Closer - A Spencer Reid story (2)

10

The serial killer's notes began innocently enough. The first one was left on Yn's doorstep, neatly folded and tucked into her newspaper. She hadn't thought much of it—at least until she noticed the familiar handwriting. It was scrawled across the small white paper, the looped letters and sharp corners eerily recognizable as Spencer's. Her heart thumped as she unfolded it, her fingers trembling slightly.

The note read: Remember the late nights at the Smithsonian? Watching you fall asleep against those ancient fossils. It wasn't a question. It was a statement, and it felt like a threat.

Yn clenched the note, an uneasy chill settling over her. She and Spencer had spent countless nights at the Smithsonian when they were together, both pulled in by their shared fascination for history and science. But only a handful of people knew about those late-night dates. Her heart pounded as she tried to shake off the feeling, but the words clung to her like a ghost, refusing to be ignored.

When Spencer showed up to check on her later that afternoon, she immediately thrust the note at him. "This was left on my doorstep," she said, voice shaking. "What the hell, Spencer? How does she know things like this?"

He scanned the note, his brow furrowing deeply as he read it. "I...I don't know," he muttered, voice tight with anger and confusion. "It's almost as if she has...access to our memories."

"Or to people who know us," Yn suggested, eyes narrowing. "Someone who knows our history, who understands us, even if it's from afar."

Spencer felt his pulse race. Whoever this unsub was, she had knowledge of intimate details from his past with Yn, things he'd never shared with anyone outside of their relationship. He took a deep breath, trying to appear calm. "I'll keep an eye on it. I promise. You'll be safe."

But his words, despite his good intentions, felt empty. Yn wasn't comforted by his reassurances, especially not with a killer so intent on drawing from their shared past. Every message felt like a piece of herself was being unearthed, exposed.

The messages continued, each one more personal than the last. They appeared on her car's windshield, slipped under her apartment door, even dropped onto her table at the café when she thought no one was looking. Each note referenced moments from their past that she thought had been buried long ago: an inside joke from a shared vacation, a line from a poem Spencer once read to her, even a description of her favorite outfit from the early days of their relationship.

Each message left her feeling raw, her defenses slowly being worn away by the unsub's careful taunts. It wasn't long before she began to feel as though her every move was being watched, her every thought anticipated. And as much as she tried to keep her composure, the weight of it all was slowly breaking through her walls.

Spencer noticed. He always did. As the messages piled up and Yn's anxiety grew more visible, he couldn't help but feel his own sense of guilt and helplessness expand. Every time he was around her, he found himself struggling to maintain the boundaries he'd set, to keep his emotions in check.

Finally, after yet another note left at her doorstep that referenced a deeply private conversation they'd had about their future, Yn had enough. She stormed into her apartment, her face set in a look of steely determination, and sent Spencer a message.

We need to talk. No FBI. Just us.

He arrived within the hour, his expression cautious yet filled with a glint of worry. Yn gestured for him to sit, and for a long moment, the silence stretched between them, thick with the words they hadn't yet spoken.

"Spencer," she began, her voice steady, though her hands trembled as she spoke. "I know you're doing everything you can to protect me from... her. But you can't protect me from the past. And right now, that's what she's digging up, bringing out in the open. My whole life, our life together, is unraveling in these notes."