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The phone's persistent ringing—three times in a relentless, echoing cadence—finally drove home the reality that Spencer was not answering. His habit of picking up by the second ring was so ingrained that the prospect of a fourth ring felt almost absurd. With a weary sigh, she disconnected the call, the silence that followed heavy with unspoken concern.
Five days had stretched into an uneasy silence since their last conversation. Spencer's sabbatical had taken him to the University, a place where she had no access, no way to bridge the growing distance between them. Though Carli had never been one to dwell obsessively on a partner, the unique pull of Spencer Reid and the unresolved nature of their last encounter had rendered her worry almost inevitable, a natural outgrowth of her deep-seated concern. As she approached her apartment, the need for something to ease her mounting tension was palpable, and the bottle of whiskey in her fridge seemed to beckon her with an almost urgent insistence. Fumbling with her keys, she went to unlock the door, only to find it slightly ajar.
Pushing it open with a sense of trepidation, she was met with an unexpected sight: her father seated on her couch, a glass of whiskey in hand and the bottle resting at his side. The scene was both startling and oddly familiar, a stark reminder of the comfort she had sought but now found unceremoniously interrupted.
"God, now I have to move again," she muttered, the words escaping in a weary sigh as she shut the door behind her. She tossed her keys into the small, lilypad-shaped bowl with a dismissive flick, her coat falling from her shoulders as she tried to shed the weight of her day.
For most, the sight of their father after a rough week would offer a semblance of solace. But for Carli, the presence of Francisco Reynolds was anything but comforting. Her father, with his own complex shadow, was far from the ordinary figure of paternal support. "What has your mood soured, little girl?" Francisco asked, his voice carrying a hint of amusement as he reached for a fresh glass, filling it with a practiced hand and extending it toward her. Carli, however, took the glass he had been drinking from, her movements deliberate and unyielding. He let out a soft chuckle, the sound rich with dark humor. "If I was going to kill you," he continued, his tone laced with mock seriousness, "I wouldn't take the coward's route." With a decisive gulp, he downed the drink he had poured for her, the action a silent reassurance that his intentions were as transparent as his empty glass. "Why are you here?" she demanded, striving to mask the irritation that laced her voice. Her day had already unfurled in a cascade of misfortune; she could scarcely afford the additional weight of his presence to exacerbate her troubles.
