A Love Like No Other - Aaron Hotchner

The Cracks Beneath the Surface

The first thing I noticed when i stepped into the bullpen that morning was the silence. It wasn't the typical quiet of an early start; it was the heavy, waiting kind, the kind that settles over a place when something's about to break. The team was gathered around Hotch's office, their faces tight with concentration.

I hesitated at the threshold, feeling the tension in the air like a current. Whatever was happening, it wasn't good. My pulse quickened as i approached, trying to decipher the mood from their expressions.

"Emma," Hotch's voice called out before i could speak. He stepped out of his office, holding a file in his hand. The others were watching me now, and i felt that familiar coil of anxiety tighten in my chest.

"What's going on?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

Hotch handed me the file, his expression unreadable. "We need you to take a look at this."

I opened the file and scanned the first page. My stomach sank as i saw the photo attached - a girl, about twelve years old, blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She was smiling, but the happiness in her expression felt forced. It was a look i knew all too well.

"This is...?" I asked, not sure if i wanted to hear the answer.

"The victim," Hotch replied quietly. "Her name's Lily Marsh. She disappeared from her home in Arlington two days ago. The police thought it was a runaway case, but the circumstances suggest otherwise."

I flipped through the file, trying to steady my breathing. The details were horrifyingly familiar: the broken window, the signs of a struggle, the missing child. It felt like someone had reached into my past and dragged it into the present, forcing me to relive every moment of fear and helplessness.

"We've seen this MO before," Rossi said, his voice grave. "The unsub's targeting young girls who fit a specific profile - girls from unstable homes, isolated neighborhoods, vulnerable situations."

I nodded, trying to focus on the facts. Vulnerable. That word hung heavy in the air, a reminder of all the things i used to be. Vulnerable, unprotected, a target.

"Do you think it's him?" I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper.

Hotch's eyes met mine, and i saw the answer there before he spoke. "It's possible," he said carefully. "But we don't want to jump to conclusions until we have more evidence."

"Right," i said, forcing myself to take a deep breath. "Of course."

Hotch glanced at the team, then back at me. "We're heading to Arlington to coordinate with the local police," he said. "I want you with me on this one."

"Okay," i replied, trying to sound confident. I wasn't sure if he wanted me there because he trusted my instincts or because he thought i was too close to the case to be left alone. Either way, i wasn't going to question it.

The drive to Arlington was a blur of tense silence and strained attempts at small talk. Morgan was at the wheel, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the steering wheel. I sat in the backseat, my hands clenched tightly in my lap. Hotch was beside me, his presence a steadying force even in the midst of my anxiety.

As we pulled up to the scene - a modest house on a quiet suburban street - I felt a sense of déjà vu wash over me. The house was eerily similar to the one i had grown up in, with its white siding and neatly trimmed lawn. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

The police had set up a perimeter around the house, and the media was already gathering beyond the tape, their cameras trained on the front door like vultures circling a dying animal. I hated this part of the job - the spectacle, the invasion of privacy, the way tragedy was turned into a headline.