𝐔𝐠𝐥𝐲 𝐋𝐢𝐞𝐬 | 𝐀𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐇𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫 (1)

sixteen

At the shooting range, Hotch was trying to hold back his laughter as all my bullets missed the target entirely. I was thankful that my ear defenders prevented me from hearing any of his sarcastic comments because I did not trust how I would respond to them with the temptation of a gun in my hands.

I stopped firing, looking at my target hopefully, wondering if maybe one of my bullets had hit it.

Hotch took off his ear defenders, signalling for me to do the same, "Keep your arms straight," he moved behind me, positioning my arms in front of me, "Look at the target and imagine the importance of the shot. Who do you want to stop? What will happen if you don't?"

He put my ear defenders back over my ears, telling me to keep my position. When he was wearing his, I squeezed the trigger, hitting the target in the leg which, although I had been aiming for the head, was enough of a victory to make me jump up and down excitedly.

"Woah, Woah, put the gun down," Hotch urged as I swung it around dangerously, forgetting that I was holding it.

"Shit," I whispered sheepishly, putting the safety on.

Hotch and I were a little later than usual getting to work because we had been at the shooting range beforehand. Our absence, although slight, seemed to have affected the team: a commotion could already be heard from the bullpen.

Hotch and I shared a curious look as we pushed through the glass doors of the BAU. My stomach immediately knotted at what I saw.

When I was younger, I told everyone who would listen that my father was away at war. That he was a hero. I told them that he would write to me every day and ask me to tell him something good. I said he needed to know that the world hadn't shrunk to the war and that I was out there doing silly little fun things that seemed insignificant to me but, for him they were stardust.

As I grew up it got harder to lie. My friends questioned my story, wondering what war my father was trapped in. Or they were curious and asked what Unit he was in and what position he held. Of course, the teachers had always known: my mother had had quiet talks with them explaining the less exciting, far more devastating truth. My father had not died at war, he hadn't died a hero.

My father simply hadn't wanted me.

The framed picture on my nightstand of a man in uniform with medals of honour and courage gracing his shoulders was one that I had found at a thrift shop. Marigold had not bothered to spare me from the truth, valuing honesty and a stiff upper lip above all. So I had conjured up a better story for myself.
I had had to protect myself by fabricating a lie that would repress any unpleasant questions about why my father had chosen to leave instead of to stay.

Raymond was stood in the bullpen, pointing accusatory fingers at the team and shouting. Rossi and Morgan were trying to quell his anger, while Emily and JJ were stood at a distance, watching my father disapprovingly. Spencer was sitting at his desk in the middle of it all, reading his book as if nothing was happening.

My cheeks reddened as I took in the sight of him. He was tall, with jet black unkempt hair. His shirt was wrinkled and untucked. His bulging, bug-like eyes were bloodshot and bleary and his hands were shaky. I swallowed as I forced myself to look at him, despite the sharp pain in my chest.

"Adeline," he exclaimed when he saw me, "I just want to talk," he held his hands up in surrender.

Not trusting myself to speak, I gestured to the hallway, desperate to not embarrass myself any further in front of my colleagues. Hotch stood in the doorway, not moving to accommodate Raymond. He had to squeeze past Hotch, who glared at him with such scorn that I was impressed.