'We usually ignore the little things that matter. The small details that can change a life. Those simple gestures. A simple smile of hope, a simple touch of support, a few words of strength. These small uplifting things can turn a life around.'
|| S...
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"There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They are messengers of overwhelming grief and unspeakable love." Washington Irving
###
Laylah eyed the woman off as she continued to glance in the direction of the booth, taking another sip from her drink as she pressed her earpiece back in. She dragged her gaze away, checking in on Spencer before she returned to watch the bomber as she sat casually up from her.
'Reid, perimeter agents are pulling back,' She caught Hotch's voice; 'You have to let her go.'
'Well?' Cat questioned.
'Repeat. All agents, do not engage or pursue until the bomb is defused.'
'Spencer.'
'You can leave,' Spencer paused; 'But you won't.'
Cat pauses beside the table and turned to look back down at the man with an amused look plastered to her face, her hand resting on the back of the chair.
'I'm sorry?' She queried.
'Double or nothing. You need to sit back down,' Spencer suggested.
'Reid, what are you doing?' Hotch asked.
'Wow, now you're stalling,' Cat cocked a brow.
'You played your trump card, but I have one, too,' Spencer replied.
'Thanks for dinner. I had fun.'
'I found your father.'
Cat stopped not three footsteps away from the booth, her amused look fading away as she turned back to look at Spencer.
'No, you didn't,' She shook her head.
'Look at my face. Am I bluffing? I'll tell you where he is. But you need to sit back down and listen to the rest of my story,' He demanded.
'No. Tell me now. Or I'll-'
'Detonate the bomb? You're not gonna do that, Cat, because then you won't learn anything... You said you were good at your job because you think through every outcome. Well, guess what? So do I.'
Cat didn't move for a second before she eventually slid back into the booth, running her tongue over the front of her teeth.
'All right. Finish the story,' She demanded.
'To prepare for this dinner, I had to learn everything about you, starting with your real name,' Spencer began; 'Foster care records locked, loaded, and searchable. We assumed you're name was Catherine, because you called yourself Cat in your emails. I guessed a suspicious death for your mother and your father mostly likely went away for man slaughter. My colleague added rampant abuse. But, nothing came up. So, then we tried suspicious deaths within the foster care system. We crossed referenced Catherines who went into families with an accidental death of the father and focused on those with abuse claims against them. That lead us to you. Catherine Adams. Daughter of Daniel Adams, who did in fact leave the country in nineteen eighty seven but returned in two thousand and twelve. Based on confidential records in rehabs and sober living houses, which in turned pointed us to flophouses and soup kitchens. He couldn't put twenty four hours together sober. And you can probably imagine my surprise when I discovered that he actually lives right here in D.C.'
