+18 eps. 17-21 - After a hard case that takes the team to DC in order to catch a blackhat and prevent a bombing, all hell breaks loose on their return to Boston , when the ghost of the Libra killer comes back to torture Brock seven years after the m...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Connor was back by ten, and he and Tanya parted at the girl's room, still giggling. He found Gillian sitting on her bed with her computer, pajamas bottoms on, messed wet hair, coffee mug in hand and files spread all around her. The boy paused to kiss her hair on his way to the bathroom.
"So how was it?" she asked, kicking her focus from her computer to him.
"Great! Your idea of having T chaperone us was the best ever! Oh, and tomorrow we're having dinner at Andy's place."
Gillian's smile faltered. Andrea's place meant Brock's place or his ex-wife's, and she couldn't tell which seemed worse. "Her place?"
"Agent Brockner's, Mom," replied Connor, closing the bathroom door between them.
Okay. Not that awkwardly bad. Sort of. But still. Her eyes went back to her computer, sliding over the files and reports on the bed.
Cassidy had granted her access to a virtual archive of closed cases—only when she promised to explain to him in the morning why she wanted it. So now she was lost in the files on the Libra's five sprees. Including Georgia Brockner's death, complete with pictures of the crime scene and autopsy reports.
She'd skipped half of it, because she just couldn't go through it all. It felt like clenching her fist on shattered glass. She dropped it and took a break, grabbed a beer, went out to the balcony, took a shower. And she was still shaken.
Last in the folder she found a quick note by one SSA Grubber, BAU's Unit Chief. It said profilers agreed that Georgia Brockner fit so well the Libra's type, that coming across her was very likely what triggered his fifth and last spree.
SSA Grubber. Gillian knew the name. And she remembered the man. He'd been to Boston with Brock and SSA Jackson back in the nineties. One of those jerks always trying to be smart and charming. And failing every damn time. Miserably. Now she knew he'd been chief profiler since SSA Jackson retired, one year before Georgia Brockner's murder. A man like him leading the BAU. No wonder Russell didn't want to join it anymore.
She'd thought it would be a good idea, taking a look at the old files before meeting Arthur Somerville, so she wouldn't bother the old man with too many questions. But she wasn't so sure anymore. Reading about Andrew Lloyd's death in a cold federal report, consigning it like a mere detail lacking any importance, had been bad enough. But learning this much about Georgia's murder right after that... it made her feel plain sick.
That Grubber guy! He and his boss, that Burton jerk, had decided not to notify Brock right away. He was chasing another serial killer with the BAU at some town in Idaho, and they were about to catch their subject. So those two bastards ordered to notify Brock about his wife's brutal death only after he arrested his man.
Connor came out of the bathroom, ready for bed, and smiled at her. "Night, Mom."
"Night, baby. Love you."
"Me too. But we're still going to Andrea's place tomorrow night."
She scoffed while the boy sank under the covers and turned his back on her.
"Night..." he mumbled, already sleepy.
Gillian knew she could throw a parade in the room and it wouldn't disturb Connor's sleep, but maybe it was a good moment to call it a night. So she took everything from her bed to the table, and not a minute later she turned the lights off.
Lying in the cool summer night, she recalled that awkward moment at Bolton's roof. Her hands resting on Brock's shoulders as he leaned to her. Looking up and finding his face right by hers. Good Lord! Hadn't he turned his a little, they might have kissed! And as she fought her racing heart, she felt it. His chill. She wouldn't have reached the window any faster if he'd kicked her in the ass. She'd almost jumped away from him at his unwilling rejection to her proximity.
It'd hurt more than she was able to admit, being forced to face his rejection like that. But it wasn't like she didn't know. Poor Brock, he just couldn't help it. Didn't matter how hard he tried to be civil with her, he simply couldn't bear her around.
She rolled over to her side and curled up with a heartfelt sigh, her eyes on the stars out the window. The last days claimed their toll on her, and she fell slowly asleep.
Maybe she should've stayed awake.
Her dreams took her back to the Bolton's house, no wonder. But all of a sudden it was night, and a violent storm howled outside. Just like the night when Banks got shot and the Libra killed Lloyd. She was upstairs, in the master bedroom, and the whole house was in the dark.
Then a sudden lightning showed her the man fallen on the carpet by the bed, lying in a pool of his own blood. Andrew Lloyd. And as thunder shook the house, the next lightning showed her the red painting on the wall, fresh blood still dripping from it. The underlined omega. She turned her face. She didn't want to see Georgia Brockner sprawled on the bed, her broken body half covered by a sheet soaked in her blood.
Then Banks showed at the door, grabbing the frame for support.
"Reg...?" he called, his voice but a thread.
She didn't wait for the next lightning to see what was wrong with him. She ran to the door, almost tripping on Lloyd's body in her rush to get to Banks. She was hardly in time to hold him up, as his shirt turned red from the bullet wound in his chest, so close to his heart.
She threw his arm around her shoulders and helped him down the stairs. There were police lights and strong voices out there. They made it to the front door and she opened it, already crying out for a medic and an ambulance for her friend.
Then she saw it. Brock's car squealing in the pouring rain to a hard stop before the house. She felt like choking. He couldn't come in. She had to stop him, keep him from seeing his wife like that.
Two medics came to take care of Banks and she ran to Brock under the cold, blinding rain. He stepped out of his car to stride straight to the open front door. She tried to cut off his way, but he dodged her and pressed on.
She called out his name and tried to run after him.
That hideous trick dreams love to play: no matter how much she ran, even when he was walking, the distance between them only grew bigger. Then came the next obvious trick: she was voiceless. So she couldn't reach him, and she couldn't even call him out again.
She fell to her knees on the muddy puddles filling the lawn, alone in the crowd of uniforms, EMTs and agents buzzing around, the storm hitting her hard, raindrops mixing with her desperate tears down her face, eyes fixed on the front door's black hole. And she watched Brock walk into the house and disappear, swallowed away by darkness on the way to find his life torn to pieces.
