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CHAPTER EIGHT { The Impossible Knife Of Memory } ***
"Your firm has 200 employees and you're telling me Jonah is the only one who had access? How is that even possible?" You spit.
Diego shoots his gaze up to you, his voice louder now. "Why the hell am I here? You haven't told me anything. I've been here for hours. I've been giving nothing but a water." You tilt your head at him, daring. "If you want my help, you need to tell me what's going on."
It's nearly six o'clock in the evening now. The discoloration under your eyes has bloomed, becoming darker than it was before. Spencer snuck in a nap earlier—about a two hour long one—but you wouldn't. You couldn't.
Your face is stone as you stare down at Diego. His chest is rising and falling rapidly and he's leaned slightly over his lap. Your patience is wearing thin, your frustration mounting with his demand. The lack of sleep makes your short fuse even shorter, which you didn't know was possible. Inside your chest, anger churns like a stormy sea. Your hands tremble slightly, not with fear, but with the sheer force of the emotions you're trying to contain. The more tired you are, the sloppier you get at masking your tells. Emily and Hotch observe from the observation room, both of them equally concerned about you. Your knuckles turn white as you clench your fists, hoping to halt the shaking.
"A young boy was kidnapped and held in that house. He was tortured and abused terribly." You shake your head as you speak, never once breaking eye contact with Diego. "And he's not the only one. We found seven other bodies." Your voice steadily grows louder.
Diego simply stares back at you.
"I need those names or you don't leave." Your voice is low.
As you begin to exit the room, you pause in the doorway at the sound of Diego's voice. Emily and Hotch watch you. You avoid their eyes, your head ducked.
"Do you really think this person killed all of those boys?" He questions. His voice sounds sincere, but you don't think you can trust him. He's playing games.
You slam the door behind you. Emily stares at you with wide eyes, her mouth downturned slightly. Her face looks like it has collapsed. Hotch's jaw is set. His lips are pressed together, his arms crossed over his chest and necktie.
You turn away from them, parading down the hallway as you tug your jacket tighter around your body. A dull ache begins to swell just between your eyes, ballooning up into your forehead.
The locker room at the precinct is empty. You exhale a relieved plume of air as you unlock your designated unit and tug your bag out of it. You pull a bottle of Advil from your bag and take three pills, washing them down with the bottle of water beside your belongings. The water is cold, which hurts your head even more as it slides down your throat.
