COVERT : Spencer Reid (II)

21

It's too suspicious to throw out the flowers. At least I move them off my desk, since they are so big. My hands cramp as I try to force them to type. I pull out my eye drops and escape to the records room. I lock the door behind me, put my back against it and slide to the floor. Hugging my knees to my chest I try to breathe. Breathe, God damn it. Breathe.

My arms start to spasm. I'm having a heart attack, or a panic attack. God, I hope it's a heart attack, just because then it will be over soon. I can't breathe. I clutch at my own throat. The card is shoved in the pocket of my jeans.

It's got to be him. It can't be anyone but him. It's him. It's fucking Him.

I fumble for my phone, scrolling through the contacts. I get to Stéphane, my finger resting on the call button. Then, I turn off my phone.

This isn't fair to him. I can't call him. Why is it always me?

It takes ten minutes for it to pass. Ten long minutes, each minute longer than the last, time stretching out past me, so far I can't imagine a second taking any longer. Then, I can breathe.

I sit on the floor with a fuzzy head. Then, I power my phone back on.

This time, I don't stop myself from dialing.

"Hello, Cole," Luc's voice is strained, his French nearly squeaking through the speakers.

"This time it was to my office," I hiss, clutching the phone tighter. "A floral arrangement. He wrote that he misses me. In French."

"He signed it?"

I pull the phone away, resting it against my forehead. One sharp breath in, and then one staggering breath out, "no. He didn't."

"Listen, Cole, I'm not trying to minimize-"

"Don't even start with me," I snap. "I don't have any other secret admirers who would leave notes under my door and send bouquets to the FBI. Alright? It's not anyone else."

"It's scary to think there could be other freaks out there, but that's what you do for a living, isn't it? Count how many predators there are?"

Statistics aren't going to help him. There are far fewer violent criminals than those who engage in property crime. This is an anomaly.

"He wrote about liking my short hair. He said he misses me in French. He said the winter is even colder without me. It's him. I know it."

Luc sighs.

"I can reach out to his parole officer," Luc says. "If you are going to accuse him of violating the terms of his parole, breeching the restraining order, you can do that. I can maybe even arrange for it to be done over Skype so you don't have to come back here. I can even send you the files I get from his parole officer, okay? But I don't think he did this. And I worry if you obsess that it's him, and this is actually someone else malicious, you're going to miss it."

I take in a deep breath. He's right. I can't exclude the fact that it's someone else. While it feels like Him, how would he do this? There would be a credit card purchase tying him to this floral arrangement, which the Canadian government could request from the florist and then he'd be violating his parole and sent back to prison. It wouldn't have been possible for him to hand deliver a note either. He can barely string together three sentences in English.

"Okay," I scowl. "Send me anything you can. And don't tell Stéphane, okay?"

He sighs, "you know, I actually like your brother. And I hate when you pit me between you both."