Bitter

Chapter Three

 "In order to understand, I destroyed myself."

― Fernando Pessoa

"Holy shit. This had to be her." Spencer muttered, looking down at the paper. Prince Andrew had been shot through the head while walking up the steps to his home. They found shell casings on the roof but couldn't identify them. It was strange considering he had only been shot once and that they hadn't seen the other bullet. He was pulled from his thoughts as Hotch's ringtone sounded throughout the apartment.

"New case. Be here in twenty."

"Umm, sir? Was I hoping to take some personal time? Only a couple of days, could you guys survive without me?"

"Oh, okay. I might call you for information, though. Keep your ringer on." Hotch replied. Slightly stunned, the resident genius had asked for time off. He assumed something was going on with his mother and didn't want to question it.

"Okay. Bye, Hotch." He said simply, taking the phone from his ear and hanging up.

He needed to get to Berkshire.

*

He was stuffing clothes into his bag left and right. How did people dress in England? Typical, they dress normal there, he decided. After almost an hour of making sure he had everything and attempting to book tickets on the soonest flight, he was ready.

He didn't want to leave his car at the airport for days, so he called a taxi, getting into the front seat. He watched out the window as the raindrops slid down, silently thinking of them racing in his mind. He was interrupted by the taxi stop. Not bothering with the change, he threw some cash at the driver, dragged his bag out of the car, and into the airport. He was late.

Quickly flashing his badge and passport to the security officer and hurrying through the airport, he found gate C17. They were nearly ready to close the doors as he sped up, making his way on the plane. In his haste, he had neglected to buy a seat in business or first class. Scrunching his legs into the crowded row, he leaned back and relaxed. Studies show I'm safer back here anyway, he thought. Curling up with his book, The Theory of Everything, by Steven Hawking in his lap, he began to read. He was letting the words wash over his consciousness and relax him. This would be a long flight.

*

After nearly seven long hours spent on the plane, it touched down in London. Even though the prince had died in Berkshire, the investigation was being conducted from London, and he needed to see the crime scene photos.

He knew who could help him, but he didn't want to risk Hotch finding out just yet, so instead of calling Emily, he called a cab that drove him to the police station. Storming in at 3:00 am, drenched in rain didn't help his cause. They must have thought he was homeless as they tried to shoo him out the door. He simply opened his coat and pulled out his badge. The officer simply stared at him and replied

"So? This isn't bloody America. What do you want?"

"I need to see the crime scene photos, from the Prince." he declared.

"We can't let you see that. It's a matter of national security. You can check the papers like everyone else in the world." The officer said, glaring down at him. He must have been something like 6'5 because he was taller than Spencer, he also must have been pissed at him for threatening his authority. Classic alpha male behavior.

Spencer made a noise somewhere between a growl and a sigh before turning around and taking his phone out. He had to do this. But he didn't have to like it.

*

"Emily?"

"Reid? Hotch told me you were taking some personal time? He seemed worried. Is everything okay? Did something happen to your mom?" she replied quickly.

"No my mom's fine. I need your help though."

"Anything. What do you need? But if you don't mind me asking, why not ask Hotch or Garcia?"

"I just can't. I need the crime scene photos from the assassination Emily. I think I know who did it but I can't be sure without seeing them. I also need to see the crime scene."

"I might be able to help, but how? Wait, are you in London?"

"Umm, maybe? How about this, I'll meet you for coffee at your place. You should be getting off work soon, right?"

"Okay, sure. Are you feeling okay? You sound kinda weird right now."

"I'm fine. Talk soon. I'll be there in fifteen."

*

After talking to Emily for a few hours he had convinced her to let him visit the scene with her. They still hadn't found the second bullet, but he had a hunch on where it would be. Ducking under the crime scene tape he led Emily to the flower bed on the left side of the steps. In the back most corner stood a small group of flowers. Daisies.

"I knew it! I knew it was her!" he said almost giddily.

"Reid are you okay? What do you mean you 'knew it'? Do you know who did this? She said, concern hung across her face. She was still Emily, but an older, more settled down Emily. She had been in England for almost two years. After they caught Lindsey and Cat, she decided it would be best for her to go back to Interpol. Allowing Hotch to reclaim his title as Chief of the BAU.

"The daisies, she always signs with the daisies. She did in DC too. He had a daisy in his stomach.

"Who, Spencer? Who leaves the daisies!" she demanded, looking into his brown eyes. It was almost as if they had glossed over while talking about her. At that moment, she knew she would have to tell Hotch.

"Her. She leaves them. We haven't identified her. She's a ghost. A ghost that likes daisies. I think the press called her the Daisy Killer or something. She is a highly organized contract killer. Better than Cat even. Her MO looks like it changes hit to hit. She wasn't caught on any camera. She just disappeared." the wheels in his head were turning. He had to contact her somehow. He needed to get away from Prentiss, who would no doubt call Hotch tonight.

"I have to go. I'll call you at some point." He told her before hurrying back to the car he rented. He immediately got on the phone with the largest newspaper in London.

His ad would be appearing in tomorrow's paper. He hoped she would see it and understand.

He didn't know why he wanted to know her, he kept telling himself it was so he could put an end to the bloodshed, but deep down, he knew it wasn't that. There was some part of him desperate to understand how her mind worked. Desperate to see if she was like him. He felt some sort of morbid fascination with her. The only word he could use to describe his feelings for her was limerence.

lim·er·ence

/ˈlim-ərə-ns/

nounPSYCHOLOGY

the state of being infatuated or obsessed with another person is typically experienced involuntarily and characterized by a strong desire to reciprocate one's feelings but not primarily for a sexual relationship.

"Sometimes we want what we want even if we know it's going to kill us."

― Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch