Epiphany

4

5 DAYS LATER

The team was gathered in the briefing room, discussing their latest case. They were investigating a series of hit-and-run murders that had the city on edge. The unsub was using a car as his weapon of choice, targeting young women who were active in their communities.

Hotch stood at the front of the room, pointing to a map with pins marking each crime scene. "We have five victims so far, all struck by a vehicle late at night. The unsub is meticulous, leaving no witnesses or forensic evidence."

Garcia's voice came through the speakerphone, "All the victims were involved in community events. They were known for their volunteer work and visibility in the neighbourhood."

Morgan leaned forward. "He's likely targeting them because they're easy to follow and learn their routines."

Reid added, "The hit-and-runs suggest a level of control and precision. He's likely rehearsed these attacks in his mind or even physically."

Clara sat quietly, her thoughts heavily on the investigation trying to ignore the weird feeling she had been getting.

Hotch looked around the room. "We need to find the connection between these victims beyond their community involvement. Garcia, dig deeper into their personal lives. Reid, look into any local events they might have attended together. Morgan and Prentiss, head to the latest crime scene. Clara, you're with me. We're going to talk to the families."

Hotch and Clara sat with the grieving parents of the latest victim, Emily Lawson. Clara felt a pang of guilt and determination as she listened to their sorrowful recounting of Emily's life.

"She was always helping others," Emily's mother said, tears streaming down her face. "She loved volunteering and organizing community events."

Clara's heart ached. She knew she had to push through her own fear to solve this case. "Did Emily mention anyone unusual or anything that made her uncomfortable recently?"

Emily's father shook his head. "No, she never mentioned anything. But she was very private. She wouldn't want to worry us."

Hotch thanked them and promised they would find the person responsible.

And they did.

Clara was spending her Saturday afternoon volunteering at a local homeless shelter. The shelter was bustling with activity, filled with people seeking food, shelter, and a moment of respite. Clara found solace in these moments, away from the pressures and dangers of her job at the FBI.

She was in the kitchen, helping to prepare meals. The sound of clattering pots and pans, mixed with the chatter of volunteers and patrons, created a lively and warm atmosphere. Clara loved the sense of community here.

As she handed a plate to a man who thanked her with a warm smile, she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to see Hotch standing there, looking out of place in his suit amidst the casual attire of the shelter's visitors and volunteers.

"Hotch," Clara said, surprised. "What are you doing here?"

Hotch gave her a concerned look. "We need to talk. Can we go somewhere private?"

Clara nodded, leading him to a small, quiet office at the back of the shelter. Once they were inside, she closed the door behind them.

"someone tried to hack into your file....what's going on Clara." he asked looking at her softly

"did they manage to get in it." she dodged the question.

"No Garcia stopped them before they got even close." Hotch spoke.

Clara breathed in and looked at hotch. "thanks for telling me."

"when does your shift end?" he questioned.

"20 minutes."

"I'll drop you home."

After finishing her volunteer shift, Clara stepped out into the chilly evening air. Hotch was waiting for her by his car. She walked over.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, the city lights flashing by. Finally, Hotch spoke.

"You know you can tell me anything, Clara I care about you."

Clara nodded, looking out the window. 

They continued the drive, the rain starting to fall softly against the car windows. 

When they arrived at Clara's apartment building, Hotch parked and turned to her. "Call me if you need anything."

Clara smiled.

Clara's apartment was a cosey haven away from the intensity of her work with the FBI. It was a modest space, filled with warm tones and personal mementos that reflected her journey. Tonight, the apartment was bathed in a soft, warm glow from the lamps scattered around the living room, creating a peaceful atmosphere.

In the corner of the living room, by a large window that let in the evening light, was Clara's makeshift music area. A keyboard sat on a stand, surrounded by sheets of paper with scribbled notes and lyrics. Next to it lay her guitar. Tonight, she was sitting on a stool, her fingers gently pressing the keys as she worked on a new song. The melody was soft, almost melancholic, a reflection of her current mood.

Clara's eyes moved from the keys to the notepad in front of her, where she had written and rewritten lines of lyrics. She hummed softly, testing the words against the melody. Music had always been her escape, a way to process her emotions and find clarity. The lyrics she was working on spoke of resilience and hope, themes that resonated deeply with her own journey.

As she played, the room filled with the gentle sounds of the piano, creating a soothing atmosphere. The act of composing was both cathartic and inspiring, allowing her to channel her experiences into something beautiful. Lost in her music, Clara felt a sense of peace and purpose, knowing that this was where she could truly be herself.

The evening wore on, and Clara continued to write and play, her apartment enveloped in the warm, comforting glow of her creativity.