Killer Affair | Spencer Reid Short Story

Manipulate

Gwen

The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in Spencer's kitchen as I sat at the counter, tracing circles on the cold surface with my fingertips. I could feel my pulse thrumming in my wrists, steady but fast. Every nerve felt raw, hyper-aware. I was slipping up, I knew it. Too many conversations where I'd let the wrong words slip, too many times where I'd caught myself sharing just a bit too much.

When you tell almost-truths for long enough, the lines start to blur. They start to feel real, and you start to forget where the truth ends and the lie begins.

Spencer's not dumb, I know that. His IQ is amazingly high, and he's so so smart. I don't know how much longer I can keep hiding from a trained professional.

I heard Spencer's key in the door, and I forced myself to sit up, to shake off the tension creeping into my muscles. I plastered on a smile, easy and warm, the way I always did. But tonight it felt forced, jagged, like paper edges cutting into skin.

He walked in, his gaze immediately flickering to me with that quiet curiosity he had, like he could see through the layers I'd wrapped myself in. It made me feel... exposed.

"Gwen," he said, his voice soft. "You didn't have to wait up."

"I didn't mind," I replied, trying to keep my voice light. But even I could hear the slight edge in it, the tremor of nerves.

He came over, settling beside me on the stool, studying me. He didn't press, not yet, but his eyes lingered, searching my face. "You sure you're all right? You seem... distracted."

I forced a laugh, quick and hollow. "Just work stress," I said, keeping it vague. But even as the words left my mouth, I knew they weren't enough. Spencer was too perceptive, too attuned to shifts in people's emotions and stories. And he knew me well enough by now to sense when I was hiding something.

He nodded slowly, but I could see a faint crease in his brow, the way his fingers drummed softly on the counter as if he was piecing things together in his mind. "You know, you can talk to me about it. If there's something on your mind."

I swallowed, my throat tight. I wanted to tell him everything—to confess, to say I was sorry, to make him understand. But I knew that was impossible. The truths I wanted to tell him were dangerous, sharp-edged. And with every lie, every almost-truth, I was weaving a web I wasn't sure I could escape from.

Instead, I gave him a soft smile, hoping it looked genuine. "Thank you, Spencer. I... appreciate that. It's just a lot right now."

He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. But I knew that look. I'd seen it on him before, with suspects, with victims—people he didn't quite trust.

The silence between us grew thick, and I felt the air shift, the tension pressing down on me. The urge to bolt rose in my chest, to escape this room, this moment, before I said something I couldn't take back.

The truth was, I hadn't always been this careless. I'd always been careful, methodical. But being with Spencer, letting him in—it made me slip. He had a way of drawing things out of me, things I'd never meant to reveal.

I could feel myself unraveling, piece by piece. I'd slipped up once already tonight, telling him about a "friend" I had back in Boston, someone I'd invented on the fly to cover up a story I'd let slip from my past. Spencer had tilted his head, studying me, but he hadn't questioned it. Yet.

But he would. I knew he would. Because that was who he was—unwavering, relentless in his search for answers. And one day, he would realize that the pieces didn't add up, that the version of myself I'd shown him was nothing more than a façade.