𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄- 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐃

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘-𝐒𝐈𝐗

𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐀 𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄. Spencer had already seen the extent of what Alana had done to Corey's body, but seeing the way she'd displayed it for everyone to see was a completely different story. This morning, Spencer had been woken up by a phone call from Hotch telling him that there was another body found. He had mumbled back a quiet response and tightened his grip around the girl beside him. Alana had stirred slightly, and cracked her eyes open at him. She was always a light sleeper. Spencer supposed it made sense, since she'd been conditioned into thinking she constantly had to be on guard. 

"You better get going," she'd chuckled, rubbing a hand across that beautiful face. Truthfully, Spencer didn't want to leave her ever again, but he knew that they both had responsibilities outside of this hotel room. "You have a killer to catch," she teased. 

Spencer had gripped her waist tightly and buried his face into her neck, "I already have her," he whispered, and she'd laughed at him. She'd shoved at his chest and forced him out of bed, and all he could think about was her the entire ride back to the precinct. 

He was so distracted this morning that he almost missed the group of officers gathered around the town gazebo to examine Corey Mitchell's hanging corpse. 

Almost. 

Spencer pulled over to a stop and approached his team members as they analyzed the scene. Sheriff Mitchell was there, demanding to be let in, but Derek was blocking his path, arms crossed over his chest to indicate he had no intention of moving. The body was so horribly mutilated that at first glance, it was difficult to see who it was. But everyone knew. The dirty blonde hair was a dead giveaway. His body was strung up like some grotesque marionette, clothes torn, flesh carved with messages Spencer didn't yet dare to read. The scene was less a murder and more a statement. A reckoning.

"Whoever did this is one dead son of a bitch!" The sheriff shouted. His face was blotched red, spit flying from his mouth as he tried to shove past Derek, who didn't flinch, didn't move an inch.

"You need to step back," Derek said coolly, his tone a warning. "This is a crime scene now."

"This is my town!" Sheriff Mitchell roared, eyes wild as he gestured toward his son's disfigured body. "You think I'm gonna stand here and let you parade him around like some devil's trophy? I want every damn officer on this. We're gonna tear this town apart until we find the monsters who did this," he growled, then turned toward Hotch, his eyes blazing with conviction and desperation. "Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord!"

Spencer's stomach twisted. The sheriff wasn't quoting scripture out of grief—he was using it like a weapon, a justification for whatever righteous wrath he planned to unleash next.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Sheriff, but didn't The Bible also say 'thou shalt not kill'?" Derek questioned, shoving at the sheriff who was trying to get closer to his son's body. The sheriff knew that any minute now, the church bells would ring as Sunday mass came to a close, and everyone would see. They wouldn't be able to hide from it anymore. Any control and credibility the sheriff had would be gone. There was nothing to fear anymore. "I wonder what our wonderful technical analysis will find once she looks up the names of every single girl in those photos."

The sheriff's face went entirely pale. 

Because pinned to Corey's body, and scattered on the floor beneath him, were hundreds of polaroids. All of them containing images of multiple women in multiple different states of undress. Some of them didn't look older than around ten years old. Spencer was willing to bet that every single one of them was dead now. Forced to disappear by Corey and his father.