Bitter

Chapter Four

 "Death is present every day in our lives. It's not that I take pleasure in the morbid fascination of it, but it is a fact of life."

-Jose Saramago

"Ugh. Boredom does not suit me." she sighed into the phone nestled between her shoulder and neck as she craned to read the paper.

"My suggestion always remains the same. Relax, take a bath." the man replied. He was tired of being her keeper. They had some sort of debt to each other. She owed him for saving her, for making her something. He owed her for allowing him to do it. No matter how much they hated each other, they were intertwined.

An ad in the classifieds piqued her interest, and as she learned to read it more closely, she spoke a quick goodbye into the phone, not waiting for a response. The phone clicked as she smiled.

Daisies are really the queen.

Of all flowers, they sparkle the most.

The best daisies are found in DC though

S.R.

Now, this was intriguing. She had hoped he would see the clues she left. How she chose a hollow point that 'bloomed' on impact, not only to cause damage but to stick with her theme of flowers. She was sure the S.R. that signed it was him. Quickly opening her laptop to find the address, she began to draft the letter.

*

Spencer,

It seems as though we both suffer from the same morbid fasCination with each other. Since I watched that press conference, I could tell you felt the same. I had hoped you would see the message. You know, it's nOt often I miss a shot. I would iMplore you not to share this lEtter with your pals in The FBI, but I must put my faith in yOu.

I suppose you're wondering why I am the bad guy. The way I see it, I'm not. But neither are you. We are one and the same from our intellect to our Professions. I don't take the typical jobs one would expect. If you wAnt the best and tRust me I am, you must prove they deserve to dIe. My past couple of targets have had a common theme. Alexander was a predator. And tied indirectly to my moSt recent. Prince Andrew. Tsk, tsk, tsk. That man had the same love of children like Alex. But he was on the receiving end.

Spencer. I hope you are still in Europe. Paris is beautiful this time of year. The daisies blooming on 34th street? Incredible. Like nothing else. Paris is always Nostalgic. Oh, and before I sign off, you really should hide your credit purchases better. I hope you enjoy your stay at the Hôtel Marais Grands Boulevards; it really is fantastic. Your room number is 527. And don't try to find me. I'll see you when you're ready.

XOXO

-bitter

*

She mailed the letter and boarded the train to Paris. She really did hope he took her up on her offer.

*

She approached the cafe, seeing a mop of brown hair facing away from her. Sitting down with her back to him, she spoke a small "Hello doctor."

The moment he heard her voice, he tried to get up to turn towards her, but a hand across his torso stopped him. He looked down at hand. Long and slender fingers with a classic french manicure. So she had time. She wasn't afraid of being recognized. No ring, as expected. Hit women don't often have time for friends, let alone a husband. After examining her hand from afar, he thought about her voice. A slight french accent laced her voice. So that's what she meant by nostalgic. Looking back down to her hand as she drew it away, he noticed the small band of scarred skin lining her wrist. And one thicker ring around her whole wrist. It was barely noticeable. Probably years faded at this point. His heart felt a pang of sadness. She had been through something. What it was, he didn't know.

"Do you want to talk? No looking yet," she said. Her voice was smooth, her skin too. She smelled of cigarette smoke and vanilla, with hints of daisy and roses.

"What makes you think I want to talk? How do you know I'm not here to arrest you?" he replied, trying to keep his voice even and intentions hidden. All she did was laugh. He was about to open his mouth when his phone rang.

"God damn it, Hotch." he sighed before picking up. He felt the loss of pressure against his back before realizing she had stood up and left. He dodged questions before hanging up and trying to follow her.

The only clue about where she went was the smell of cigarettes and the small click of heels on cobblestone.

*

She knew he was following her. Who wouldn't? She ducked into an alley and stepped behind a building. Taking care to drop the butt of her cigarette on the ground outside the alley. She heard his steps stop in front of the alley; he stepped past her to examine the cigarette. She pressed the cold metal of the gun against the back of his head, and he slowly rose with his hands up.

"Curiosity killed the cat," she whispered, leaning into his ear.

"Actually, the original proverb was 'Care killed the cat,' the care being the worry or sorrow for others. So I guess it's true. One day the way I care will be the death of me. Me, my career, or my loved ones, I don't know. It already almost has... Multiple times." Shit. I shouldn't have said that. She has a gun against your head. Jesus, spencer, try to get yourself killed, why don't you.

She didn't get angry; all she did was laugh. There's that laugh, I would listen to it all day. It's like bells ringing in perfect harmony.

"You have some nerve, Spence. You know I have a real gun against your head right now? She said, pushing it against his head harder.

"I don't think you're going to shoot me," he replied. This was a gamble, but it was a gamble he had to take.

Suddenly she whipped her head around, pulling Spencer against her, tucking the gun behind her back; she grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him further against her body, arching her back against the wall.

She kissed him like fire. Dangerous and beautiful and passionately, he gave up and surrendered to her until she pulled away, turning to the alley entrance where a police officer was looking in on her. She smiled and said something he was too stunned to translate.

This is my chance to have her arrested. I have evidence and am this close to a confession.

The police officer laughed and continued down the street. She looked at him.

She was tall. Something close to 5'8, with long and slender limbs, looking up her body, his eyes paused on her neck, a faint ring of skin a shade lighter than she encircled her throat. He cleared his throat and rested his eyes on her face. She had delicate features. If he hadn't seen everything he had, he would have never thought she would be capable of murder, let alone killing a fly. Her eyebrows arched a light brown against her skin, her eye an icy blue staring into his. He looked at her other watch. It was a mirror image of her right eye. It was as if someone had slashed a honey brown eye and replaced the top half. His eyes darting between hers, he looked at her lips—a pale pink, with a slight chapped look.

"Sectoral Heterochromia," he muttered, not to her but to himself. She was the picture of beauty, everything he had imagined and more. He wanted to pull her in for more, but she carried on like nothing had happened. The gun pressed to his gut now.

She closed her eyes, finding her serenity, and looking up to him before exhaling—the gun moving to his chest.