you could feel it. But you couldn’t quite place what. Maybe you were too shaken to figure it out.

 “We appreciate you reaching out to us immediately after receiving the tape,” Hotch said with a small nod of his head. You opened your mouth in disbelief. Was he seriously changing the subject? “We’ll take the cassette in for further analysis, along with the actual footage from your cameras, to see if they might’ve caught whoever left it.”

 “You’ll be wasting your time, the camera hasn’t worked in ages,” you warned. “You can’t just ignore that warning. We have to do what he said. I need to put it on the podcast, because if I don’t…If you won’t let me post the actual recording, then I’ll just tell people what I heard.” You were threatening the FBI. Wonderful. But you didn’t see another choice. “At least then I’ll be doing something.”

“That would count as interfering with an active investigation.”

A loud sigh came from Spencer, immediately drawing everyone’s attention. There was visible irritation on his face. Maybe even frustration.

“She’s going to find out anyway,” he said, directing his words to the team.

Your whole body began to tense. “Find out what?”

Hotch looked like he was about to say something to Reid, maybe to shut him down, but Reid was faster. “About Keasy,” he said, this time looking directly at you. His expression was almost apologetic, which sent a cold wave straight to your stomach before you even fully understood what he meant. He swallowed. “Her body was found this morning.”

Right after saying that, he pressed his lips into a thin line. It was easy to fall into the illusion that he hadn’t said it, that those words had never been spoken. But they had, and their physical weight now hung in the corners of the room.

On unsteady legs, you approached your bed, which, though it sank slightly under your weight, felt as hard as a rocky ground.

“We’re assuming the unsub didn’t expect us to find her so quickly,” Morgan informed you, and it was one of the few times his voice was truly gentle when speaking to you. “He wanted to blackmail us with Keasy’s safety, something he couldn’t guarantee from the start.”

“Or the message was never about Keasy,” Elle spoke suddenly, her face marked by deep focus. You lifted your gaze slightly to meet her eyes, not paying attention to the one or two tears on your cheek, now your chin. Her words had caught attention, not just yours. Elle bit her nail in thought. “The message cuts off after or…we assumed he meant the tape not airing on the podcast would lead to him hurting Keasy. But maybe it was about attacking another girl.”

“In other words, he’s planning to strike again,” Morgan summed it up.

Elle didn’t wait for anyone to say anything more or even react. Her firm gaze shifted straight to Hotch.

 “I think she should record the podcast.”

You snapped your head up, thinking you must have misheard. You caught fleeting eye contact with Reid, who looked just as confused as you felt, but you quickly looked away when his eyes dropped to the tear on your cheek.

“Elle—”

“But not for the unsub. For the other women in town,” she finished her thought, placing her hands on her hips. “She’s got a pretty decent audience, especially lately. A simple message, a warning, something we say all the time ourselves. Don’t go places alone, especially after dark. Be cautious. She could work on it while we focus on analyzing the tape.”

You turned the idea over in your head and felt a sudden readiness rise in you, a drive to act on it immediately. You needed this, needed to feel like you could do something. Helplessness was the godfather of all murderers.

Hotch didn’t seem convinced at first, but after a moment, he gave a small nod. “As an additional form of warning, it’s acceptable. But it has to be just a warning,” he said to you. “You can’t mention the tape.”

Then, after a pause, he added,

 “Reid should do it with you. He’ll give it a more serious tone, and make sure you don’t say more than you should.”

You weren’t even in the mood to argue. Not that you wanted to. Out of all the agents, they’d picked the one you were planning to meet with that day anyway. What bothered you was the fact that he’d be acting as your supervisor. Then again, you remembered how many times you’d managed to pull information out of him before, and you thought maybe you could work around that.

The BAU team was getting ready to leave your house, and it hit you. They give you a relatively minor task, just important enough to keep your mind occupied and to stop you from bombarding them with questions they probably didn’t have the answers to yet.

It was early afternoon, and once again, you were completely alone in the house. Reid was supposed to drop by later that evening so the two of you could record the episode together. In an effort to keep your mind off Keasy’s death, you threw yourself into drafting a rough outline for the podcast script. You also looked up Rebecca Yang online—the familiar name mentioned in the recording. She had been Robert Taylor’s intended victim, the woman who managed to escape his attack.

Of course.

At the end of the day, everything led back to that case. The first one you’d ever presented on your podcast. Sitting at your desk, you tried to break it all down. The Executioner couldn’t be him personally, not really, but the tape—the format, the interview style—it all suggested someone was out there trying to carry out justice in his name. He had even forced Keasy to play the role of his victim.

Keasy.

Your gaze shifted to the house across the street—her house. The one where, only today, you had dropped off groceries for a mother still waiting for her daughter to be found. Who had been found.

You stood up to draw the blinds.

Just before they fell all the way down, you caught sight of a bicycle crossing the street in front of your house. A boy riding it. The turn of his head and a stare that seemed to pierce straight into your room. The blinds shut completely, stopping him from doing so.

The sun had already set, though it wasn’t particularly late yet, just the natural effect of the advancing autumn. You turned on the lamp in your room, and when the doorbell rang, you made your way downstairs to let Spencer in.

He stood on your doorstep in a blue and brown striped shirt, a dark unzipped jacket, and—as always—his glasses resting on his nose. With a slightly sluggish motion, he raised his hand in a small wave, another one exchanged that day. You gave him a faint smile, the only one you could manage, and opened the door wider to let him in.

Silence hung between you as you made your way back up the stairs to your room.

“I’m sorry about Keasy,” he said first, reaching the top just behind you. You turned to face him. His hand was still resting on the banister, and his face was partially swallowed by the dimly lit hallway. But you were close enough to see it. The expression of concern written across his features. “I didn’t even know you two were friends.”

"First neighbors. But she and her mom would come over a lot and… yeah. I guess we were friends,” you said, your voice coming out weaker than you’d intended. You’d have to get a better grip on it if you were going to record the podcast. Under his gaze, you took a deeper breath and gave a small nod.

“Never thought I’d have an FBI agent on my podcast,” you added, trying to lighten the mood, motioning with your head for him to follow you into your room.

Spencer’s steps followed yours. He seemed to understand that you didn’t want to keep talking about Keasy. Maybe you were still in some sort of denial that allowed you to function normally, but the more you thought about it, the more you feared that illusion would shatter.

“I mean, well…I didn’t think my career would lead me here either,” he said.

You were facing away from him, giving your notes one last glance on your laptop. You glanced over your shoulder at him. He seemed slightly awkward standing in your room without the rest of the team around.

“This is a professional setup, okay? Don’t let the duck-print bedsheets fool you.”

Even with your face turned back toward the laptop, you knew he looked at your blanket and pillows.

“Perish the thought,” he muttered, and a small smile tugged at your lips.

You told him to sit across from you on the bed—you sat cross-legged with some pillows under you and your laptop balanced on your thighs, while he stayed on the other side, practically on the edge, feet still on the floor. It was a podcast, just your voices, so you didn’t have to pay too much attention to how you looked.

“So, before we start,” you looked up at him and fell silent for a moment. Of course, he’d left his coat downstairs, so he was in that striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows for comfort, and his tie loosely knotted around his neck.

He noticed where your eyes had landed and awkwardly adjusted it. You let out a laugh without meaning to. “No, it’s okay, I don’t want you choking to death in here.”

“I’ll be fine, it just looks kind of sloppy so—” he fumbled with the collar and tightened the knot.

“It looks really good,” you cut him off.

Spencer froze, hand still on the tie, looking at you. You felt a strange warmth spread across your neck. Definitely from the stuffy air in the room—you really should’ve aired it out before he came over. You were flustered by how quickly you’d said it, but honestly, you meant it. You swallowed and nodded, more to yourself.

 “It looks good,” you repeated. Reid barely blinked as he kept his gaze on you, head slightly tilted. “And it’d look even better if you didn’t sit there like you’re on nails. Seriously, relax a little.”

A flush of red shot across his cheeks.

 “I am relaxed,” he insisted.

“Mhm. I can tell.”

Reid, still red in the face, rolled his eyes. But right after, with a sigh, he shifted into a more comfortable position on your bed. Like he was your long-time friend, someone who by now could probably lay claim to part-time residency in your room.

“So, before we start,” you repeated again, getting back to what you meant to say before getting distracted by…well, him. “Anything new with the tape analysis? Maybe you managed to reverse the voice modulation or…or figured out anything else?”

For a moment, Spencer didn’t say anything, before letting out a quiet, apologetic sigh.

“The work on voice modulation is still ongoing, but it seems like it won’t be reversible. The rest is just our theories and guesses for now, a few leads the rest of the team is following while I… am here.”

You looked at his face after those words, pressing your lips together slightly.

You heard something pointed in them, a hint that he didn’t really want to be here with you or help with the episode. Well, that was probably true—after all, his usual daytime job was surely a thousand times more fascinating, so you should just swallow the sting that had settled in you.

 “Okay, let’s get to it then,” you said. “We’ll get it done faster and you’ll be able to go back to more important things.”

You lowered your gaze back to the laptop. The room was quiet—strangely, too quiet.You lifted your eyes again and noticed Spencer staring at you, his lips slightly parted. He shook his head from side to side, ashamed. “That’s not what I meant, really.”

Now it was you who looked at him in confusion. You parted your lips as well and practically mirrored his head movement. “No, no, that’s not what I meant either. I mean. I didn’t mean to be passive-aggressive. Okay, maybe a little, but… but I get it, that maybe you don’t think this podcast is necessary.”

“I do,” he cut in, firmly. “I think it is necessary. Especially this particular episode. And I’m glad I’ll get to help with it.”  His chest rose as he drew in a breath. The red lingered on his cheeks. Again. That room was really stuffy. “Besides, I really wanted to see you. Today.”

You nodded quickly, in rhythm with your heartbeat, not really knowing what to say.

Some force lifted the corners of your lips on its own. Something you didn’t even realize at first. Just like you didn’t realize you hadn’t said anything, and the two of you were stuck in that tense silence.

 “I wanted to see you too,” you said after a pause that made the confession insanely, fucking awkward. Oh God.

Spencer held your gaze for a moment longer before dropping it, directing it somewhere—anywhere—else. There was a rasp in his voice when he spoke again, and he had to swallow to get rid of it. “You were right, we can finally get to it.

“Yeah,” you agreed quickly, adjusting the laptop on your lap. Yeah. “I’ve thought it through and in this episode, it’s mostly going to be you talking. I mean, I’ll ask you a few questions and keep the dialogue going, but since I’ve got a guest on the podcast, I want to make use of it. I’ve got throat lozenges in my drawer in case you need some later. Some vocal warmups wouldn’t hurt either.”

Spencer let out a laugh, then furrowed his brow. “Wait, is that something you actually do before recording?”

“Nope,” you denied simply. “I wanted to see if I could get you to make some ridiculous sounds, but you started questioning it too fast to fall for it. Anyway, does that plan work for you?”

For a moment, he looked at you like you were from another planet—but in a good way, like in fascination. Probably caused by the chaotic nature of your speech.

 “It does, it does work for me,” he agreed. “But I’m not sure it will for your listeners. They might be disappointed by the lack of your rambling.”

You gave him a slight smile.

 “A little bit of longing will do them good. They’ll learn to appreciate it more. Unless they fall in love with you so hard they’ll want to make you a regular guest. Then it wouldn’t be a guest anymore, if you think about it.”

“Doubt it,” he muttered, shifting in his seat. “I’m way too nervous to make anyone fall in love with me.”

“Just imagine you’re talking to me,” you suggested. You stuck out your lower lip. “Okay, technically, that’s exactly what you’re doing, so you don’t have to imagine it, but you know what I mean. Me? I’m definitely not shoving a mic under your nose right now.”

You had a digital recorder you usually took with you out in the field, and a computer-connected microphone, which you were using now. Still with the laptop on your lap, you shifted closer to Reid to bring the mic nearer to his face. His gaze dropped to the device. You immediately placed a finger under his chin to tilt it back up.

His eyes locked onto your face, surprised.

“This microphone right here doesn’t exist,” you explained.

Spencer didn’t respond, still frozen in place.You withdrew your hand from under his face and, after clearing your throat, got to work on the episode intro.This was the part where you always left the most space for spontaneity, and your guest’s brows lifted slightly as he listened to you begin without a single stumble.

“...also, this episode will be a little different than the rest, for two specific reasons. Mainly because it has a very targeted audience—all the women of our dear, cursed little town of Fairview. And, well, everyone who wants to know how to live a little safer in this brutal world. Also because, for the first time in this podcast’s history, I have a guest. And not just any guest.”

Actually, introducing himself was what gave him the most trouble. hi, I’m Spencer Reid sounded incredibly stiff, but once you got into the topic of the episode, he only got better. When he spoke, you encouraged him with a slight smile on your lips and nods when he lifted his eyes to you questioningly, making sure he sounded right.

You took the laptop off your lap and placed it beside you so you could look at your questions for him written in the empty document.The microphone sat on the bed between you in that small circle created by your knees almost touching.

“Okay, now that we’ve talked about how to stay safe, the last thing I’m interested in—and probably the listeners too,” you said, and Spencer raised his brows at you with curiosity, “I’m sure by this point you already have a profile of the killer.”

Reid shook his head.“You can’t ask me that. We haven’t released that to the media yet, and the team probably won’t be happy if I suddenly decide to do it here.”

You leaned in slightly, looking at him pleadingly.

“Maybe it’s about time it was released to the media. Seriously. We warn everyone not to get into a white van when the guy says he wants to show them kittens, but not every killer is that obvious. It could be anyone. Better that they know what kind of… person to avoid. Because maybe he works at the shop around the corner and looks at them weird, or in extreme, but not completely unrealistic cases, they’re having breakfast with him every morning.”

He sighed, looking at you more seriously.

 “Our profile changes every time something new comes to light. And something new does come to light all the time, even if it might feel like the investigation’s at a standstill. Just today, for example. That tape…it changed everything.”

You kept looking at him for a moment, hoping he might decide to add something more—but you didn’t want to push him either. You didn’t think you wanted to break the atmosphere that had settled, or the ease with which you were talking. You nodded in understanding.

“Okay. I’ll cut that last question,” you said.

He looked at you with a soft flash of gratitude in his eyes. Slightly embarrassed, he tilted his head to the side and asked hesitantly, “Could you also cut the part where I introduce myself…? It was so awkward.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” you shot back immediately, straightening up. “My podcast is authentic. I don’t cut things unless it’s absolutely necessary. That stays in. Worst case, a few listeners die from second-hand embarrassment.”

He parted his lips, like in protest.

 “Die from second-hand embarrassment? You think it was that bad?”

There was almost dread in his voice, which made you laugh.

“It was bad. Maybe not that bad, but it was bad. Even the fact that I like you can’t stop me from admitting that, I’m sorry. But hey,” you added more gently, slowly tilting your head—Spencer’s eyes dropped to your face. “If someone sent me to a crime scene right now and told me to say who the killer was based on what the body looked like, I’d probably do okay-ish at best. Podcasting’s just new to you, and for the first time, you did just fine.”

Spencer just looked at you for a moment in this kind of warm way, before a short, fleeting smile crossed his face.“Thank you. But I think you’d do well at a crime scene. If someone actually let you in, that is.”

“Right, that might be an issue. Though I’d probably find a way. Wait—do you seriously think so?”

Spencer gave a slight shrug.

 “Yeah, I mean…you’re smart. And you know your stuff.”

You laughed involuntarily, shaking your head side to side.

 “Imagine Nikola Tesla patting you on the shoulder and telling you you’re a clever boy. That’s exactly how I feel right now.”

Reid visibly blushed.

You nodded toward him.

 “Woah, you’re blushing. Did I hit the mark and Nikola Tesla is your science crush?”

“I’m not blushing,” he said quickly, which was clearly a lie. He brought a hand to his cheek, feeling it.“Okay, maybe a little. Because this room is stuffy. And because of you, probably to some extent as well.”

“Because of me, huh.”

“Because of what you said.”

“There’s not that much of a difference if you think about it.”

Spencer paused with his lips slightly parted, which also seemed to be blushing. Because their color was violently pink, something you noticed when you looked at them. Okay, you didn’t look in a creepy way, you just briefly glanced down. That’s all.They were raspberry-colored. That popped into your head because you liked raspberries. A lot.

“Well, in a way, yeah, there isn’t,” Reid continued, nodding with this sort of nervous enthusiasm. He swallowed. His Adam’s apple visibly moved, which your greedy eyes also noticed. You weren’t listening to a single word he was saying, oh God, now that was embarrassing. By the way, had you mentioned that this room was stuffy? “Actually, I shouldn’t even separate that. If your words made me blush—which, by the way, didn’t—then it’s kind of like you made me—fuck, please, can we change the subject, I really—”

You set your mic down at the edge of the bed so it wouldn’t be between you anymore, and with surprising ease, pushed yourself up onto your knees in one smooth motion, so that in the next, your hand was pressed to the back of his head, and your lips to his.

Spencer sighed into your mouth, like in relief. Here you were, saving him from completely humiliating himself. In a way that was, okay, maybe a bit drastic, but very, very effective. And even if it was going to result in an even more blush-inducing atmosphere later, for now, he chose to ignore that and hold onto your face like an anchor as he sank into the kiss. His thumb finding your cheek while the tips of his long fingers slipped slightly beneath your hair.

And…woah. It was good.You’d never thought you’d be hosting an FBI agent in your room, let alone kissing one on your bed until you were out of breath, with his hand suddenly dropping to your back and pulling you closer. This time it was you who sighed into his mouth, caught off guard.

You pulled back from his lips for a moment, slowly blinking your eyes open.Because he was sitting, and you were kneeling, your face was slightly above his. Your hand slipped from the back of his head, down his neck and to his shoulder, and both of you were breathing so loudly you couldn’t even hear the sound of the other’s breath.

You meant to grab his shoulder for support, but one hand was already tangled in his hair,

and the other. Well. Resting on your chest, in a sling.

Your gaze met his, and you weren’t really sure what to say. Actually, you weren’t sure if you were supposed to say anything at all, so you decided to get out of it the easiest way possible—by leaning in for another kiss.

But that’s when he spoke. A faint, probably involuntary smile on his lips.

“This part,” he said, “you’ll probably have to cut from the podcast. Unless it fits your definition of authenticity.”

Right. The mic was still on. That smug little expression made you lightly nudge his arm, to which he looked at you with mock offense. Which you ignored.

“That gets cut. Your awkward intro stays. End of discussion.”

 Kissing and giggling.

The next kiss was more like the next ten. Or maybe just one, just chopped into pieces.

Your mouths couldn’t stay together for more than a second, two at most, before one of you started laughing—or to put it more adorably, enchantingly, glitter-sparklingly—giggling.

You always thought that phase in life had simply skipped you. Turns out, it was just fashionably late—showing up in the middle of a murder case investigation in your hometown.

That thought replaced the butterflies in your stomach with moths. You glanced at your mic out of the corner of your eye. Technically, you’d finished recording the episode, but suddenly it didn’t feel entirely appropriate. Your faces—mostly your mouths—slowly pulled away from each other, still lingering within reach, freezing there for a second.

You pressed your lips into a narrow line, thoughtful, while Spencer briefly lowered his gaze. His hand on your back moved. The pressure softened, turned into a feather-light touch, slowly sliding down and then back up, eventually finding its way to your side, his thumb brushing along your ribs.

You took a deeper breath, letting your whole body move with its rhythm. Your hand rested near his cheek, grazing his jaw, reaching toward his neck, and simply trying to settle into that exact spot, absently gliding across his skin every now and then.

 “I looked up who Rebecca Yang was,” you said suddenly, your voice piercing the calm, dreamlike space the two of you had created around yourselves. “She managed to escape Robert Taylor. Thanks to her, they caught him. And that’s how the Executioner used to refer to Keasy.”

Spencer looked up at you, a faint tension appearing on his brow.

“You’ve probably figured that out already. Do you guys think that’s what this is all about? Robert Taylor is some kind of idol? He’s trying to seek justice for his death, claiming he didn’t deserve it? And that’s why he’s hurting these women?”

His brow furrowed even more, his eyebrows drawing in with it. For a moment, you both sat in a very uncomfortable silence. One full of expectation, on your part.

You didn’t know why you bombarded him with all those questions at that exact moment.

Maybe you just felt comfortable enough, relaxed enough in his arms, that they decided to rise to the surface on their own. Spencer’s hand suddenly stilled, just like his expression—

from warm and content, slowly turning colder.

 “D-did you—” he began, stammering, giving a small shake of his head. He swallowed. “Did you kiss me just to get more information about the case out of me?”

You opened your mouth, freezing up as well.No, you didn’t want him to take it that way—

Your silence must have come across as guilt or confirmation, because his jaw tensed, and he pulled out from under you, shifting, which forced you to move away and sit at a distance.

As his feet met the floor, he closed his eyes for a brief moment, drawing in a breath.

“We’ve recorded everything we needed, right?” he asked, his voice laced with forced indifference.

You sighed softly, apologetically.

 “I’m sorry, I didn’t think it would come across like that, really.”

“If so, then I guess it’s time for me to go,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard your words at all.

You sighed again, unsure of what to say in your defense. A sharp pang hit your chest as he stood up and headed for the door. Of all the moments, you really had to pick this one.

“I really meant it,” you tried again as he opened the door to your room.His movements, and the hand on the doorknob, slowed, as if with hesitation. “The kiss,” you added, just as the door closed behind him.

⚡︎

“Why are you so quiet, hm?”

The words came from your left as you half-lay, half-sat on the couch in front of the TV, your hoodie pulled up to your ears and a pillow hugged tightly to your chest. Some cooking show your mom liked was playing—the kind she always watched. She sat beside you with her feet propped up on the coffee table.

“Me?”

A dumb question, considering it was just the two of you in the house. Still, it took you a second to realize she meant you.

“Mhm. You haven’t said a word.”

You shrugged, chewing on the drawstring of your hoodie. It was late—night, really. Too much had happened that day for you to fall asleep easily, so you’d planted yourself in front of the TV just to zone out. The morning talk with Danny. Conrad. The visit to Elena. Then cassette and…Spencer.

“Just thinking,” you replied after a moment.

“What about?”

She gently brushed the hair from your face, first sweeping your bangs off your forehead, then lightly combing through the strands that had slipped inside your hoodie. There was something soothing in the way she did it, especially when it was her.

You bit the inside of your cheek. You loved her, but you didn’t really want to talk about yourself, not yet. Not when your mind was still trying to catch up with everything that had happened.

But there was one topic you did want to talk about—one that didn’t have anything to do with you directly. You turned your gaze to her.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about something lately,” you admitted.

Your mom nodded, encouraging you to go on.

“You remember Danny’s ex-wife?”

Your mom blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question.

“Danny’s ex-wife? Do I remember her?” she echoed, like she was making sure she’d heard you right. “No, sweetheart. I never met her. Danny moved here after she passed away.”

You froze, the hoodie string still between your lips. But Danny said—

 “I feel like I remember her,” you said.

Your mom shook her head, looking almost amused.

 “Impossible. You must be mixing something up.”

Her gaze drifted back to the TV, completely unfazed and uninterested by your strange confession. You thought of the photo in Danny’s car. You were sure you’d seen that woman somewhere before.

After a moment, your eyes returned to the screen too. Someone had just burned an omelet.

⚡︎

The next morning, bright and early, Charlie confessed.

To be specific, he confessed to the murder of Maggie Baker.

When he was arrested under that charge, a version of him began forming in your mind—and likely in the minds of the profilers as well. A version you didn’t want to become permanent. You feared it becoming permanent. You feared his confession. The confirmation of the kind of person who could use and kill a girl just a few years younger than himself, a teenager from the same small town, and then, out of fear that the truth would come out, have the audacity to desecrate her body completely. To make it look like the work of the killer.

And it wasn’t hard to copy the killer’s signature—after all, the man murdered in such a specific, recognizable way. All Charlie had to do was shave her head. Dress her in pajamas. Fry her body and dump it. Two other women had died in the same way, so of course the police would assume it was the same person. They’d chase a monster straight out of a horror story. Some figure of nightmares or urban legends. Someone who might never be caught.

And Charlie’s crime, driven by lust, simple in its brutality—what would that be in comparison? It would vanish. Unless…unless the guilt that haunted him day after day slowly started to crack him open.

He wasn’t, after all, some cold, calculating psychopath. He was just a boy working in a tech store, barely scraping through high school year after year. 

When he confessed, he sealed it—and you, lying on your bed in your bedroom and working on the podcast, mechanically, like a robot, started to have doubts.

The strange thing was that when he was arrested, you were able to believe in his guilt—truly.

Maybe you were still driven by fear, after all, just the day before you had run from him, convinced you were running for your life. You broke your arm in the process, and the echo of the bone cracking made it really easy to believe.

You tried to look at it from a different perspective.

If he weren’t your friend, but a man you heard about in a true crime podcast or read about in police reports, would you still have so many doubts? Probably not. But it was nagging at you so much that you fought for the chance to visit him in holding. And you got it.

Danny offered to drive you, and you agreed. Mainly so you could take a closer look at the photo he kept in his car. Or at least, well, that was your initial plan. But once you found yourself in the passenger seat, on your way to speak with your former friend, a possible murderer, you completely forgot about it. 

The man gave you a few worried glances during the ride.

 “Are you sure you want to talk to him?”

You gave him a serious look. “I have to talk to him. Whether he’s really guilty or not.”

 Danny nodded quickly. “No, I get it,” he said.

He went quiet for a moment, eyes fixed on the road.

“Confrontation is...it’s necessary in a way. I mean. What matters most is knowing for yourself. Try to look him in the eyes. Maybe you’ll see a version of him different from the one the police... and everyone else believes in.”

You fell into thought, your eyes lingering on his jaw—tenser than usual, just slightly.

Crime films often focus on this exact moment. The main character goes to meet the suspect, sits down in a chair separated by glass, holding the receiver to her ear. The inmate she’s come to see is brought in by two guards, takes a seat, and places his hands on the table. She lowers her gaze, unwilling just yet to face h

Hand cuffed together.

The skin around his nails was torn, tiny wounds scattered along his cuticles. You looked up—and your eyes met. Like in every film, you both remained silent for a moment, even though you knew your visit would only last a handful of minutes. No matter how it sounded, the change in Charlie wasn’t drastic. He had already looked terrible before, unhealthily thin, his face sunken, with deep purple shadows around his eyes.

The purple remained, but his frame seemed fuller now, his posture slightly stronger. Most likely the result of a forced withdrawal from drugs. He was looking at you too, though not as intently as you were at him. The fingers of his cuffed hands began to tremble slightly, so he curled them into fists. His lips pressed into a thin line, gaze dropping to the table and then returning to you. This time more present.

 "I'm sorry about your arm," he said.

He didn't quite meet your eyes, rather somewhere nearby. As if trying to give the impression he was, choosing some point on your face to imitate eye contact. Your lips parted. You hadn’t expected him to speak first.

"Nothing hap—" your voice trailed off; the words came automatically. You drew in a deeper breath. It wasn’t true that nothing had happened. Something did—you had a broken arm. And a few bruises on your wrists from how he grabbed you multiple times, in some kind of frenzy. "Yeah. You should be sorry."

He nodded. “I’m sorry,” he repeated calmly. His gaze dropped back to the table. No more pretending to meet your eyes. He swallowed, his shoulders gave a slight twitch as he added, “I never wanted to hurt you.”

With those words, he was practically asking for it.

“But Maggie Baker, you did?”

His head snapped up—fast—for the first time. Your eyes met and held for a long moment. At first, his face showed no reaction, then it began to tremble, twist even, as if you’d held something foul right under his nose. He didn’t answer.

You drew a breath. Sharp, reluctant. It hurt a little.

“You know, I assume you realize I didn’t come here because I wanted an apology,” you said, resting your elbows on the table in front of you. The phone’s receiver trembled slightly in your grip. You tightened it.

Charlie nodded, lips pressed tightly together, showing that he knew exactly why you’d come. Or maybe it was just your imagination, but you thought you saw a flicker of pain cross his face. Pain caused by the reason for your visit. Because it wasn’t simply to see an old friend.

“You confessed,” you said.

A moment of silence.

“I did.”

A moment of silence on your end.

“Did you do it?”

Again, it dragged out. You didn’t know how much time you had left before someone tapped your shoulder and told you the visit was over. It was always meant to be a short conversation.

“I confessed,” he finally replied, lifting his head again.

His gaze was steady. He didn’t blink. He leaned slightly toward the glass pane, fingers around the phone receiver turning white.

To look you in the eyes. This time for real, not somewhere beside them.

Danny’s words suddenly echoed in your mind like a whisper try to look him in the eyes. So you did.

In his eyes…he was telling the truth.

He confessed.

⚡︎

“And how—”

You cut Danny’s question off halfway with a single look. You really didn’t want to talk about it. Was there even anything to say? A large part of your conversation had been encrypted in looks, with a code inaccessible to outsiders. Hard to understand even for yourself. So, you really didn’t want to talk about it yet.

Danny nodded understandingly, gave you a weak, briefly uplifting smile that vanished as soon as it appeared, and you drove back home in silence. It was late-lunch time and you planned to eat together with your mom at your place. You hoped she wouldn’t push for a conversation either.

You turned on your phone to check the time, to see exactly how long your conversation with Charlie had taken. You saw one new message. One you had to admit you hadn’t expected at all.

Can we meet later and talk?

For a moment, you just stared at it. You and Reid hadn’t been in contact since yesterday, for obvious reasons. Your question right after the kiss—which, by the way, you had really wanted—had made it look like some sort of game, a form of manipulation. Well, you knew that sooner or later you’d have to straighten things out, but honestly, you didn’t have the energy. In this overwhelming mess, you made room for romance (a serious word. let’s add silly at the start to soften it) only if it was built on giggling and kissing. When misunderstandings came into play…

You locked your phone without replying and slid it under your thigh, your gaze fixed out the window. You weren’t in a good mood after meeting with Charlie, and that’s why you didn’t want to see Spencer—afraid you’d drag him into your doghouse and make things worse. And you, well, you really liked him.

Before you knew it, you were standing in your driveway, and moments later you were stepping through the front door. Your mom was slicing iceberg lettuce on the kitchen counter; she turned toward you with a visibly concerned, questioning look, but then her eyes met Danny’s. He must have silently told her you weren’t in the mood to talk, because her mouth closed. She exhaled through her nose and, still holding the knife, asked, “Did you buy balsamic dressing?”

You pointed straight ahead, toward the stairs. “I’ll be upstairs.”

Neither of them protested, preferring to let you have a moment to yourself. Maybe there, in private, you’d decide whether you wanted to see Spencer today. You’d barely made it up two steps when you realized you couldn’t feel your phone in your pocket. With a heavy sigh, you turned back toward the kitchen.

“Dan,” you called. He was just popping a slice of cucumber into his mouth and looked at you questioningly. “I think my phone’s still in your car. Could I…?”

“Sure,” he replied immediately, patting his pockets until his hand stopped on the one at his chest, over his flannel shirt. He pulled out his keys. “Heads up, I’m throwing—”

“I can’t—”

“Fuck, I forgot about your arm. Sorry. Sorry for my language. Anyway, here you go.”

He stepped out from behind the kitchen island to hand them to you, a smirk glinting on his lips. Behind him, your mom let out a short laugh. “Apologizing for your language? Since when are you such a gentleman?”

“Since always! How could you not notice?”

Even you smiled involuntarily. For a brief moment, in a quiet sort of realization, you knew that no matter how many things had gone wrong lately—or even tragically—at least in your home, among your closest ones, everything had stayed the same. Safe and kind.

You opened the door to Danny’s car. Just as you expected, your phone was lying on the seat.

 You reached for it, and out of the corner of your eye, you caught something on the dashboard. The photo you had forgotten to take a closer look at.

You froze for a moment, staring at the woman’s face. That strange feeling filled you again. The sense that you knew her from somewhere. This time, when you were alone with it, it was even stronger. That face was familiar.

Without thinking much, you shoved it into your pocket.

You nearly sprinted the distance from the car back to the house, eager to get upstairs as quickly as possible. You almost forgot to return the keys, skidding to a stop on your heels before tossing them toward Danny, who caught them with wide eyes. He said something about reflex, but his words didn’t register.

You, on the other hand, made it to your room, tossing the photo onto your desk. If it had been a book or anything larger, it would have landed with a thud.

Once again, you studied the woman’s face, analyzing every detail. The photo must have been taken when she was a teenager; it looked like something from a school yearbook. Her hairstyle, her outfit, and even the quality of the image all suggested…the 1940s.

You did the math in your head, your train of thought halting like ants caught in a death spiral. Danny was forty-nine. That would mean he was a teenager in the late 1960s. Something didn’t add up. Sure, marriages where the woman was older happened. But this whole thing reeked far too much for you to accept such an explanation.

You sat down at your desk, resting your chin on your hand. The memory of that woman in your mind was old, faded. Barely there at all. It had to come from long ago, from your childhood. You were born and raised in this town, you had no grandparents to visit elsewhere, and you doubted you’d met her at any summer camp. That narrowed the search to Fairview.

Specifically, you turned to the town’s online archives. Yes. Your little hometown actually had one.

The photo gallery was extensive. You dug your way back to the year you were born, then began moving upward through the years again. Carefully studying each photo from every fair, event, concert, and largest homegrown pumpkin contest. There were hundreds, and you hadn’t even realized that time was still slipping away behind you. At some point, someone knocked on your door, but without even turning around, you called out that you weren’t hungry.

Sometimes, in old photographs, you spotted women who looked physically similar to her, but none gave you that shiver down your spine, that rush of realization that it was definitely her. A few times you found your mom. Danny, too, but always without his wife. Your mom’s words came back to you, about how he’d moved here after her death. Why would he lie to you about that? Had you misheard him? Your mom’s memory was probably a more reliable source than your single conversation with him.

You sighed, resting your hand on your head in exhaustion.

It was only the afternoon, but your covered windows created the feeling that night had fallen, or at least evening. You were drowsy, but you didn’t want to sleep. You wanted to keep yourself busy with something calming, something that wouldn’t pull you out of rhythm if a theory or conclusion suddenly came to you.

You looked up at the empty corkboard above your desk. Sometimes you made small boards when discussing a case on your podcast, to capture that movie-like mystery-solving atmosphere. But honestly, you preferred keeping your information in files on your laptop, printing out some and storing them in labeled folders for each case. That’s what you had done with The Executioner.

Should you be working on that now? Pinning everything onto the corkboard in the hope that something in your brain would click? After all, you needed something to occupy yourself anyway.

When making a corkboard like this, the most important thing was to start from the beginning. The very beginning. So you reached for the folder where you kept all the information about the first case you ever covered on your podcast. Robert Taylor, we meet again.

You spilled all the documents onto your duck-patterned bedspread and…

Your hand froze above the page listing all his victims. Their photographs.

One of them. One specific one at the very bottom of the page — the one who escaped and helped lead to his capture. You even knew her name; you had looked it up again recently, though you hadn’t looked at the photos. Because you had heard it on the cassette recording. Rebecca Young.

You walked over to your desk, to the photo of Danny’s wife.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

The door to your room cracked open, and you jumped in place. Your heart started pounding as if you’d been caught doing something — which, in a way, you had. Your mother’s head peeked in through the doorway. “Just letting you know I’m heading over to the lake house to see how the tile work turned out. Eat something, okay?”

And with that, she left, and you pressed a hand to your chest, your first breath coming out heavy. Maybe it was good she interrupted you, good that she pulled you out of that trance. You needed to clear your head to think logically. Logical thinking was key.

You compared the photo of Rebecca Young with the photo of Danny’s wife. It was the same woman, you had no doubt. That’s where you knew her from. Not from your childhood, but from the very first case you’d covered on your podcast.

You swallowed hard. Had Danny kept his wife’s past from you to avoid painful questions? He knew you, knew you were nosy, especially when it came to these kinds of things. It was probably a heavy subject for him. A wife who had died of cancer. In your podcast, you always explored the later lives of women who had survived attacks by serial killers. If they managed to rebuild, you presented it as proof of their strength and resilience. Was Rebecca one of those women?

You couldn’t remember — you had covered the Devil of Bristol case a long time ago. But that’s what the internet was for.

You sat down in front of your laptop again.

Rebecca was the one who had survived the attack and led to his capture — of course there were plenty of articles about her later life. And… her early death. After the execution of her attacker, she had fallen into addiction and eventually overdosed in her home. So, she hadn’t died of cancer. Sure, Danny could have lied, made up the cancer story to avoid telling the truth about his wife’s tragic end.

His wife.

Suddenly, it felt like your whole room froze.

In any of those articles, there wasn’t a single word about Rebecca ever getting married. Your good hand began to tremble uncontrollably, and you reached for your phone.

The last message from Spencer.

Can we meet later and talk?

With a sharp pain in your chest, you ignored it and wrote something else, something more important at the moment.

Could you give me Garcia’s number?

The reply came immediately, as if he was waiting for your response. The pain in your chest deepened. Reid sent you the number, without asking any questions. Next message.

Can we talk, please?

Sorry, I can’t talk right now, I think I’ve just solved a criminal case — you thought. You were too shaken to reply to him. Later. You’ll do it later.

Taking a deep breath as if you were about to dive, you dialed Penelope Garcia’s number. Before she could say anything, you blurted out “Hi Pen. Okay, I don’t know if I can call you that but it’s me, hmm, you probably know me better as Rotten Cherry than by my name.”

There was complete silence on the other end for a moment.

Squeak.

“Oh my gosh, it’s you! Hi, I’m a fan! Oh my god, I probably shouldn’t be this excited, but aaa, I’m so jealous Spencer met you!”

You winced.

“Well, he’s told me a bit about you. I’m glad to be talking to you too,” you said, your throat tight, barely managing a friendly tone. You sat on the edge of your desk, closing your eyes for a moment. The world around you was slightly blurred, and your heart was racing. You think you could hear your blood rushing through your veins. “My listener from the FBI, I never would’ve guessed. Anyway…could you check something for me?”

“Sure, it would be an honor. I’m booting up my database now…whatever you wish, sunshine.”

She was surprisingly eager to help you, even though she didn’t know what you were really after. You thought maybe she would even give you access to some highly guarded information if you asked.

You exhaled sharply. “I want you to check if a man named Daniel Lewis was ever married.He currently lives in Fairview and is forty-nine”.

You heard the clicking of keys, something gnawing at your stomach. Your breathing was probably annoyingly loud.

“Hm,” she murmured.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this, sunshine,” she said. “Okay, let me put it this way. Daniel Lewis was never married…”

You squeezed your eyelids shut.

“…because someone named Daniel Lewis doesn’t exist. At least not, well, officially. Are you sure that’s the name you wanted me to check? I can—”

“Robert Taylor,” you forced out. Another breath. You felt as though the air wasn’t reaching your brain at all. “Actually, Robert Taylor Jr. Check what he’s doing now.”

Once again, the sound of typing.

 “Robert Taylor. Robert, Robert, Robert…” she muttered under her breath. “Well, he and his mother changed their last name to her maiden name in 1964. Any trace of Robert—since then Bennett—vanished…twenty years ago.”

The same time Danny moved to Fairview.

 “You know, sunshine…you sound very, very strange. What’s going on? Do you think he, oh—!”

You hung up at the exact moment Penelope put it together. Of course, she didn’t know Danny, but she realized you uncovered something. For a moment, you thought you might collapse. Nothing you’d gone through recently, not Charlie’s arrest, not Keasy’s death, hit you like this. He’d been right under your nose.

The Executioner. And not for a week, a month, or since the murders had started. Always.

Once more, you grabbed your phone and, with a lump in your throat, opened your conversation with Spencer.

At my place in 15

You sent the message, standing motionless in your bedroom for a moment. At your place in 15? You couldn’t wait that long. You had to talk, to tell someone…God, you had to warn your mom. She was at the lake house they were renovating together. Usually, she went there with Danny. What if they were there together right now? 

You physically couldn’t wait those fifteen minutes. You moved toward the door. Driving with a broken arm wasn’t impossible, just difficult. And, well, legally not recommended. Anyway, any cop who stopped you should understand.

You started running down the stairs…and stopped halfway, face-to-face with Danny.

With Robert Taylor Jr.

With The Executioner.

Your good hand gripped the banister, your body frozen in place.

“Hey, I just dropped by because I think I left my drill here when I was putting together that table for your mom’s bedroom,” he said with a smile.

Loose tone, relaxed posture, corners of his mouth tilted up. Typical Danny. Typical Danny, always hanging around your house, playing the father figure—and in his free time murdering young women in search of justice for his father, a serial killer.

Typical Danny who…didn’t know you knew.

Though your breath caught in your chest, you forced yourself to let it out.

 “Yeah. S-sure, you know you don’t have to feel…awkward here,” you managed to choke out.

His brows drew together in mild confusion.

 “Everything okay?”

“Mhm. You just…startled me.”

He nodded in understanding, his eyes scanning you more intently. The look sent goosebumps rippling across your skin, something you tried desperately not to show.

“Heading somewhere?” he asked.

You hesitated, letting out a nervous, betraying hum as you scrambled for a lie.

 “Mhm. Meeting…a friend,” you said.

Danny tilted his head to the side. The same way your mom did when you tried going out after dark. Concern in his eyes. You eased slightly. Danny had never hurt you. And he wouldn’t, as long as you didn’t let him know you knew.

“Okay, actually…it’s sort of a date,” you added. Extra details made the lie sound more believable. “And he’s gonna be here any minute so…yeah, I should get going.”

You tried to step past him, but he placed his hand on the banister. You flinched.

“Woah, easy,” he laughed lightly, in what was meant to be a calming tone. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Again. Just wanted to say… be careful, you know? I don’t know this guy, but…speaking as a man. Most of us are pigs.”

“I trust him,” you blurted, the words coming out sharper, more forceful than you intended.

Probably the only true thing you’d said during the entire conversation.

Danny’s gaze locked on yours, neither of you blinking. His hand stayed firmly on the banister, blocking your path. You couldn’t ask him to move it. You couldn’t let him see how badly you wanted to get out of that house.

Suddenly, he gave a half-smile. In fact, his whole body seemed to move with a short, amused snort.

 “You took the photo from my car,” he said. That same relaxed look was still on his face, unchanged. You froze. “You know which one. And I know you’re a smart girl. You’ve probably figured it all out by now, and here you are, lying straight to my face.”

Never. In your life. Had you been. This. Terrified.

 “I-I don’t know what—w-what you’re talking about.”

“C’mon. Don’t make me out to be an idiot. You think I don’t know where you were going? To call the cops? That your date? A cop?”

You took one sluggish step back, forgetting you were on the stairs, and lost your balance. Danny caught you by the arm, and in your terror, you instinctively jerked away.

 “Let me go!”

“You’re coming with me,” he replied, still calm.

You’d always imagined that in a confrontation with a deranged killer, he’d be more outwardly violent. Well, he was gripping your elbow hard enough to nearly crush it, but outwardly, he was very, very composed.

“Where’s my mom?!” you demanded, your voice trembling.

Danny pulled you down the stairs. You tried to slip your hand from your sleeve, but he’d anticipated it. Grabbing the fabric tighter and then your arm itself, yanking you closer to him. You hissed through clenched teeth from the pain, fighting as much as you could. Danny tried to grab you around the waist, lift you off the ground, taking the floor from under your feet. Resisting with one arm in a cast was incredibly hard — you kneeled him in the crotch, and taking advantage of the moment when he doubled over in pain, you reached for your pepper spray.

The same one he had given you. He even seemed amused by the sight.

You barely had time to aim before he knocked it from your hand. It rolled across the floor, under the dresser.

Fuck.

In the next moment, he did what he initially intended — threw you over his shoulder. Danny was always a strong man, a laborer. Tall, too. You tried to break free somehow, maybe fall enough to bite his ear or scratch his face, but you weren’t physically able. You groaned in helplessness and only kicked your legs and punched his back, making it harder for him to carry you through the garden door.

He grunted in pain as one of your fists hit the same spot several times, harder and harder, more panicked. He sighed, slowing his pace.

“Okay, you know what, maybe I just—”

He abruptly turned sideways just as you passed through the door. Your head hit the threshold, and, well. Shit went dark.

⚡︎

You were awakened by an electric, buzzing sound.

You blinked, dazzled by the light directly in front of you. You felt nothing at first, but gradually a throbbing pain started to pulse in your head, along with the sensation that someone was holding your head still, preventing it from moving. There was another kind of pain, in a different place...

In your hand, just like when you fell down the stairs.

A pain-filled groan escaped your lips. Why were you going through this again? Had you dreamed of this moment so vividly that you even recreated the sharp sensation of breaking bones? You tried to move your hand, but it wouldn’t budge. Not because it was in a cast. Because it wasn’t. It was free, yet immobilized by something else, chained to something.

You wanted to look down, away from the source of the light burning your eyes. It was a bulb hanging from a low, rounded stone ceiling. You couldn’t move your head either, though you tried. Someone was holding it.

“Calm down,” a voice behind you commanded. A familiar voice. A steady voice. “Or I’ll accidentally cut off your ear.”

“What—” you murmured, still drowsy.

Then your eyes widened despite the pain. Danny released your head. It dropped forward, as you didn’t have the strength to hold it up yourself. You groaned again and started looking around, ignoring the pain.

You were somewhere…whatever the fuck this place was. A low ceiling and stone walls, something like a bunker or a tunnel, but in front of you was…a church altar? You couldn’t make sense of your surroundings. Maybe you’d understand your situation.

In front of you stood a table, and on the other side, a chair that Danny slowly approached. He leaned casually on it with one hand, blowing on an electric razor to get the hairs off its blade.

Your hair.

You looked around, which made no sense since you couldn’t see the top of your own head. But you knew you were completely bald, you could feel the cold on your skin. You wanted to be sure and touch it, but your hands were bound with straps. Leather straps, fastening you to the chair. Another wave of pain in your hand, now free of the cast.

The chair.

You were sitting on a chair.

You weren’t wearing your own clothes, just a hospital gown and your underwear. You were in your underwear. What a gentleman. Your feet were bound too, and the only things you could move were your head and your fingers. Escape was impossible.

You shifted your terrified gaze to Danny, swallowing hard.

“Danny,” you croaked. “Danny, why?”

“Why in general, or why you?” he asked gently, sitting down on the chair opposite you. He rested his elbows on the table and leaned toward you with a smile. “How about this. You tell me why in general, and I’ll tell you why you.”

You swallowed, holding his gaze. There was madness in his calm, maybe it had always been there. You were…damp and cold, so you guessed you were underground. There were only two of you; you had been kidnapped from your home. Was it possible anyone was looking for you? You hadn’t told anyone, but…you had asked Spencer for a meeting in 15 minutes. Had he come to your house? Had he guessed what might have happened?

Danny kept staring at you, waiting for an answer. Escape was impossible. Talking was recommended. Always, in cases of kidnapping. Buying time, getting inside the killer’s head, manipulating him. You sighed. It always seemed easier in podcasts; you had no idea what to say.

“Youre Robert Taylor’s son. The Devil of Bristol,” you began.

“I’ve always liked that nickname. Commands respect.”

You swallowed. Where had your Danny gone? The one who gave you pepper spray and always asked if you needed a ride? You shook your head from side to side, lips pressed tight. “Danny, please…”

“Keep talking.”

For a moment, you closed your eyes, extinguishing the burning fear inside you, reducing it to a flicker, though it took some time. But Danny was patient. Good.

“You’re his son, and you witnessed his execution. With your own eyes, along with your mother. Neither of you ever believed he was a murderer — actually, many people didn’t. He had fans. Women. You… changed your last name and…moved away…and then…” you trailed off.

What happened next chronologically? His move to Fairview? No, something had to come in between. For some reason, he eventually came to town. He was running from something.

 “When you grew up…you killed Rebecca Young. Your father’s victim—”

 “A dirty liar,” he corrected you.

“She ran from him. You believed he was innocent, and she was lying. That’s why you killed her, and then…”

You frowned, and Danny tilted his head with fascination.

“I delivered the justice that I, and my family, deserved. Then I lived in Fairview under a new identity, leading a quiet life for thirty years without murderous urges. Besides, is the need for justice a murderous urge, or a fundamental human right?” he pondered. He snorted. “That’s not irony or dark humor. I’m serious.”

So why did he start killing again? You didn’t ask aloud. Your eyes did.

“There was no fucking candle in this monster’s pumpkin head. I don’t even know how an idiot like him could have murdered so many women, because, damn it, his methods were worse than offering someone to see kittens out the back of a white van labeled ‘definitely not a suspicious van, not a serial killer’s,’” Danny said in a strangely modulated voice.

You just stared at him.

“Don’t you recognize your own words?” he asked. “About my dad? In your stupid little podcast?”

Your mouth fell open. Fuck, he was right. Those were your words, your exact quote.

“You know, there was one good thing that came out of him,” he continued. “It opened my eyes to how many people don’t know the real story. How my father was framed, and that junkie lied about him. If they could hear your false version on your podcast, why shouldn’t I have the right to record mine? Here, in his tomb. To ask for Rebecca’s own opinion. She wasn’t nearly as brave sitting in that chair as she was in court when she accused him. She admitted to lying, and hearing that live was…” Danny shook his head, almost with a touched gleam in his eyes.

Bile rose in your throat. This wasn’t your Danny. This was Robert Taylor Jr. He had been all along.

“You didn’t ask her,” you said, your voice bitter. “Because she was already dead. You killed her. You asked women who weren’t even born when your father was killed.”

“But they thought the same thing. When they sat here, they didn’t want to admit to lying. They clung to their hypocrisy, only confessing the truth later. That’s right, I gave false testimony about your family, about your father,” Robert again put on a female voice. He nodded at you. “Will you repeat that?”

Your head shook automatically from side to side. “That’s not fucking true.”

You flinched as something hit the table. Not his fist. He wasn’t aggressive. From Keasy’s interrogation recording, you knew things were sometimes different. A voice recorder fell on the table between you. A familiar-looking voice recorder.

“Yes, I stole it from you, I admit it. But I did it for a higher purpose. For justice.”

You felt like vomiting. You thought you had lost that recorder months ago. You accepted it and bought a new one, while the old one was still being used for…

Robert looked at the watch on his wrist and started recording.

“6:18, interrogation of…”

“You’ll kill me, so what then? The police already know who you are. I told them,” you said simultaneously, desperately. You probably had to start threatening him. Unfortunately, Robert didn’t look even slightly scared.

He just rolled his eyes, placing the recorder on the table in front of you.

 “No, I won’t. You were going to tell them, but I beat you to it. Your mom will come home, notice you’re gone. Maybe she’ll worry, but you’ve gotten her used to you wandering around at night. The police will only find you when you admit you lied about my father on your podcast.”

So when I’m dead, you thought. You started breathing heavily through your mouth, trying to focus. You couldn’t admit he was right, or he’d fry you. As if reading your mind, Robert stood up from his seat and circled your chair, fastening something around your head. You didn’t see your reflection, but it was metal and cold against your shaved skin. You struggled once more, and a wave of tearing pain washed over your arm.

“Calm down, I’m not turning it on yet,” he murmured soothingly behind you, adjusting the leather strap around your wrist. “This is just to prepare you.”

“You’re really going to do this to my mom?”

“Do you admit that what you said about Robert Taylor on your podcast was blasphemy, slander, and untrue, and that he was wrongly accused?”

You closed your eyes. You remembered the pepper spray that fell from your hand and rolled under the dresser. The BAU would surely find it and recognize it as a struggle attempt. Then they’d only have to find you. Where were you? Robert called it his father’s tomb, and it probably was, the altar before you likely concealed his body or ashes. Would they figure it out?

Maybe. But it would take time before they did. You had to give them that time.

“I do not admit it,” you said.

Robert was behind you, where the mechanism to activate the chair had to be. Surely his hand rested on the right switch, ready with pride and satisfaction to press it at the right moment. He repeated his question patiently.

You patiently repeated yourself. “I do not admit it.”

You lost count of how many times each of you repeated it before you both started shouting. You were glad he was yelling at you, and you yelled even louder so that anyone above ground could hear you. The room didn’t seem soundproof, made of stone, not any sound-absorbing foam or material.

He hissed behind you, showing the first sign of impatience. He circled the table again, as if thinking that if he slapped his hands on it and leaned toward you, he could pressure you more, force you to speak. “Do you admit…”

 “I admit your father was an idiot who didn’t have a single fucking candle in his pumpkin head!” you interrupted with a scream, carefully choosing your words, pulling from your own quote that probably haunted him like a mantra since he learned it by heart.

Robert froze motionless, his eyes seemingly empty. You heard a voice above you, above the surface, and tried to tilt your head up with hope, but you were immobilized. He also looked at the ceiling, his hands clenched into fists.

 “You know what, this fucking makes no sense.”

He circled the chair, and you instinctively struggled again, ignoring pain everywhere. If only those straps would give way…Your heart was in your throat because you guessed where this was heading. Your body convulsed, but not because electricity was shooting through you — because you wanted to escape, maybe knock the chair over, do anything to get out…

 “Danny, please—”

Did you hear footsteps? You definitely heard The Executioner’s heavy breathing behind you, panicked. He was scared. Scared just like you, but for a different reason. The footsteps grew louder, and you heard one last, final sound — the pressing of the switch.

Then, a moment of blissful silence settled from every side, filling your ears and mind before the first wave of electricity pierced your body through and through.

⚡︎

The streets of Fairview were completely empty that day.

Lately, people had been going out alone less and less, but for the past few days The Executioner had been where he belonged — behind bars — and with no specific danger lurking for the townsfolk, Elle slowly made her way down the sidewalk without spotting a single soul.

That didn’t mean they were all shut away in their homes. That particular morning, everyone had gathered in one specific place, dressed in black. In a town where everyone knew everyone, funerals were big events. They reflected the weight of the life that had come to an end.

Well, the street being completely empty wasn’t entirely true.

A few dozen meters ahead of Elle, a boy was gliding along the sidewalk on his bike. At some point, he got off, grabbing the handlebars and inspecting the rear tire — the air had gone out of it so much that riding was impossible. He had probably run over some glass. At least, that’s what he was most likely going to think.

The boy was forced to walk his bike the rest of the way home. He turned into a narrow alley, the shortcut he always took. Elle did the same, a few dozen meters behind him, ready to cut him off from an entirely different side.

Everyone was at the funeral. The boy had no reason to expect that a woman would suddenly appear in front of him. Let alone one pointing a gun straight at his chest.

The bike hit the ground with a loud clatter.

“Hi, Conrad,” Elle greeted him. “Do you know who I am?”

The boy raised both hands in the air and looked around, hoping to spot someone—anyone—who might help him. He saw no one, and his terrified gaze settled back on Elle.

She didn’t feel the slightest trace of remorse for the fear on his face. She lifted one eyebrow slightly and adjusted her grip.

The arrest of the Executioner had left Charlie facing only the charge of rape and murder of sixteen-year-old Maggie Baker. He had fully confessed to the crimes. Elle was the one who had interrogated him, and the one who knew there was something off in his statement. That he was trying to protect someone. Someone he cared about so much he was willing to go to prison for them.

And someone who would have gotten away with the crime completely.

If it hadn’t been for her and her crazy idea.

“N-no,” the boy finally stammered, his knees trembling as if he wanted to run, but knowing he would be shot the moment he tried.

“Good,” Elle replied. “But I know who you are. And what you did. I’m just missing a few pieces of this whole puzzle, and I’m counting on you to give them to me. Otherwise…” She gave a meaningful glance at her gun.

Conrad’s jaw tightened, his face almost translucent.

“I’m not joking,” she added. “I’ve got a gun, everyone’s at the funeral, and I can disappear without being seen. Besides, you wouldn’t be the first rapist I’ve shot, though you’d definitely be the youngest. So? Are we talking?”

After a brief pause, Conrad gave a stiff nod.

Elle cleared her throat. “Let’s start then. Why did you kill Maggie Baker?”

“I didn’t want to,” he blurted out immediately, shaking his head. “Really, I didn’t. I just… I got into that party, even though they didn’t want me there because I was younger. And she didn’t pay any attention to me at all, and when I saw that they were taking something, I… I put it in her glass and…later after I…she started choking, I don’t know why, I didn’t do that.”

Elle was silent for a moment. What he’d just added had to be some form of rape drug, which had slowed her breathing dramatically. And Maggie had asthma. She must have suffered an attack, and without access to her inhaler, nearly unconscious, she had suffocated.

That was the missing puzzle piece.

“You called Charlie. Big brother, always ready to help you out, even when you’ve just raped a girl. How did you know about The Executioner’s former hideout in the woods?”

The police had determined that the first murders were committed there, before Robert Taylor Jr. decided to move them to his father’s tomb.

“I—I stumbled on it once. When I was riding my bike. But I didn’t know h-he was there—”

“You thought it would be the perfect place to dump the body. Charlie drove you there, with Maggie’s corpse. You went inside, and there it was—the electric chair. Whose idea was it, hmm? To stage the whole thing as the work of a serial killer?”

Conrad’s chest rose. “Charlie’s.”

“Ah, the caring big brother, and so clever too. Even willing to go to prison for both of you.”

“C-can I go now?” he asked.

Elle let out a short, derisive laugh. She reached into her pocket without lowering her gun and tossed something toward the boy, landing right next to his bike. He glanced down, confused. It was a pair of handcuffs.

“Go on. Put them on yourself. You’re going to see your brother.”

Conrad didn’t move, his expression tightening slightly. “I’ll deny it—”

Elle reached into her pocket again. This time pulling out a voice recorder. It was switched on, capturing their entire conversation.

Watching Conrad cuff himself, Elle glanced at her watch. This had gone much faster than she’d originally planned. She might even make it to Keasy Turner’s funeral after dropping this idiot off at the station.

The BAU had stayed in Fairview for a few extra days, something far from their usual practice. This time, however, they’d deemed it necessary. The girl who had helped them crack the entire case was still in the hospital after they had rescued her at the very last moment, just as the first wave of electric shocks tore through her body. The ordeal had caused several severe burns and robbed her of her memory for a time, but she was expected to recover—at least physically. And they wanted to wait until she woke up.

To thank her.

EPILOGUE

10 months later…

The sound of the doorbell rang.

You moved toward the door, but before opening it, you stopped in front of the tall mirror in the hallway of your new apartment. Rented, still filled with boxes from your move…even though a week had already passed. You glanced briefly at your reflection, nodded slightly, and finally went to the door. Instead of the usual two locks, you had agreed with the landlord to install three additional ones. Each time you opened them, it felt a bit like a safe-cracking scene from a heist movie.

You knew who to expect, yet you peeked through the peephole before opening the door to a smile — a smile that naturally spread across your lips, though you couldn’t hide feeling a little nervous about the meeting. Spencer was nervous too, because when he didn’t know your eye was watching him from the other side, he straightened his tie. Beneath it, a gray-blue shirt and a beige blazer; as usual, glasses on his face. Although his hair was slightly longer than the last time you saw each other.

“Hi,” he started, swallowing nervously. Somehow, you exchanged glances. His fell on your hair, yours on the small, charming bouquet of violets in his hands. But then Spencer snapped out of it, shaking his head, pulling himself out of his reverie. “Hi, wow, sorry, it’s just—”

“I know. When I told you I got a new wig, you probably didn’t expect this.”

Spencer looked embarrassed in an apologetic way.

Although when you were in the electric chair ten months ago, you only felt one shock—it caused localized burns on your scalp. To take care of them, you consistently kept your hair as short as possible and only recently allowed it to grow out fully. But as you know, that was a long process.

 Anyway, you bought a wig that imitated your old hair, but you didn’t like wearing it. You felt uncomfortable pretending to be your old self when you no longer felt like her, but you also felt bad with your head shaved against your will. So you bought a wig in a deep navy color.

 “You look beautiful,” he said. You looked at his face; his eyes widened slightly. He cleared his throat. “I mean, that color really suits you.”

You smiled, and for a moment, you both stood in silence before you realized you were literally holding him at the doorstep. “Oh, sorry. Come in, please.”

Spencer nodded, but before he took a step, his eyes dropped to the flowers, which he probably just remembered. He held them out to you uncertainly. “I know they look a little tired, but I literally took the subway with them and it was really, really crowded, and…I hate public transport.”

You took the flowers from him thoughtfully and smiled wider. It was a kind gesture that made warmth flood your body. Although, it was a bit unexpected. Since the BAU narrowly escaped Robert Taylor’s hands, your relationship with Spencer had simultaneously taken a step back and a few forward. You had basically avoided the problematic issue of your kiss and had become friends. Really good friends, because the state you had been in over the last few months—mainly mentally—didn’t make you feel ready for anything more.

Not once during your friendship had he given you flowers before. Well, maybe because until recently you lived in different states and mostly talked on the phone, but still. It was something groundbreaking.

“They match my hair,” you noticed, letting him into the apartment. “And they’re really pretty.”

Spencer was in your new apartment for the first time. As you both went deeper inside, it must have immediately caught his attention. Boxes. Everywhere.

“I know, nothing is unpacked. I know, it’s been a month. But I just can’t force myself to fully settle here,” you explained. “It… doesn’t really feel like home. But nothing does anymore, so I guess I don’t really have a good excuse for not unpacking. Oh, and I only have one chair.”

For a moment, he looked at you silently, a trace of concern flashing in his eyes. You felt stupid for what you said—he had just arrived, and you were already complaining and pouring out your sadness. After everything that happened in Fairview, your mom didn’t want to live there any longer. She put the house up for sale, which strained your relationship a bit. For a while, you tried living together somewhere else, but you needed a complete change. That’s why you moved to Virginia. Well, that wasn’t the only reason. The other was the studies you decided to start.

“Don’t worry about it,” he assured you gently, nodding slightly in understanding.  I don’t mind sitting on boxes. Even the floor is fine if I’m being honest. I came here to see you. The rest doesn’t really matter.”

You turned the bouquet of violets in your hands. “I missed you, you know.”

A slight movement of his head, a narrow smile like a simple line. “Yeah. I missed you too.”

“Should I put them in a vase? Want something to drink? If so, just a heads up—you’ll have to find yourself a glass in one of these boxes, I have no idea which one—”

Spencer had dropped by for a chat, which—unsurprisingly—stretched on. Not that you minded. Warm orange light filled your kitchen as you washed the dishes from the meal you’d eaten together at a table with chairs made of cardboard boxes, as if that were the most natural thing in the world. You were glad to have talked with him. This particular way of talking, balanced between casualness and trust, between comfort and honesty.

“Your plans haven’t changed? Criminology?” he asked, referring to your studies and the upcoming semester.

You handed him a clean plate so he could put it in the cupboard beside his head. On the counter in front of him sat a cut-off water bottle, serving as a makeshift vase for the violets. You’d have to get a prettier one. Who knows. Maybe you could expect them more often from now on.

“That’s right. You know, I think it’s something that will always be with me. But I’m not sure what I’ll do once I finish. Maybe I’ll keep going with the podcast.” You paused for a moment, drying your wet hands with a cloth. Spencer stood right beside you, his back to the cabinets you were facing. You shrugged. “Maybe I’ll try my luck in law enforcement. But I could never do what you guys do. I mean, I don’t think I’m built for fieldwork. Being in danger. Collecting information, working behind a desk…that’s probably more my speed.”

You weren’t even sure if you were speaking honestly. Just a year ago you’d been ready to break into places or visit abandoned buildings in the evening, and now you had five locks on your door and sometimes pressed your ear against the wall to your neighbors, wondering if they might be serial killers. Not to mention that nearly every day you googled the name of one specific prison to check if a certain inmate had somehow, against all odds, managed to get out. You were full of fear and, it seemed, permanently stripped of trust.

Spencer cleared his throat gently. “If you ever do want to try your hand at the FBI Academy, you’ve got my recommendation.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “Nepotism,” you muttered.

He shrugged with a faint smirk. “Maybe.”

You turned toward him to hand over the last clean glass to be put away in the cupboard. Spencer’s hand closed lightly around it—so lightly that you didn’t let go either, your eyes lifting to meet his. For a moment, his gaze simply held yours, thoughtful and unblinking, before he leaned in to kiss you. Carefully and slowly, in a way that felt unlike him.

“I really missed you,” he said quietly as he drew back just a little. “And I’m so glad you’re here now.”

“And I’m glad you’re here,” you replied, and you meant it. Maybe you weren’t entirely glad that you were here. Your new apartment still felt strange, the neighborhood still unfamiliar, and everything still so frightening. But that he was there with you in that moment, you were truly glad for that. “Put the glass in the cupboard.”

Spencer let go of your gaze, dropping it to the glass you both still held.

“Right—”

taglist: @mgg-lover4eva

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@garcialuvs

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@esposadomd

@elle-greenaways-wife

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[floraisunwell]

this was such a ride oh my goodness, when i thought i knew something i would realize i didn't actually know shit but in the bottomof my heart i always thought fuckass danny had something up w him. i just wasn't expecting THAT. it was such a smart twist oh myyyyyy, matilda let me be a little gremlin inside your brain i won't be annoying i swear

[darkmatilda-deactivated20260208]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐫 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: a series of young women are being murdered in your town, and you — the host of a true crime podcast — are determined to investigate the case yourself, even if it means constantly getting in the way of a team of profilers and putting yourself in danger once or twice.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x podcast host female!reader, criminal minds typical violence, case details, mention of sexual violence, abduction, addiction, and drug use, season 2 bau team 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 9.7k 𝐚/𝐧: lemme know if you want to be added to the taglist! $orry for the longer break before posting the last part. (final part — august 10)

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟑/𝟒

───────────────────────────────────

executioner — an official who carries out a sentence of death on a condemned person.

───────────────────────────────────

previously...

“That belonged to Maggie,” you said. “Maggie Baker.”

Charlie didn’t move. The ticking of the clock in your room became unbearably loud, deafening even, yet neither of you could bring yourselves to speak and drown it out. He wasn’t blinking either—his eyes, for the first time in months, looked alive, wide open instead of half-lidded and fogged by sleep.

You looked back down at the little bunny. You remembered that same keychain clipped to Maggie’s backpack when she came over for tutoring sessions and set it on your desk while she pulled out her notebooks and school notes. You remembered it clearly, because when you complimented the cute plushie, she said it was made by her grandma.

"I..." Charlie began, his voice hoarse, the words barely understandable. "I... I found it."

You locked eyes with him again, a tight pressure forming in your chest, like something heavy had rolled straight over it.

"You found it," you repeated hollowly.

You remembered how, just earlier that day, you’d tried to reach into his pocket, convinced you’d find drugs. And how he had thrown you the pill bottle—how he had preferred to admit to being an addict rather than owning up to carrying that specific item.

No wonder, when it had belonged to a victim of a serial killer. A killer whose identity remained unknown.

"You found it and carried it with you all this time," you said. A while ago, you'd taken a deep, full breath and you were still speaking on that same air, not daring to inhale again, your voice quiet and razor-sharp. "You think I'm that stupid? That belonged to Maggie, and even if you didn’t know that, the last thing you’d carry around in your pocket for months would be a little plush bunny. You wouldn’t be rubbing it between your fingers like a fucking rosary."

Charlie stepped toward you. You immediately stepped back, clutching the keychain tighter. You couldn’t tear your gaze away from the man in front of you, whose features were suddenly beginning to blur, like you didn’t recognize him anymore. Like it wasn’t your friend who had walked out of that bathroom, but someone else entirely.

"You ran. That day we checked out that station together. You didn’t go inside because you couldn’t, you panicked completely. And then when you saw the cops, you ran." You began listing, while he slowly shook his head, side to side, the movement growing quicker and quicker. His eyes were shining with something manic. Then another detail came to you and your whole body tensed, your mouth opened wide. "And the next day you asked me if I saw a chair at the crime scene. And I asked, what chair? Because there wasn’t one. It had already been removed before I got there. But it had been there for a while. Investigators confirmed the victims were killed right at that spot. So how did you know about the chair?"

“Don’t,” Charlie choked out. “Don’t play detective right now, you really don’t know anything—”

"I know enough," you cut him off.

You could’ve gone on—brought up his panic attack when Mr. Benson mentioned Maggie in the store. But that didn’t matter anymore. Maybe the full truth wasn’t stretched out in front of you in all its clarity, but the feeling in your gut and the fear, the fear of being found out written all over his face were enough.

Enough to know you couldn’t stay alone with him in that tiny room a moment longer.

You didn’t bolt, but you moved toward the door—and he moved after you immediately. That’s when it truly hit you.

Maybe you should have bolted from the start.

As you reached the door, so did his hand, slamming it shut the second it cracked open. Your forward momentum collided with the wood just as his chest collided with your back. Pressed against it, you hissed in pain and tried to push yourself away just enough to grab the handle again, not an easy task with someone literally clinging to your back, trying to pull you away.

“No, wait, please,” Charlie begged, reaching around your elbow to block your grip on the handle. You could feel the adrenaline and fear coursing through him, overpowering you. You wondered who else he had overpowered like this. You groaned, from panic and pain. “You can’t do this to me, you can’t tell anyone—you said you’d help me—”

“Because I didn’t know you were a murderer!”

Saying it out loud somehow gave you enough strength to drive your elbow into him hard enough for him to stumble back. You managed to get the door open just enough to slip through, but couldn’t shut it. Charlie rushed after you with clenched jaw and that determined look in his eyes that made you truly afraid. You sprinted down the upstairs hallway toward the stairs. He grabbed your arm more than once, still shouting some desperate pleas, but your sympathy had vanished, replaced entirely by survival instinct.

Jumping down two steps at a time, all you wanted was to get out of the house, somehow put distance between you and him so you could call the police. But your foot missed a step, and you slipped. You went flying sideways, landing on your left forearm, which exploded with a searing wave of pain.

“Hey, what’s going on here?” a male voice sounded in front of you.

Still lying on the floor, you lifted your head enough to see someone’s shoes. But it only took the voice and those shoes to recognize Danny. A breath of pure relief escaped your lips.

“He’s the one who’s killing the women,” you managed to say, as loud as your screaming arm would let you.

Actually, the next few hours were a complete blur. What stood out most clearly in them was Danny.

Danny, who managed to hold Charlie until the police arrived and who kept up his role by taking you to the hospital, where it turned out your arm was broken and you were, understandably, in a fair amount of shock.

Because, well — it wasn’t every day that someone you’d considered a friend turned out to be possibly involved in the murders haunting your town.

Well. Actually responsible for them.

It still hadn’t sunk in. Especially now, when the adrenaline had worn off and your logical thinking started to kick back in. Suddenly, you had so many doubts, but you weren’t sure if you should trust them, maybe it was just that part of you that didn’t want to believe you’d spent so much time with someone capable of so much.

Spent time with him. Trusted him, to some degree.

Everything felt so unreal. Sitting on the hospital bed with your arm freshly wrapped in a cast, for a moment you had trouble remembering how it even got there. Or what had happened to you. Only focusing on its weight helped ground you in the situation you were in. It hurt, but you had to stay present.

Danny and your mom — who had arrived at the hospital just before they put the cast on — had both stepped out of the room. You’d had to reassure them maybe twenty times that it was okay to leave you alone for a moment, whether it was to go to the bathroom or grab something from the vending machine, before they finally did, both clearly feeling guilty about it.

Anyway, they left like two minutes ago at most, and you’d already sunk into your thoughts and flinched in surprise when you sensed someone’s presence by your side. You stared with wide eyes at Reid’s face, his slightly soaked clothes, wet hair, and a few droplets on his glasses, suggesting it had been raining outside.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” slipped out instead of a greeting.

His eyebrows lifted in genuine, yet somehow warm, surprise.

“Really?” he asked.

You nodded eagerly, pulling your back away from the headboard.

“Yes, you’ll be able to tell me what’s going on with Charlie. Did you question him? It’s been, like...I don’t remember how long I’ve been here, but you must have. What did he say? Do you think it’s really him?” you bombarded him with frantic questions.

You completely missed that subtle shift in his expression, The earlier warmth fading as he gave a small nod to himself, as if lost in thought. But then his attention was back on you, and at your questions, he gave you an apologetic look.

“You know I can’t tell you anything.”

“But he’s my friend! I mean, you know, he was for such a long time. And I… I was the one who discovered it, now I just want to know if I was right,” you explained, looking into his eyes with a pleading gaze. Reid slightly pushed out his lower lip. You thought you might have had some effect on him, but not enough for him to reveal anything. “Please. Just between us. Was it really Charlie…this whole time?”

He held your gaze for a moment longer, visible hesitation on his face, then sighed softly and reached into the pocket of his blazer for a glasses cloth. He removed his glasses and began to wipe the lenses, still silent, still not answering, his expression unreadable and his brow slightly furrowed. Finally, he looked back up at you, lips pressed into a thin, apologetic line.

“How are you feeling?” he asked gently.

You stayed quiet for a moment; the shift in subject drew a disappointed, discontented scoff from you. You leaned back against the bed again, shifting your arm in its cast.

 “Absolutely wonderful. First, I find out my friend is a drug addict, then probably also a serial killer, and then I break my arm trying to run away from him. Oh, and now no one wants to tell me anything about him.”

 “I understand the frustration,” Reid said with a kind of emphasis, ignoring your immediate eye-roll. “But nothing’s certain at this point. Charlie’s still being questioned, and I...I don’t want to tell you something that will make you feel worse, only for it to turn out to be untrue. And we can’t forget that, technically, I’m not supposed to be telling you anything at all.”

If his decision had been driven by empathy, you couldn’t feel it at all. What truly made you feel worse was the lack of knowledge. So you clenched your jaw, avoiding his gaze.

“Then why are you even here?” you asked.

Reid stayed silent for a moment, and when you finally looked back at him, you noticed his brows had drawn together in confusion.

“To check if you’re alright…?” he said, his tone uncertain, like he was guessing the answer to a riddle.

“Was it an order?”

“What? Do you really think I wouldn’t have come if it weren’t an order? I— I just, you know, got worried,” he blurted out a little chaotically, his brown eyes focused on you with a sincere expression, resisting the urge to blink as if that might disrupt him. Before you could say anything, he glanced to the side and added, “Your parents are coming. I’ll leave you with them, but… you can call me if you feel like you need to. I hope your arm heals quickly.”

Reid gave you a fleeting, parting smile before, true to his word, he left. By your parents as he had called them, he of course meant Danny and your mom. What surprised you most was how you hadn’t even flinched at the term. How it didn’t sit wrong with you or spark any discomfort. Your gaze lingered a moment longer on the retreating agent, your mind still turning over his words, until you were gently forced to shift your attention to a cup being handed your way.

“Tea for you, and a snack bar. You should eat something while we wait for the discharge papers,” your mom said. Her tone was stiff, but her eyes were filled with concern and fear. She had warned you before that digging into the case might draw the killer’s attention. And yet, it turned out that doing nothing might have still put you not exactly in his crosshairs, but uncomfortably close.

You knew they were holding back from talking about Charlie while still in the hospital—everything was too fresh, too unclear. You took the snack bar from her with your good hand. She was still holding the tea for you. Your eyes dropped to the wrapper.

“Oh, wait, I’ll do it,” Danny offered, taking it from you and opening it.

You looked up at him, the faint smile on your lips touched with the sadness of the entire day, yet still breaking through was a deep gratitude. Who knew what might’ve happened if he hadn’t shown up at your house at that exact moment, just to pick up the tiles for the bathroom floor in their lake cabin.

“Thank you, Danny,” you said with a sincere nod. “Thank you for everything.”

⚡︎

All night long, raindrops pounded loudly against your window, and every so often, a flash of lightning lit up the sky, but it wasn’t the storm that kept you from sleeping.

It was that room. The one where you'd been talking before you started to run, before he came after you. The door you both crashed into. The bed where Maggie’s stuffed toy had fallen. The desk where his pills still sat.

That small plush Maggie had gotten from her grandmother.

Murder itself is hard enough to grasp, but what you couldn’t understand at all was why he had taken that from her. Sure, criminology had plenty to say about serial killers and their tendency to collect trophies. Items belonging to their victims, or even parts of them. It was about asserting control, treating it as proof of their success. But that specific bunny keychain was nothing if not a symbol of Maggie’s humanity, her gentleness, her youth.

You couldn’t understand how he had carried it with him for months after killing her, looked at it, and each time remembered the life he took.

Your stomach twisted every time the thought came back to you. The avalanche of thoughts didn’t stop, ticking forward like the hand of a clock counting down to morning.

Did Charlie even know Maggie? You hadn’t been friends with him before you started working together, so you couldn’t be sure. She was younger than both of you, only a little older than his younger brother, Conrad You knew you should look into it if you wanted to keep recording podcasts about the case, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Talk to his family? His friends? Technically, you were one of them too, were you supposed to interview yourself? What could you even say about Charlie, list off his suspicious behavior? You weren’t even sure he was guilty, maybe you didn’t want to be. Just one question kept echoing in your mind.

Why her?

A stupid question. You might as well have asked why all the other women.

But for some reason, it was Maggie who stayed with you that night. Maybe because of the bunny. Proof that had literally been found in his pocket. Undeniable.

The day before, you’d known what you were going to face the next morning. Then again, perhaps you had been slightly surprised. You had expected the whole team of profilers— not just three of them standing at your doorstep. Maybe you had overestimated your role as a witness. It was Elle, a blonde woman named JJ, whom you hadn’t yet had a chance to speak to, and, over their shoulders, Reid, towering above them.

“Hi. How’s your arm?” the blonde woman asked gently, very gently.

You knew what this conversation was going to be about, so any kind of small talk felt redundant. You just wanted to get to the point and learn something. She must have seen it in your expression, so she hadn’t intended to drag the pleasantries out forever either. They wanted to move the investigation along. So she nodded slightly, understanding. “We’d like to talk to you.”

 “I figured,” you muttered.

You were completely alone in the house. Your mom had insisted on staying, but you convinced her it wasn’t necessary. Truthfully, you needed the time to yourself. You were also sure she’d be sending you text messages checking in regularly, and that at some point Danny would show up for some completely random item that would just be an excuse to check how you were doing.

Of course, you let them all in. The two women stepped across the threshold first, followed by Reid, who slowed down for a fraction of a second just before you. You hadn’t taken him up on his offer and called, though you had seriously considered it at one point. When you couldn’t sleep for what felt like hours and your fingers somehow curled around your phone, but you pushed the impulse down. It was the middle of the night. You were certain his offer hadn’t included the middle of the night. You passed each other in the doorway, and you had the feeling he might have seen the dilemma in your eyes—the one you’d faced only a few hours earlier.

But you couldn’t read what was in his gaze aside from a greeting. You had to turn your attention to the others and brace yourself for the conversation ahead.

"I know you want to talk about Charlie," you began before any of them had a chance to speak. "And what happened yesterday."

 Elle drew in a shallow breath and nodded.

 "Among other things, yes, but we’ve more or less heard about that from the officers you spoke to yesterday. The ones who were first on the scene. We also have a few additional questions, and it’s completely normal if you don’t want Agent Reid to be present for this conversation. He can always step out, if that’s what you prefer."

 Your eyebrows lifted in genuine confusion. You shook your head slightly from side to side.

 "What? Why? He can stay."

 "Maybe we should all sit down," JJ suggested.

You were in the living room, arranged for receiving guests and ready to be turned into a very practical yet cozy interview room. You took a seat in the red armchair with the high backrest, the kind you could sink into. They settled on the matching sofa, lined up like three ducklings in a row.

“So we’re most interested in learning about Charlie’s behavior lately. Since Maggie Baker’s disappearance,” JJ began.

 “Since Maggie’s disappearance?” you caught on suspiciously. “Not since the discovery of the first body?”

 “We’re more focused on how he changed after Maggie went missing.”

You watched them closely. You knew they were professionals, and there had to be a very logical reason and explanation behind it. But you couldn’t figure it out while also reaching back in your memory.

You took a breath. You wouldn’t have mentioned it if you were certain Charlie hadn’t hurt anyone. But you weren’t.

“I know he was using drugs,” you said cautiously, swallowing hard. Elle narrowed her eyes slightly. “I can’t say for sure how long it’s been going on, but something strange started happening with him a while ago. After Maggie disappeared.”

“Do you know what kind of drugs?”

Here, you hesitated carefully, but then remembered they’d literally caught you at the crime scene a week ago, and if that didn’t land you behind bars, possession probably wouldn’t either.

“I took them from him and hid them in a drawer in my desk. I can go get them—”

"Spencer, could you?" JJ turned to the man sitting beside her, whose eyebrows lifted in surprise at the assignment.

He quickly looked at you.

 "Is that a problem...?"

"My room’s upstairs," you said, the corner of your mouth twitching involuntarily. He was really asking you for permission to do his job.

None of the women spoke again until the sound of his Converse on the stairs faded. Only then did JJ lean toward you over her knees, already armed with another question.

"Did Charlie know Maggie personally? And if not, can you think of any circumstances where they might have crossed paths, gotten to know each other, or even just been in the same space? We know she volunteered at the shelter, maybe there—"

"No," you cut in, confidently. "No, he totally didn’t go to places like that, but... it’s a small town. It’s not hard to bump into someone or be around them. They definitely knew each other by sight, like everyone does here."

"How long have you two known each other?" Elle asked this time.

"Well, we went to school together here, but really… about a year. Since we started working together. He used to help me a lot with the podcasts."

"Has he ever acted in a way that made you feel uncomfortable?" The question was spoken slower, more gently. "If not toward you directly, then maybe something he said or did in front of other women? Can you think of anything like that?"

Your forehead wrinkled completely as you shook your head no even before truly thinking about it.

"No, never, no."

"Did he often react to things aggressively, was he impulsive?"

"No," you repeated. Both women’s eyes were watchful. You felt like they didn’t believe you, or thought you were hiding the truth, either from them or from yourself, or maybe trying to protect your friend. You shook your head more firmly, reinforcing your words. "No, really. Ever since he started using, it was the opposite, mostly apathetic. He barely talked."

"But he did act aggressively at times," Spencer's voice suddenly cut in.

All of you turned your heads toward him—he was standing on the last step of the stairs, pausing there just long enough to say it. Then, eyes fixed on you, he walked closer.

"When I was at your shop and he didn’t seem to be in a good mood, he sharply asked if I was buying anything..."

"That’s because we had just had a fight," you clarified. "It was more directed at me than at you."

Elle looked at Reid with a thoughtful expression, then slowly shifted her gaze to you.

"So, he did act aggressively at times."

You shot him a visibly frustrated look—one he didn’t hesitate to return. You drew in a breath and slowly let it out, reminding yourself that, from his perspective, it probably did look that way and he wasn’t lying. Even though you were doing everything in your power to stay objective—after all, you wanted this case solved too—somehow, subconsciously, you were trying to defend Charlie.

Or maybe you were just trying to give him the fairness that everyone, even the worst kind of monster, deserved.

“I need some air,” you announced, wiping your hand nervously against your pants.

Elle and JJ exchanged glances, but it wasn’t a request, you simply got up and headed for the door, accidentally bumping your arm in a sling against the frame. The world spun. You stopped for a moment, clenching your eyes shut and waiting out the wave of pain without so much as a sound. Only then did you step outside.

It had rained the night before, and the clouds still held a soft gray hue, covering the sun.

You had meant it. You really did need some air. You felt lighter the moment the autumn breeze hit your cheeks. You had planned to walk around the house and sit in the garden on one of the chairs, but you gave up on the idea.

You’d have to go back inside soon anyway, and honestly, you didn’t care anymore. So you simply sat down on the grass under the living room window, on the front side of the house. Right next to a garden gnome figurine riding a goose.

The grass, of course, was damp, instantly soaking through your pants. Oh well. In a way, it was refreshing.

You hadn’t been keeping track of time, not really paying attention to anything other than the chaos in your own head. At some point, a figure loomed over you, and even without looking up, you knew exactly who it was.

"I see you’ve made a new friend," Reid began.

You looked up at him, lifting your chin. There was a small, worried smile playing on his lips. You glanced sideways at the garden gnome to understand what he meant and found yourself smiling too, despite everything.

“Well, my last one is currently in custody, so I had to find a replacement,” you muttered, pulling your knees to your chest and hugging them with your good arm. “It’s just a coping mechanism. The joke. I don’t actually think it’s funny,” you clarified.

“Yeah, I figured,” Reid nodded.

He sat down on the grass as well.

“It’s—” you tried to warn him.

“Wet,” he finished, his eyes closed behind his glasses.

“You came here to make sure I don’t jump the hedge and run away from the interview?”

“I mainly came to talk. Which doesn’t exclude keeping an eye on you so you don’t jump the hedge and run away. Though that wouldn’t really make sense in your current position, you’re not our suspect.”

“I know I’m not. But the questions you were asking me…” You shrugged, simply showing that you hadn’t quite expected them. Then you bit the inside of your cheek, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, probing, pleading. “You suspect Charlie. Otherwise you wouldn’t be keeping him in custody, and that makes sense, because you have every reason to suspect him. After yesterday. But you don’t actually think it’s him, right? The Executioner.”

Reid parted his lips, clearly searching for some middle ground, an evasive answer. You raised a finger in front of his face, stopping him from speaking. “Just say yes or no. I have the right to know, don’t you think?”

He sighed, staring straight ahead. The street in your neighborhood looked deserted, like something out of an apocalyptic movie, their black SUV the only car parked in the driveway.

“We don’t believe he’s the Executioner,” he said finally, quickly adding, “Which doesn’t mean we think he’s innocent.”

“I figured,” you nodded. When you stepped outside and went over the questions those two women had asked you, it had all started to come together. You swallowed hard. “You think… you think Charlie killed Maggie.”

"Well..."

"Just say yes or no," you asked.

 "Yes."

You didn’t gasp in horror, didn’t even move. You had asked him for a simple answer so you could accept it. Raw, unvarnished truth, without speculation or cushioning. You looked away. For a moment, the two of you just sat there in silence. You forced yourself to picture Charlie as a faceless perpetrator, the kind whose name the public never learns, just a blur of crime scene photos and news reports. A stranger.

"But Maggie was killed the same way as the other victims," you noted. You knew the case inside there was no way you could have missed it.

Reid shifted slightly in his seat. You could see the conflict on his face, whether he should be telling you any of this. Technically, he shouldn’t. But in practice, you were already more entangled in the investigation than you were ever meant to be. And beyond that, you weren’t just a witness anymore, or just someone who happened to live in a town haunted by murders.

He knew you by now. Enough, maybe, to trust you.

For a brief moment, he pressed his lips together more tightly, carefully choosing his words.

“You’re probably aware that there are certain details about a crime. The crime scene, the motive…that the police keep strictly to themselves,” he began.

You nodded to show you were following.

“To avoid situations where someone confesses to a crime they didn’t commit.”

“Yes, exactly. And in this case, with this whole investigation, our ace up the sleeve was the fact that Maggie’s murder was different from the others.”

Though Spencer was speaking in a calm, matter-of-fact tone, it felt like you were listening to a slowed-down podcast episode and couldn’t speed it up no matter how hard you tried. Without taking his eyes off you, he finished, “The later autopsy led us to believe that she didn’t die from electrocution like the others. It was done to her after she had already died from another cause.”

Your brain was both racing and completely blank at the same time. You blinked slowly. A breath.

“So, if I understand correctly, you think Maggie’s killer staged it to make it look like the Executioner’s work. So no one would connect it to him.”

Reid didn’t nod, but the confirmation was in his eyes.

You parted your lips, but didn’t speak just yet. Only let out a sigh. Thinking of it as the work of some nameless perpetrator had helped at first, but in the end, everything led back to Charlie.

“Why would he do that? Why would he kill Maggie specifically?”

Reid looked at you in silence, as if asking whether you really wanted to know.

Your face was tense, unyielding. He had to tell you.

“The autopsy also showed that Maggie was the only victim who was sexually assaulted before she died.”

Surprisingly, the fact didn’t shock you all that much. It was tragic—of course it was—and you felt for Maggie with all your heart. But at the same time, it made far too much sense in light of the questions Elle and JJ had been asking you. Had he ever made you feel uncomfortable.

Once again, you tore your eyes away from your interlocutor, fixing them instead on your legs in front of you, which now seemed like they belonged to someone entirely different, someone foreign. You bit into the inside of your cheek, hard.

You pictured the plush toy that had fallen out of Charlie’s pocket. You’d had mixed feelings from the beginning about whether he could’ve been behind all of this. But taking into account the version Reid had just presented to you…

You pressed your healthy hand to your eyes, feeling the pounding in your head. 

At some point, you felt a faint touch on your shoulder. Surprised, you lifted your eyelids and glanced to the side, seeing his hand on your shoulder—resting there lightly, barely noticeable. You swallowed.

“You think I really wouldn’t have noticed?”

That my best friend was a rapist and a murderer?

You surrounded yourself with criminal cases, always felt certain that you’d notice if something bad was happening around you. You thought of yourself as smart, observant. But really, you were just plain blind.

“It’s always like that,” Spencer assured you softly. “Parents don’t know their child is killing, a wife doesn’t know what her husband keeps in the basement. But no one blames them for not knowing, no one wants to suspect someone close to them is…”

“A monster,” you finished automatically.

Reid only nodded.

You rubbed your eyes again. Looked like the headache wasn’t going to leave you that day. But despite his presence, you knew what you had to do.

“I think we have to go back,” you said.

He pulled his hand from your shoulder abruptly, as if only just now realizing it had still been there.

“Yeah. You’re right. We probably should.”

He got to his feet first, offering you his hand, since standing up with a broken arm was surprisingly hard. You took it with a grateful, somber smile that quickly faded.

You took two steps before letting go of him, your arm falling stiffly to your side. Reid shoved his into the pocket of his gray blazer. Neither of you commented on the fact that both your pants were completely soaked, but somehow it seemed to ease the crushing weight of the atmosphere just a little.

The rest of the conversation with the women went much more smoothly once you knew what kind of information they were looking for and what theories and conclusions they were leaning toward in general. When their SUV pulled out of the driveway and you closed the door behind them, you waited exactly three seconds before bolting up the stairs.

Your podcast and blog had been dead for a while. You hadn’t been able to bring yourself to talk about a case that had become so personal to you, but after the conversation in the garden, you decided you weren’t going to stay silent anymore just because your friend had ended up among the suspects.

You talked about every update in the Executioner case you could find, distancing yourself from it as much as you possibly could. You were an objective podcaster digging into the smallest details and hidden information—not a resident of the very town in question, whose voice trembled when she said the name of the victim she used to tutor.

The one who had died at the hands of your friend.

You set your laptop aside and lay down on your back on the bed. You’d been so absorbed in working on the podcast that you hadn’t noticed the day passing by outside the window, the darkness settling in.

Only then did you realize your mom had sent you a few worried messages asking how you were feeling. You replied that you were fine.

⚡︎

Charlie remained in custody for another two days. Officially, no one knew his stance on the case, but from a phone call with Reid (one of several), you learned that he stayed silent. He didn’t deny anything, didn’t defend himself—he simply refused to say anything.

Speaking of your conversations with a certain familiar profiler, they usually took place at night. You couldn’t sleep. Every time you closed your eyes and your mind went quiet, an impulse told you to reach for your laptop and scroll through forum threads or even the comment section under your podcast.

People were sharing their thoughts on the arrest of the suspect allegedly connected to the case, murders in Fairview, which were gaining more and more media attention.

As usual, various made-up theories surfaced. For example, Charlie was a real nutcase and apparently once breaded his sister’s cat.

Charlie was allergic to cats and didn’t have a sister.

The morning was quiet. You’d maybe gotten three hours of sleep, and you were up before your alarm even went off, feeling like you hadn’t slept at all. Getting dressed was a struggle with one arm still in a sling, but you managed. You had to drag yourself out early that day to drop off a few documents at work related to your medical leave. Your boss was in a rough spot, suddenly losing two employees like that, but what could any of you do?

Brushing your teeth in the upstairs bathroom, you stared at the phone resting on the edge of the sink. You’d sent Reid a link to the cat-buttering theory. The day before, he’d forwarded you a horribly written article about the case in general, criticizing its factual inaccuracies and comparing it to your podcast. It made you feel a bit better about the last episode you published.

With your nose buried in your phone and still waiting for a reply from Reid, you walked down the stairs, making your way through the house you’d lived in since childhood without even looking around. You just wanted to grab something from the fridge that required the least possible amount of preparation…

“Oh shit, sorry,” slipped out of you when you ran straight into your mom and Danny.

Making out in the middle of the kitchen like a pair of horny teenagers.

You froze in place, feeling like a parent who had walked in at the worst possible moment. But it wasn’t just the fact that two adults were engaging in perfectly normal human behavior that hit you (or them, as they pulled apart, clearly embarrassed). It was more the fact that, even though they’d been friends for quite a while, and had worked together for just as long—and Danny, especially recently, had become someone close and important to you too—they had never officially dated.

"Good morning, sweetheart," your mom blurted out, stepping two paces away from the man and leaning her elbow on the kitchen island in the most awkward way possible, only to quickly lift it again, as if realizing exactly how awkward it was.

Danny, upon seeing you, briefly wiped his face, brushing against the three-day stubble on his chin, and looked at you nervously, as if guilty. You were tempted to say, chill, dude. Sure, they had caught you off guard — you weren’t denying that — but you weren’t the kind of daughter who made a scene over her parents’ new partners for no reason. Especially not when that partner was Danny.

You remembered how both of them were there for you at the hospital after you broke your arm, and you thought your mom honestly couldn’t have done better.

“I just dropped by to... I left my level here,” he explained.

You snorted a laugh and turned to the fridge, like you’d meant to from the start. With a mozzarella string in your mouth, you looked back at them, eyes glittering with dry amusement.

“You do realize you’re making it more awkward by acting like I didn’t just see all of that?”

That light, teasing edge in your voice made your mom’s shoulders visibly relax. She gave you a half-smile. “Don’t get cocky. And for the record, he really did come for the level.”

 “And was looking for it in your mouth?” you mumbled under your breath, trying to open a juice bottle with one hand.

 “I’ll help,” Danny offered immediately.

Behind his back, your mom shot you a murderous look for your earlier comment, and you responded with an innocent smile. You glanced at your phone, just checking to see if you’d gotten any messages.

“Do you want me to drive you to work?” your mom asked as you were already holding a glass of juice, and Danny had just been met with a grateful look.

You were about to say it wasn’t necessary and that you’d drive yourself, when suddenly you remembered. Your arm. Right. Considering how much it had hurt when you broke it, it was surprisingly easy to forget about it.

"I could just take her on my way," Danny spoke up.

Even just his eyes told you it was more than a friendly offer, iit felt more like a personal duty. With everything that had happened lately. Your neighbor Keasy’s disappearance, your injured hand, not knowing whether the killer was still out there or not, neither he nor your mom would let you take public transport, let alone walk.

“Oh, that would be so sweet of you, Dan.”

“It’s nothing, really. Just let me actually find that level first…”

He tossed you the keys to his red pickup so you could get inside while he took a quick look in your garage.

You climbed into the truck parked in your driveway, your attention mostly on your phone — on the comments under some random article titled What’s New in the Fairview Murders? KILLER CAUGHT?, and once again checking to see if Reid had replied.

Which was stupid, really, since it was morning and he, like the rest of the team,  was probably buried in work.

It would’ve made more sense, that impatience, if you’d actually asked him something urgent.

But maybe you just liked whatever this was between the two of you. Maybe it filled a space you hadn’t even known was there. Lately, most of your life revolved around the case. Details you couldn’t talk about with your mom or Danny, both disapproving of your need to dig into all of it, and obviously not with Charlie either, for obvious reasons.

You’d ended up a little isolated in all of this. Plus, you two just really got along.

You were pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of the pickup’s back door opening. Danny tossed in the level he'd mentioned more than once, along with a coil of copper wire. Ever since he'd started helping your mom renovate the lake cabin, he’d been stopping by for increasingly weirder things.

He buckled his seatbelt and started driving through your neighborhood, sneaking glances at you from the corner of his eye. He sighed.

“You know, I really feel like I should ask you this,” he said after a moment. You were passing a group of teens on their way to school, walking in a tight cluster. That’s how it had looked in town ever since they found Maggie’s body. She’d been in high school too.

You only then realized Danny had said something to you. You looked at him, confused. Just hearing Maggie’s name always pulled you into that state. The snowball effect, one thought leading to another until you landed on Charlie, and the BAU’s suspicions…and your own.

“Do…do you feel okay about me and your mom…you know, dating?”

You were speechless for a second, then let out a small involuntary snort.

 “You’re asking for my permission now?”

“Well… it’d be weird to phrase it like that, but kind of? I know she’s been alone since your dad—” he made a vague gesture with his hand, letting the silence speak for itself. “And this might be a whole new situation for you. I just want to know where you stand on it.”

Turning off your phone and setting it down on your lap, you looked at him seriously.

 “You’re both adults. And single. My opinion really shouldn’t stand in the way of… whatever. But if you really want to know…Danny, you know I like you. I’m actually rooting for you two, seriously.”

He took his eyes off the road for a moment to look at you, and something warm and grateful flickered in his gaze. You offered a faint smile to show you truly meant it, already starting to lower your eyes back to your phone, only to accidentally bump it against something. A photograph of a woman, pinned to the dashboard. Somehow, you'd only just noticed it now.

"I think I recognize her," you blurted out, almost involuntarily.

The man shifted his gaze toward you, his eyes unreadable. The presence of the photo didn’t surprise you. Everyone in town knew Danny had once had a wife who had passed away. It looked like a school yearbook photo; the woman appeared young, with a wide smile and curled blond hair. Her features were fairly ordinary, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d seen her somewhere before.

You met his eyes and, embarrassed, pressed your lips together. You had just been talking about his new relationship, and now here you were, bringing up his late wife…

“Yeah, that’s possible,” Danny replied with a slight nod, distant somehow. You couldn’t blame him for tensing up a little, it made sense, talking about this. “You were about five when she passed. Maybe you managed to remember her somehow.”

“Maybe,” you murmured, thoughtful. You tried to push your memory. If you remembered her from childhood, surely there had to be one specific memory tied to her, right? “Sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, no, that’s okay,” he reassured you. He had already parked in front of the store, but because of the direction the conversation had taken, you held off on getting out. “You know, cancer took her over fifteen years ago. I’ll always miss her, but it’s not… you know, an open wound anymore.”

“Cancer,” you repeated, genuine sympathy in your voice. “I didn’t know. I realize it’s a bit late for this, but… my condolences.”

Your words seemed to amuse him. His whole face lit up ever so slightly, the corners of his mouth creasing with a faint smile. “Sorry, it’s kind of funny. I was actually planning to stop by the cemetery, and here you are, offering condolences.”

You gave a slight, somewhat forced smile, unsure how to respond. You didn’t feel entirely at ease in the conversation, or particularly comfortable. You were just about to thank him for the ride and politely excuse yourself when he added, “Would you maybe like to go there with me?”

Your hand froze mid-motion.

“To the cemetery? Now?” you repeated blankly.

To visit his late wife? It was…odd, probably, but you weren’t sure if it was appropriate to say no in a moment like that. Thankfully, you had an excuse. You let out a vaguely apologetic sigh and lifted the documents you were supposed to deliver at work.

 “Sorry, it’s kind of important.”

"It won't take long," he pointed out. "I'll wait for you, we’ll go together, and then I’ll drive you home. How else would you get back?"

You were speechless for a moment, your mind blank. Danny was watching you expectantly, maybe even a bit insistently. You opened your mouth to casually decline the offer, but something stopped you. A flicker of hesitation, a strange uncertainty about why you didn’t want to go. Was it just because it felt… odd? Visiting the grave of someone’s wife, especially someone you considered a kind of older friend, wasn’t inherently unusual. Maybe it just caught you off guard. Maybe there was something in the way he asked, in that unfamiliar look in his eyes, that sparked a strange discomfort in your stomach.

You shook your head slightly, forcing a smile.

 “I was gonna go grab some groceries, and my mom’s supposed to meet me there. We were gonna head back together,” you explained.

 It wasn’t even true, but the moment the excuse popped into your head, you decided to commit to it. There was no real reason to lie to Danny. This was Danny. Your mom’s longtime friend, someone you’d always felt you could trust. You hated lying to him, especially as you watched him nod with understanding.

 “But maybe another time,” you added more brightly. “We could go with my mom too, if that’s okay with you.”

Danny stared ahead for a moment, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the flannel sleeve of his shirt slipping back just enough to show a broad, dark-haired forearm. Then he glanced at you again, lips smiling, but his eyes didn’t quite follow. Or maybe you only imagined that. “Sure. Didn’t mean to push.”

The car suddenly felt too quiet. You gave your head a small shake, trying to shrug off the weird feeling as the moment to get out arrived. You finally reached for the door handle.

“Thanks so much for the ride, Danny.”

“No problem. See you around.”

You walked into the store and, out of some strange curiosity—an urge to know—you discreetly glanced outside to see whether his car at the intersection turned toward the cemetery. It had. You scoffed at yourself, not knowing where this sudden suspicion was coming from. Maybe the whole situation with Charlie had made you overly sensitive. Not everyone was who they said they were.

Everything went according to plan, and after a moment you stepped back outside, calling your mom to meet up in town. She wasn’t answering for now, so you walked slowly with your phone pressed to your cheek. Fairview was shockingly empty that day, the sidewalk covered in light orange leaves, the day bright and sunny. It was morning. Most kids were in their first or second period at school. For obvious reasons, police cars had been crossing through town even more often lately, and the watchful eye of law enforcement made people more likely to stay at home, if they could.

It was, then, unsettlingly quiet, and the sound behind you reached your ears far more clearly, enough to make you flinch slightly on the spot. You turned around to see a boy on a bike. He was right behind you, and you barely managed to jump aside before he could hit you. As he passed, he turned his head to look at you. You were about to yell at him, but then he turned fully, and you recognized him. Conrad. Charlie’s younger brother.

That alone was enough to shut you up.

“Are you there?” your mom’s voice came through the phone like through a barrier. “Honey?”

 “Yeah. Yes, I’m here,” you said quickly.

You kept your eyes fixed on Conrad. He was supposed to be in school. Of course he wasn’t. As Charlie’s brother, he was a suspect in the murders. Or rather, in one murder and a rape, but only you and the police knew that part.

Of course he wasn’t going to school because of all that.

You sighed and turned your attention back to the call with your mom.

*

"It's really nothing. I'm just glad I could help in some small way. I can't even imagine what you're going through."

With the bag in hand, you stepped into your neighbor Elena’s house. You knew where the kitchen was, so you headed there, intending to put the groceries away. You wanted to take as much off her plate as you possibly could.Her daughter Keasy had gone missing a few days earlier, and there was still no news. No progress. It was as if she had sunk into the ground.

Elena was tightly wrapped in a long cardigan, her face ashen. The look she gave you held no gratitude for the groceries, though it seemed like she wanted it there. She simply couldn’t bring herself to feel anything but despair. Anyway, you simply wanted to help in any way you could. You left your groceries behind and chatted for a while, though really, it was you trying to keep the conversation going, just so some sound would fill that empty house, if only for a moment. You drank the tea she offered, told her she was welcome to visit you anytime, and then it was time to leave.

Your houses were separated by a street, and just as you were about to cross it, your phone rang. You raised it to your ear, glancing both ways even though traffic in your neighborhood was practically nonexistent.

"Hey, just wanted to make sure our meeting is still on," Spencer blurted out the moment you picked up.

Thrown off, you slowed down your pace. You had indeed made plans to meet at your place at a specific time andyou were the one who invited him  but the conversation with Elena had completely made you forget about it. A bit guilty, you quickly replied:

 "Still on? Yeah, I hope so. Unless something came up on your end and you’re calling to say so?"

"No," he denied right away. This conversation was somehow funny. Both of you replying to each other at machine-gun speed. Where had all that nervousness suddenly come from? The magic of a phone call? "No, nothing came up, luckily. So… yeah. I think I’ll be at your place in fifteen minutes. Unless something came up on your end and you want to reschedule..."

You let out a small laugh and said no, absolutely nothing came up. You were already standing at your front door, but with one hand in a cast and the other holding your phone, you couldn’t reach into your pocket for the key. So you just stood there, you weren’t in a rush to go inside anyway. Still with the phone to your ear, you asked:

 "You remember the address?"

"Yeah, I’m fine."

"I’ll send it to you just in case. So you don’t get lost—" you pressed your lips together when you realized how dumb that sounded. "Right. Your brilliant memory. Please accept my deepest apologies for doubting it."

You heard a quiet laugh on the other end of the line.

"The deepest apologies have been accepted."

A certain silence settled between you, full of anticipation, as if each of you was waiting for the other to speak. You slightly moved the phone away from your face so he wouldn’t hear your breathing. You were about to see each other anyway, so you could simply say a quick goodbye and end the call. Your gaze drifted absentmindedly to your shoes, and suddenly you froze, noticing something you hadn’t seen before.

 "I-I have to go," you said into the phone, as if in a trance.

Without adding anything else, you hung up and shoved the phone into your pants pocket.

On the doormat lay a small rectangular cardboard package, tightly wrapped in tape. You hadn’t ordered anything recently. Maybe it was for your mom? She often ordered things online, mostly for use on the construction site. Special screws or bolts, maybe.

You bent down to pick up the package. When you shook it, it didn’t seem like there were any screws or other small pieces inside, not a single sound came from within. But when you lifted the box, you noticed what was written on its thin side panel.

Your name.

First, you froze in place before you began, without giving it much thought, to unwrap the package right then and there. The key slipped from between your fingers and clinked against the doormat; it was hard to open the cardboard box and tear the tape off its sides using only one hand, while holding the whole thing under the same arm.

Finally, you sighed in defeat and bent down to pick up the damn key, stepping inside and shutting the door behind you with a slam.

Your legs carried you to the kitchen on their own, where you used a knife to slice through the tape on the sides. If you had found something like this on your doormat a year ago, your reaction would have been much more composed. Now, it was impulse that drove you, a whole avalanche of uneasy feelings that effectively crushed your reason down to its foundation.

The contents of the box were so perfectly fitted that they didn’t spill out onto the kitchen island. Freeing them took considerable effort. It was a cassette. There was something else inside. A note, really. A piece of paper with a message written in red marker.

Play this in the next episode or. Play this in the next episode or. Not even a colon at the end to hint at wicked intent, a threat. Suggestions leave room for uncertainty. Whoever sent it had no doubt about what would happen if you didn’t include it in the episode.

Strange, how you analyzed it like that when your body couldn’t even move.

Even without a signature, you knew who the sender was, and you knew he wasn’t stupid enough to leave fingerprints. Still, you picked up the cassette using a kitchen towel, carrying it upstairs like something that smelled foul. Whoever you asked for advice would tell you to inform the investigators immediately. But you knew they would immediately confiscate the tape, not letting you have a single look at it.

You had to know what was on it. He’d sent it straight to you. You had to.

You walked over to the tape recorder sitting on the windowsill, buried under a pile of your papers, and wrapped your one good arm around it, pulling it to your chest as you moved it onto your desk, not much cleaner. You inserted the cassette.

The recording began with crying.

Terrified and exhausted—but it wasn’t the only sound. Right after came a sigh, irritated and bored.

“Once again, from the top. Interrogation of Rebecca Young, 00:14. The subject refuses to testify…”

You stood frozen, bent over the tape recorder, as if being closer to it might help you understand what was going on. It didn’t.

The man’s voice sounded distorted. Someone was definitely using a voice modulator. The woman’s sobs were laced with fatigue, suggesting the scene had been dragging on for a long time. 

Rebecca Young? The name rang a bell, but you couldn’t place it. What kind of recording was this? It sounded far too real to be a prank.

“What’s your name?” came the question again.

Silence followed, not complete silence, though. You could hear the woman’s labored breathing, still broken up by sobs, slowly start to calm. More like she was forcing herself to, rather than actually finding composure. A loud swallow. A trembling reply “Rebecca Young,” she said.

You straightened up.

That wasn’t Rebecca Young, or whoever she was being made to pretend to be. That was Keasy. Your missing neighbor.

The recording kept playing, and you listened to it without any physical reaction, simply standing there with your whole face and body tense. Somewhere in the distance, the doorbell rang. You were aware of it, but the thought of stopping the recording and going downstairs to open the door didn’t even cross your mind. Some things were important, and others were more important.

“Do you admit that your statements were false?”

Keasy sniffled. The pauses between her answers were long, it was clear she was using the last of her strength to think, trying to come up with a response that would satisfy her captor. One that might determine whether she survived. This particular pause dragged on, until she finally whimpered in resignation.

“I-I don’t know, I don’t know what you mean, I don’t know what statements—”

“Your statements about Robert Taylor. You claimed he raped and killed you, which was a false accusation. Do you admit that you lied to damage his reputation and his family?”

Another long pause, Keasy’s heavy breath, and then a desperate scream “Yes! I admit it, yes, I admit it!”

"Finally," the man muttered

That was where the recording ended. It wasn't interrupted or cut off midway. He simply turned it off calmly. When its final second passed, there was only you. No thoughts. And the doorbell ringing again.

Your legs carried you down the stairs on their own, your good hand opened the door on its own, just like your eyes met Reid's gaze on their own. A gaze that, in a split second, shifted. From somewhat nervous but generally positive to fully alarmed.

 Based solely on the expression on your face.

“What happened?”

tags: @mgg-lover4eva @jp600fox

@garcialuvs

@imadisneyprincessiswear

@esposadomd

@elle-greenaways-wife

[floraisunwell]

i'm fucking sickkkkkk

[darkmatilda-deactivated20260208]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐫 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: a series of young women are being murdered in your town, and you — the host of a true crime podcast — are determined to investigate the case yourself, even if it means constantly getting in the way of a team of profilers and putting yourself in danger once or twice.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x podcast host female!reader, criminal minds typical violence, case details, mention of sexual violence, abduction, addiction, and drug use, season 2 bau team 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 14k 𝐚/𝐧: just letting you know I made a taglist for people waiting for the next parts! (part 3 — august 2)

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟐/𝟒

───────────────────────────────────

executioner — an official who carries out a sentence of death on a condemned person.

───────────────────────────────────

previously...

You managed to get some shut-eye only around dawn, but when you woke up, you didn’t feel rested at all, so you suspected you hadn’t really fallen asleep, that maybe your brain had just briefly disconnected from your body and stopped registering the passing hours on the clock. But maybe that was better than dreams where everything was hair. Hair being cut, hair in tins, hair between your fingers, sliding along your arms like a plague.

In the morning, you washed your face with ice-cold water to wake yourself up. Life went on—you still had to go to work, carrying that heavy feeling of uncertainty on your back. On top of that, the knowledge that the case had been handed over to the BAU filled you with mixed feelings. For the most part, you were relieved, they were professionals, the best when it came to catching serial killers, which was a glimmer of hope. But on the other hand, their presence and the fact that they knew about your existence, meant you had to be more careful getting involved in the investigation…

…walking into the kitchen to make yourself some coffee, you screamed at the top of your lungs.

The man kneeling by one of the cabinets jumped in surprise, hitting his head on it with a loud thud and cursing. It wasn’t until he stuck his head out and gave you a confused look that you pressed a hand to your pounding heart, realizing it was just Danny.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” you blurted out in an apologetic tone, trying to mask how shaken you were. After the stress you’d gone through yesterday searching the station, your reactions to everything had become sharper, more intense. “I just scared myself more than anything. What are you doing here so early?”

Danny let out a breath through his mouth, rubbing the spot on his head where he’d hit it.

“There’ll be a bump, but it’s nothing serious. What am I doing here? Your mom asked me to fix the faucet, and it just so happens this is the only time I’m free today,” he said, nodding toward the open cabinet just under the sink where the pipe ran, and only then stood up, resting his hands loosely on his hips. He gave you a casual, half-smile. “I forgot you get up this early for work. But looks like you’re in for a rough day, look like you didn’t sleep a wink.”

“I did. For like fifteen minutes.”

Danny snorted.

“What kept you up? Digging through the details of some old case again?”

Neither he nor your mom followed your online activity all that closely, but from time to time, they’d ask out of curiosity, show some genuine interest. You tried to look just as relaxed as he did when you shrugged your shoulders.

“Why dig through old cases when I’ve got a current one right here?” you said. You really wanted it to come off as a joke, but after what happened the day before, you couldn’t manage it. Your voice came out tight, like from somewhere deep down, and Danny furrowed his brows. You cleared your throat quickly. You could tell him about what you’d found yesterday. “No but seriously I always have trouble sleeping when the full moon’s close. Heard a lot of people do.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Mhm. Some people also turn into werewolves.”

“True. There really are two types of us.”

You lifted the corners of your mouth slightly.

Danny went back to working on the sink while you started packing your lunch for work. You barely spoke, lost in thought and moving on autopilot. You didn’t even notice the sound of honking outside—Danny had to point it out.

“That’s probably for you.”

You frowned and walked over to the kitchen window, lifting it only to spot Charlie’s car in your driveway. He never picked you up in the mornings—you weren’t on his way, and he always had to drop his younger brother off at work first. You froze for a second.

Your first instinct was pure anger, remembering how you had to go to that abandoned station alone, even though he’d promised to come with you. You wanted to ignore him, let him honk again and then drive off. But then you remembered—you hadn’t talked to him yet about why he left.

You hadn’t realized Danny had been watching the expression on your face the whole time. He must’ve noticed the hesitation and tension, because he asked,

“What? You two had a fight? I can give you a lift if you want, I’m almost done with the sink—”

“No need. I mean, thank you, but...I need to talk to him.”

He nodded.

You stepped out of the house with your arms crossed over your chest. Instead of getting into the car, you stopped by the driver’s side window, quickly noticing that Charlie’s fourteen-year-old brother, Conrad, was sitting in the back seat. You wanted an explanation first and only then would you decide whether or not you even wanted to ride with him but you didn’t want to bring this up in front of someone else. With a cold expression and a sigh, you walked past the car and got in.

“Hi, Conrad,” you said to the younger boy.

Focused on his game, he just muttered something in response.

Your eyes moved to Charlie. His face looked even more drained than usual, like he hadn’t slept either. But that didn’t make you feel any more sympathetic, and you had no intention of being kinder to him just because of that.

He gave you an I can explain kind of look, but you shook your head.

“Just drive. You don’t want your brother to be late for school, do you?”

You could tell that only guilt was keeping him from rolling his eyes at your passive-aggressive tone. When you arrived at the school, you patiently waited as Conrad grabbed his backpack, got out, and disappeared into the crowd of other students.

Still, you didn’t say a word. You waited for Charlie to speak first.

There was no time to pull over and talk; you'd be late for work, so he started driving again. From the look on his face, it was clear he was deep in thought.

“Okay,” he began with a sigh. “I know I shouldn't left you there yesterday…”

“Oh, you don’t say. I literally had to get home with the FBI…”

“I know, I figured, but listen…I panicked. Just imagine, they’re looking for a serial killer, and here I am, alone in the car, parked outside a potential crime scene…”

“Oh, poor you. They might’ve asked you questions, and you’d have to answer them.”

You saw him sigh heavily, clearly frustrated that you weren’t understanding his very valid explanations, and worse—were throwing sarcasm at him, painting him like the asshole he didn’t think he was. He opened his mouth again, then closed it like he gave up, then went through the same motion again but before he could say anything of substance, the car jolted.

Your gaze snapped to the windshield. Charlie had slammed the brakes just in time to avoid hitting another car. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then he pressed one hand against his face, so hard it looked like he wanted to scrape the skin off.

You shook your head.

“What’s going on with you, Charlie?” you asked.

He ignored the question and started driving again. That tightening in your chest returned. Somehow, you had momentarily forgotten about yesterday only to now remember more than just the day before. You mentally reached back over the last few weeks, piecing together his recent behavior.

“Should you even be driving in this state?” you pressed.

This time, the answer came quickly and sharply.

“What state?”

“That state. You’re…constantly distracted, you go to the backroom three times and forget why every time, most of the time you talk to me like I’m attacking you. When I ask you to edit episodes for me, you send them back at four in the morning. You drink ten like coffees a day,” you started listing.

His expression was dismissive, defensive even. He let out a loud scoff as he parked in front of the store. You looked at him seriously, confrontationally.

“Do you even sleep?”

Another scoff, and your lips pressed into a thin line. Neither of you was getting out of the car yet.

“I’m asking, because I’m your—”

“Did you see the chair?” he interrupted you, turning his head in your direction. His pupils were dilated, deeply, his usually deathly pale face now had color, but not a healthy one, he looked like he had a fever.

Confused, you pressed your back into the seat.

“What chair?”

“There. In the station. The electric chair, supposedly that’s what he uses to kill them, right? You talked about it in the podcast?”

You delayed your answer, simply unable to string a sentence together. Where that sudden change of topic come from?

“There was no chair there, Charlie. Nothing…nothing was found.”

Charlie was looking at you, and his face expressed nothing. You felt uncomfortable in the atmosphere that had settled between you. Sure, you’d originally wanted to confront him, but suddenly everything turned strange. Maybe you pushed too hard, or maybe it wasn’t your fault at all, and something was just wrong with him in general.

Your hand opened the door on its own.

“I’m going inside,” you said. “You can go back home if you need to. I can handle the shop on my own.”

He didn’t respond to your offer. You looked at him silently for a moment longer before actually heading toward the store, unlocking the door and raising the blinds once inside.

You stopped by the window, looking at his figure still sitting behind the wheel. You narrowed your eyes, and it seemed like his hand reached into the pocket of the hoodie he was wearing, pulled something out, and stared at it.

But then he got out of the car, and driven by impulse, you stepped away from the window.

*

You didn’t speak to each other for the rest of the day.

Charlie spent as much time as possible in the back, only coming out when there was a customer. He served them stiffly, not even glancing at you. You did your best not to look at him either. For that one day, you treated each other like air.

It got a little boring without even the background noise of whatever game he always played, and the spiral of your thoughts and worries made the shift drag on painfully slow. Especially that last hour. You turned your back to the counter and started tidying up the shelves a bit.

The small bell above the door rang, signaling someone had walked in.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Benson,” you said almost automatically, because you just knew it was him. Like every day at the same time, he came in so you could set his alarm for 4 a.m. You turned around and froze for a second, slightly surprised. You quickly recovered.

“You’re not Mr. Benson.”

Agent Reid was wearing a striped shirt with a tie, a dark red vest, and a dark suede blazer instead of his FBI vest. His glasses were resting straight on his face, not crooked to the side, and the lenses weren’t coated in white dust like they had been after you quite literally fell on him from the roof. He had come to you in plain clothes, alone, but you weren’t about to kid yourself—he knew you worked here, and he hadn’t just randomly decided to stop by a tech store.

Your factual remark didn’t seem to surprise him in the slightest. He observed you from the other side of the counter with a rather friendly look, but something told you to keep your distance.

“As far as I know, I’m not,” he replied, a flicker of a tight-lipped smile crossing his face—but when you didn’t return it, it disappeared almost instantly.

You braced yourself against the counter with both hands, lifting your chin slightly.

 “How can I help you?” you asked. “Need your phone fixed? Buying a new USB cable? Or is it something more serious. Like you were sent to talk to me and make sure I won’t tell anyone about—”

 “Careful,” he cut in, tilting his head slightly to the side. You bit the inside of your cheek, wondering if the word hair would even make it past your lips, or if you’d stammer through it. “You’re about to spill the thing I’m supposed to make sure you don’t spill.”

“And then you’ll lose your job.”

Reid looked up, pretending to consider that.

 “You know, I get the feeling I’m too valuable for them to fire me over something like that,” he said.

You stared at him without blinking, but you couldn’t tell whether he was deliberately arrogant, just pretending, or if that was his hidden nature.

He gave a small nod.

 “Well, maybe you’re the one who should be worried about that. Attacking a customer in your third sentence?”

“Did you take that as an attack?” you raised your eyebrows. It was the second time someone had accused you of that. On the same day. “Well, I just wanted to know where I stand. Should I be worried about whether our store’s inventory meets your needs, or about being thrown into a room full of two-way mirrors and interrogated again?”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he reassured you. “No point in questioning you again. Whatever you didn’t say to us, you mentioned openly on your podcast.”

“And as we all know, everyone in Quantico is a devoted fan of it.”

A narrowing of his eyes.

“I’d argue not everyone. But as you’ve gathered, we’re familiar with it. Anyway,” he paused to take a breath, and his expression shifted slightly, as if he’d just remembered he came here with a purpose but had gotten sidetracked. “I’m not here to remind you of anything, or to keep tabs on you. I just…” he searched for the right word, gesturing lightly with his hand “wanted to make sure you’re okay. And also, I’ve got a small favor to ask.”

Genuinely curious, you parted your lips to ask about the favor when Reid’s eyes shifted to something behind you. You turned and saw Charlie standing in the office doorway, glaring at your visitor with clear hostility.

“You here to buy something or just to chat?”

It worked on you like an instant trigger. Red flag to a bull. You hadn’t spoken to each other all day, but the tension had only been building.

“To chat. With me. And it’s none of your business, so drag your ass back to the storage room where you’ve been sulking all day,” you snapped, then turned back to your customer like nothing had happened.

Reid was frozen for a second, lips slightly parted, then he closed them and let the corners curve up just a little. A glint of amusement flickered in his eyes. You figured Charlie had followed your suggestion.

“Was that the friend who let you go into the transformer station alone yesterday and then ran off at the sight of the police?” Reid asked, enunciating every word carefully, making Charlie sound like he sucked even more than he already did.

You nodded almost automatically. Only afterward did it occur to you that, if this were to be divided into sides, you and Charlie were supposed to be on the same one—and Reid on the opposite. Somehow your brain chose that exact moment to remind you of it, as if you’d gotten too distracted.

“He’s usually reliable,” you said diplomatically.

“Usually…?”

“Well, lately…” The words came to you again. Those past few weeks and Charlie’s odd behavior. But it was too complicated to get into with a profiler. So you held your tongue and returned to the foundation of your conversation.  “You mentioned a favor.”

“Oh, right,” he said, apparently remembering, and to your surprise, he suddenly looked genuinely sheepish and his previously piercing gaze dropped downward.

 “It’s… it’s not exactly a favor for me. More like for my friend…an agent on my team, but I’m the one delivering the request...”

He trailed off, lifting his eyes to you as if hoping you’d just guess what he meant. You had no idea. He sighed.

“So, Garcia, the one who introduced us to your podcast and vouched for it as a decent source of information, she really wants me to take a picture with you. For her.”

Somehow, a smile found its way to your lips. Wide, mostly from disbelief.

“You. A picture. With me. For her,” you repeated robotically, pausing between each phrase. It sounded like something you wouldn’t believe even if you told yourself.

You shook your head slowly and pressed one hand to your temple for a second. Reid watched you, waiting for your response, looking both mildly embarrassed by the request and slightly amused.

“No, stop, tell me you’re joking. I’m still not recovered from the fact that the FBI listened to my podcast, you can’t just walk in here and also ask me for a picture!”

You said it too loudly. Reid’s eyes flicked toward the back room, but you couldn’t care less about Charlie, and judging by how quickly Reid’s gaze returned to your face—drawn by your disbelieving laugh—he didn’t either.

“Of course, you’re totally allowed to say no,” he said. “And honestly, it’s probably best if you don’t post it anywhere—”

“How else will people believe me?”

“That’s the thing, ideally, there won’t be any people—”

“I’m kidding. I’m not about to share my fame with you,” you said dryly, making Reid huff a short laugh. Before he could reply, you extended your hand between you. “Show me your phone. That way, you’ll know I won’t show it to anyone.”

It was just too ridiculous of a life experience, not to mention a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and a blow to your ego, to say no.

Reid slowly handed you his phone with the camera already open, and you motioned for him to come closer to the counter. He obeyed, his brows twitching slightly when you leaned in on your side just as much.

You made sure not to look serious. Your lips pushed into an exaggerated pout meant to absurdly contrast his utterly awkward expression.

“Wow, my first picture with a fan. Mom, I’m famous,” you said, handing the phone back to him.

He accepted it, glancing down at the screen and lingering on the image for a second.

“I hope Garcia likes it. Maybe she’ll frame it in gold and hang it on her wall.”

His eyes snapped back up to you like he’d been electrocuted.

 “Please don’t,” he said, horrified.

You couldn’t help it and you burst out laughing.

He looked like he wanted to join you, but some frayed thread of professionalism held him back. Still, he couldn’t quite suppress the twitch at the corner of his mouth or the ease softening his features. Something you decided, on impulse, to take advantage of.

“So, what’s new with the investigation?” you asked as casually as if you were industry buddies who routinely swapped updates, even the classified kind.

He fell for it like a naive lamb. Your earlier laughter and the smooth flow of conversation between you had completely dulled his vigilance.

“We sent the hair in for analysis and, well, within the next 24 to 48 hours we should have confirmation on whether it really belonged to…” He paused, then narrowed his eyes. “Wait, did you just trick me into giving you information?”

He caught on.

You gave him a half-smile, feeling zero guilt for the maneuver.

“Well, you kinda walked right into it,” you murmured. “And admit it, that was clever.”

“I can only admit it was clever,” he said, reluctantly.

You gave him a look.

 “You got your picture. Now you have to finish the topic. What about the hair? What if it turns out it belonged to them?”

Reid held your gaze for a moment, clearly debating with himself. He was probably wondering whether you could really be trusted to keep sensitive information to yourself. But eventually, he sighed, realizing he’d already said too much anyway.

“Then we’ll just continue the investigation with that information,” he said. “And it’s…well, it’s pretty key. It might even help us deliver the profile.”

“So you don’t have a profile yet.”

“You know I can’t—”

The bell above the door chimed. You glanced toward it, then back at Reid, your eyes silently asking him to stay just a little longer. He visibly hesitated you saw it but then he shook his head and made for the exit.

You watched him leave with your eyes, then turned toward the new customer.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Benson,” you greeted the man.

*

You placed the tray of cookies in the center of the garden table carefully, making sure not to knock over anyone’s coffee or tea. Then you took a seat in the wicker chair beside your mother, facing your two neighbors. Elena and her fourteen-year-old daughter, Keasy.

Your garden was spacious, and your mother took great pride in keeping it well-maintained, so afternoons like this weren’t uncommon. During this particular one, though, your mind was both close and far.

Close—because the subject was close to your heart.

 Far—because the subject was close to your heart.

“But is it, like, confirmed confirmed?” Elena asked quietly. You noticed people always lowered their voices when talking about tragedies, as if that might somehow soften their weight. “I mean, I’ve heard it from several people already, but I don’t know if I should believe it… shouldn’t that kind of info be classified or something?”

In short, in case anyone was confused. The hairs you’d found at the transformer station had been confirmed to belong to Georgina, Gita, and Judy. The bodies of the first two had been found earlier, but Judy’s hadn’t until now, which confirmed that your instincts about her disappearance had been right from the beginning.

You didn’t feel even a shred of satisfaction.

You’d rather have been wrong.

It hadn’t solved much, aside from confirming that the station had been the site of executions.

Murders, really.

The area had been locked down even tighter, but no arrests were made. The killer was still out there. And yet, one question began to follow you like a round-the-clock shadow, always present. They had found the hair of three victims, most likely shaved off to allow for the placement of electrodes from the electric chair, and hidden in cans as some grotesque form of trophy.

Three victims.

But there had been four girls.

What about Maggie Baker?

The discovery of her body, in a hospital gown, her head shaved—had shocked everyone.

You too, even on a personal level. She was a few years younger than you, and you used to tutor her, often spending time at her house with her and her parents, both pharmacists.

She volunteered at the local animal shelter. You’d often run into her walking dogs.

She had bronchial asthma

She had honey-colored hair.

But it hadn’t been found with the others.

Had the killer not added it to the collection?  He’d shaved her head—that much was clear.

So what had he done with it?

Kept it? Why?

Was he personally connected to her?

Why had he suddenly abandoned the place where he committed his murders?

Did he sense that people were beginning to suspect someone’s presence at the abandoned station, and that police involvement was only a matter of time? If so, that would mean he had to be from around here. Close enough to keep up with local rumors and whispers.

It also suggested he was smart.

Did he decide to pause his killing spree? Or did he simply move it somewhere else?

Nobody knew what happened to the electric chair.

These questions circled endlessly in your mind. It was crowded and loud in there, filled with thoughts that refused to settle. And yet, you couldn’t pull any words from yourself, none that felt right for the podcast. You had paused posting updates about The Executioner, but that didn’t mean you had stopped watching the case.

The case consumed most of your attention. Even now, you only snapped out of the spiral of those repeating questions because of a sudden scoff from Keasy. The girl was wearing a gray hoodie, playing with its drawstring, her hair tied into two thick brown braids. She was side-eyeing her mom.

 “Mom, nothing in this town is classified. And if it is, not for long,” she commented and it was hard to argue with her.

Suddenly, she locked her brown eyes directly on yours. She gave a slight nod in your direction.

 “Like the fact that a young FBI agent visited you at the store recently.”

There was a smirk on her lips. Yours parted in surprise. Your mom and Elena both turned curious eyes on you.

 “How do you know that, you little smartass?” you asked with a disbelieving snort.

 She was absolutely right. Nothing in this town stayed a secret.

Keasy gave a slight shrug, a proud look on her face, like she didn’t want to reveal her sources. Your relationship had always been a bit sibling-like, full of teasing. You looked at her with raised eyebrows, expectantly, already knowing she’d tell you anyway.

“Mr. Benson,” she replied shortly. You tilted your head with curiosity. Right, Mr. Benson had entered the store while Spencer was inside, but when had Keasy talked to him? As if reading your thoughts, she added, “I’m kinda seeing his grandson now.”

“You’re joking.”

 “FBI agent,” your mom suddenly spoke, holding a bitten cookie in her hand, her worried gaze focused on you. “What did he want?”

“FBI agents have phones that need fixing too.”

“I’m being serious,” she said, and from the look on her face, you could tell she wasn’t joking. You saw Elena exchange an awkward glance with her daughter, but like everyone in this town, they loved drama too much to try and soften the conversation. “I know you’re recording something about the case, but you’re not getting involved in the investigation…are you?”

You sighed, searching for an answer that wouldn’t be a flat-out lie.

“Well, of course I’m getting slightly involved in the investigation—that’s kind of what my work is about…”

“That is not your work,” your mother cut in sharply. “It’s just some silly internet project that could get you into danger. What if… the person killing these girls is listening to it?”

“You think that’s possible?” Elena asked, genuinely intrigued but also clearly frightened. “That he’s listening… to something about himself?”

“Very possible,” you answered with a nod. “Psychopaths, assuming that’s what he is, often follow how the public reacts to their crimes and what the media says about them.”

“Assuming that’s what he is?” Keasy repeated, frowning. “Aren’t all killers that?”

“No, a lot of people think so, but in reality—”

“That’s not what matters right now,” your mother interrupted. “We’re talking about you putting yourself in danger. If the FBI is interested in you, they must think you’re getting too involved…”

“And is that a bad thing?” you shot back defensively. “If my too involved helps spread awareness about the case and the victims, warns women, maybe even contributes to finding the killer—”

“Finding the killer is the job of the police.”

“Who did nothing when Judy went missing! The ones who came after the murders don’t know anything about the people here. They’ll be doing interviews and witness statements, all of which I already gathered myself. And in the meantime, while they’re doing that, another girl could get hurt. So I think it’s morally right for me to keep going with my own investigation…”

“No. I don’t even want to hear it,” she said, cutting the air with her hand.

You pressed your lips together, but you were ready to keep fighting, ready to defend your point and your decision. At that moment, you didn’t care that the two of you were ruining a peaceful afternoon with the neighbors. You understood she was worried, but how could she call your work stupid? You stared each other down, and you saw she was preparing to say something else, her temper matching your own.

Then, timidly, Elena chimed in.

“Did I just hear your doorbell?”

You both fell silent, listening. After a moment, the faint ring of the doorbell reached your ears. You exhaled through your nose and stood up, stepping ahead of your mom.

“It’s probably Danny. You invited him, right? I’ll get it.”

You left the garden quickly, let the man inside, and even greeted him warmly. But you didn’t return outside with him. That was the whole reason you’d jumped to answer the door—you wanted to use it as a chance to slip away.

Your mother’s words had hit you twice: first, with anger. Then, they struck something deeper, reawakening a dormant sense of resolve.

Judy Perkins was dead, which meant another woman could go missing soon.

There was no time to waste.

You went upstairs to your room and grabbed your recording equipment. For the first time in days, you actually felt able to say something.

Not new information.

A request.

For your listeners to send you anything they knew.

There might’ve been more people like the one who told you about the station. People who knew something, maybe had some kind of gut feeling or suspicion, but didn’t know where to take it. It felt too trivial, in their eyes, to bring to the police. Or they were afraid of exposure. You offered them a way to speak up anonymously, and you fully intended to follow up on everything they sent.

Keasy’s words about your town’s people gave you a lot to think about. Here, everything was always somehow connected.

Almost in a frenzy, you started going back through the information and notes you’d collected so far. Over the following days, you didn’t just go over the theories your listeners submitted. You reanalyzed everything and everyone from the beginning.

You visited Georgina’s ex-boyfriend for a follow-up conversation. She’d broken up with him shortly before her death. He wasn’t exactly eager to talk. You didn’t deny that you were a bit pushy.

You watched Gita’s stepfather. The one people said had abused his family. You had no explanation for why he would suddenly start murdering in such a specific way, but it gave you a sense that you were doing something, not just sitting back and reading what others sent in. You’d bump into him at the store by accident sneaking glances at his cart full of alcohol.

Sitting in your car, parked just down the road from Gita’s house—far enough not to raise suspicion—you found yourself thinking about the murders again. The electric chair as the murder weapon. Its connection to execution was obvious. But what was execution a symbol of? Justice. Or rather, the desire to carry out justice, no matter how subjective it might be.

From that point on, two paths branched out in front of you, two questions.

Justice, but for what?

And second: who carried out the executions?

Of course, The Executioner.

But there were usually more people involved. Medical and technical staff. People who had acquired the knowledge of how it worked and had seen it with their own eyes. People who could’ve been affected by it.

You contacted your one listener who always seemed to know real things, things from unknown sources.

Still sitting in your car outside the Kopeckis’ house, you didn’t pay attention to anything around you. Night had already fallen, and the streets were empty, bathed in the soft glow of the streetlights.

Then came a reply from blackqueen6969.

A full list of names—every person involved in the last execution ever carried out in the state of Connecticut. The killer was Robert Taylor. The very first case you ever covered on your podcast.

He was strapped to the electric chair in 1964. Known as The Devil of Bristol, he lured women into his car with charisma, good looks, and the reputation of a decent man. Even in prison, he received fan letters. There was a surprisingly large number of people who believed in his innocence even though one woman had escaped and managed to call the police, which directly led to his arrest.

You’d chosen that execution for one simple reason: it was the last one. The people who’d carried it out might still be alive. They might agree to talk to you.

You tapped out the phone numbers blackqueen6969 had sent, pretending to be a journalist writing a book on the history of executions.

Only one person agreed. Yes, it took a few minutes of faking wide-eyed passion, of raving about how much you cared about this book, how honored you’d be to speak with someone so brilliant, before his ego was stroked just enough to say yes.

Michael Pershing. The Executioner of Robert Taylor himself.

You couldn’t have gotten luckier.

You scheduled the meeting with him for the next day, in Richmond, around lunchtime.

The call ended, and for a brief second, you couldn’t believe it had actually worked. You wanted to squeal out loud in excitement, but instead of a happy little shriek, what came out of your mouth was a startled yelp.

Someone had knocked on your car window.

Through the glass, you saw a police officer standing on the dark street outside, his lips moving as he said something to you. You stared forward for a moment longer, biting back a loud curse. Then, because you had no other choice, you rolled the window down.

“Good evening, officer,” you greeted, giving him a nod.

It probably came across as arrogant, because it was. You didn’t exactly have a glowing relationship with the local cops. Too many times you’d asked for comment and gotten shooed off, or been accused of bothering someone’s family, which had never actually happened. Either way, neither of you was ever thrilled to see the other.

The officer sighed, leaning in toward your window with a tired look on his face.

“Why are you sitting here?” he asked bluntly, voice colored with weary condescension. He clearly wasn’t in the mood for your usual games.

What a shame. Because you were.

You shrugged.

 “Answering a message. Like a model citizen and responsible driver, I pulled over to the side of the road so I wouldn’t text while driving. Would you rather I replied while behind the wheel?”

“You stalking me, bitch.”

 Another figure approached your car.

The officer’s hand landed squarely on Mr. Kopecki’s chest before he could get too close.

“Watch your mouth.”

“She’s harassing me! Follows me wherever I go, watches my house. What the fuck is your problem?”

Right. You’d kind of forgotten you were still parked in front of his house. You pressed your lips into a thin line and glanced at the officer, who was now flicking his gaze between the two of you, clearly waiting for your explanation.

“Well… that’s not true,” you tried.

“Not true?! Not true?! You’re literally sitting outside my house, you fucking psycho!”

You pointed straight at him, locking eyes with the officer.

 “He’s being aggressive. I’d recommend a breathalyzer. And maybe a nice little trip downtown. Who knows what he’ll do once he gets back inside, wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt—”

“Okay, that’s enough,” the cop cut you off, running a tired hand down his face. This was probably his last call of the night and he clearly wanted it over with. You relaxed slightly, guessing he'd let you off just because he didn’t feel like dealing with it.

“Step out of the car. I’m taking you in.”

Your eyes flew wide.

“I was literally answering a text!”

“Out. Of. The car.”

You let out a sound of protest and shot him a pleading look, but he didn’t budge. Point to him for not cuffing you, but still—soon enough, you were sitting in the backseat of the patrol car as it sped toward the station. Arms crossed, you silently hoped Kopecki was fucking proud of himself.

You really, really needed to be out by tomorrow. You had a lunch scheduled with Michael Pershing.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t exactly use that as your defense. And honestly, there wasn’t much else you could do either. Your only option was to keep your mouth shut, pretend to be polite and cooperative, and hope they let you out quickly…

 But that didn’t sit right with you.

Not when you had a better idea.

You slipped your phone between your knees and fired off a quick message. No time to wait for a reply. You turned it off, tilted your head back, and caught the officer’s gaze in the rearview mirror. Then gave him the faintest, knowing smile.

He sighed, more to himself than anyone else. His partner threw him a confused look.

When the car finally stopped, you waited until one of the officers opened your door, gesturing for you to get out.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, stepped out onto the dimly lit station parking lot, and then—

“We’ll take it from here,” a male voice cut in, as two pairs of footsteps approached the patrol car.

Morgan didn’t even bother flashing his badge, which told you BAU and your local police were already well acquainted.

“We understand if you had reason to detain her,” Reid added, shooting you a suggestive, faintly mocking look.

You dragged a finger across your throat in a slow motion while holding his gaze—an unsubtle gesture, quickly dropped when the officer to your left noticed. You let your hand fall casually to your side and greeted him with a polite smile.

Reid cleared his throat. “But she’s a witness in our case and we need to speak with her. It can’t wait.”

You nodded in agreement, as if anyone gave a damn about your opinion in that situation. One of the officers waited a second out of courtesy, then shrugged like he couldn’t care less. The other one wasn’t as quick to let it go.

“Hey, you can’t just—”

“Let it go,” his partner cut in, shaking his head slightly. Then, quieter, under his breath, “Seriously, I don’t have the energy to deal with her tonight…”

Both Reid and Morgan heard it and looked at you, in sync. You tried not to look overly proud. None of you said anything until the police officers disappeared from your line of sight, which, given the darkness, happened rather quickly. Your lips parted first. There were so many explanations you wanted to let out, you wanted to share your theory, of course stretching the facts a bit and not saying where you got your information.

 Morgan beat you to it.

“You better have some kind of explanation…”

“A reasonable one,” Reid specified.

 “As it happens, I do!” you declared energetically, because, in fact, you did. One of their pairs of eyebrows rose first, unconvinced, Reid seemed to have a bit more faith in you — after all, it was him you texted. And he was the one who decided to come pick you up. You hoped he saw that note of gratitude in your gaze, which you tried to communicate. He wasn’t the best when it came to eye contact though.  “And it is something reasonable, or at least I think so. It’s not totally out of nowhere, otherwise I wouldn’t have messaged you…by the way, thanks guys, for being here. Wait, can I call you guys…”

 “Unusual, but acceptable,” Reid agreed so quickly it proved he was following your rambling with engagement and keeping up, which, to be honest, didn’t always happen.

 “What a relief, I know some people who would’ve called that insulting a federal officer on duty…”

 “To the point,” Morgan cut in.

You drew in a breath. Thoughts snapping back into place. You started from the beginning , about how you asked your listeners to send you tips and how you verified them, and then moved into your own attempts at profiling the unsub, secretly cringing inside, fully aware that two literal professionals were watching you. Still, you tried not to show it, avoided looking too closely at Spencer and the focused way his eyes squinted behind his glasses, and pushed on.

The last execution in the state, Robert Taylor. The people involved. Tracking down their identities (you claimed you found them online).

“And the main idea is,” you continued, gesturing animatedly, “To meet with them. But not as the police. I mean, undercover. For example… I don’t know, a journalist writing a book about crime. Just a loose idea. And that way, figure out if any of them could be connected to this somehow. Like, the most obvious first pick would be Michael Pershing. If, purely theoretically, someone had arranged to meet him…”

You trailed off, waiting for their reaction.

Of course you saw that exchange of glances. With growing unease, you searched their faces for signs of dismissal, scorn — maybe pity. Pity would’ve been the worst of all.

That poor, foolish girl who has no idea what she’s talking about… so embarrassed for her.

You didn’t expect the knot in your stomach to tighten that much.

"Did you come up with all of that on your own?" Morgan asked, a strange mix in his eyes — clear, dominant skepticism, but also a hint of curiosity.

You nodded in confirmation. Reid, meanwhile, rested his chin on his fingers, thinking.

"What you said has a fairly stable foundation," he offered enigmatically, causing you to tilt your head slightly. You caught his gaze, and for the first time, he held it. When he spoke about psychology or profiling, he always seemed more confident. "A person who participated in or conducted executions might have severely blurred moral boundaries and a distorted sense of right and wrong. They may believe it's in their hands or even their duty to deliver justice. Tying this back to the last execution carried out in Connecticut makes sense. What it doesn't fully explain, though, is why he’s targeting young women specifically."

You felt strangely lighter listening to him, the way he actually talked with you, how he genuinely considered your theories instead of dismissing them outright just because you didn’t have their experience.

"I hadn’t thought about that," you admitted honestly, pausing. Reid seemed to only just realize you two were making eye contact, because he abruptly broke it. Shame. It had helped you speak more clearly. You cleared your throat. "Childhood trauma? Bad experiences with women? I’m guessing here, I know, but like, 90% of the time it’s some shit like that…”

"We can’t generalize like that," Morgan interjected suddenly, his tone surprisingly calm and focused.There was no trace of pity, something that had already caught you off guard earlier and kept doing so. He gave a small nod, as if agreeing with you, and you could hardly believe it. "But the premise is definitely worth attention, and it’ll get it. But you," his tone regained its edge "are absolutely not going to keep investigating this on your own, you understand? You had an idea, and it was helpful, but from here on out, it’s our responsibility. Under no circumstances are you to meet with anyone from that list."

Biting the inside of your cheek, you nodded with feigned obedience.

 "Of course. I wasn’t planning to. That could be, like, fatally dangerous."

"Alright. If that’s understood, let’s get you home..."

*

You checked your reflection in your car mirror. Five minutes until your meeting with Michael Pershing.

You hadn’t slept half the night preparing your entire persona and backstory. You’d chosen the name Phoebe Wright because it was simple and sounded somewhat journalistic, in your new project you were focusing on the history of executions in the United States, on how the methods and public opinion had changed. And since you came from the state of Connecticut, it was an honor for you to speak to the man who carried out the last one.

You adjusted the sleeves of your elegant blazer and, with a notebook under your arm, stepped out of the car.

The place didn’t require you to dress like that. You were literally meeting for lunch at a breakfast diner whose specialty dish was bagels. But whenever you imagined the executioner, your brain served up the image of a distant man, with a piercing gaze, the kind of man you subconsciously want to impress.

You were excited as fuck.

Because even if this man wasn’t the killer, he was still someone your passion for criminology simply wanted to meet. And to record an episode, but that was impossible. Phoebe Wright didn’t host a podcast.

Right before pushing open the glass door, you whispered a few words of courage to yourself and stepped inside, ready to conduct the most important interview of your entire amateur career.

Michael Pershing turned out to be the most ordinary man in the world. White polo shirt, a silver chain around his neck, and gray hair. Stocky, with a broad nose. Had you sat down with the wrong person?

“What, were you expecting the Grim Reaper?” he scoffed at you.

There was nothing friendly in his eyes. He looked bored, like he had ten more interviews lined up before noon and had already slogged through eight of them. The words slipped out before you could stop them. And Phoebe Wright was supposed to have better control over her tongue...

“No, but deep down I was pretty sure you’d have a killer sense of humor.”

His expression changed. Froze entirely for a second. Then suddenly, he burst out laughing. Smoker’s laugh, rough and crackling.

"I like you," he said, pointing at you with a thick finger, a wedding band glinting on it. His laugh vanished as quickly as it came, and in a blink he looked bored again. And they say it’s the younger generation with no attention span. “This might actually be an interesting interview. What you wanna know?”

Straight to the point. You were starting to like him, too.

You cleared your throat; everything you wanted to say was already carefully prepared.

 “As I mentioned during our phone call, I’m working on a book ab—”

He cut you off with a dismissive wave of his hand.

 “Oh, don’t repeat what you said on the phone!” he barked, loud enough that the waitress, who had just placed his plate in front of him, quickly retreated from your table. Eggs and bacon spilled from his bagel. “Just get to it. What you wanna know. Do I feel guilt sometimes, would I still choose this career if I could go back, how did I manage to get into a relationship and what does my partner think about it…”

You raised your brows. It looked like he was very eager to talk about himself.

Good.

 If he wanted direct questions, even better.

You leaned your forearms on the table between you, nodding slightly.

“1964. The execution of Robert Taylor.”

He grimaced.

 “The Devil of Bristol.”

“Knew you’d remember.”

“How could I forget? They caught him, he waited three years for an appeal, and after it was all over, people lost their fucking minds. Constant noise, saying he was innocent.”

“In your opinion, was he guilty?”

He laughed mockingly in your face.

“In my opinion? Yes, of course. I’m not a fucking moron like the rest of them. Especially those women who wrote him letters, just a group of brainless idiots…”

You let him rant about society for a moment. The topic was warming him up and loosening his tongue. Maybe it’d be easier to draw some real information out of him. You asked what his role in the execution was, in each one. You asked for a detailed explanation of the process, which took over thirty minutes.

“And what did you feel,” you asked, watching his face carefully “when you pulled the switch?”

You didn’t expect him to be honest. He’d probably give you an answer he thought you wanted to hear, something curated. The real feelings, the true experience of the executioner—those he’d keep to himself, and they’d only flicker across his face for a split second. It would be your job to catch them. To interpret them. To decide if he could be responsible for the recent murders.

There was nothing in his eyes when he said, “Hunger.”

You didn’t flinch, but a chill ran down your spine.

 “Hunger?” you echoed.

He looked you in the eyes for a moment, let you dig around in them as much as you wanted. His lips twitched, and for a second, you thought he might burst out laughing again.

“The execution was early. Around seven. They’re usually done later in the evening. I hadn’t had dinner yet and I was fucking starving. On top of that, the bastard’s last meal request was for this insanely overcooked steak,” he shook his head, like he still hadn’t gotten over it. Like he still held a grudge. Over the fact he had to wait an extra hour for dinner.

You needed to take a slightly deeper breath, sort this out in your head.This man was definitely…an interesting, alarming specimen.

You looked out the glass window next to your table just as he changed the subject to his preferred cuts of meat and suddenly, you sat bolt upright. Quickly, you forced yourself back into your usual posture. But he didn’t notice, too caught up in his own rambling.

In the parking lot, right next to your car—thankfully unfamiliar to them—another vehicle pulled in. One you knew very well, since you'd ridden in it just yesterday. And you immediately recognized the face in the front seat, in his signature tweed blazer and a tie knotted neatly at the neck, mid-sentence as he spoke to his absent partner who was busy rummaging for something under the seat.

He was cleaning his glasses with that thoughtful expression of his, then slid them back onto his nose and looked up.

Right as you were staring at him.

He froze mid-sentence, completely still, then his eyes widened.

You shot to your feet.

“Excuse me for a moment. Restroom,” you croaked out to Pershing, and without waiting for a response, bolted across the rectangular diner toward the corner where the bathrooms were tucked. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Morgan finally finding what he’d been looking for—and the moment both of them got out of the car.

Shit, shit, shit.

They’d told you very clearly yesterday not to do this.Not to meet with anyone from that list.

And where were you right now?

At a meeting with him.

Hidden around the corner, you spun in place, hovering without entering any of the three restrooms. You wanted to stay back there, behind the wall—they couldn’t possibly know you’d planned to meet someone here. Maybe they’d just stopped by for lunch while working a lead in Bristol, following up on the information you’d given them yesterday. If it were anything more, Reid wouldn’t have looked so shocked to see you.

It was also possible they hadn’t recognized Pershing. There weren’t any photos of him online. If he hadn’t noticed you, maybe you could’ve ducked into the restroom and waited them out…

“What are you doing here?”

Reid’s voice came out in that conspiratorial whisper-shout combo. You peeked around the corner in panic—Morgan wasn’t looking your way. Good. He was too busy placing an order. So they really were just here for lunch.

You grabbed Reid’s shirt and yanked him a few feet away so no one could see him talking to anyone.

He gasped in surprise—and then groaned when your heads collided. Ouch.

You took a step back, rubbing your skull.

“I came here for lunch?” you half-asked, half-said.

Reid shook his head, clearly not buying it in the slightest.

 “In Bristol? Two hours from Fairview? For lunch? You are a terrible liar, you know that?”

“Ha! Says the guy who got totally tricked by me last night—”

“What?”

“You didn’t tell Morgan I was here, did you?” you cut in quickly, changing the subject.

Spencer paused, adjusting the shirt you’d just yanked. His glasses had tilted slightly askew, so you reached up to fix them for him.

His eyes went wide, startled, then he caught himself and cleared his throat. Twice. And once more for good measure.

“N-no, I didn’t,” he stammered. Inhale. “I didn’t. I figured I’d find out what you were doing first and then decide if it was worth getting you into trouble.”

You shot him a grimace, though deep down, you appreciated it.

 “Thank you, your grace. Now maybe let me explain, and then you can decide if it’s worth it or not,” you offered.

Before you could say anything else, someone appeared right in front of you, and both of you jumped like kids caught sneaking around. It wasn’t Morgan, though, just some guy on his way to the bathroom, who brushed past without a word.

“Okay, so,” you began. “The man in the white polo shirt you probably saw when you walked in? That’s the executioner of Robert Taylor. I arranged a meeting with him, pretending to be a journalist and an author which is also why I look insanely good today,” you said, smoothing your blazer for emphasis.

Reid was dressed similarly, and the two of you did kind of look like you’d just walked out of an office meeting.

When he parted his lips to speak, you raised a finger to cut him off.

“And before you tell me how irresponsible that is, I just want to say that the conversation was going really well and I already got a few interesting bits out of him, so it would be a shame—a big, big shame—to waste this opportunity. So please, pretty please, don’t tell Morgan I’m here.”

You even pressed your hands together in a prayer-like gesture, looking at him with pleading eyes.

Reid looked at you for a moment with an unreadable expression, like he was preparing to say something several times but kept changing his mind. Finally, he rolled his eyes slightly upward and let out a deep sigh. You couldn’t tell if that meant yes or no.

He gave a subtle nod, more to himself than to you.

“I’ll go talk to Morgan,” he began.

You opened your mouth to protest, but he raised a single finger to your lips and continued, “I’ll talk to him and come up with something to get him to leave me here. And then I’ll come back and…” he exhaled again, like he couldn’t believe what he was saying, “…we’ll finish the conversation with Pershing together.”

He said it with a firm tone, but his eyes searched your face, clearly wanting to know if you liked the idea. For a moment, you stood completely still and speechless. Then you jolted like someone had stuck a pin in you and closed the distance between you, throwing your arms around his neck in a chaotic, unexpected hug, swaying him from side to side in some kind of victorious dance.

“Oooh, thank you!” you practically sang, squeezing him tight.

Reid froze, rigid and startled, clearly having no idea what to do with his arms or his face. You didn’t blame him.

You stepped back with zero shame about your outburst, flashing a grin toward his now slightly pink cheeks. “Thank you. I swear you won’t regret this decision. Together, we’ll definitely be able to confirm or rule out whether he has anything to do with it.”

You said it with a confident, full-of-faith nod, one that Reid, seemingly involuntarily, mirrored. It wasn’t until he shook his head slightly that he managed to speak again.

 “I’ll—I’ll go talk to Morgan,” he announced. He was just about to step away when something seemed to occur to him. “I’ll text you when he leaves, so you can come out safely, go back to the table and then…I dunno, I’ll have to figure out how to join the conversation, maybe say—”

You waved your hand in a calming gesture, a confident smirk on your face.

 “Don’t worry about that, my dear. Go do your thing, and I’ll handle the rest. I’m a master of improvisation,” you said proudly.

Reid’s eyebrows rose slowly.

“Not gonna lie, that’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” he muttered.

 “Nothing to be afraid of. Now go on, shoo shoo,” you said, waving him off. “We don’t have all day.”

You could’ve sworn you saw a soft smile bloom on his face as he disappeared around the corner, a smile just for himself. Waiting for his message, you unconsciously wore the exact same expression.

When the message finally came through, you returned to the table. Pershing was finishing up his bagel, and remembering the chill that had crept down your spine just before the conversation was interrupted, you were secretly relieved that someone would be with you from now on.

“Sorry that took so long,” you said, catching a glimpse of Reid approaching the table, uncertain whether it was time to join you. You waved him over with a discreet motion. “But the good news is, from this point on, we’ll be joined by my assistant. I think I mentioned him during our phone call. And if I didn’t, I’m mentioning him now.”

The men didn’t greet each other in any particular way; Spencer simply slid into the seat beside you.

“Assistant, mhm,” hemuttered.

You elbowed Reid hard enough that he bit his lip to keep from making a sound. Pershing couldn’t have cared less whether one or two people were conducting the interview—he pushed his empty plate aside, wiped his mouth with a napkin, placed it on top, and cast a glance between the two of you, already looking somewhat impatient.

“There’s one matter my…friend here hasn’t brought up yet,” Reid began, his voice carrying the faintest trace of irony. “And we both felt it would be incredibly valuable to hear your undoubtedly insightful opinion on the subject.”

Before you’d parted ways earlier, you’d handed him your small notebook containing notes from your conversation, but you hadn’t expected him to go through them so quickly. Turns out he had, and he’d clearly taken to heart the part about how much your interviewee liked to be praised.

“We’d like to know if you’ve heard about the series of murders in the town of Fairview.”

Pershing let out a scoff so fast it was clear he hadn’t even thought about it.

“Where?” he asked, dismissively.

“Fairview, just under two hours from Bristol,” you chimed in. “But the location itself isn’t that important. The case has been getting enough attention that you might’ve heard about it. Someone’s been killing young women, even teenagers, in a style that mirrors executions. Most likely using an electric chair—”

“What’s that got to do with me?” he cut in. “I don’t even know where that is. I don’t watch the news. And if you’re wondering what’ll happen to that killer when they catch him, well, they sure as hell won’t fry him. That’s been banned over forty years ago. And I’m not the one who’s gonna do it.”

“But this killer sees himself as a self-appointed executioner,” you said. “We’re trying to understand where that belief might come from.”

“What’s that got to do with your book?”

“A lot,” you answered sharply, not even blinking, tired of the subject constantly being derailed. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Reid glance at you, then turn his steady, observant gaze on the man across from you, and leave it there. You had a gut feeling he already had some idea of what was really going on.

“My book wants to examine the topic of executions from the broadest possible perspective, across different decades, different social climates. In depth.”

“Then I hope you find someone who wants to talk about that. Maybe the local PD. Because I don’t even know where the hell that backwater is, and I don’t know anything about that case,” he replied, his tone just as firm as yours. “I came to this meeting to talk about my experience. You said you had questions about the last execution in this state, and that’s all I’m here to answer. I can tell you how many times Robert Taylor appealed his sentence, how he escaped prison once, what he had for his last meal, and how his wife and teenage son, a kid, really, watched him fry. I’m not wasting time on anything else.”

You clenched your jaw, unsure how to steer the conversation back to the Fairview murders. Your eyes shifted to Reid, hoping he’d know how to navigate it—or at least be puzzling over it the same way you were. Maybe he’d have an idea.

But instead, he was staring at Pershing with a cold, tilted gaze.

“In that case, we won’t waste any more of your time,” he said, and your eyes practically bulged out of your head in shock.

Even the man across from you froze, caught off guard by the sudden shift.

Reid, calm and controlled, leaned slightly forward, his eyes cold but his mouth forming a polite, artificial smile.

“Enjoy your afternoon.”

“He has nothing to do with it,” he stated confidently, gesturing with just one hand, his slim fingers slicing smoothly, almost sensually, through the air. “With Fairview, I mean. Sure, his behavior shifted the moment we brought it up, but not because he’s guilty. It’s because he’s a self-centered jerk who only wants to talk about himself.”

You stopped just by your car, at the driver’s side door, facing each other with barely a meter between you.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” you scoffed, forcing a joke to try and soften the awful knot curling low in your stomach.

It didn’t really work. Your lips didn’t twitch, your voice didn’t rise. In fact, it came out quieter than usual, thoughtful and low, tinged more with discouragement than humor. And whenever your tone dropped an octave like that, it was always a dead giveaway that something was off.

Reid must’ve picked up on it, because his brow furrowed slightly, and his dark eyes settled on you with a soft, concerned look.

 “Are you okay?” he asked gently.

You lifted your eyes to him, saying nothing for a moment before shrugging.

“I really thought this would lead us somewhere,” you admitted, pressing your lips together. One of your hands found the car door handle, but you didn’t press it—your fingertips just danced lightly across its surface. You were disappointed, and suddenly you regretted that he’d even come with you. Maybe you’d rather just go home alone and forget about this false lead you'd pinned so much hope on. “But I just wasted time.”

“No, you didn’t,” he replied, shaking his head slightly from side to side.

You rolled your eyes, already expecting him to disagree, just out of decency.

“Even if you didn’t find a connection between him and Fairview, I can tell from your notes that the conversation meant something to you. And right, I’ve got your notebook,” he said, pulling it from the inside pocket of his blazer and holding it out toward you. You wrapped your fingers around it gently, but for a moment, he didn’t let go. “Robert Taylor was the first case you covered on your podcast. It was worth meeting his executioner if only to hear details no one else could’ve given you. Like the fact that his wife and teenage son watched his execution, which is almost unthinkable, considering the boy’s age. That probably wouldn’t happen today.”

“I meant I wasted your time” 

“That’s what investigations look like. Sometimes we follow leads that take us nowhere—it’s just part of the process. You didn’t waste my time.”

You looked at each other in silence for a moment. You bit your lip, trying to read if he really meant it or was just saying what he thought you wanted to hear. After a few seconds, you figured—he had no reason to lie. You gave him a small, grateful nod for those words. And that’s exactly when something he’d said earlier caught up to you, and your eyebrows slowly, suspiciously rose.

“Wait, wait. How do you know what the first episode of my podcast was about? Did you listen to it?”

He looked slightly flustered, though tried to keep a pseudo-casual demeanor as he shook his head. “No, I mean yes. Someone...someone from the team had to go through it. But we already established you’ve got fans in Quantico.”

“Yep, I do. And no wonder my podcast is genius. But I didn’t think you specifically had listened to all of them from the very beginning.”

“Research purposes,” he said, and you could swear there was the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Sure,” you scoffed. “Or it was my incredible storytelling and razor-sharp sense of humor.”

“And above all else, your stunning humility. Should we head back now?”

You glanced to the side, only just realizing you were still standing in the parking lot by the car, your hand resting on the door handle. Right. You should head back. You’d taken the day off work and didn’t have anything else planned, but Reid? He was literally working on the murder case in your town. Since you’d dragged him all the way out here, it was only fair to drive him back. Just the two of you. Two hours on the road.

Spencer took the passenger seat.

“But I will admit,” he said after clearing his throat, “analyzing your podcast was one of the better assignments I’ve ever had. It wasn’t just informative, it was...well. I laughed a few times.”

You froze mid-buckle at those words, then turned your head toward him, tilting it slightly, a smile forming on your lips almost instinctively.

You spent those two hours talking—surprisingly—about things that had little to do with the only common ground you'd really shared so far. And you needed that. You needed a momentary departure from the weight of it all, especially after the day you’d had, and the several before it, where your thoughts had been entirely consumed by The Executioner.

It was your last chance for that kind of relief. And maybe the only reason you were able to bear the news that awaited you once you returned.

It was afternoon. Even from a distance, you could see the BAU vehicle parked in your neighborhood, right outside your next-door neighbors’ home. But in hindsight, ever since you'd crossed the town line into Fairview, something had felt off. Heavier than usual. 

Your fourteen-year-old neighbor, Keasy, was missing.

*

From the beginning of the day, your head was only searching for an opportunity to find itself in a horizontal position.

And well, since the day at work was, as usual, calm, you allowed yourself that. To close your eyes, stinging from lack of sleep, but not to give in to dreams—nightmares, to be precise.Three days had passed since Keasy's disappearance, and it felt like time in the town had stopped. Except for your life. Unfortunately, it had to keep moving forward, even when it wasn’t clear if hers still was.

They managed to determine who had seen her last—it was the boy she’d recently started seeing, who turned out to be five years older than her. But despite that age difference and the rather mixed opinions about him, suspicions didn’t really turn in his direction.

Everyone knew who was behind Keasy’s disappearance, everyone knew it wasn’t just a disappearance—it was a kidnapping.

The BAU and the local police were doing what they could, but from what you knew from Reid, with whom, due to lack of time, you communicated only sporadically, and from your own, old, reliable sources, there simply was no trace of her.

No witnesses. No leads.

Just like in the previous cases.

There was a soft scraping sound by your ear. You opened one eye to see a cup of coffee set down on the counter in front of you, and a man’s hand pushing it in your direction. You opened your other eye and sat up, resting the weight of your head on your palm.

“If you really can’t manage today, go home early,” Charlie offered, his hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of his red hoodie. He avoided your gaze, and the sound of his voice struck you as strangely unfamiliar.

Right. You hadn’t spoken in days.

So much had happened since then that the reasons for the silence now felt distant, irrelevant.

“We’re basically done anyway. I’ll close up on my. No problem.”

Your dry lips parted slightly in surprise at the suggestion, but after a moment they closed again, and the two of you just stared at each other in silence. If the last time you looked at him he seemed awful, now he had clearly hit his lowest point. His face was thin, the skin stretched tightly over the bones, almost translucent. A beanie on his head, with strands of long, clearly unwashed hair sticking out from underneath. His eyes bloodshot and sunken, with purple circles around them. It hit you then that his preference for loose hoodies probably wasn’t just about fashion. It was also a way to hide his increasingly thin frame. A lump formed in your throat, and you lowered your gaze to the coffee cup in front of you, wrapping your hands around it.

“Thanks, Charlie. But I’ll stay till the end, as you said, we’re basically done,” you replied in a soft tone, one that suggested you weren’t holding anything against him anymore.

Charlie nodded, leaning back against the counter on the same side as you. A long silence passed before he spoke again, hesitant and slightly remorseful.

“So…we’re good? We’re talking again?”

You nodded without hesitation. It wasn’t just that your anger had passed, or that seeing him in that state stirred something in your heart and made you not want to leave him completely alone (although mostly that) it was also that work was boring as hell when you weren’t speaking to each other. You smiled faintly.

“Back to normal.”

Charlie returned the expression, one that looked almost foreign on his worn-out face. Then the sound of the bell above the door rang out, signaling someone’s arrival. You both looked toward Mr. Benson, walking in right on schedule with his phone in hand.

“Good afternoon,” you greeted him, already reaching out your hand. Silence followed as you set his alarm for 4 a.m., but just before handing the phone back, a question slipped from your lips before you could stop it. You could blame your talkativeness, or the way your mind was wrapped up in the case. Either way, you couldn’t help yourself. “How’s your grandson holding up, Mr. Benson? I mean, he was quite close to…Keasy.”

Her name was hard to say. Which made podcast recording especially difficult. You’d known the other victims—Maggie, who you used to tutor, and Judy, who you’d chatted with a few times—but not like this. They hadn’t lived across the street your whole life. You hadn’t handed down clothes to them or had them playing in your yard.

Mr. Benson made a sour face. At first, you thought you were imagining it—you even glanced at Charlie, but he was staring at the man too, just as shocked.

“Well, serves her right,” Mr. Benson said, dismissively, coldly.

You froze, stiffening all over.

“Same goes for the rest of them, if you ask me. Nothing but little whores with no decency,” he went on, taking the phone right out of your hand so suddenly that it practically slipped from your fingers.

He turned to leave, then paused, like remembering something.

“Well, maybe not that one. Whatever her name was. The one from the Bakers, you know, the ones who run the pharmacy. Good girl, smart, pretty. Always said hello. Didn’t deserve that. If that freak was right about any of them, well it sure wasn’t her…”

Charlie moved suddenly and sharply, and for a moment, you were sure he was going to react. His jaw was clenched tight, hands balled into fists and shoved into his pockets. But instead of doing anything, he just squeezed his eyes shut, his brow furrowing hard, and turned away, heading toward the back room with a quick, staggering gait.

You followed him with your eyes, confused, then turned your gaze back to Mr. Benson. For a moment, you didn’t know what to do at all. His words had gone off like a bomb, Charlie’s reaction only added to the chaos, making it hard to think clearly. You should probably go after your friend—right? The only thing you were sure of was the burning fury inside you. Fury at the disgusting, morally bankrupt man standing in front of you.

You stood from your seat and leaned over the counter, meeting his eyes with your own, blazing with anger.

“Don’t come here again,” you ordered.

You waited just long enough for him to leave and for the door to shut behind him before you headed straight to the back room. Inside the tiny, quiet space, Charlie was standing in front of one of the cabinets, hunched over, head buried in his arms, his body shaking either from tremors or dangerously erratic breathing.

You approached him immediately, placing a hand on his shoulder, but he flinched at the touch, so you quickly pulled it back.

“Charlie, what’s going on?” you asked.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, forehead furrowed with worry, silently watching as he tried to regain control, to slow the frantic breathing that at times sounded like quiet sobs. At one point, he started shaking his head with his mouth slightly open, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t force the words out. His hands slipped back into the pockets of his hoodie, fidgeting, like he was touching something, turning it over in his palms.

Suddenly, something clicked in your head. But first your friend, and his panic attack.

“N-no, don’t say anything,” you instructed him firmly. “Just breathe for a moment, okay?”

You had to repeat yourself once more before he started to follow the instruction, closing his eyes and breathing through his nose so deeply that his nostrils flared. The shop remained unattended, but at that moment, you didn’t care. Something else was festering in your mind, something that made sense of everything that had been going on with him lately—how his appearance and behavior had changed. You waited a little longer, giving him a moment to collect himself.

Maybe you should’ve asked more gently, but you didn’t know how.

“Are you using drugs?” you asked, your tone serious.

Charlie only opened his eyes at that question, locking onto your gaze. He held it for a long moment without answering, and that was all the confirmation you needed.

“God, I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out sooner,” you muttered, some shame aimed directly at yourself.

Now everything seemed so obvious. But clearly, you’d been too absorbed in yourself to notice something was seriously wrong with your friend. Or maybe you did notice. You just didn’t do anything about it.

He started shaking his head, denying it.

 “I’m not… it’s not that—”

“Then what do you have in your pocket?” you asked, confrontational.

The shaking intensified, turned almost frantic. The fear was just another confirmation—you didn’t want him to keep denying it. You weren’t trying to shame him or push him away. You just wanted the truth. So you reached for his pocket yourself.

For someone who had been slow and sluggish for months, Charlie suddenly found enough strength to grab your hand before you could even touch him, squeezing it hard. You let out a hiss, but he ignored it, not loosening his grip.

“Do you ever listen to a damn thing people say to you?” he snapped, pushing your arm back so forcefully your whole shoulder rotated and you had to take a step.

Yes, your heart jumped slightly with a flicker of fear, but you weren’t about to back down at the first hint of aggression. You’d known him for too long—you could’ve guessed his reaction wouldn’t be meek.

“Show me what’s in your pocket,” you demanded.

You remembered how he’d taken something out after your argument, staring at it while sitting alone in the car. Probably another dose of whatever it was he’d been taking. It all added up—and it only fueled you more. Maybe even too much. Looking at the tension on his face, you softened slightly, tried to shift your stance to something gentler.

“Charlie, you know you can trust me. I’ll help you, if you need it. If… I don’t know… if you’re scared I’ll report it to the boss, just know I’d never—”

He shook his head slightly, eyes closed, like he couldn’t take another word.

 “Move.”

You blocked him even more.

“Show me what’s in your pocket.”

He tried to push past you, but failed. The difference in strength between you wasn’t significant, especially not when his body was this weak, almost sickly. You literally grabbed hold of his hoodie, stopping him from leaving the back room.

Charlie tilted his head back with a sigh of frustration.

 “Jesus fucking Christ,” he ground out through clenched teeth, then reached into his hoodie pocket. He shoved something into your hands. Before you could even register what it was, he used the slack in your guard to push you back hard enough that you stumbled. As he left the room, he turned around briefly, spreading his arms with a bitter smile. “Happy now?”

You dropped your gaze to the small, orange plastic container.

You hadn’t been wrong for a second.

It was filled with pills.

*

It wasn’t even the next day when you heard the doorbell and knew it was Charlie.

After your confrontation, he had left the shop, leaving you alone. Ironic, really—he was the one who had suggested you go home early. Okay, maybe not the best time for irony.

After he squeezed your hand and pushed you, combined with everything else going on in your life outside of him, you probably had some unspoken right to just cut him off. Well, no one would be surprised that you didn’t. Just fifteen minutes later, you texted him asking to meet. A message he ignored. But you knew he read it. And you knew he would come.

After all, you had all his pills.

You hid them in the drawer of your desk, keeping them as a bargaining chip, just so you could talk to him a little longer. Just so you could ask how it had even started, and what you could do to help.

So, the doorbell, the steps up the stairs, the uncertain way he sat down on the edge of your bed, and silence. There was silence between you the whole time. Heavy and deafening.

The room was lit by your bedside lamp, the same color as the pill bottle hidden in the drawer of your desk, where you sat now.

Charlie kept his eyes fixed on the pattern of ducks on your bedspread. When he swallowed, it was so loud he might as well have shouted.

“I’m sorry for how I acted toward you,” he said stiffly.

“You’re only saying that so I’ll give you your pills back?”

“Yes.”

“You could at least try to make it less obvious.”

He pressed his lips together and shrugged apathetically.

“What for?”

Exactly—what for?

You slid down from your seat, still lightly leaning against it, arms loosely crossed over your chest. Charlie’s eyes gleamed with hope, thinking maybe you were moving to hand him back what was his. It was a pathetic sight.

"I need it," he said after a moment, placing heavy emphasis on the word need, his whole face tightening with it. "You obviously don’t get it, but for me this is... it’s the only way to, I don’t know, move forward."

You let out a sharp laugh.

"Charlie, you’re not moving forward. You’re barely dragging yourself."

“A small step is better than none.”

“Don’t bring up motivational you-can-do-it believe-in-yourself businessman quotes when we are literally talking about drugs!”

His hands slapped against his thighs with a tired sigh.

“I told you, this isn’t something you can understand. Just give it back, okay? If you don’t, I’ll get more anyway. It’s not a problem.”

You stayed silent. You knew he would say that, had even expected him to use that argument. But you couldn’t get past the moral block of physically handing your friend something that was slowly destroying him.

“No,” you answered plainly.

 He rolled his eyes.

 “Can I use the bathroom?”

You had your own bathroom upstairs, with the door right in your room. You gave him a look.

“Just so you know, I didn’t hide them in there. Don’t even think about going through my cabinets.”

“I just need to piss, psycho.”

You waved a hand.

“Be my guest.”

Charlie lazily got to his feet, with a look on his face like it had taken the effort of climbing Mount Everest. Then, with equally energetic movements, he dragged himself toward the room and closed the dark wooden door behind him. You were glad he had disappeared from your view for a moment, it meant you had time to think about what you were going to say to him when he came back. At least he wasn’t stubbornly denying his addiction anymore, and you considered that a good start.

As your eyes wandered around the room in thought, across the dark wooden floorboards and the walls covered in posters and photos, they eventually had to return to the place where Charlie had just been sitting. Your bed, the duck-patterned bedding, something lying on it.

And it didn’t belong to you.

You glanced toward the bathroom door—your friend was still inside.

You pushed yourself away from the desk and walked to the bed, picking up the object that must have slipped from his pocket when he stood up. Your brow instantly furrowed. It was a small crocheted bunny with button eyes, made into a keychain, with a clasp that allowed the tiny, adorable mascot to be attached to just about anything.

You carefully lifted the object, as if it might shatter upon falling. Your hands, for some reason, were trembling, so dropping it was actually a pretty likely outcome. You held your breath for a moment, as if oxygen deprivation might sharpen your other senses. And that strange feeling in your core.

Charlie wasn’t the kind of guy who’d clip a small, cute plushie onto anything, but even if he did, he’d wear it attached, not hidden in his pocket, right? You shook your head slightly, not knowing why you were analyzing it so much. Maybe he just got it from someone, maybe he bought it, found it. There didn’t have to be anything deeper behind it.

You were about to toss the oddly familiar plushie back where it had been, but then you glanced to the side and locked eyes with Charlie, just as he was stepping out of the bathroom. Upon seeing you, he froze in the doorway with one hand still on the handle, his gaze falling on what you were holding.

Your fingers closed more tightly around the little bunny.

If there hadn’t been anything deeper behind it, you wouldn’t have felt such tension in your body. You stared at his pale face for a long moment, without blinking or moving. Charlie parted his lips, then closed them again—his lower lip was trembling nervously. If there wasn’t anything behind it, he wouldn’t be reacting like that.

“That belonged to Maggie,” you said. “Maggie Baker.”

taglist: @mgg-lover4eva @jp600fox @garcialuvs

[floraisunwell]

JUST FELL TO MY KNEES. WTF

[darkmatilda-deactivated20260208]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐫 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: a series of young women are being murdered in your town, and you — the host of a true crime podcast — are determined to investigate the case yourself, even if it means constantly getting in the way of a team of profilers and putting yourself in danger once or twice.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x podcast host female!reader, criminal minds typical violence, case details, mention of sexual violence, abduction, addiction, and drug use, season 2 bau team

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 11k

𝐚/𝐧: i finally managed to finish the series ive been working on for so long. entire case and most of the characters were created by me i hope you enjoy it! (part 2 — 31 july) if you wanna be added to the taglist, just drop a comment!

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟏/𝟒

───────────────────────────────────

executioner — an official who carries out a sentence of death on a condemned person.

───────────────────────────────────

Spencer turned his head to the side to answer Elle's question, but his words were drowned out by the sound of JJ's approaching heels. It wasn’t just their conversation that stopped — when the blonde briskly circled the table where the rest of the team was seated, a silence fell over the brightly lit morning room.

Expectant.

JJ ended up standing with her back to the screen, clutching a file in her hands, and she tilted her head to the side, glancing over their faces.

“Get ready,” she began. “Because you’ve never seen anything like this.”

Sure, at first it sounded rather ominous, but right after, there was Morgan's skeptical snort.

“I’m so sorry JJ, but I’m pretty sure I’ve seen it all since I started this job,” he said.

“Don’t be so sure,” Elle warned him, resting her forearms on the table and leaning forward so she could look at him. “One day your arrogance is gonna bring down something so messed up on us that you’ll take those words back real fast.”

“To some extent I agree with Morgan,” Reid suddenly spoke up, relaxed in his seat with his hands clasped over his stomach, on his brown vest.

Derek smiled to himself with satisfaction, his arm shooting to the side to pull him in.

“See, genius boy agrees with me—”

“I’m not finished,” Spencer objected, smoothly dodging his friend’s limb and ignoring his eye roll. He realized everyone was waiting for him to finish his earlier thesis, so he mechanically adjusted his glasses on his nose and cleared his throat. “What I meant is that it’s simply impossible that we’ve seen absolutely everything. If that were the case, working on every case would, by the way, be at least half as short, but what I’m trying to say is that maybe we haven’t encountered everything yet, but we’ve developed such a diverse range of patterns, human behaviors, disorders, and motives that it’s not entirely stupid to doubt that anything can still surprise us.”

Morgan sighed. Shrugging his shoulders, he shook his head briefly from side to side.

“Yep, that’s exactly what I meant. Glad we agree.”

“Well, I literally just explained that I don’t exactly—”

“JJ, you can start now,” Hotch cut in at the right, measured moment, steering everyone’s thoughts in the direction they should be going. Toward the case.

The blonde turned toward the screen, where, after pressing a button on the remote, a map of some area appeared along with an entire array of photos — the typical set when working a serial murder case. The faces of living women accompanied photos of their bodies and the locations where they had been found. Spencer froze, trying to analyze everything thoroughly. He didn’t look around, but he knew the others were doing the same.

A moment of silence followed, during which the screen zoomed in on the face of a young girl with warm blonde hair and large, trusting brown eyes.

“Fairview town*, northern Connecticut JJ said by way of introduction. “Over the past two months, three bodies of young women have been found. The first one came as a surprise — identified as Georgina Abbot, twenty-two, a prostitute from outside of town. Because of her profession and people’s judgment, it didn’t cause much of a stir within the local community, and the investigation, unfortunately, was closed rather quickly. Until the second body appeared.”

“Maggie Baker. Sixteen years old. A girl from a good family, good grades, and a reputation for being helpful. She earned some extra money walking the neighbors’ dogs. Of course, when she went missing, it drew the police’s attention, and a search began. Even before her body was found, another girl went missing, Gita Kopecká. She had just turned nineteen. Her mother and stepfather didn’t report her missing to the police, claimed it wasn’t her first time running away from home.”

“Okay but how do we know it’s the same unsub?” Elle asked, narrowing her eyes at the photo of the brunette on the screen. “They were different ages, one of them was a prostitute, the second a girl next door, the third a troubled teenager. They don’t even look that much alike physically, especially Maggie stands out from the rest.”

JJ caught her gaze and gave a slight nod, as if agreeing.

“That’s something we’ll have to analyze. Maybe talking to the locals will help us find some connection. But what does give us certainty that it’s the same unsub is the method of murder. That’s the part I mentioned that might surprise you…”

“They were electrocuted,” came an unexpected voice from the very end of the table.

Gideon, wearing his narrow glasses slid down to the tip of his nose. His eyes fully focused on the case files in his hands.

“That’s the conclusion we’re leaning toward,” JJ corrected, drawing a little more air into her lungs. “All of them were found dressed in white hospital gowns. Their heads were shaved, their skin had localized burns, and they had distinct marks pressed into their wrists and ankles, as if straps had been tightly fastened around them.”

“We’ve worked cases where the murders were carried out execution-style before,” Hotch pointed out. “In those situations, the offender believes the victims are somehow guilty morally or socially and that's his duty to deliver justice. The use of electricity as a murder weapon is what sets this one apart. We need to go there and—”

“JJ, JJ, JJ my sweet girl, did you mention the podcast like I asked?” Penelope’s voice suddenly came from the laptop, usually silent or absent when it came to discussing the gruesome details of a case. The woman inhaled sharply, realizing she had interrupted Hotch’s sentence. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Garcia, I’m not sure—” JJ began.

“What podcast?” Spencer asked.

That question seemed to seal something, caused silence to fall over the room, and focused everyone’s attention on the two of them, the ones who knew something the rest didn’t. And something JJ didn’t seem particularly eager to share.

“Wonderful that you ask,” Garcia replied enthusiastically, her tone taking on that same excited note as when she talked about her favorite game. She caught herself slightly, just enough to underline that she was now speaking with seriousness and conviction. “So, my favorite true crime podcast…”

“Wait, wait,” Morgan cut in with a slow, halting motion of his hand. “Sorry to interrupt you, but tell me, babygirl, since when do you listen to true crime podcasts?”

“Oh, you’d have to listen to this one to understand! It’s not that typical i’m a man with a deep voice and I’ll lower it even more while adding door creaking sounds in the background so you’ll pee your pants listening to it at night kind of podcast,” Penelope, of course, demonstrated exactly what she meant.

Spencer glanced at Gideon’s face when she did that. He noticed Elle did the same.

“It’s called Rotten Cherry. This girl is so fun and she adds tons of her own commentary while still being respectful toward the victims and, well, significantly less toward the murderers but that’s not the point, I’m not giving her free promotion right now…actually, no, I am! Because guys, she lives in the town where this is happening, so she’s there, reporting on everything, talking to the locals…”

“Garcia, you’re seriously suggesting we use some amateur podcast as our source of information?” Spencer asked skeptically, absolutely not believing it could be useful to them in any way. No matter how fun that girl was.

“She’s not recording some kind of bullshit, she actually takes this seriously and professionally! And not as a main source of information, just something worth checking out. You know how small communities work. Nobody wants to talk, especially not to outsiders. But she actually managed to talk to one of the victim’s sisters, she’s working hard to gather information about them and, you know, honor them in some way and that really could be helpful. I mean, you always look into the victims’ histories and families anyway, trying to get to the unsub,” Penelope explained in a defensive tone.

A moment of silence fell, during which Spencer’s eyebrows remained doubtfully raised.

Until he felt Hotch’s sharp gaze fixed on him from across the table.

He understood what it meant almost instantly, and was already opening his mouth to protest — but got cut off.

“Reid, you’ll listen to it and let us know if there’s anything useful for the investigation. In the meantime, we’ll meet on the jet in fifteen minutes. That’s all.”

As everyone got up to leave the room, Spencer stayed behind for a brief moment, sighing with his eyes closed. He could go through hundreds of pages of case files four times faster than the rest of the team, and it wasn’t nearly as exhausting for him — but listening? And not even dry facts, but information gathered by someone else, presented in a humorous way on top of that?

Hell no.

With that approach, Spencer set about what he considered a sisyphean task, already on board the jet. Because he couldn’t refuse just because he had a feeling it wouldn’t lead them anywhere. He hoped someone would offer to take on the task instead of him, but after they saw his reluctance, their sadistic tendencies toward him kicked in and no one made him such an offer.

Away from the rest, without enthusiasm, he put the headphones on. Garcia had sent him a link to episodes related to the case they had just started working on; unlike others discussing, for example, killers like Jeffrey Dahmer, these focused on local murders and were short, somewhat like brief news updates. Apparently, the host girl posted many of her thoughts on the matter on a blog closely tied to the podcast, but he decided to check that out later.

“Can’t believe I’m saying this, guys,” the podcast began in a clear, pure female voice. Spencer immediately liked her flawless diction but was a bit surprised by how she started the episode with no introduction or greeting.

Spencer caught himself listening to the intro completely still, fully focused on her rambling. Which didn’t even directly relate to what interested him (the information needed for the investigation) and yet it engaged him completely! He reprimanded himself for it and for the rest of the episode made sure not to allow even the slightest corner of his mouth to lift — his task was to focus on the factual side.

“But in today’s episode, we’re heading to a picturesque place in northern Connecticut where the church is right across from McDonald’s, in case the guilt after your seventh burger this week pushes you all the way to the confessional and the most exciting event of the summer season is a festival with a contest for the best apple pie. Let’s not forget that everyone here knows not only you, your family up to five generations back, and your kindergarten friend, but also knows what you’re going to do even before you think about it yourself. And don’t even get me started on how fast rumors spread. Welcome to Fairview, the town I had the pleasure—or not—to be born in and suffer in, I mean, be raised in for over twenty years. And where a murder happened. Oh, I feel guilty now for all those times I prayed for something interesting to happen here, obviously, I didn’t mean that…”

And well, it turned out to be easier than you might think — the host immediately eased up on the jokes as soon as she approached the topic of the first discovered body. Sure, she still spoke quickly and with enthusiasm, and didn’t entirely hold back her commentary either, but it was aimed straight at the local police, not the victims or the human tragedy. Spencer listened to the episodes chronologically;could feel the shift in mood that probably took hold in the whole town too — the girls were disappearing, and more bodies were being found.

The information she dug up was surprising, and for a moment he even wondered where she was getting it from. A few pieces seemed valuable enough that he made note of them in his mind. Of course, only as things worth considering, not as enlightened truth. After all, she was still an amateur. Although, he had to admit, some of her observations and insights were very accurate and this girl herself seemed really intelligent…

Without realizing when, Spencer had listened to all the episodes related to this case. He slowly looked around the jet, not taking the headphones off his ears. Everyone was busy with something—talking, playing cards, reading case files. No one paid him much attention, and they still had some time before landing…

Reid started the first episode where the Rotten Cherry story began. It also concerned the Connecticut case, this time Bristol, one of the most notorious American killers — Robert Taylor. Of course, he knew almost everything about it, so he didn’t understand why he decided to listen to it.

Maybe he was simply killing time. Maybe he wanted to find out what Garcia saw in this podcast that made it her favorite. Maybe there was something in her way of speaking that reached him—and held him.

In any case, her voice accompanied him right until they landed.

⚡︎

The door of the trailer swung open in front of you, and you were endlessly grateful to Danny for teaching you how to unlock it with nothing but a screwdriver. And for not asking why you needed to know that.

You stepped inside carefully, the yellow blinds covering the small windows combined with the sun rays attacking them from outside created a warm, golden glow, and you could see tiny dust particles floating in the air. The interior was rather modest — a worn-out couch, a fridge probably dating back to the Cold War, a wardrobe with a broken handle that you had to open by digging your fingers into the gap between the doors.

You weren’t expecting luxury — all the trailers on the outskirts of Fairview looked exactly the same, cheap enough to rent for people passing through, stopping there for a short time, a brief stage in their lives.

One of those people was twenty-eight-year-old Judy Perkins.

Judy had arrived in your town just a year ago. She didn’t get too involved in the life of the local community, but she seemed polite. You could have a nice chat with her over the meat counter at the store or exchange a short but genuine hi when passing on the street.

According to her own words, she didn’t have a place of her own yet — she was still looking for it, moving from one place to another, picking up waitress jobs and staying in cheap places.

You didn’t know anything about whether she had any family. The label homo viator stuck to her.

And that’s exactly why it seemed to you that you were the only one who truly cared about her disappearance.

Vanishing.

When a person is alone, their disappearance really gives meaning to that word. Suddenly, they’re gone — they fade like they never existed. People notice it eventually, when they happen to remember, but they immediately wave it off, saying she probably just left. The police act the same way. Searching for a person feels pointless to them when there aren’t worried parents visiting the station every day, asking about breakthroughs or new information.

You probably would’ve thought she simply left, too. You probably would’ve thought that — if it hadn’t been for the three other women who went missing before her, and whose bodies had been found shortly after — in hospital gowns, with shaved heads, burned.

You pushed that vision away from yourself and forced your focus back to the task at hand. You broke into ahem ahem visited Judy’s place to find anything that would convince others, especially the police, but also yourself, that her absence wasn’t just a regular disappearance.

Looking around the trailer, trying to figure out what could help you with that, you automatically drifted toward that retired fridge.

Okay, sour milk wasn’t exactly evidence, but it was a good lead. After all, when you plan to leave, you don’t really leave behind things that could spoil and stink up the place.

You sniffed the milk and immediately felt a gag reflex coming on.

You had to keep looking. Anything.

You moved back to the small living area of the camper, to the tiny dresser that turned out to be full of clothes she would’ve packed if she were leaving. The wardrobe with the broken handle was nearly impossible to open, so you used the screwdriver you had brought with you.

On a hanger, there was the denim jacket Judy almost never parted with. Somehow, that made your stomach turn even more than the sour milk.

You drew a breath and turned away from the wardrobe, freezing for a moment. And that’s when your eyes landed on the light red couch and the faded pillows.

Or rather, on something sticking out from under one of them.

You took three steps to reach it and sat down on the edge of the couch, grabbing the object.

A wallet.

A wallet with all her documents and cash.

Suddenly it felt so heavy in your hand. People take their wallet when they go to the store — all the more reason she would’ve taken it if she was leaving. Or if she decided to move out.

Even if you choose to get rid of your old identity, you take that damn credit card and driver’s license with you — if only so they don’t stay behind in the trailer that’s about to be rented to someone else.

You felt your heart pick up a little. You were afraid the police wouldn’t take it as enough proof, but for you — it was.

It was, and you were going to do something about it. Even if it meant bothering the cops every day and starting the search on your own.

You pushed yourself up onto straight legs, but you didn’t get the chance to look around for anything else to be sure, when you heard someone walking up the metal steps leading to the camper.

It could’ve been anyone, but every version your mind came up with was terrifying.

You didn’t really expect to come face to face with the killer — with the Executioner, as you called him on your podcast but the idea of running into the woman who rented out the trailers, Nora, who loved shooting at cans with her shotgun, wasn’t much better.

You glanced around in panic and, without a moment of hesitation, jumped inside the wardrobe you had just searched.

Right around that same moment, the door to the camper opened.

The person who stepped inside must’ve stopped and looked around, because a long moment of absolute silence fell, during which your body was tangled up in the denim jacket and flannel shirt, surrounded by darkness.

You didn’t want to hold your breath only to gasp for it later like a drowning person, but at the same time, it felt like you were breathing so damn loudly, you’d be noticed any second.

The police didn’t like you much already for so-called — please, insert the monotonous, snarky tone imitating those old mustached cops — sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.

You didn’t want to explain a break-in on top of that.

You heard how that person slowly, even more cautiously than you had, looked around the place. They were practically following your path heading to the kitchen and then back, stopping.

For a moment, a thought flashed through your mind. What if it was Judy?

Maybe, by some sick coincidence, she picked today to come back (assuming, of course, she hadn’t been kidnapped) the same day you were searching her place? You felt the urge to lean out just a little, press your eye to the crack in the door and peek outside.

But you quickly reminded yourself — there was always a risk that it wasn’t Judy. Or Nora.

The footsteps headed toward the exit.

And your damn phone.

Ringing at literally that exact moment, the ringtone filling not just the tiny wardrobe but the whole camper.Frantically, you shoved your hand into the jacket pocket, pulled it out and smashed your fingers against the screen, rejecting the call like crazy.

The caller’s name lit up. Charlie. Fucking Charlie — your friend and coworker.

The phone went silent, and for a split, tiny second you let yourself hope that maybe just maybe the person who entered the camper hadn’t heard it. Maybe they had already left…

Of course not. You’d have to be some damn favorite of fate for that.

The wardrobe door was yanked open, leaving you face to face with the intruder.

Your first instinct was to shut your eyes, but you quickly realized that was potentially the dumbest thing you could’ve done. So you opened them again, wide even, and immediately threw your hands up in a submissive gesture when you saw the owner of the campers, Nora, with a shotgun slung over her shoulder.

Her gray hair was tied back in a braid, and on her nose were small, narrow glasses. She seemed, in her own way, relieved at the sight of you — well, she probably wouldn’t have taken the shotgun if she expected that it was just some nosy girl poking around her camper.

“My God, kid…” she muttered in a tone that sounded like spitting.

You jumped outside, still with your hands raised in the air. It was fine, just good old Nora. Good old Nora, who you now had to convince not to press charges for breaking and entering.

“Good morning, what’s up?” you threw out, overly friendly, voice as high and innocent as possible. “I am…a very close friend of Jude’s and I dropped by to visit her. Um, actually, I dropped by for my jacket that I left here. In the wardrobe. The wardrobe I was in. Jude told me to just grab it…”

Nora shook her head and slammed the wardrobe door shut, as if she simply wanted to cut herself off from the enormous nonsense you were saying with that sound

“Spare me that, I know you’re not,” she muttered, lowering the shotgun so it wasn’t quite so in-your-face anymore, adjusting the strap top that revealed her heavily tanned, almost reddish shoulders.

She went quiet for a moment, pressing her lips together.

“I thought it was her. Judy. I thought she finally came back. I was hoping…”

You stayed silent too, watching her expression closely. Was there worry in it? You finally lowered your arms and dropped the overly friendly act.

“So you don’t know what happened to her either,” you said.

Nora paused. She seemed cautious about giving away any information, eyeing you carefully over those narrow glasses.

“I know you,” she suddenly stated, narrowing her eyes. “You’re the detective girl.”

“Well, more like a sort of—”

“She sometimes didn’t come back to the camper for a few days, but never more than three,” Nora continued, turning her back to you and walking along the couch, though she didn’t sit down.

You fell quiet obediently, letting her speak. You needed this information.

Also — did they really call you the detective girl?! Your fourteen-year-old Sherlock Holmes-obsessed self would’ve been so proud.

“Besides, she never missed a week’s rent. Normally, I kick out people like that immediately, but with her, I decided to wait. She’s been living here nearly a year. Always on time. Maybe something came up, maybe she had to deal with something out of town. But when it turned into weeks…”

She trailed off.

Your foot twitched involuntarily in place — a mix of emotions, engagement, and restlessness. Why hadn’t you thought to contact Nora before? She usually seemed cold, and you’d assumed from the start she wouldn’t tell you anything. Maybe even scare you off with her gun and tell you to mind your own business.

“All her documents, things, money, they’re all here,” you stated, nodding toward the wallet lying on the couch. “This doesn’t look like she moved out or ran off to avoid paying rent. Did you report it to the police?”

Nora snorted.

“They’d say she’s an adult. Probably left town. Besides, she wasn’t from here. When you’re not born here and don’t live in a house with a white picket fence, suddenly it’s not their problem,” she scoffed.

You nodded involuntarily, listening to her. Well, you couldn’t exactly argue with that. Not that you wanted to.

“But now we have to. This is a disappearance, and especially considering what’s been happening lately… those murders,” you said, noticing Nora wince as you spoke.

“There should be some kind of search underway. I’m going straight to the station—”

“Go straight home, kid,” she cut you off, turning fully toward you. “It’s getting dark, and it’s not safe to be wandering around like this. Not now.”

“But I have to,” you repeated stubbornly.

You regretted that there wasn’t any option other than involving the damn police, but really, it was the most logical place to start.

Nora sighed.

“In that case, I’ll drive you myself,” she offered.

Your head pulled back slightly in genuine surprise. She shot you a look like, what’s the matter? and you quickly nodded side to side, then up and down in your own chaotic way to show you agreed. You thought you caught a flicker of a smile as she turned toward the camper’s door.

You followed her like a ghost, one question still flickering on your lips. Outside, it was indeed getting dark. You stepped down the metal stairs and watched as Nora locked the door with a key from the set hanging on her pants belt.

You bit the inside of your cheek, mustering the courage to ask.

“Would you maybe…want to be on my podcast? Say a few things about Judy?”

Nora passed by you without a word, heading toward her pickup.

“First, the police,” she replied.

“Is that yes?”

She didn’t answer that, but after everything was over, after both of you argued a bit with the cops, squeezing all the juice out of your mixed personalities, and you stopped in front of your house where, as promised, she gave you a ride, you delayed getting out. And then, she agreed.

But she didn’t want to come inside. You had to use your phone to record her briefly talking about Judy—what she was like, what she did, and that there was no trace of her. You added yourself what Judy looked like, just in case any of your listeners somehow spotted her somewhere.

If Judy was out there, safe and sound, which you forced yourself to believe, she wouldn’t mind that episode.

Nora’s pickup disappeared down the road as you made your way along the short, greenery-lined path leading to the house—your mom loved gardening.

Even before stepping inside, you could already see the light on in the kitchen. You walked in and, fully expecting who you’d find there, tossed a casual hi, I’m back while hanging your jacket by the door.

Only when the warmth of the house wrapped around you did you fully register how much colder the days—and especially the evenings—had gotten as September pressed on.

With the recording of your conversation with Nora safely on your phone, you wanted to head straight upstairs to your room and, well, your little home recording studio. But you also didn’t want to openly ignore your mom and Danny.

So you trudged into the kitchen, where they were having dinner by the breakfast nook, both more focused on the laptop screen than their food.

“When it comes to the electrical stuff, I really think we should hire a professional,” your mom was saying, eyeing the man beside her. She suddenly noticed you and offered a brief smile. “Hey, hon.” Then she turned back to Danny. “Okay, I get it, you’re a genius, hardworking, and your hands are basically gold, but this is also about your safety.”

Danny raised his eyebrows.

"Wow, now that’s some serious flattery. Genius, hands basically gold?"

"Ugh, that’s the last time I compliment you. You always get so smug about it"

"Yeah, yeah, don’t mind me" you muttered, opening the fridge to grab something edible to stuff your face with.

Your mom worked in buying and renovating small summer houses, which she later rented out or sold at a higher price. Danny, on the other hand, was her friend—the town’s go-to handyman—capable of fixing pretty much anything, from a broken pen to, probably, a tank.

You didn’t know exactly how they met, but it was common knowledge around town that Danny’s wife had passed away back when you were still a little kid. Either way, they worked on all this together. Danny’s skills significantly cut down on renovation costs, and once they got caught up in their endless discussions about tiles, rooftops, and furniture, there was basically no getting through to them.

They kept teasing each other behind your back for a moment longer as you took a sip of juice, when suddenly you felt a hand with long nails tangle in your hair. You instinctively ducked, trying to slip away.

"There’s still some pasta left," your mom said, letting go of your hair with a small smile as she walked past you toward the kitchen door. "I’m gonna take a shower. Be the most wonderful daughter ever and do the dishes, okay?"

You raised a warning finger.

"I always thought I was the most wonderful daughter no matter the conditions," you called after her.

"You are," she threw over her shoulder as she walked out. "But do the dishes."

Even though, after grabbing a snack, you'd much rather head upstairs and work on your blog and podcast, you didn’t protest. You stayed behind with Danny, and for a moment, the small kitchen space was filled with complete silence but not because you felt awkward around him. He’d been your mom’s and your friend for so long that you could easily talk to him about almost anything, and besides, you were never the quiet type. But right now, he was focused on his laptop, and you were lost in your thoughts.

Your mind kept circling back to Judy and the hope that in the next few days, you’d finally manage to figure something out about her disappearance.

You loaded all the dishes into the dishwasher, and when you closed the door, you were surprised to notice that Danny was no longer sitting by the small kitchen counter. Instead, he was standing right next to you, leaning casually against the counter. He was a fairly tall man, solidly built thanks to his profession, with black, curly hair. Without saying a word, he was watching your movements, the thoughtful expression on his face — combined with the faint stubble that always made him look slightly scruffy — suggested he was preparing to say something.

You straightened up and tilted your head toward him questioningly.

"You got back a little late today," he remarked.

You finally recognized the look in his eyes — you could tell it was worry. Seeing your hesitation, which, to be fair, was mostly just surprise, Danny added quickly,

“It’s not like I’m trying to lecture you or anything,” he said. “You’re an adult. And I’m not even your parent. But I’m sure you know what I mean.”

You pressed your lips together slightly, showing him that yes, you did know. You figured you probably weren’t the only girl in town who had recently had a similar conversation with one of her parents. Or siblings. Or friends.

“I know, Danny,” you sighed, nodding. “I really try not to go anywhere after dark. Alone. I drag Charlie with me whenever I can like he’s no bodybuilder, but better company like that than none at all. And when some guy in a white van offers to show me his cute little puppies, I make sure to say a firm only if you bring them outside first.’”

He snorted with amusement, and you thought that would be the end of the conversation. It was genuinely nice of him to worry about his friend’s daughter and to make sure you knew how to handle yourself in dangerous situations but as it happened, after dozens of true crime cases you'd analyzed for your podcast, you were pretty damn good at that already. But instead of going back to his work, Danny suddenly reached out his hand. And in that hand, he was holding something.

You raised your brows at him.

“Are you seriously giving me pepper spray?”

He practically shoved it into your hands. For a moment, you just stared at the small bottle in surprise, but of course, you weren’t about to say no. Better to have something to defend yourself with in a crisis, right? Before you managed to mumble your thanks, Danny spoke up again.

“And that one’s really strong. Works great on serial killers, bears, and pushy boys. Don’t be afraid to use it, just be careful not to spray it in your own eyes.”

You tightened your grip on the pepper spray and looked the man in the eyes, giving him a small nod.

“Thanks, Danny.”

For a moment, silence settled between you and for the first time, probably not just between you and him, but between you and anyone, it actually felt awkward. Danny was the one to break it, clearing his throat and nodding towards the laptop.

“Wanna see some pictures of the inside of the cabin we’re working on? Slowly, day by day, it’s actually starting to look like…you know, an actual structure.”

This time, you chuckled softly but shook your head, feeling a tiny sting of guilt.

“I’m so sorry, but I’ve got some work to do. You know… podcast things.”

“No, totally get it. Good luck.”

“You too. And thanks again for the spray.”

Danny waved his hand dismissively, as if to say don’t mention it.

⚡︎

The biggest perk of working at a tiny tech shop was that, for the most part, there was practically nothing to do.

It was about the size of a modest neighborhood convenience store, but instead of candy bars and cigarettes behind the counter, there were flip phones on display, various cables, monitors, USB sticks. Sometimes people stopped by to grab a charger after losing theirs somewhere, but most customers came in asking for device repairs — water damage, viruses, screen protectors. The last one you could handle yourself, but the real tech genius was your coworker, Charlie.

Most days, the two of you spent sitting on the chairs behind the counter, quickly pulling your feet down whenever someone walked through the door. It allowed you to use your job to work on something way more interesting. More than once, you edited podcast episodes there, or like now, replied to comments under one of them.

When it came to editing, your go-to help was, of course, Charlie. Especially when you were so caught up in research for a case that you simply couldn’t make it in time for Friday, when the new episode was supposed to drop. That was the only reason you hadn’t strangled him for calling you yesterday right when you were hiding in the closet of a camper you had, well…broken into.

But anyway, you two were supposed to finish work in an hour, and it had been a very quiet day. Charlie was sitting next to you as usual, buried in one of his oversized hoodies, his long, light brown hair falling over the hood, and a giant, probably his fifth that day cup of coffee in front of him.

You often wondered how the hell that boy wasn’t constantly shaking from caffeine overdose. But it was quite the opposite. He always looked sluggish and spaced out, with grayish bags under his eyes and his phone in hand, killing boredom by playing some game.

You were holding your laptop on your knees, nervously chewing your thumbnail for the past five minutes, staring at a single comment you’d received.

Rotten Cherry hadn’t brought you nationwide fame, you didn’t have to swat away fans everywhere you went but you had managed to build a pretty loyal audience. Fans who often sent you their own sources or additional information to go along with the episodes you made. You never took it as nitpicking; you actually wanted your materials to be as thoroughly researched as possible, and you didn’t feel pressured to dig up every little thing yourself.

One user, blackqueen6969, regularly sent you documents so detailed you’d caught yourself wondering whether they were some bored FBI agent killing time after hours. You’d joked about it to Charlie (before he had his coffee, so naturally, he was grumpy though, honestly, he’d been grumpy a lot lately). His response you seriously think some agent would risk their entire career for a random girl with a podcast?

This time though, the comment didn’t come from blackqueen6969 but from some other, unregistered user.

i like to go urbexing in abandoned places from time to time and last time i ended up at the old transformer station in the woods near fairview. i’d heard a couple rumors before about someone regularly hanging around there and even people hearing weird noises. i didn’t even dare to go inside. swear to god someone’s using that station and considering all those women got electrocuted i instantly kinda connected those two things. i think someone should check it out.

“Charlie,” you muttered to get your friend’s attention. His eyes were still fixed on his phone, but it didn’t look like he was actually playing anything. “Charlie.”

You kicked one leg of his chair, which turned out to be a much more effective way to snap him out of his daze. He straightened up in his seat, shooting you a questioning, slightly irritated look. Unfazed, you turned your laptop screen so he could read the comment.

He leaned in to see better. You patiently waited for him to get to the last line you knew exactly when he did yet the boy still stayed silent. It wasn’t until about a minute later that he started shaking his head, first slowly, then faster and faster.

“There’s no fucking way I’m going there with you.”

You were sure he was going to say that, and even before he finished the sentence, you were already looking at him intently—convincingly, almost pleadingly.

“And there’s no fucking way I’m going there alone”

“So, don’t.”

“But I have to! I have to check it out—”

“Listen,” Charlie cut you off with a hand gesture, signaling you to stop before you could say another word. When you opened your mouth, he repeated the motion, this time more forcefully. “I know playing detective is your dream—”

“This isn’t about dreams, asshole, it’s about a missing woman—”

“But you can’t just go alone to some remote place because someone on the internet told you to. It could be anyone. Maybe someone’s just trying to lure you there.”

It was a very valid point, which you also quickly considered, but decided to ignore for a simple reason. It was holding you back from acting. And you wanted to act. You wanted to do something. Besides, you didn’t plan to blindly rush into danger marked as the lair of a serial killer. You only wanted to investigate the lead you’d been given, taking every precaution and bringing someone else along.

You fell silent, knowing Charlie wouldn’t understand if you tried to explain it to him.

“Well,” you finally began, deciding to approach it differently. “Maybe someone really is trying. In that case, they’ll succeed, because I’m going there.”

“Forget it, I’m not going with you.”

“I’ll go alone.”

“No.”

Charlie stared at you with anger, which must have been fueled by your deliberately arrogant expression. He had been quite distant lately. Often mean and curt. But one thing about Charlie was that he truly cared about his loved ones and was ready to do a lot for them, whether family or friends.

Finally, he sighed, and either you imagined it or his breath was truly trembling. For a moment, he even squeezed his eyes shut, his temples all wrinkled, and you hesitated, not knowing where that reaction came from. He took his time and opened them, looking at you unfavorably. The strange behavior was gone.

“Fine,” he grumbled.

You tried not to look too smug so he wouldn’t change his mind, but inside you were literally dancing.

“I can always count on you, Charlie.”

“Shut up.”

“We’ll meet at midnight.”

He was halfway looking back at his phone screen, then snapped his gaze back to you.

“You’re completely insane—”

“I’m joking,” you rolled your eyes. “Six o’clock? It’s been getting darker earlier lately and I have no idea how long this will take.”

He seemed to genuinely consider it, even paler than usual, the gray bags under his eyes turning almost purple.

“I’ll pick you up at five,” he decided.

You agreed and wanted to get back to answering comments, but you couldn’t help sneaking a glance at him out of the corner of your eye. He hadn’t returned to playing the game at all, clenching his fists tightly, seeming to hold back from shaking.

“Sorry for a moment,” he finally muttered and got up from his chair, heading to your small shop bathroom.

You watched him leave but didn’t have much time to guess what it could have been about when the little bell on the door jingled, signaling that someone had come inside.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Benson,” you greeted the man, who was probably nearing eighty, with a neatly trimmed white beard and a navy blue shirt thrown over a white undershirt.

Mr. Benson, as usual, approached the counter and slid his phone towards you. A funny thing — he came to your shop every day, asking someone to set the alarm on his phone, which was too technologically complicated a tool for him.

“Be so kind,” he said, as always.

You grabbed the phone to do the usual, unchanged for nearly a few months now.

“Four in the morning. I really admire you.”

He ignored your attempt to start a conversation, took the phone from you, and with just a “goodbye,” headed toward the exit without looking back, as usual, unchanged for nearly a few months now.

You really liked your job.

⚡︎

As promised, Charlie picked you up a few minutes after five. He wasn’t in the best mood. Honestly, you weren’t exactly bursting with joy either at the thought of exploring an abandoned, potentially dangerous murder site, but your driving force — curiosity, determination, and the desire to help restore safety to the women in your town — was too strong. Adrenaline completely pushed out the bad gut feeling.

Wanting to somehow spark conversation during the ride out of town, you teasingly commented on the black beanie Charlie had put on, saying he really looked handsome dressed like a burglar, but he only shot you a warning look. You rolled your eyes.

The town's main road, sprinkled here and there with the first orange autumn leaves and sparsely spaced buildings, slowly began to transform into empty roadsides, tall metal electrical towers, and after about half an hour of driving trees, trees, more trees, and before you even realized it, you were driving through the forest.

You became your navigator, having earlier dug through the internet in search of clues on how to get to this place. The pockets of your jacket were practically stuffed with items. The pepper spray Danny had given you, a flashlight even though it was bright outside, a fully charged phone, a pocket knife. With every passing meter, your knee tapped out an increasingly fast rhythm and you started to consider whether maybe you should’ve brought garden shears, in case the area was surrounded by a fence. But it was too late for that. If you asked Charlie to turn around, he’d probably do it without hesitation, but then he wouldn’t come back here later.

Speaking of Charlie, you watched him out of the corner of your eye, you felt like the distance you covered was proportional to how shallow his breathing became. When the car bounced along the forest path and the building you were looking for was already visible ahead, his chest covered by a navy blue hoodie barely rose at all. He parked.

You took a deep breath to give yourself some courage, and your hand was already reaching for the handle when you noticed your friend wasn’t moving, just staring straight ahead at the transformer station and shaking his head.

“This crap’s gonna collapse on our heads,” he said. The shaking of his head intensified, his face was completely white. “I’m not going in there. We’re not going. I’m turning back…”

You literally had to pry his hands off the steering wheel, he pressed the gas pedal and then immediately let go, the car jolted and your ears rang when the back of your head hit the seat. You angrily exhaled through your teeth with a hiss.

“We came all the way here just for you to change your mind now?” you asked.

“I didn’t know it looked like this. N-no… no, no way, it’s dangerous, it might still be hooked up to electricity—”

“That’s why I brought you with me! So we could help each other if necessary, for god’s sake, are you seriously going to chicken out now when we’re literally already here?” you hissed at him, waving your hand toward the area in front of you.

Charlie clenched his jaw, holding your gaze without blinking. His hands still gripped the steering wheel, one of your hands covering them, preventing him from driving off. You glanced down and noticed his knuckles were trembling. Knuckles. If he loosened his grip, his whole hands would start shaking in panic.

You exhaled through your nose, lowering your tone a bit. But only a bit. He might be scared, but he was still here with you, and he was your friend and friends support each other when one of them is about to investigate a potential serial killer’s hideout.

“Fine, just stay here,” you finally said, letting go of him and reaching for the car door. You placed one foot outside, already knowing that nothing would make you turn back. “If I’m not back in, say, half an hour, call the police. Unless that’s too scary for you too.”

With that snarky comment, you fully stepped out into the forest clearing and slammed the door shut behind you.

But you walked slowly.

Not because you were scared.

You were simply sure that Charlie would soon call out wait and jog after you. You turned around. He was still sitting in his seat, one elbow resting on the window and his head supported by the same hand.

You pressed your lips together tightly. From the beginning, you thought this would be a two-person job. The thought of having him by your side gave you courage. Now, completely alone, you picked up your pace even more, refusing to let fear devour you.

Your target, the transformer station, looked nothing like the modern, small ones. Made of dark, rust-colored bricks, overgrown with moss at the bottom, it had a second floor and was fairly elongated. Most of the structure was heavily damaged, and probably for safety reasons, it didn’t have any windows—only small ventilation openings covered with metal grates. Around it were the remains of some sort of fencing, rusty rods sticking crookedly out of the ground, but they didn’t stop you in the slightest from circling the building in search of an entrance.

You turned on your flashlight even before pushing those metal doors open.

The first thing that caught your eye—grass.

That’s right, grass. The concrete floor was completely cracked, and long green blades of grass sprouted through it. Grass covered nearly the entire ground floor. The interior had been almost completely cleared of anything, so empty that if you spoke, your voice would probably echo off the walls. As you cautiously stepped further inside, sweeping your flashlight along the walls, you noticed coils of cables piled in the corners, some snapped, and dangling metal boxes marked with high voltage warnings.

You stopped, slightly disoriented. The place looked completely abandoned. Not that you were expecting a torture chamber but…

You had probably arrived with expectations that were far too high.

But that wasn’t the end of it. There were also concrete stairs without a railing, leading to the upper floor. You paused at the bottom, testing their stability. Decent enough, which couldn’t be said for the floor above. It was cracked, destroyed, in places literally full of holes—big enough that one wrong step and you’d earn yourself an express trip back downstairs.

It was brighter there thanks to a collapsed fragment of the outer wall, through which daylight streamed inside. You approached it, the plaster from the walls and ceiling crunching and crumbling beneath your boots. Your legs were shaking all over you were terrified the floor would simply give way beneath you at any moment. At least your worries about bumping into someone were gone this place didn’t look like anyone had been using it…for shady purposes.

You weren’t mad at the person who left the comment that lured you here. You preferred to check this lead than ignore it and regret it later. You were just disappointed. You could already hear Charlie’s sarcastic remarks on the way back, the smugness, the complaints about why you even came here in the first place.

You leaned out through the hole in the wall, expecting to spot his car and flip him off. But something didn’t add up. You froze in place. Charlie’s car, parked under that specific tree…was gone.

Instead, there was a completely different one. Black, with tinted windows. Parked right up next to the station.

Still frozen, you felt a sting of panic spreading through your chest. You tried to swallow it down. Suppress it. Your fear wouldn’t get you out of this situation. It would only make it worse. You had to be smart.

You instinctively took a step back, away from the hole in the wall. You immediately cursed silently. The plaster beneath your feet let out a cracking sound—walking around here made noise. You strained your ears, listening for any signs that someone else had entered the building, but the loud pounding of your own heartbeat drowned out everything.

Shit.

It could’ve been a random urbex enthusiast. It could’ve been the Executioner.

50/50.

If they had entered the building, you were screwed. There was only one exit—downstairs. Your only hope was that they wouldn’t come upstairs. So, you should stay here. But if they did come upstairs?

Your eyes flicked toward the hole in the wall. Jumping from that height shouldn’t hurt you. But if you landed badly and twisted your ankle? You’d have no way to get out of here. Charlie had left. It was over a thirty minutes drive back to town.

So—hide and pray.

As quietly and carefully as you could, holding your breath, you made your way to one of the walls, where a metal box lay, looking like it had fallen off the wall. There were no cables connected to it, it didn’t seem like there was any risk of getting electrocuted, so the desperate idea popped into your head.

It was tiny. But if you curled up well enough…

You crouched down and opened the little door, the creak loud, and squeezed your eyes shut in fear.

Slowly, you pulled them open again, feeling dizzy from holding your breath. The open little door made you want to cry from that reality check — not even a four-year-old kid would fit inside. And on top of that, it wasn’t even empty. Inside there was…

Instinctively, you grabbed the tin. The kind grandmas keep cookies in. Except this one didn’t have a lid. It was open, and the moment you looked inside, you saw what was in it. You almost threw it away, thinking it was a spider nest — well, no surprise you thought that.

The tin was full of hair.

Black. Brown. And red.

You tossed it away from you the second realization hit you.

You studied the faces of the victims. You knew Judy had dark, dyed black hair.

Gita — natural, dark brown.

Georgina — born a redhead.

You took a terrified step back and…you were standing close enough to the hole in the floor for the weak edges to simply collapse under your weight.

Any fall from that height knocks the air right out of your lungs. Pain shot through you like a blade, and mid-air you managed to shield your head with your arms, at the same time dropping the flashlight. Luckily, you didn’t hit the floor flat on your back.

You didn’t even hit the floor.

It would’ve hurt more if you had hit the floor. The floor wouldn’t have let out a shocked, cut-off scream and a groan when its body was suddenly crushed by another one and pinned down to the concrete.

In other words — you landed right on top of someone.

It didn’t change the fact that the fall knocked the air out of your lungs and left you unable to remember your name, your age, or the difference between a killer and a murderer. Dazed, disoriented, aching all over, you tried to lift your head, only to realize you were lying directly on top of someone’s face. A face positioned squarely beneath yours, most likely just as incapable of answering those three vital questions. His glasses were completely covered in the white dust falling from the collapsed ceiling.

But you didn’t even get the chance to take a proper look at the man who had cushioned your fall when someone grabbed your arm from behind and yanked you upright. The guy in glasses, his face all twisted in pain, managed to push himself up into a sitting position, bracing one hand against the concrete floor, and that was pretty much the last thing you saw before your gaze dropped to a woman with chin length hair and bangs, wearing an FBI vest.

That’s when it hit you.

The person who had entered the building, and from whom you had tried to hide in the metal box, wasn’t The Executioner, but someone from the complete opposite end of the spectrum. Police.

The metal box. And what you had found.

Suddenly, it all came back to you. Strands of hair flashed before your eyes, and a chill raced down your spine, making you jolt.

"Hey, hey, hey, easy," came a voice from behind you. The man who had pulled you off the ground.

You turned your head over your shoulder to see a solidly built agent with darker skin. You shook your head wildly, side to side, unable to find the words.

Given where they’d found you, they probably weren’t looking at you too kindly, but you didn’t care about that right now, you had to tell them.

"You need to go upstairs," you urged, pleading.

All three of them (yes, including the man in glasses with the crushed leg, who—once he stood up—turned out to be the tallest of them, with a lean build and brown hair dusted with white plaster from the ceiling, which most likely covered you from head to toe as well) exchanged wary glances.

“Our people just went upstairs,” the woman said to you.

Her gaze—steely at first—suddenly softened, for she now saw who you were, not who they had assumed you to be. You weren’t a threat; you were simply at the scene they had also chosen to investigate, a terrified girl who had just fallen through the ceiling, showing no aggression, only pleading with horror in her voice for them to go upstairs.

“SSA Agent Elle Greenaway, Agent Morgan, and Agent Reid,” she introduced them all briefly. Out of the corner of your eye, you glanced at the man you'd landed on, making a mental note of his name. Since you'd already crushed him, common decency dictated you should at least know it. “Are you alright? Did you hurt yourself?”

The man behind you seemed to mirror the concern in her voice. He loosened his grip and, after a moment’s thought, let go of you entirely.

You murmured a thanks while rubbing your sore...everything.

“N-no,” you stammered, only just realizing you’d been asked a question. You cleared your throat, trying to give your voice a bit more strength. “No, I’m not hurt. I actually had a…pretty soft landing. Are you okay?”

You looked at Agent Reid, who didn’t move at first, then blinked wide-eyed at being suddenly addressed.

“Am I okay? I mean…” he paused, shaking white dust from his hair. Then he nodded slowly, mostly to himself. “Yeah, okay. I think I’m okay. Technically, I did hit my head on a concrete surface, and the real symptoms of a concussion like memory loss or light sensitivity usually show up a few hours later, so I guess I’ll only really know then—”

Agent Greenaway gave you a look. Unfazed, as if well-accustomed to this kind of rambling.

“I’d only be worried if he weren’t talking. He’s fine.”

From upstairs, another pair of agents came down the stairs. A dark-haired man and another, shorter one, both dressed in FBI vests and putting away their guns, indicating the upstairs was clear. One of them, the older one, was holding your find in a gloved hand.

At the sight of the can, you took in more air. Agent Reid turned his head in your direction, but his attention was immediately pulled by the words of the dark-haired man. “We need to send this for analysis as soon as possible. It’s full of hair, and as we know, the victims were found with shaved heads. Other than that, clear,” he explained in a stern tone. Only then did his eyes fall on you, his brow furrowed.

You awkwardly raised a hand to wave and introduce yourself, but Elle spoke up first. “She’s a civilian, Hotch. She’s here because…” She stopped, looking at you with a raised eyebrow. “What are you actually doing here?”

This whole Hotch crossed his arms over his chest, expectant, and you felt the atmosphere in the building grow thicker—all eyes on you. Even the man holding the can, who remained silent; and when you looked at him, your jaw slightly dropped. “Wait, are you Jason Gideon?” you asked, pointing at him.

Another round of collective glances. You ignored it, blurting out quickly, “Sorry. I’m a fan. Hi.” Ohmygodshutthefuckup You shook your head, one wide motion, forcing yourself to focus. You couldn’t blame yourself for that reaction. Anyone interested in criminology knew that name. “I’m here because I’m recording a podcast about the crimes in this town and, well, someone suggested I check out this place…”

“I knew your voice sounded familiar,” Reid interrupted you, a sudden look of realization crossing his face. “It’s a bit different from the recording, but I knew I’d heard it somewhere.”

His words completely threw you off. You stared at the man in glasses like he’d just fallen through the ceiling onto you.

“You know my podcast?” you asked.

He looked a bit embarrassed, opening his mouth to reply, but someone cut him off.

“We keep track of all news related to this case, even if it comes from unofficial sources — it’s part of our work,” Hotch explained in a calm, low tone. You got the impression that since you met him, about three minutes ago, his face hadn’t changed expression once, still holding that same stone-cold look. “Who suggested you check out this place? You need to tell us, it could be crucial to the case.”

You stood frozen, not answering his question. One thought echoed loudly in your mind. The FBI listens to your podcast?!

“I dunno, someone,” you finally stammered.

Wow. First the hair, then the collapsed ceiling, then Jason Gideon, and now this. It all felt like a dream where things kept getting progressively stranger. And that’s exactly how you felt. Like in a haze, not fully grasping the seriousness of the situation. It only started sinking in when Hotch’s gaze seemed to bore a hole right through your skull. The hair. The victims. This place, the very place that could be a crime scene.

“That was a comment. Anonymous. I don’t know who sent it.”

“And you decided to come here? Alone?”

“I’m not alone, I’m with—”

You stopped yourself, biting your tongue. Like you agreed with yourself earlier, the gravity of the situation was creeping back. They weren’t exactly friendly toward you; maybe Elle was at first, when she thought you were hurt. But now, you were just a civilian at a potential crime scene, just like Charlie, who had probably left when he spotted them. Should you tell them he was with you?

“You’re here with…?” Agent Morgan cut in, folding his arms across his chest.

You bit the inside of your cheek; every second you hesitated about whether to tell them or not affected your credibility, and you could see it in their increasingly suspicious expressions. Yet, you didn’t want to get arrested for further questioning, plus you were still angry at Charlie. Seeing the police, he should have stayed and helped you explain everything instead of running away. You sighed.

“I was here with my friend Charlie. He was waiting in the car.”

“We didn’t see any car,” Reid informed you, his hands folded over his FBI vest, under which a shirt cuff peeked out, something you found oddly interesting.

“Yeah. He must have taken off when he saw you.”

“Very loyal of him.”

“Well…”

“Okay, that’s enough. This place needs to be completely secured and thoroughly examined,” Hotch interrupted, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Elle, take her outside. I’ll need to have a word with her.”

The woman led you outside, and because the area was so covered, everything was cast in shadow, even though it wasn’t that late yet. Maybe it was just the effect of that day, the discovery in the building, but everything felt darker, more sinister. You didn’t know how long you waited outside. No one wanted to talk to you, and when the BAU agents spoke among themselves, they did so in a way that not a scrap of information reached your ears. Whenever you tried to eavesdrop, you were immediately shot a warning look.

At some point, you noticed Agent Hotchner approaching.

“Follow me. We’ll talk in the car,” he announced without even stopping.

You furrowed your brow but followed him toward the black SUV.

“In the car?”

“We can’t just leave you in the middle of the woods.”

Right. You forgot you came here with Charlie. Most of the agents stayed on site, but Reid was ordered to follow you both. He sat in the passenger seat as Hotch opened the door for you to get in the back.

Your knee jittered nervously the entire way. You had to steady it by pressing your hand against it. For a while, none of you spoke. You tried to keep your mouth shut so as not to upset them further, but it didn’t work.

“This is a crime scene, right? The Executioner was here and left hair as his trophy. In my opinion, it’s almost certain—”

“Your opinion doesn’t count here”

“Yeah, but you probably have your own suspicions, right—”

You stopped yourself as you caught Reid’s warning glance in the rearview mirror. It told you not to say any more. You clenched your jaw. You had literally seen that hair with your own eyes! They could tell you anything.

“We’re not going to discuss the irresponsibility of checking places like this on your own. You’re probably aware of that by now,” Hotch began as you drove out of the woods, down the lonely road you had come earlier with Charlie. “We just need to inform you that you have an absolute ban on mentioning this topic in your podcast. Understood?”

You didn’t say it out loud, but mentioning it on the podcast was the first thing you planned to do once you got back. before they forbade you from doing it.

Reid, seeing your unreadable expression, spoke up.

“Wee don’t want people to start taking too much interest in this place, for anyone to try visiting it and interfering with the investigation. It’s also for your own safety. We don’t know if the killer isn’t following your podcast.”

“I think you’re assuming I’m a lot more famous than I actually am,” you objected.

They ignored the comment. You sighed. The ride continued in silence. Soon, the area around you started to look more and more familiar. You were driving through the streets of Fairview and eventually ended up in front of your house.

“If anyone suggests you go somewhere again, or someone sends you some important information, contact us immediately,” Hotch instructed you just as you were about to get out of the car.

With your hand on the door, you shook your head. “How am I supposed to contact you?”

Apparently, it was a valid point, because Agent Reid reached into a small notebook tucked under his vest and jotted down a few digits on a piece of paper.

“Here,” he turned slightly in his seat, handing you the number and for a fleeting moment letting his eyes rest on your face.

There wasn’t a single speck of plaster left on his glasses, he must’ve polished them thoroughly. Slowly, you reached for the paper, holding it hesitantly like it was some kind of evidence.

“Thanks,” you muttered.

Then silence. Right, they were waiting for you to get out of the car. You came to your senses and stepped outside, onto the driveway of your house. Slowly, still not fully at peace with what had happened that day, you walked inside. Turning back just once to glance at the SUV as it drove away.