Killer Affair | Spencer Reid Short Story

Sentence

Spencer

I can't believe Gwen confessed. It's one thing to admit to the murder they caught her for, but to confess to every single one? It feels like a nightmare I can't wake up from. I can't stop thinking about the words she said, every one of them like a knife twisting deeper. Even after everything I know—everything she's done—I still love her. That's what hurts the most. I still love her.

I went to the prison to see her. I just... I needed to understand. Maybe if I could look her in the eyes, if we could talk, it would make sense somehow, or at least help me understand how this happened. But she refused to see me. She let Hotch in for follow-up questions, of all people, but not me. Not the person she once claimed to love. I'm left here, alone, with my questions and my memories, wondering if any of it was real.

The news came in a way that felt like a cruel joke—a simple envelope slid across my desk with her case file on top, the ink still wet on the judge's decision. I stared at it, my hands frozen, the letters swimming in and out of focus as I read them over and over again. *Gwen Morrison. Sentence: Death Row.* It didn't feel real. I couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't even process the words staring back at me.

For a second, I almost thought it was a mistake. Maybe I'd read it wrong, maybe there'd been some misunderstanding, and I'd flip the paper over and find something—anything—that would make it make sense. But no. There it was, in black and white, an impossible finality hanging over me like a weight I couldn't lift.

The room around me seemed to fade into a dull hum. I couldn't see or hear anything, just the words in front of me, cutting deeper with every second. Gwen. Death Row. After everything. After everything we'd been through, she was really going to die. The reality of it hit me like a punch to the gut, like someone had sliced me open and left me to bleed.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, grounding me, pulling me out of the fog. I looked up to see Derek standing beside me, his face filled with a rare kind of gentleness, his eyes dark with understanding. He didn't say anything, but he didn't need to. He knew. Derek was the only one who knew the truth, who knew what I'd tried so hard to hide.

He'd known about Gwen, about how I felt, how twisted and tangled it had all become. I had never intended to tell him, but one night, after another case that left me feeling raw and empty, the truth had come spilling out. I'd told him everything, about Gwen's secrets, about my fears, about the guilt I'd felt for loving her despite knowing what she was. Derek hadn't judged me; he'd just listened, offering the kind of quiet support I never knew I needed.

And now, here he was again, standing by me as I stared at the paper that had just shattered my world. He squeezed my shoulder, his grip firm and steady, grounding me in a way that reminded me I wasn't completely alone.

"You don't have to go through this by yourself, you know," Derek said quietly, his voice low and rough with something that almost sounded like pain.

I tried to respond, to say something, but the words got stuck in my throat, tangled up in the ache that was spreading through my chest. All I could do was nod, gripping the paper until my knuckles turned white. Derek didn't push me to talk; he just stayed there, his presence a silent reassurance that he'd be there, no matter how hard this got.

"I... I loved her, Derek," I finally managed, my voice barely above a whisper. It was the first time I'd said it out loud, and it felt like ripping off a bandage, exposing something raw and vulnerable that I'd tried so hard to bury. "Despite everything, I still love her."

"I know, man," Derek replied softly. "I know."

For a long time, we just stood there, the silence stretching between us, heavy but somehow comforting. He was the only one who understood, who knew the weight of what I was carrying, and in that moment, I realized he really was my brother.

I've spent years watching the justice system play out, seeing criminals face the consequences of their actions. But now it's her. Now it's Gwen. And despite everything, I can't look away. I don't know if I can survive this, but I have to be there.

The day arrives, and I move through it in a haze, like I'm not really here. Every step feels heavy, every second a slow crawl toward something I'm not ready to face. The room is small and sterile, cold in a way that seeps into my bones. I watch as the guards bring her in, guiding her toward the gurney. She looks thinner, frailer than I remember, but there's still that same grace in the way she moves. It's haunting. I don't know if I'm ready for this. I don't know if I'll ever be ready.

Her eyes search the room, and then they land on me. In that instant, I see everything—shock, sorrow, maybe even regret. She starts to shake her head, her lips trembling as tears begin to gather in her eyes. It's like she's silently saying, I'm sorry. My heart feels like it's shattering into a thousand pieces, each one lodged deep in my chest. I want to say something, to reach out to her, but I can't move. I can only watch as she looks at me with that last, sad, broken expression.

Then she smiles. It's small, fragile—barely there, really. But it's the smile I remember from quiet mornings, from the times when I let myself believe there was something good between us. It's the smile I'll never be able to forget.

"I love you, Gwen." I mumble to myself, barely even a whisper.

The room goes quiet as the execution begins, and I close my eyes, trying to block it out, but I can still see her face, the way she looked at me, that last broken smile. When it's over, I sit there in the back of the room, feeling hollow. Numb. The tears come slowly, silently, and I don't even try to stop them. She's gone. Gwen is gone. And no matter how much I want to, I can't forget her. I loved her, and now I'm left with nothing but memories and a pain that I don't think will ever go away.