Dedication

For everyone who lets Spencer Reid live rent-free in their head.

Dedication

A special dedication to the person who made this book possible and shares a deep love for Criminal Minds, Allyn.

TRIGGER WARNINGS

This book contains the following potential triggers: guns (minor descriptions of FBI agents with guns and shooting), blood, violence, stalking, discussion of addiction, discussion of past miscarriage, serial killer, death

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1. Stone

1

STONE

“Who can tell me one of the signs of ASPD?”

We were already forty-nine minutes into the lecture.

I picked up a piece of paper I’d been using for my lecture notes the entire class. I didn’t need it; I had the whole lecture memorized. Actually, I had all forty lectures memorized for the entire twenty weeks at Quantico.

One of the new recruits in the front raised their hand, eager to answer the question, but that wasn’t what I was looking for. That wasn’t the type of trainee I was focused on.

This job had a way of weighing on you, forcing you to think quick in the field. I needed to make sure every last trainee was prepared for that.

“You,” I said, pointing at one of the women, avoiding eye contact.

Her cheeks reddened, flustered at being called out. Good. If she wanted to make it through the academy, she needed to leave those doubts in the past. There were no doubts in the field.

Doubt would land you point blank staring down the barrel of an unsub’s gun. Not many agents walked away from that.

I wouldn’t allow recruits under my watch to fall prey to such a situation.

“Uh, manipulation,” she said softly, reservation in her tone.

“Another,” I demanded, knowing it would be for her own good.

She shook her head, slightly flustered.

“It wasn’t optional,” I added.

“Impulsivity,” she added.

Good; this time, her voice was steadier. Her shoulders relaxed, and she sat up. I saw the way her features shifted when she realized she was correct.

“Another,” I encouraged.

“Lacking empathy and physical aggression,” she spat back, not even a breath between answers.

There it was: the moment I’d been pushing her toward. The single second that changed her course at the academy. I demanded perfection because that’s what future victims needed. They needed competent agents, ones who could think under pressure. I was hard on them because I was them once.

I knew no matter how prepared you thought you were, no matter what your IQ was, things could change in an instant. One mistake or oversight was all it took.

One of the trainee agents raised their hand a few rows back, and I nodded, noting another question would cut into my time for my final few points. I could rework it into the next lesson. I was mentally changing around the next lesson when the trainee spoke.

“Agent Beck,” he started, “this is a lecture in behavioral sciences. We are at the FBI Academy. Should we not have learned this in a Psychology 101 course?”

Snickers broke out throughout the classroom, and I took a breath before answering. I knew his type—he strong armed his way to where he was, likely had lots of connections, found joy in putting down those a bit different from him.

Yeah, I’d dealt with plenty of those. It came with the territory of a higher IQ than most, and I imagined my more ‘out there’ style didn’t help. I learned not to care as much, and a new trainee trying to look smart in front of his fellow agents certainly wouldn’t get under my skin.

I walked over to the podium in the center of the amphitheater-style room. The podium ledge held my cup of coffee, and I picked it up to sip as I gathered my composure.

“And?” I asked, waving him on.

Wasting class time with these antics already subtracted—I glanced at the clock—fifty-seven seconds from my already far too short sixty minutes.

I’d surely have to cut something altogether later on now.

The longer I had to drill this all into their minds, the better off they were.

One mistake. That was all it took.

“Shouldn’t we be studying actual cases and learning useful things for being field agents?” the man asked, and I saw the woman who answered my question before blush, her cheeks turning a shade of light pink.

“You arrive on scene, and the unsub is holding a gun to the head of a woman. They are on the roof of an apartment building near the edge. It is clear the unsub is reckless and has aggressive tendencies,” I stated the case in layman’s terms.

I met the trainee’s stare, watching him devour each word.

“The unsub is a spree killer. When agents brought up the other victims, trying to talk him down, they identified a clear lack of remorse.”

Other students scribbled down notes, absorbing every detail I spewed at them.

“What would be your call?”

“I-” the student started, but he hesitated.

“He’s holding a gun to the woman’s head, he keeps moving sporadically, there is no time to wait. You have to make the call now,” I insisted, walking up the steps of the amphitheater closer to where he sat. My words came out fast, rushing.

“The unsub clearly presents signs of ASPD. It is likely he will not listen to reason and will act impulsively. If he moved the gun, I would have given the call to take the shot.”

I knew that was exactly where his mind would go. It was the logical point of view…for a narrow-minded approach. He needed to think bigger.

“Wrong,” I said, and pens stopped moving as everyone’s stare fell to me. “That’s what you would think if you solely looked at those signs and made a decision based on a narrow view. Thinking like that will have you working in a cubicle, not the field. The Los Angeles spree killer—who can tell me what the result of that case was two years ago?”

A man close to the ignorant trainee raised his hand. I spotted a tattoo snaking up his arm, a serpent wrapping the length of his forearm up to his biceps.

I nodded to him.

“The unsub had a brain tumor. He had been given the news the day prior to being caught that it was inoperable, terminal cancer. The news, combined with side effects of the tumor, sent him into a blind rage that ended with him taking the neurologist hostage on a roof the second day.”

“Correct,” I stated. “And do you know how we walked away from that hostage situation with not a single shot fired?”

The man shook his head.

“You all wouldn’t, because that’s not what you learn in Psychology 101, is it?” I muttered, glancing back at the arrogant trainee. I took a deep breath. “Because we used all the resources we had access to, our tech analysts were able to use footage from one of the shootings on the first day to identify the unsub. Mark Vizlo was only thirty-two, with no prior record, no pattern of behavior pointing to ASPD, happily engaged. We interviewed his fiancée and found out about the doctor’s appointment. When we went to speak with the doctor, that’s when we found him.”

The class was enraptured, even the trainee I corrected staring intently at me.

“Shooting the unsub would have been premature. With the information we gathered, our better option was to give him the validation and solution he sought. We played in to his desperation and told him we’d found a second opinion on his tumor, that the doctor would be willing to operate.”

“That worked?” a petite woman behind me called out.

“It planted enough doubt in his mind for him to reconsider, and it gave us a window to de-escalate the situation without further casualties.”

I heard murmurs throughout the room as I walked back down the steps toward my podium, catching a glimpse of the clock.

“If you hadn’t interrupted my lecture, I would have gone on to tell you all behavioral science can only take you so far. You need to learn the ins and outs of profiling using behavioral analysis, but you also need to factor in other evidence, utilize every part of your team. Otherwise, you will make the wrong call every single time.”

Less than a minute left.

If I couldn’t be out there protecting innocent victims, I would be damn sure these trainees knew what they were doing before leaving Quantico.

I spun to face the class again and saw the arrogant man glaring at me, his pen gripped tightly in his hand, his knuckles white.

“That’s all for today,” I said, taking another sip of my lukewarm coffee. I swallowed, wishing I had a fresh cup. I’d need it for the pile of work I had left to finish for the day.

Trainees rose from their seats, gathering their belongings and hurrying from the classroom to their next lecture. The FBI packed their days with trainings for twenty weeks straight.

The sound of approaching steps echoed off the stairs, trailing down the center of the classroom.

“Agent Stone,” the man with the tattoo started.

“Beck,” I countered—I hadn’t been Agent Stone in seven months.

“I’m sorry, another agent said-”

“It’s Agent Beck,” I interrupted. “And I’m late.”

It wasn’t entirely true. I was antsy to get out of the classroom and finish my work. Teaching trainees was uncovering old memories I wasn’t ready to face from my time in the academy, and I was ready to spend my night with my books.

“I was wondering if I could shadow you,” the man said. “I’d like to learn as much as I can at the academy. I’m aiming to be assigned to the Boston field office, so I’ll need top recommendations.”

“No,” I said, stopping his ramble.

“I just thought-”

“That because you knew a single question, it would earn you my favor?” I asked, raising a brow. “Not how it works. It was a good answer, but not enough for you to earn my respect on day one,” I answered, keeping my tone flat.

Was I seriously this bitter? That wasn’t the Agent Stone most of the FBI knew.

He started turning away, and I saw his shoulders slouch. I tried to hold my tongue. I promised myself I wouldn’t let myself get dragged down into this hole again. There was nothing for me on this path, but he reminded me of someone.

“Long sleeves next class,” I called after him, unable to stop myself.

“Huh?” he asked, glancing back.

I needed top agents, not trainees with more self-doubt than when they started. I kept telling myself that was why I did it.

“Cover the tattoos. They make you too identifiable in the field. Start the habit now if you want a shot at field agent.”

I saw the way he stood tall again, a slight grin on his face as he turned back toward the exit.

What was I doing?

I was smart enough to recognize the signs.

I was falling back into old habits. I groaned internally, realizing my supervisory special agent knew what he was doing. He knew how easy it would be for me to slip back into my ways, back to the days when I felt like we were truly producing a new generation of special agents who had a shot at making a difference, when my fellow trainees and I stuck together to make it to the top.

That all felt like a distant memory now. One choice had changed everything.

I had no intentions of going back into the field, not after everything I had done. My mind was of more use at Quantico, passing the knowledge on.

People had died, and it was my fault.

I shook my head, the classroom clear and the rest of my day empty.

Much to my chagrin, my supervisory special agent had hounded me to work my way back into the field. It’d been seven months already. Sticking me in the FBI Academy and giving me small tasks was never going to convince me to get back into the field. He just knew I couldn’t resist at least passing on the knowledge I had. Maybe my past mistakes could prevent future ones.

It was logical, I reminded myself.

I had been the best, but even those at the top could eventually fall from grace.

I grabbed my brown leather messenger bag full of paperwork I knew needed to be finished before the end of the day and slung it over my shoulder.

It was almost 2:15 p.m., which meant I had approximately fifteen minutes to grab coffee before the café closed for the day.

I hurried out of the classroom toward where the café sat closer to the entrance of the building.

The line was long, but the moment the barista caught sight of me, she gave me the usual nod. I didn’t deserve preferential treatment, but no matter what came of me, my name preceded me.

The iced vanilla latte slid across the far end of the barista bar, and the woman gave me a wave. I left the line I had just barely joined to grab my order and gave the woman a warm smile.

I slipped a ten-dollar bill across the counter and saw her grin grow further.

“How much longer do we have you until you are off on a field assignment?” she asked, her rich brown eyes filled with curiosity.

The question sent a small pang of pain through my chest.

“A while,” I answered, trying to keep my smile from faltering.

“Good,” she answered firmly.

I awkwardly nodded and turned for the exit.

I was grateful for the chance to still be part of the FBI. I still believed in its mission. Even if I was not the best agent for the field, there was no denying I had more knowledge to impart than most.

The warm summer air hit me the moment I exited the building, and I took a sip of my newest caffeine fix to counter it. It was late summer, and the longer I spent outside, the more I regretted the sweater vest I wore over my thin long sleeves.

I needed a vacation near the coast, where the breeze fought back the dreaded heat.

Or at least, that’s what most said when I’d returned to the job. Take a vacation, take all the time in the world. 

I’d never go back into the field, but my supervisory special agent, William Greyson, or Agent Grey, had a way of getting what he wanted, and me quitting was never one of those wishes. The second I stepped away, he was at my door to drag me right back.

It worked.

He personally oversaw my every move, and I knew those he reported to wanted him to keep a close eye, to report back on my stability.

I wasn’t sure I cared. Placing my feelings never came easily to me, not as a child, and certainly not now.

“Perfect timing,” a voice rang from behind me, and I turned to see Grey catching up with me. “On your way back to your office?”

“I have a bit more work to finish for the day,” I stated.

“Then you won’t mind me adding one more thing to those tasks.”

“What?” I asked, raising a brow.

“Tips,” Grey said, his voice raspy from years of smoking. “They’re breathing down my neck about clearing them out again. I have plenty of agents on it, but none breeze through them like you do.”

If there was a singular task I actually dreaded, it was tips.

Endless forms to review and sort, extremely mind-numbing work. It by no means pushed my mental capabilities, but it did test my patience.

Maybe that’d be good for me, to fine-tune an important skill.

“Fine,” I muttered, pulling out my badge to tap into the building as we walked up to the door. I refused to let Grey see. I didn’t mind taking the tips today; I just didn’t want to volunteer myself to be on them permanently.

We passed through the security measures together, Grey trailing slightly behind me.

“I want a report by the end of day,” he added.

“I would expect nothing less,” I said, my voice calm and steady.

It made my heart ache to see what had become of my career. I knew I missed being in the field, but I refused to go back. I was smarter than that.

There wasn’t a single thing I couldn’t recall, that I couldn’t piece together.

Except that night.

The night that broke me.

Ruined me.

And now, I was forced back to square one.

I was a well-decorated agent, having been with the bureau for six years. No matter how much I learned, how many cases I solved, how many killers I brought to justice, this was what defined me now. I knew that.

My fist was clenched tighter than I realized, and I let go to find red marks in my palm.

“Stop beating yourself up,” Grey said, lowering his voice and glaring at me. “You’re clean now. You’ve been working your ass off at the bureau. You will be back in no time.”

I didn’t want it. In fact, I’d told him multiple times I would never step foot into the field again. He just wouldn’t let up.

“Blythe deserved better,” I barely whispered.

“Don’t,” Grey warned. “It never was your fault.”

“Saying that won’t bring her back,” I pointed out, my chest heavy. I stuck to the facts.

My head swam with thoughts, flashes of memories I never wanted to relive.

Tips. I needed to focus on tips.

“Talk to someone, take time, whatever you need. Just stop putting it all on yourself,” Grey said with a sigh.

“I’m fine,” I agreed, trying to convince him.

He sighed again and turned off toward a set of elevators.

I made my way to the office and plugged my badge into the laptop sitting on my desk. All my work popped up immediately, and I minimized everything before opening the tip database.

It was filled with aimless tips and complaints. People used it as a means to complain about any little pestering detail in their life. Tips on loud neighbors, suggestions on how to do our jobs better, complaints about overpriced coffee.

Scrolling through and weeding out the bad ones from the worst ones, I found a tip that was my personal favorite for the day. How delusional did one have to be to believe their overpriced macchiato was a matter of national security?

The majority of the tips were useless. Some, I filtered through to send to our technology department to further investigate their integrity. There were next to none that piqued my interest.

That was, until a name caught my eye.

The Coastal Killer.

I was familiar with the nickname the press gave the serial killer whose trail went cold years prior. I hadn’t worked it, but I knew the details of every major case that passed through our organization. I made it my job to know.

I paused my scrolling and clicked on the tip to expand it.

A news clipping popped up—the last victim. I checked the note submitted with the tip, but there was none.

That gave me nothing to go on. The way my heart raced a little had me sitting on the edge of my chair. I needed to quit while I was ahead, but my hand kept moving.

I combed through the other tips and quickly came across one with the same subject line.

The last four victims all visited the same bar the night they were attacked.

The note included a link to the bar’s website.

I pulled up the address—the center of Briarport, Maine. It was the local bar frequented by most of the town, High Tide Pub. Hundreds of photos pulled up beside the address, and I swallowed hard, realizing anyone could have been a victim.

Still could.

It was a cold case.

There had been no new evidence for a few years. The killer had completely ceased murdering women in Briarport.

My heart pounded in my chest, my mind racing with possibilities. The endless puzzle, the abundance of evidence and leads—I knew there was more that could be done.

Why was this case grabbing my attention?

Sometimes, I hated my never-ending desire to know everything there was to know about something.

I finished flipping through the batch of tips and found four more similar notes on the same case spanning the last couple of months, all small details I was sure the FBI had already recorded, but I wasn’t convinced they’d explored them thoroughly.

When we missed details, people died.

I compiled the tips and typed them into a document, adding a few of my own personal thoughts and suggestions in the margins.

I got up from the desk after emailing a copy of my briefing memorandum to Grey. The document would be in his inbox before I made it to his office a floor up. I grabbed my belongings and left the office.

The elevator was slow, and I tapped my foot impatiently on the floor.

The bar couldn’t be a coincidence. It was a clear hunting ground, one that still operated to the fullest. What happened when the killer gave up his hiatus?

I knocked on Grey’s door before walking in.

He sat behind his computer, typing away ,and barely looked up as I stepped in. I caught sight of the FBI seal hanging on the wall behind him, multiple awards around it, thirty years’ worth of accomplishments.

‘You finished the report already?” he asked, glancing up at me, never ceasing his typing.

“I sent you a write up on a few tips we received-” I started.

“Just forward anything of interest to tech,” he grumbled.

“I think you should see this,” I insisted.

He paused his typing and glanced at the screen as his fingers scrolled quickly, clicking here and there. I waited as he read through the memo.

“It’s a cold case,” he said, turning to look at me.

“One with a lot of leads,” I noted.

“One with a lot of dead ends.”

I shook my head.

“You can’t seriously think-” I started, unable to hold my tongue.

“Beck…” Grey warned. “Don’t fixate on this. It’s not the way to fix things.”

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