Chapter Text
Enid meets her own eyes and holds them in the mirror.
The trick, she reminds herself, is not to look for the old face. It isn’t coming back.
This one will do.
She tests a smile. Too much. A smaller one. Better. She smooths her blazer and squares her shoulders.
“You’ve handled worse,” she tells the reflection. “You’ve had superiors who think empathy is a liability. You didn’t crumble then, and you won’t crumble now.”
Enid rinses her hands and turns off the tap. She is no longer thirteen at the regional debate final. She is a federal agent with a badge and a spine.
“You’ve got this.”
Time off is over.
Time to get back to saving lives.
The flat is quiet, but not empty anymore.
Weeks ago, stale air permeated the space, the post remained unopened, and the only sound that crept through the flat was the low thudding of a heart that refused to quicken.
Now it smells of lavender and fresh laundry. The hallway skirting board is newly wiped. There remains the dull shine that a rag has left. The shoes stand in a straight line by the door. A neat stack of parcels sits under the console table. She has scrubbed the entire flat clean one Saturday and kept going until the sun came back through the windows.
A row of journals with coloured tabs lies on the coffee table. Blue for victims, red for offenders, and green for process. The most recent addition to the stack is labelled in tidy block letters: BAU-9.
Enid runs a thumb along the spine and leaves it there.
The Behaviour Analysis Unit. Division 9.
Nine is a good number, she thinks.
The kitchen is spare but ready for her. It was an exceptionally productive Saturday, after all. Fridge shelves show rows of containers with dates on masking tape. The cupboard jars are labelled and alphabetised. The kettle is full.
Enid reaches for the tin of tea, stops herself midway to take the tin closest to her hand, and does not let herself rearrange them. That Saturday has passed. Let it pass.
While waiting for the kettle to boil, she straightens the corkboard. A short list is pinned with a yellow map tack:
- Eat veggies. Frozen is more than fine.
- Call your brothers.
- Have a walk.
- Breathe and breathe.
There is no motivational quote. She tried that for a while, but it made her teeth itch every time.
With her coffee made, she stands by the counter while the steam warms her face and checks her go-bag. Badge, spare charger, mints, a tiny tin of plasters, pens (blue, black, and a pink one that she swears she will not use in a suspect interview again).
She clips her hair, then unclips it, then decides clipping it is better. It steadies her hands. When it’s done, she places a spare elastic band around her wrist. Just an assurance.
On the bookshelf, framed photographs lean against Austen and a row of much more grim-natured textbooks. She picks the frames up one by one.
Gideon, with soot on his cheek, proud of the engine behind his back. Alaric, mid-laughing at some family party, his bow askew because he refused to let their mother fix it. She straightens another frame without thought, just enough to bring the faces level. The glass is clean. It wasn’t for a good while.
“I’ll keep doing what I do best,” she says to the shelf.
Her phone buzzes with a calendar alert.
Quantico–08:30
Orientation BAU-9
Enid finishes her coffee and rinses the mug before putting it in the dishwasher. Coat on. Keys. Checks the lock twice. Touches her cheekbones once. The colour is where it should be, not borrowed from a nervous flush. The badge is clipped to her blazer. The weight feels right.
When she opens the door, cold air meets the warm lavender on her sleeves. The lift takes an age, and she uses the time to send herself a text she’s been sending for the past week.
Have lunch. And a smoothie.
As the lift doors close, Assistant Director Weems’ voice echoes through her mind.
“The Unit Chief can be… intense. Result-driven. But I think you’ll be a perfect fit for the team. You only need to hold your ground without making it a war.”
Enid had nodded then and nods again now, a little to herself.
Holding ground is not the same as building a wall. She knows that better than most. Not just from her training, no, ever since she was a child, Enid has understood that too well.
The lift dings at the ground floor.
She walks out into the early morning air and heads for the car.
First day at the BAU.
The BAU Division Nine bullpen is alive with early chatter—keyboards, printers, and the low clatter of an overworked coffee machine.
Enid hesitates at the glass door for half a second, hovering her palm over the handle before pushing through.
The open space office feels lived-in. Bulletin boards are crammed with overlapping case photos, several cleverly hidden foldable cots underneath the desks, and an orchid dying valiantly on a filing cabinet.
“New blood!”
A tall man in a fitted shirt, ferrying three coffees and a stack of files, makes his way across the room to Enid with an easy grin.
“Special Agent Sinclair, right? Ajax Petropolus. Pleasure to meet you.”
He transfers two cups to one hand and offers the other. His shake is firm without testing her.
“Welcome to Nine. Promise we’re better than we look and definitely worse than we sound.”
She laughs.
“Enid. The pleasure is all mine.”
“First morning rule,” he says, nudging a cup into her hand. “Take the one that’s still hot. Second rule. If anyone asks you to fix the printer, run. That’s our tech’s church. Don’t desecrate it.”
Ajax steers her a few steps in, clearing the space for her to stand comfortably.
“Right, so this row is for field agents, but stay here long enough and you’ll see we’re all field agents,” he points towards the different corners of the room. “That corner belongs to analysis. And the plants are communal. If you can keep any of them alive for more than a month, you get your name on the wall of miracles.”
“Is that real?”
“Absolutely not,” Ajax deadpans, then gestures to a desk with a clean surface and an almost-brand-new monitor. “And this is you. I bribed Facilities into wiping the hard drive properly. You’re welcome.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“It’s actually protocol, but see how boring that sounds?” He sets the files down on her desk and leans a hip against the edge. “So, any questions before the circus starts?”
Enid takes a slow sip of her second coffee of the day and smiles. “I’m fine for now. And thank you, really.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll fit.” He tips his head, reading her as if they’ve known each other longer than thirty seconds. “Or you won’t.”
Enid winces. That is not something you’d like to hear after taking three months off work and transferring to an entirely new unit per the Assistant Director’s recommendation. Did she make a mistake agreeing to moving away from her old Unit?
“I’m just kidding,” Ajax laughs. “Look, first-day nerves are standard. You did the work to get here. Everything else is reps. If you got any problems, you come find me. I lift heavy things and de-escalate idiots.”
“Duly noted.”
“And when I say idiots,” Ajax adds, lowering his voice, “I mean the printer.”
The bundle of nerves in her stomach reluctantly retreats, plotting for vengeance later. Ajax’s charming jokes has a way of calming her down. Enid wonders if it’s also a technique that he applies on the field.
A blur moves past. A man with glasses, two IDs, and a coffee he’s already halfway through. He brakes, steps back a pace, and peers over the rim of the cup.
“Enid, right?”
She straightens on reflex. “Special Agent Sinclair, yes.”
“Eugene Ottinger,” he says. “I’m the Division’s technical analyst. I also answer to ‘Wizard of Quantico place’ or ‘FBI’s office of Supreme Genius’ or ‘why is the Wi-fi doing that?’ You know, whichever works best for you.”
He eyes the cup in Enid’s hand. “I see Mr Muscle has given you the least terrible option. That shows character.”
“And good morning to you, too,” Ajax snorts. “We’re doing the welcome wagon.”
“I can tell,” Eugene replies dryly, then turns to Enid. “Weems said you’re our Victim Services ringer. About time we got someone who says thank you without sarcasm.”
“Hey, I appreciate you plenty–” Ajax protests.
“You appreciate my bandwidth,” Eugene shoots back, then returns to Enid. “If you need logins, device registration, or to pretend the Bureau still believes in paperless offices, I’m your man. Oh, don’t try and fix the printer because–”
“It’s your church?” Enid finishes for him.
Eugene nods approvingly. “Keep that up and you might give me competition for the title of Supreme Genius.”
Ajax leans in, whispering loud enough for half the bullpen. “Don’t let our Supreme Genius give you a thirty-character password on your first day.”
Eugene sips his coffee. “It’s actually thirty-two, thank you very much.”
“See what I mean?” Ajax waves at a nearby station. “Anyway, this is your locker—top row, two from the left. Combination’s taped inside for now. We’ll change it once you’ve memorised it. If you’ve brought a go-bag, I’ll stash it. If you haven’t, I’ve got a spare. And before you ask, yes, it has snacks.”
Enid laughs under her breath. The tension in her shoulders loosens.
“You make this suspiciously easy.”
“That’s my brand,” says Ajax. “People think ‘tactical’ means doors and shouting. Half of my job is making sure our team shows up feeling like a team.”
Eugene checks his watch, then the corridor, then Enid again.
“Quick orientation addendum. There’s a hierarchy of sins. Touching my servers is a mortal one. Stealing Ajax’s protein bars is venial. Touching the Unit Chief’s whiteboard without permission—”
“Don’t,” Ajax and Eugene say together.
“Understood,” says Enid, smiling despite herself.
She sets her coffee on the desk and rests her fingers on the clean legal pad. The paper gives faintly under her touch.
“No, we do not stand for any action committed by an individual that no longer represents the Bureau.”
A smooth voice from across the room. Enid looks up to find an immaculate woman at the far desk, her phone tucked under her chin, a finger lifted in greeting as she keeps talking to whoever is on the line. The gesture is small and oddly assuring.
You’re seen. We’ll talk when I can.
Enid nods back with a small smile. Ajax beams.
“First day bingo,” he says. “You’ve got Eugene, me, and a Bianca sighting. She’s our media liaison. Terrifying when she wants to put the press in its place. Anyway, if Yoko walks through holding a bonesaw and Xavier pops in with a suspect sketch, that’s a full house.”
“Am I the only one who’d love a morning without something macabre in it?” Eugene mutters into his coffee.
Summoned by blasphemy, the glass doors hiss open.
The first one through is a woman in a charcoal trench and red lipstick too bright for the hour. Her sleek black hair is pinned back, and her heels punctuate the polished floor.
“Morning, sinners,” the woman announces, striding in with a tote bag that definitely shouldn’t make that faint clacking noise. She drops it onto her workstation and flexes her gloved hands. “Before anyone panics, and that means you, Eugene, no, it’s not a body part. Yet.”
Ajax waves excitedly at the pale woman, then explains to Enid. “That would be Dr Yoko Tanaka. Our forensic pathologist. Never ask what’s in her bag.”
Following Yoko is a slender man with paint-stained cuffs and the most melancholic eyes Enid has ever seen. His tie is gone, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and the smell of graphite clings to him.
“Xavier Thorpe. Man sees things the rest of us miss, which is great… until he starts sketching you mid-conversation,” Ajax explains.
Xavier pulls out his sketchbook from his desk’s drawer and smiles. “Only when the composition demands it.”
His voice is soft, measured, carrying a little of the night still in it. He looks at Enid properly then, and for a moment she has the uncanny sense of being catalogued—posture, cadence, restraint—all logged in invisible charcoal lines.
“You’re the transfer.”
“Special Agent Enid Sinclair,” she says, offering a hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
His is cool, dry, and brief.
“Don’t let the Division name fool you. The only Nine they’ll take you to is… well, I’ll let you figure that out for yourself.”
Yoko takes off her shades and gives Enid a reassuring nod. “Panic not, that’s just how he communicates with us mortals.”
Ajax claps lightly on Enid’s shoulders, his voice cheerful.
“See? First day and you’ve met the entire cast. You’re practically family now.”
“Family implies therapy,” Eugene murmurs.
“Which we can’t afford,” adds Yoko.
“Well, not exactly the entire cast yet,” Xavier takes a seat, flipping open his sketchbook. “There’s still—"
The door to the Unit Chief’s office swings open above the bullpen.
Conversation below thins without anyone telling it to. Heads turn. A figure emerges.
Black suit, dark hair in tight braids with no patience for stray strands, and eyes cool enough to change the room’s temperature.
Enid knows, before anyone says it. The air says it for them.
“Everyone, briefing room. We have a case,” the woman says curtly.
Her voice is even, unamplified, and unarguable.
No greeting or introduction. Not even a single glance at the newcomer’s desk. The door behind her stays open.
The bullpen moves. Chairs scrape, cups are set down, files gathered.
Ajax whispers properly this time. “In case you haven’t noticed, that’s our Unit Chief—Supervisory Special Agent Wednesday Addams, or Dr Addams if you’re feeling fancy. And yes, it’s okay to address her by her first name. She won’t bite your head off for that.”
Eugene is already on his feet, pulling a tablet from nowhere, the coffee in his other hand.
“But she will bite your head off for your inability of time management,” he calls over his shoulder halfway across the floor. “Better not keep her waiting.”
“Come,” Ajax gives Enid a thumbs up before hopping after Eugene. “Eyes up. Shoulders back. You’re doing great.”
Bianca appears from her desk at the far end of the bullpen, her phone pressed between her shoulder and her cheek, murmuring something diplomatic as she strides toward the conference room. Yoko follows behind, snapping off her gloves as she walks. Xavier slips a graphite stick into his pocket, his sketchbook tucked under one arm.
Enid falls into step with the current of movement. As she passes the open office door, she catches the faintest trace of something bitter and botanical in the air. Absinthe, or very expensive cologne. She files the detail away, because details are how one builds the shape of a person.
When she reaches the glass-walled conference room, the others are already finding their seats.
Eugene plugs in his tablet, having finished handing the files to each team member; Yoko leans against the far wall, arms crossed. Xavier flips open his sketchbook. Bianca puts her phone down and accepts a protein bar from Ajax without looking.
At the head of the table stands their Unit Chief. A remote in one hand and the case file in the other.
“Three children. Three weeks. Two states,” Wednesday begins. “Identical victimology. Female, seven to nine years old. No sexual component, no ransom demands, no forensic chaos.”
The slides flicker across the monitor.
Three school photos. Bright smiles frozen mid-year, the kind that grandparents would receive in their Christmas greeting cards.
It’s innocence catalogued, followed by absence. Always a small, silent fracture. This job begins where someone else’s life stopped.
“Local PDs handled the first two cases separately,” she continues. “Both assumed opportunistic snatch-and-grab. The first victim escaped within twelve hours. The second was recovered two days later, deceased. Yesterday, nine-year-old Clara Jennings disappeared from her Richmond home. An Amber alert has been sent out, but nothing has come up yet.”
Eugene scrolls through his data feed. “CARD called us in after the jurisdiction overlap. First two cases were Virginia state; this one crosses into the Maryland corridor. FBI oversight triggered under the Lindbergh Act.”
Wednesday clicks again.
A new image fills the screen.
“All parents reported receiving a lavender-coloured teddy bear on their porch after their child went missing.”
Enid’s stomach turns.
She cannot personalise this.
It’s her first case at the BAU.
Across the table, Wednesday narrates the data as if it were anatomy. Factual and bloodless. Enid wonders, briefly, if you can train yourself to sound that calm about stolen children, or if you’re born with a certain stillness that the Bureau simply recognises and rewards.
Enid looks down at her page and realises she’s written Clara-Nine-Safe, please, in the corner margin. She quickly covers it with a line.
“Same setup,” Wednesday continues. “No forced entry. No signs of struggle. Comfort item left behind. The unsub operates on a ritual.”
“So, organised offender. Mission-oriented?” Ajax observes as he leans forward.
Wednesday nods.
“Non-sadistic, yes. Victims most likely approached willingly. Perhaps a lure involving familiarity or moral reassurance like ‘I’m here to help,’ ‘Your mother sent me,’ that sort of cadence.”
From across the table, Xavier looks up. “The first abductee, did she see anything?”
Wednesday answers. “Lisa Addington was too frightened. She managed to escape because the unsub left his van unlocked. Her statement contradicts itself five times. Classic trauma distortion. She remembers a man’s voice, nothing else.”
Ajax scratches his chin. “We could try to guide her through a cognitive interview. Walk her through the memory. We can unlock some detailed reconstruction then.”
“I can work with that,” says Xavier. “Sometimes the mind paints what language can’t. If she can describe what she heard, I can visualise the scene—trajectory, position, angle of approach.”
Wednesday nods. “Take Ajax and Yoko with you. Keep the parents uninvolved. We don’t need emotional contamination. If the first victim remembers a voice pattern or environmental cue, we’ll feed it to Eugene for acoustic matching.”
“Aye aye, Captain,” Yoko straightens from the wall. “Anything on the second victim?”
Wednesday clicks once to the next slide.
“Emilia Johnson. Recovered forty-eight hours later in a motel twenty miles away. Body positioned on a bed. Hands folded. Lavender residue on clothing. Cause of death: asphyxia from chloroform saturation.”
Enid stares at the thin line of light cutting across the gloss of wood. Her jaw locks. She hears the quiet hum of the projector and feels the blood in her wrist pulse against her sleeves. Something in her hand gives.
Snap.
The pencil breaks clean in two.
Ajax looks up. Eugene stills mid-scrolls. Enid clears her throat and sets the halves down neatly beside her notebook. She gathers what’s left of her composure and mutters.
“Sorry.”
Wednesday casts a glance at Enid, then at Bianca. An unspoken exchange. Acknowledgement, assessment, dismissal.
Deal with this later.
Then, without a beat lost, Wednesday continues.
“I’ll have the morgue send us the autopsy files. Maybe something there can help with the cognitive interview.”
Yoko salutes silently, edging Wednesday to continue.
“Our third victim’s parents finalised their divorce three months ago. Mrs Jennings, or rather, Ms Kinsey now, retained primary custody of our third victim. Mr Jennings relocated to Fairfax. On the day of the abduction, the mother was on a scheduled phone call with her attorney regarding child support adjustments. Midday. Suburban street, low traffic, clear weather.”
She gestures to the next slide, a still of the quiet cul-de-sac.
“Clara was trying out her new bicycle on the front path. No signs of struggle. No witnesses. Both neighbouring houses were vacant for the week.”
Eugene looks up from his tablet. “No digital trace on the street cam feed either. The angle’s blocked by overgrown hedges. It’s a clean window. Three minutes between last known activity and the call reporting her missing.”
Enid forces herself to breathe evenly.
Stay composed.
She is ready. She has recovered. Three months off was enough. She is not going to crumble back to the ruin that she was. Not on the first day. Especially not on the first day.
“Three minutes isn’t long,” says Enid, regaining the steadiness in her voice. “That’s not random. Whoever took her knew the schedule. The call, the neighbours being away, even how far her mother could see from the window. He wasn’t watching for an opportunity, he knew exactly when to take Clara.”
A silence follows.
Wednesday pauses, then nods. “Correct.”
She turns toward the board.
“Bianca, Sinclair—you’re with me. We’ll start with the mother and coordinate with local PD in Richmond. Ajax, Yoko, Xavier—go to the first abduction site, then the morgue. I want a fresh behavioural reconstruction and confirmation of forensic consistencies. Eugene, I want you to comb through every single traffic camera within 20 miles of the kidnapping scene and runs background check on everyone in Clara’s life.”
Ajax rises, rolling his shoulders. “Copy that. We’ll update you the second we learn anything.”
Eugene looks up from his tablet. “If our unsub’s timing is consistent, given how quickly they found Emilia, our clock’s already ticking down.”
Yoko adds, “Delusions like this fade fast. Once the fantasy cracks, it usually ends in violence. Either toward the victim, or himself.”
Bianca lingers, her eyes fixed on the still images of the three girls.
“Press already knows,” she murmurs. “Richmond PD held a doorstep presser an hour ago. The mother made a plea—uncontrolled, emotional, which is exactly what the media wanted.”
“That plea gave him validation,” says Wednesday, already inside the lift. She finishes as the doors close. “He’ll see it as permission to finish his ‘mission.’ We need to find Clara before the delusion matures.”
Enid follows Bianca across the garage toward the Bureau SUV. Wednesday is already steps ahead, car key in hand.
Just as Wednesday is out if earshot, Enid finally speaks.
“Can I ask you something?”
Bianca glances over, “Of course.”
“In the briefing,” Enid starts, “Wednesday called everyone by their first names, except for me.”
“She read your file. She knows who you are.”
“I figured. I mean… Why, though?”
Bianca lets out a wry laugh, never breaking her stride.
“Wednesday doesn’t get familiar with new transfers. Not until they’ve lasted over three months.”
Enid turns to her, brow furrowed. “Some kind of probation?”
“Call it self-preservation. Most new agents don’t make it past the mark. They ask for reassignment, or they burn out. Sometimes both.”
The whys keep piling up.
Enid can’t help herself; it’s the instinct that built her career and ruined her sleep. She’s always needed to understand why people do what they do. The motive behind the motion and the logic behind the wound. At least she chose the right line of work for it.
“Why?” She asks anyway.
“Because she’s Wednesday Addams,” says Bianca simply. “She’s a genius and a nightmare. Intense, obsessive, exacting to the millimetre. She doesn’t mean to break people, not her colleagues, at least. Can’t say the same for the monsters we hunt. Either way, she just doesn’t slow down long enough to notice when they start to crack.”
“So, she keeps her distance.”
“Exactly. First names are for the ones she expects to keep. If she uses your title, she’s waiting to see which way you go.”
Enid exhales through her nose. “That’s comforting.”
Bianca’s mouth twitches. “Don’t take it personally. Everyone starts as a surname. It’s just… with most people, that’s also how it ends.”
“And the rest of you? You’ve all stayed.”
Bianca smiles faintly. “Ajax thrives on chaos, Eugene on being right, Yoko on the dead. Xavier doesn’t scare easily, and I’m here because someone has to translate Wednesday into human.”
Enid lets out a quiet laugh. “So, the transfer’s the expendable one.”
“Not expendable,” Bianca corrects her. “Just unproven. Survive the first case, the first three months, the first sleepless nights, then maybe she’ll start using your first name. That’s when you’ll know you’ve earned it.”
“And what happens then?”
Bianca gives her a sidelong glance. “Then, it gets harder to leave.”
Before Enid can reply, the growl of an engine breaks the quiet. Wednesday is already behind the wheel of the Bureau SUV, door open, one hand resting on the steering column.
Bianca’s words die into the sound of the engine. She gestures for Enid to get in, the conversation effectively over.
Wednesday doesn’t look up as they climb inside.
“Seatbelts,” she says, tone clipped.
The car pulls out of the garage and into the sunlight. Whatever questions Enid might have had are left behind in the echo of the underground.
Richmond PD
01:30 PM - 24 hours since disappearance.
The station smells like paperwork and old carpet. Winter is approaching and it seems the heating system in here hasn’t been fixed for years.
The station buzzes overlapping noises, volunteer operators fielding calls that all sound the same, officers shouting coordinates that go nowhere, the mechanical stutter of a printer spitting out missing-child flyers.
Enid trails behind Wednesday and Bianca through the chaos, still adjusting to how the Bureau’s calm cuts through other people’s panic. Wednesday moves first. Heads turn as she passes.
The sheriff, a thick-necked man with stress blooming red across his cheeks, rises from a desk buried in files.
“You must be the Bureau.”
“Supervisory Special Agent Addams,” Wednesday replies, nodding her head in lieu of greetings. “You’ve spoken to Special Agent Barclay on the phone.” She gestures toward Enid. “This is Special Agent Sinclair.”
“I’m Tommy.” He offers a hand that never meets another; Wednesday has already walked past him, eyes fixed on the glass-walled room the locals have hastily cleared for them.
Enid steps forward and takes the sheriff’s hand.
“We’ll do everything we can to bring Clara home,” she says.
Tommy nods and follows them in.
The local PD have stacked the temporarily commandeered conference room with borrowed technology.
Wednesday stands at the centre, scanning the scatter of files, the mess of handwritten notes, the open box of evidence bags that no one has catalogued yet.
“Have you interviewed everyone close to the victim?” she asks.
Tommy straightens. “We’ve been running statements non-stop—”
“You’ve canvassed the neighbours?”
“Of course we—”
“Maintenance crews? Delivery schedules? Utilities?”
“Not yet.”
Wednesday’s eyes flick up, black and calm. “You’ve eliminated familiarity but not access.”
The sheriff bristles. “Agent, we’ve been working round the clock. My people—”
“Are exhausted,” she finishes. “Exhaustion breeds repetition. Repetition misses details.”
Her words slice clean, severing whatever faint rapport the Bureau might’ve grown with Richmond PD before it could sprout.
Enid steps in before the air can break.
“What Agent Addams meant is that every minute counts,” she says gently. “Let’s start with what we already have. The faster we can build on your groundwork, the faster we move forward.”
Tommy’s jaw unclenches.
“Fine,” he mutters.
Bianca catches Enid’s eye, faintly impressed. “Nice translation,” she murmurs.
Wednesday has already moved on, flicking through reports.
“Timeline says the mother was on a call with her attorney when the victim disappeared. Any audio from that call?”
“Working on getting it,” the sheriff replies.
“Get it faster.” She closes the file. “Agent Barclay, coordinate media control. No unsanctioned interviews, no press conferences. Agent Sinclair, you’re with me. We’ll interview the mother.”
"Clara’s father’s there too,” Tommy adds, scratching at his round, beardless chin. “Not doing much to help. Keeps blaming Ms Kinsey for everything—the divorce, the call, you name it.”
Wednesday’s gaze cuts to Tommy. “Noted. We’ll need full access to your radio traffic, and your people off the victim’s property within fifteen minutes.”
The sheriff hesitates. “That’s still an active—”
“It’s contaminated,” she interrupts. “We’ll re-process it.”
Tommy looks like he’s about to argue when Bianca smiles that trained, effortless charm to smooth out Wednesday’s decree.
“The Bureau thanks you and appreciates your cooperation, Sheriff.”
Tommy stares at Wednesday before shaking his head and muttering some pointless pleasantries. “Sure, whatever you need to find Clara.”
Wednesday is already at the door. She doesn’t look back to see if Enid’s following. Catching the cue, Enid moves, falling to step beside her Unit Chief.
They pass through the bullpen, past the whiteboards filled with scrawled times and false leads, out into the cold daylight.
“We need the mother calm enough to recall details and the father contained enough not to derail her,” says Wednesday the second they get into the car. Her tone is flat, clinical. As if she isn't talking about two grieving, hysterical parents, but another case study.
“Got it,” Enid replies, fastening her seatbelt. “Standard trauma protocol, then.”
She’s familiar with grief management. It’s all about the slow stabilising of panic into cooperation. She’s walked families through the first hours after horror before, and she will again now, for her first day back.
She isn't about to let anyone down. Not the team, not the child, and certainly not herself.
She watches the side mirror as the precinct recedes, and in that reflection she catches Wednesday’s eyes, dark and unwavering on the road. The woman looks like she’s been doing this forever. A cycle of grief, logic, and repetition.
Enid tells herself to keep up. To prove she’s ready again.
Ready to work.
And ready to feel without falling apart.
She flips open the tablet balanced on her knees—the preliminary autopsy file on Emilia Johnson, the second victim. Enid hates this part, always has. But she forces herself to keep reading. This is the work. Understanding what’s been done is the first step to stopping it.
“She was posed,” Enid says quietly, scanning the page. “Hands folded. Head turned to the side. Like she was… asleep.”
“Sleeping,” Wednesday corrects her. “He wanted her to look peaceful, not inert. The difference matters.”
Enid glances up. “Peaceful as in mercy. Or guilt.”
“Death isn’t the goal for him; it’s a means to restore order. The staging reduces chaos. It tells him he succeeded.”
Enid thinks of the photo attached to the file, of the small body in a white nightgown, placed as if tucked in by someone who cared. It turns her stomach.
“So he thinks he's saving them?”
“Every offender like this has to justify their act. The absence of sexual contact, the care with which he handled the second victim, and the repetition, they all point to a delusional rescuer. It’s ego-syntonic behaviour. In his mind, he isn’t breaking the law but fulfilling his fantasy.”
“He thinks he’s doing something good.”
Wednesday nods. “Most moral delusions begin that way. He’s rewriting a trauma he couldn’t fix. Look at the lavender.”
Enid scrolls to the chemical analysis page. “Residue found on the victims’ clothing and at both scenes.”
“Lavender is a constant,” says Wednesday. “Sensory and symbolic. Cleansing, purification, safety. It’s also common in parental environments due to its calming properties. It could be linked to his original loss. A child of his own, most likely female. Deceased, taken, or removed through separation.”
“And that’d be his stressor.” Enid blinks, struck by the precision. “He’s re-enacting a goodbye.”
“Attempting to,” Wednesday answers. “But perfectionism in trauma is impossible. When the delusion fractures, he starts again.”
She looks back down at Emilia’s photo.
“He tucked her in.”
“He did what he thought parents do when they love their children. The tragedy is that he believes he’s loving them correctly.”
Their clock is running out. Enid looks out the window and thinks of Clara. If working under someone who doesn’t speak in comfort, but in facts and equations, is what it takes to save lives, then so be it.
Clara Jenning’s home sits at the end of a quiet street where the wind moves heavier than usual, carrying the sound of news vans idling half a block away. The porch light still burns, though it’s early afternoon. Nothing but a small, futile act of hope.
Wednesday knocks once.
The door opens a few seconds later to a man in his forties, eyes bloodshot, shirt wrinkled, a faint smell of whisky wafting through the stale air. He looks like a man who hasn’t slept in a while or, more accurately, hasn’t wanted to.
“Mr Jennings?” asks Wednesday.
He nods, wary.
“Supervisory Special Agent Addams, FBI. This is Special Agent Sinclair.”
Her tone is clipped, offering no comfort and no room for refusal.
He stands aside automatically. “Come in.”
Inside, the curtains are drawn as an effort to shield away the relentless media hounding them nonstop. Bianca did her work, as the front lawn is clean and clear of any interference.
On the sofa sits Ms Kinsey, Clara’s mother, wearing the same clothes from yesterday’s news broadcast. Her hair is unbrushed, her hands limp in her lap. Her eyes are open but unfocused, the brightness of the world tuned down.
Enid recognises such slow, unnatural stillness. Ms Kinsey’s reflexes are dulled by medications. Sedatives, to be precise.
She glances at the coffee table. Three mugs, only one used, the others untouched. A bottle of whisky sits half-hidden behind them, its neck slick with fingerprints.
Wednesday moves further into the room, eyes sweeping the space, taking in everything. The unwashed plates in the sink, the stack of missing posters by the phone, the small pair of trainers still sitting by the door.
Her voice stays level.
“We need to ask you some questions about Clara’s routine. Anything you remember could be relevant.”
Jennings rubs a hand over his face. “Police already asked all that.”
“We’re asking again,” says Wednesday.
He looks between them—between the cold, steady woman in black and the younger one with the soft, searching eyes.
Then, he sighs, defeated. “Fine. Ask.”
Enid steps forward and asks gently. “May we sit?”
He gestures to the armchairs wordlessly.
Enid settles into the seat at the permission. Wednesday remains standing, the file open in her hand.
“Let’s start simple,” says Wednesday. “Ms Kinsey, what time did you last see Clara?”
The woman’s gaze stays fixed somewhere near the carpet. Her lips move, but no sound follows.
Wednesday waits five seconds, maybe six, before trying again. “What time did Clara go outside with the bicycle?”
Still nothing. The faintest tremor in her hands, but no answer.
From the corner of Enid’s eye, she sees Mr Jennings shift in frustration.
“She’s been like this all day,” he mutters. “I drove here from Fairfax as soon as I heard. The police said she was inconsolable, and now she won’t say a damn thing.”
“Mr Jennings,” Wednesday says evenly, not looking away from Ms Kinsey. “I’ll address you when it’s your turn.”
He stiffens. Enid can hear the retort forming. The anger. The defence. But Wednesday is already turning another page, unruffled.
Enid exhales quietly through her nose. The clinical approach has its purpose, she knows that, but it won’t work here. Not with a woman drowning under sedatives and a man barely holding himself upright.
She leans forward, voice softening. “Ms Kinsey… Julia, can I call you that?”
A pause, then a small nod follows.
“You don’t have to relive everything. Just the simple bits,” Enid continues. “Like what colour was the jumper she wore? Did she have lunch before she went out?”
That gentler cadence finds a way in. Julia Kinsey blinks; the distant fog behind her eyes shifts. Her breath catches, then steadies.
“She had cereal. The chocolate one. She said it made the milk taste like dessert.”
Enid smiles faintly. “That sounds like her favourite.”
From where she stands, Wednesday has gone still. She doesn’t interrupt or look up, but Enid can sense her attention shifting.
Julia picks the skin on her fingers and whispers. “She was wearing her pink jumper. The one with the heart. Wouldn’t take it off, even though it was warm out.”
“That’s perfect, Julia,” says Enid softly. “You’re doing really well.” She presses on carefully. “Did Clara talk about anyone new recently? Maybe someone she met at school, or a club, or the playground?”
Julia thinks for a long while, twisting her hands together, wrestling with the memory, and just when Enid fears she’s lost her again, Julia speaks up.
“I don’t… I don’t think so. Clara hasn’t made any new friends recently; the divorce was really hard on her.”
From across the room, Jennings snaps. “And whose fault is that?!”
Julia flinches. The tremor in her hands returns.
Wednesday looks up from the file, meeting his eyes. “Mr Jennings,” she says calmly. “Sit down.”
He opens his mouth to protest, but Wednesday interrupts him.
“You’re a financial consultant. Or you were, before you left your firm three months ago, according to the mail on the fireplace. The calluses on your fingers are from long hours on a keyboard, not manual work, and the tan line on your wrist shows where you used to wear an expensive watch. You sold it, likely to cover a debt.”
Jennings blinks, caught off guard.
“Your jacket still smells faintly of hay and stale tobacco, and the membership pinhole on your lapel’s left side is a betting lounge tag, which can only mean horse racing and cash-only tables. You drink because it slows the spiral. The debt, the calls, the shame. It also made you unreliable, which is why Julia filed first.”
Enid isn’t sure if she wants to stop what she’s witnessing. This is something straight out of dramatised training videos or late-night crime thrillers. And all the forewarnings were right.
Her Unit Chief is a goddamn genius, and she is utterly insane.
“Your gambling wasn’t greed. It was an extension of overwork. You chased the same chemical high that came from closing a deal, only now the stakes were money instead of numbers. You told yourself it was manageable, right until the day she took Clara and left.”
She closes the file softly, eyes level with his.
“So, tell me again, would you still like to play the ‘whose fault is that’ game, or would you like us to help find your daughter?”
The fight in Mr Jennings collapses. His shoulders sink. His anger and bluster fold inward, leaving the hollow sound of breathing behind. Across from him, Julia straightens, though a tremor still runs through her fingers. The sedatives haven’t worn off, but the jolt of hearing someone else name the truth she’d been carrying alone comes through.
Wednesday gives her a single nod. “Good. Stay focused on Clara.” She turns away. “Agent Sinclair. Upstairs.”
Enid rises, tucking her notebook under her arm. The hallway leading to Clara’s room smells like children’s soap and fairy dust. Stickers line the edge of the door at the end, Clara spelt in uneven pink letters.
Wednesday pushes it open.
The air inside is still. A half-made bed. Toys lying around on the ground.
“Scene integrity’s been maintained,” Wednesday observes. “We need behavioural traces. Objects, layout, and sequence of comfort. Anything that maps her last voluntary movements.”
“You’re looking for intent.”
“Intention leaves pattern,” Wednesday replies, scanning the room. “We need to reconstruct what she felt safe doing before she disappeared.”
She moves along the perimeter, eyes flicking to a scuffed drawer handle, the distance between the bed and the window. Her hands stay clasped behind her back.
Enid lingers by the bed, trying to see what a nine-year-old might see. The smallness of the space. The warmth. The safety of routine. She sits carefully on the edge, then lies back, eyes tracing the ceiling’s faint glow-in-the-dark stars.
Behind her, Wednesday’s voice cuts through the quiet.
“What are you doing, Agent Sinclair?”
“I’m a nine-year-old girl,” says Enid softly, eyes still on the ceiling, “who’s just been told she can play outside while her mum takes a call.”
She reaches toward the headboard, her fingertips brushing along the shelf, and feels the corner of a book. Another one. She pulls them free.
“And it seems I like to read before bed.”
Two slim paperbacks, still stiff at the spine. Under the pillow is a third book, its corner slightly bent. A favourite one.
Wednesday steps closer.
“New,” she observes. “Barely opened. Purchased, not borrowed.”
Wednesday’s gaze lingers on the books, on Enid, on the scene reframed through empathy rather than evidence.
She moves to the desk and crouches to inspect the contents. “Gift bag from a book fair,” she notes. “Catalogue, stickers, a receipt. Fair ended the day before the abduction.”
Wednesday pulls out her phone. “Eugene.”
Eugene’s voice crackles through the speaker. “You’re calling from a crime scene, so I’m assuming it’s not to discuss office morale.”
“Find me any book fair within Richmond County that ends the day before the abduction of Clara Jennings. I want vendor lists, personnel rosters, permits, and background checks. Focus on male volunteers aged thirty-five to fifty-five.”
“Pulling event data now. Two fairs in the last ten days. Richmond Central Library and the Richmond Primary School local fair. Crossover vendors: eleven. Give me a minute to filter.”
“We’ll confirm the link with the parents in the meantime,” says Wednesday, sliding her phone into her suit pocket and turning for the door.
Enid follows her downstairs. Julia and Jennings are still in the living room, not talking but sharing the same exhausted silence that comes after too many hours of grief.
Wednesday asks immediately. “Ms Kinsey, did Clara ever mention anyone from the book fair? A stall she liked, or a conversation she remembered?”
Julia thinks for a while, then answers. “She said there was a man who gave her a few good book recommendations. Said she had a lovely reading voice. It was… at the library fair. Richmond Central.”
Wednesday glances at Enid. Taking the cue, she steps forward.
“That’s helpful, Julia. You’re doing great. Do you remember anything else she said about him?”
“No,” Julia whispers. “Just that he was kind. I didn’t think—” Her breath stumbles. “You don’t think he’s the one who took her, do you?”
Enid shakes her head gently. “We’re not ruling anything out yet. This helps us narrow things down, that’s all.”
Wednesday’s phone buzzes. It’s Eugene.
“I’ve cross-checked vendors against known offenders, restraining orders, and interstate work permits. All clean.”
“Run civil and small-claims dockets next. Custody disputes, recent relocations.”
“On it. But it’s gonna take a while to open any sealed record. Will call back the second I have anything.”
Before Enid can comment, Wednesday’s phone buzzes again. It’s Ajax.
“Hey, Boss. Hey, newblood. We just wrapped the cognitive interview with the first abductee.”
Wednesday gestures for Enid to follow her into the kitchen, away from the grieving parents, into quieter air. She places the phone on speaker.
Ajax continues, “Victim remembers the same lavender smell as before and… something else. Said there was this metallic sound in the background. Like an engine or machinery.”
Enid exchanges a glance with Wednesday. “Could it be an air conditioner or generator?”
“Could be,” Ajax says. “Yoko’s leaning toward a portable engine, maybe an RV or refrigeration unit. Xavier’s sketching her memory context now.”
“Send both to Quantico and my phone,” says Wednesday. “Timestamp everything.”
Ajax huffs a laugh. “Already did, Boss.”
The whiteboard in their commandeering room at Richmond PD is fuller now. Photos, maps, and radius charts fill it. Wednesday stands in front of it, her sleeves rolled.
“We’re looking for a white male. Mid-to-late forties. Non-threatening presentation. His profession involves trust or teaching. Likely single or divorced. Highly structured, low social volatility. Prefers predictable environments with potential targets, such as libraries, fairs, schools, and community events. He’s mission-oriented, a delusional altruist with attachment fixation.”
She taps the pen against a printout of Clara’s photo.
“Victims are all young girls aged seven to nine. Middle-class, well-behaved, compliant. He’s choosing them because of what they represent: the perfect, obedient child. His delusion isn’t about violence. It’s about preservation.”
A few local officers exchange uneasy looks. Enid stands beside her, quietly impressed despite herself. Wednesday’s intonation is hypnotic. Precise and terrifyingly confident.
“He mimics parental tenderness when he disposes of his victims,” Wednesday continues. “The posing and the lavender scent are all parts of his re-enactment to restore whatever he has lost.”
She steps back.
“Distribute the profile to all responding units and volunteer search parties. We’re looking for someone who blends in. Average, polite, forgettable.”
A deputy scribbles notes and hurries out. The room hums with discussion. Suddenly, the door bursts open. Sheriff Tommy enters triumphantly.
“We’ve got someone!”
09:00 PM - 32 hours since disappearance
The man across the table looks like every small-town cautionary tale. He’s in his mid-forties, unshaven, eyes darting between the mirror and the door. His hands fidget against the cuffs. A local substitute teacher.
Enid watches from behind the one-way glass with her arms folded. Inside the interrogation room, Wednesday sits perfectly still across from their suspect. The silence between them stretches so long it becomes unbearable. Only then does Wednesday begin.
“Mr Langford, do you know why you’re here?”
He lets out a harsh laugh. “Because some neighbour decided I’m someone who would fondle kids.”
“And are you?”
“No.”
“Then what are you?”
“What—what kind of question is that?”
“The kind that clarifies identity. You’ve been unemployed for six months. No partner. One estranged daughter who lives three states away. No roommates. You volunteer irregularly. Three separate noise complaints in the last fortnight. So, what are you, Mr Langford?”
He grits his teeth. “I don’t have to answer to that.”
“Of course you don’t,” says Wednesday mildly, crossing one leg over the other. “Then let’s start easier. What were you doing two days ago?”
“I was home.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“No one saw you?”
“No.”
“Convenient.”
He leans forward, voice rising. “What exactly are you accusing me of?”
“Nothing. Yet. I’m establishing whether you’re capable of impulse control.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means people with your history. Recent job loss, geographic instability, familial estrangement. They tend to escalate in one of two ways: self-destruction or displacement. You strike me as the latter.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know enough,” she says.
“I know you overcompensate for lack of control with noise, hence the complaints. I know you still call your daughter’s old number once a week and hang up before it rings through. And I know, right now, you’re furious that a stranger can name all that without touching a file.”
The colour drains from his face.
Wednesday leans in. “But I also know you’re not him.”
“What?”
“You feel wrong,” she says simply. “You’re defensive, self-loathing, reactive. The man we’re looking for is calm. Righteous. He doesn’t argue to prove innocence; he explains salvation.”
“You’re not capable of what he’s done. Release him.”
Langford blinks up at her, stunned. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” she says, and leaves without waiting for a reply.
Enid watches her reflection fade in the glass as Wednesday steps in beside her.
“You got all that from five minutes?” she asks.
“Four,” Wednesday corrects. “He’s too defensive to be delusional. Guilt doesn’t interest him, only self-pity.”
Enid nods slowly. “He looked angry at being misunderstood. Not scared of being caught.”
Wednesday glances at her. “Good. You’re learning to differentiate motive from emotion.”
“I call it basic empathy.”
“Call it whatever helps you sleep.” Wednesday turns toward the hallway, voice already shifting back to business. “Let’s find the one who doesn’t think he’s wrong.”
The clock on the wall ticks. The average window before a kidnapped child turns up dead is closing.
Ajax’s team is en route to Richmond, their analysis of the first two victims done. As Wednesday trades rapid updates with Eugene and the local command, Enid stands off to the side, watching the frozen image of the family’s televised plea from two days ago.
The message is raw, desperate, but jagged with grief turning into accusation.
…if you have her, if you can hear me, how could you do this? You monster. She’s a child—
Too emotional. Too aggressive. However, it’s hard to blame Julia. A mother out of her mind, flailing at the void that swallowed her child.
It’s the wrong tone for the unsub. Cornering him, rather than calming him, as absurd as it sounds.
She crosses the room quietly, toward where Wednesday stands by the operations board after dismissing the deputies. Enid leans in just enough to speak without drawing attention. The faintest trace of cologne, bitter and botanical, cuts through the smell of stale coffee.
“We need to send out a new message,” she murmurs. “Specifically for him.”
Wednesday’s gaze flicks to her. “Explain.”
“He sees himself as a rescuer, not a kidnapper,” Enid whispers. “Every accusation just reinforces the delusion, that the world is cruel, that he’s the only one keeping her safe. If he feels attacked, he’ll retreat. Maybe even act on it. But if we make him feel seen…”
“Seen?”
“Like the parent he thinks he is,” Enid says. “He’ll want to prove he’s done the right thing. He won’t be able to resist reaching out.”
For a moment, Wednesday doesn’t answer. Then, she turns back to the board, voice crisp, announcing to the room.
“We’ll craft a new message. Calmer. Empathetic. Aim to trigger his caregiving schema, not his persecution complex.”
Enid hides a small smile at the phrasing.
Bianca catches the exchange from across the room, arching a brow. “You two want to tell me who’s writing the script, or should I just roll the cameras?”
Wednesday doesn’t look up. “Agent Sinclair will coach the delivery. You’ll handle distribution.”
“Copy that,” says Bianca. “And I’ll try to keep the wolves in the press from eating me alive.”
The cameras are small and portable. Ajax has already brought Julia and Jennings to the station, guiding them past the noise of the command post and into a cleared conference room. The space has been repurposed for a broadcast, with the state flag and the Bureau insignia standing behind them and a podium. They sit side by side beneath the wash of the overhead light, close but not touching. Enid kneels in front of them, her tone patient and tender.
“When you speak,” she tells Julia, “don’t apologise. Don’t accuse. Just talk about Clara, something small, something ordinary. The blanket she sleeps with. Her favourite cereal. Anything that feels like home.”
Enid glances over her shoulder. Wednesday stands against the far wall, motionless, observing every word but offering none. Her expression gives nothing away, but she’s listening.
The camera light blinks on.
Julia takes a trembling breath and begins.
“Clara, sweetheart… we miss you. I made your cereal this morning, the chocolate one that makes the milk taste like dessert…”
Her voice wavers, but she keeps going, following the rhythm Enid coached into her breathing.
“I know someone’s with you right now. If you can hear me, please know we’re not angry. We know you didn’t mean to hurt anyone. You just wanted her to be safe.”
The silence around her deepens as Julia pauses.
“Clara’s such a gentle soul,” Julia continues, a tear slipping down her cheek. “She trusts people who are kind. And you must have been kind, or she wouldn’t have gone with you. We just… we just want her home. You can tell us what she needs. What you need. Just call us. Let us know she’s warm and all right.”
Enid nods gently from her behind the camera and shuts off the recording.
“Good, Julia. That’s enough,” she says softly.
02:30 AM - 37 hours since disappearance
They set up Julia’s landline in the living room. The cords snaking across the carpet, monitors ready from the adjacent table. Wednesday oversees the final checks and orders.
“Route all calls through Quantico. Dual trace from PD and Bureau lines. No one touches that receiver except Ms Kinsey.”
Eugene’s voice comes through the speaker. “Confirmed. Signal lock on standby. We’ll have live triangulation the second it connects.”
Julia sits on the sofa, twisting a handkerchief until it frays. “Do you really think he’ll call?”
Enid opens her mouth, but Wednesday answers first. “He will.”
Julia nods, gripping the handkerchief tighter.
Of course he’ll call. People like him always do. They crave validation, not victory. Every abductor with a saviour complex needs the witness, someone to recognise the good they think they’re doing. Someone to tell them they’ve done enough.
He’ll call because he needs to be seen. Because delusion feeds on audience. Because men who “save” children from the world are always, at their core, begging for absolution.
The second Julia’s plea aired, Enid knew he would hear it as invitation, and not threat. Now they only have to wait for him to walk through the trapped door.
Enid kneels beside Julia and Jennings at the sofa, the home phone placed carefully on the table before them.
“When he calls,” Enid instructs, “you have to keep your voices steady. Stay calm. He’ll be listening for your tone more than words. Don’t antagonise him, don’t beg, and don’t accuse. He needs to believe you understand what he’s doing, even if you don’t.”
Julia nods shakily. “What do we say?”
“Talk about Clara. Ask simple questions. Make him believe you’re grateful she’s safe.”
Jennings rubs his face with both hands. “Grateful,” he mutters. “For what?”
“For time. That’s all we need.”
08:03 AM - 43 hours since disappearance
The phone rings.
It shrills through the quiet room. Enid jerks awake on the couch, muscles stiff, heart already racing. She must have drifted off at some point from exhaustion.
Across from her, Wednesday hasn’t moved all night. She sits at the table, perfectly composed, eyes on the monitors, one hand resting near the receiver as though she’d been waiting for this exact moment. The untouched cup of tea beside her has long gone cold.
Julia gasps from the sofa. Jennings springs on his feet before he’s fully awake, knocking over a half-empty glass of water in the rush.
Wednesday gestures sharply to silence everyone else, then nods at Julia.
She answers, voice trembling. “Hello?”
A man’s voice, calm, almost kind arrives. “She’s safe now, you can stop worrying.”
Julia swallows hard. “Please, can I speak to her?”
“She’s sleeping,” he replies. “She’s peaceful. She told me she misses you, but she’s not afraid anymore. She doesn’t cry now. I’ve saved her from that.”
Julia’s voice wavers. “Is she warm? Does she have her blanket?”
“Yes,” he says. “The blue one. She’s wrapped in it. She’ll be safe forever. You should be proud of her, she’s perfect now.”
Eugene’s voice crackles in the team’s earsets. “Tracing in progress. Narrowing signal, northern corridor, but it’s bouncing off multiple towers. I need more time.”
Wednesday’s eyes don’t leave Julia. “Keep him talking,” she mouths.
Julia nods, tears welling. “Thank you,” she says weakly. “For keeping her safe. I just… I need to hear her voice. Please.”
“You’ll ruin it,” the man says, his voice almost breaking. “Don’t make me undo the peace I gave her. Say goodbye properly this time.”
Jennings jerks upright, rage snapping through exhaustion. “Where is my daughter, you bastard?! Where is she?”
Wednesday slams the mute button, cutting his voice off mid sentence. She turns to him, calm and ice-cold. “Are you trying to kill your daughter, Mr Jennings?”
He freezes.
“Because that’s what happens,” she continues evenly. “You raise your voice, he feels cornered, and the next thing we hear is a dial tone and a dead child. Sit down.”
Jennings sinks back into his chair, shaking.
Enid steps forward, lowering herself to Julia’s level, speaking softly but firm. “It’s all right. He’s scared. We all are. Focus on Clara. You’re doing great.”
“Ms Kinsey,” Wednesday says. “Ask him where she’s resting.”
She unmutes the line.
Julia hesitates, then obeys. “Please… just tell me where she’s sleeping. I won’t come. I promise.”
There’s a long pause, then only breathing. Slow. Controlled.
Click.
The line goes dead.
“Eugene?” asks Wednesday.
“Lost the signal at forty-nine miles north of Richmond. Could be anywhere in the radius. Sorry, Chief, too short a call.”
Wednesday’s jaw tightens.
“Check if there are any book fairs operating within a fifty-mile radius,” she orders.
“Stand by.”
The team waits. Adrenaline coursing through their veins. Wednesday stands at the map board, eyes scanning routes. Enid watches her, watches that eerie stillness before the next calculation, less like thinking and more like predation.
“Got one,”says Eugene after a few seconds. “Maryland State Readers’ Expo. Big one. It’s closing tonight.”
“Cross-reference all publishers and vendors from Richmond’s fair. Find any overlap. Include volunteers, temporary staff, and rental contracts.”
“Already pulling from the unsealed vendor lists.”
The printer by the corner whirs, spitting paper out. Enid catches the first sheet with columns of names, locations, and permit numbers.
Eugene narrates. “Okay, Magic Man did his trick. Out of the original eleven, nine check clean. Two stand out. Both male, both within age range. One’s a widower, no children. The other has a sealed family court record in Fairfax. That’s Michael Hales.”
“That’s him,” Enid breathes out, her finger finds the name on the sheet.
“Custody case, three months ago. Ex-wife filed for sole custody of their eight-year-old daughter, Diana. Order was finalised; accident occurred two weeks later. Mother and child both died en route from court. Fatal MVA, single vehicle, no evidence of intent.”
Wednesday nods. “That’s his trigger.”
Eugene continues, “He’s been doing vendor circuits ever since. Children’s literature, educational stalls, anything family-oriented. No criminal record, clean credit, new registration on a white camper van six weeks ago.”
“That’s the portable machinery sound our first victim heard,” Ajax points out.
A file notification pings. Eugene just sent them a local photo from last year’s fair circuit. A man in his late forties, smiling happily beside a small girl holding a lavender teddy bear.
The same bear left on every porch.
Wednesday straightens. “He’s at the Expo. It’s public enough to feel safe, yet private enough to vanish into a crowd.” She grabs her coat. “Eugene, patch the coordinates to our phones. We take both cars. Bianca, inform Maryland PD we’re en route but do not make contact. I want eyes, not noise.”
Bianca nods. “Understood.”
Ajax, Xavier and Yoko are already in their SUV.
Enid follows, adrenaline cutting through exhaustion.
They hit the fairground as the gates open and the first wave of families streams in. Loudspeakers crackle, generators running, paper dusting the air.
Wednesday steps out first, her eyes taking the whole place in with one sweep.
“Low-stimulus approach,” she says, just for Enid. “No sirens, no jackets. We confirm the girl before we show a badge.”
Bianca peels away toward the entrance, voice low into her phone as she works the local command into a perimeter without the word perimeter. Ajax melts into the vendor lanes, pretending to compare hardbacks while Xavier ghosts down the central aisle with a sketchbook tucked under one arm, looking like he belongs. Yoko drifts toward the food court, scanning, apparently bored.
The team makes it a theatre and a hunt at once.
“Eugene,” Wednesday murmurs into her mic, “status on the plates.”
“LPR hit on a white camper three blocks east at 08:36. Ticketed, not towed. No movement since. Camera shows him re-entering the grounds at 08:51 with a folded banner. He’s here.”
“Copy.” Wednesday’s gaze slides along the rows. “Sinclair, right flank.”
They move quickly through the budding crowd.
Enid’s pulse drums against her collar. She catalogues faces automatically. Dads with prams, a teenager stomping in glitter boots, a teacher corralling a class trip with a foam finger.
“Van,” comes Ajax on the earpiece. “Got eyes on a white camper beyond the north exit. Doors cracked, engine off. No visual on the driver.”
“Hold it,” Wednesday says. “We don’t move the van until we have the child.”
Enid sees him first.
Grey cap, blue windbreaker, folding a vinyl banner into a crate with careful, trembling hands. He looks almost aggressively ordinary.
“Visual on Hales,” says Enid.
He looks up. Their eyes meet. There’s a flick of recognition, not surprise, but a man who’s rehearsed this moment in his head.
He flees.
“FBI!” Wednesday shouts.
She dashes, cutting angles Enid has to fight to match.
The crowd breaks around them. Startled parents yanking children back. A mountain of second-hand picture books explodes across the ground as Enid clips a table.
Ajax shoulders a barrier aside to clear their line.
Bianca turns a shouted What’s happening? into a soothing It’s fine, all fine. keep moving, re-routing the crowd’s panic.
Hales barrels between two tents, clips a guy rope and stumbles, recovers quickly, and keeps going. Enid feels the old electric fear from three months ago surge and forces it down, chasing the current suspect.
They burst into the car park. Gravel skitters underfoot. The white camper parks ahead, slightly ajar.
“Hales!” Enid calls, pitched for him alone. “Michael, you don’t have to run.”
He throws the rear doors wide.
Clara lies inside on a folded blanket, her face colourless, lashes still against her cheeks. The air that breathes out of the van carries the flat chemical note of chloroform.
Wednesday aims her gun. Her eyes flick once to Clara’s lips. “Respiratory depression. If we don’t move quickly, we repeat victim two.”
Hales turns, his gun up, the muzzle shaking inches from Clara’s head. His face is blotched and wet, and his stray hair is stuck to his forehead.
“She’s sleeping,” he says, hoarse. “She’s safe.”
Wednesday’s stance settles. A perfect triangle. Feet, shoulders, sightline.
“Put the gun down, Mr Hales.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t understand. The world took my little girl. I’m saving this one. She’s my Diana.”
Enid’s hands are steady on her weapon, but the past collapses in around the edges of her vision. The memory lurches at her. A hail of gunfire. The ringing in her earpiece. A desperate howl before everything cuts to black.
Not this time.
She puts her gun away and opens her palms.
“Michael,” she says gently, “you kept her warm. The blue blanket? That was good. You did what a father does.” She points slowly to Clara’s mouth. “But look at her lips. See the colour? She needs help, now. If you love her, you don’t wait.”
He presses the gun closer to Clara’s head. “You’ll take her away. All of you.”
“You’ll come with her,” says Enid. “No goodbyes today. You will ride in the ambulance. You will tell the doctors she likes stories when she’s scared. You can even hold her hand.” She takes a minimal step forward, hands still open. “What’s her favourite book, Michael? Did she tell you?”
His face contorts as Hales glances down at the crate by the door. A lavender-scented bear peeks out between two paperbacks, pristine spines from the Richmond fair.
“Fairytales,” he whispers. “She likes it when I do the voices.”
“Then do the right thing like a dad who does the voices,” Enid says softly. “Let me check her breathing.”
Across the car park, Yoko’s voice threads through Enid’s earpiece.“EMT staged at Gate B. On my count, we can have them twenty seconds out. Addams, your call.”
Wednesday doesn’t answer. She watches Hales watching Enid, her gun still trained on their unsub. The angle, the distance, the backstop.
“You promise?” he asks.
“I promise,” says Enid.
Hales turns, arms shaking, and gathers Clara the way a father does, with one hand under her knees, the other cradling her shoulders, the blue blanket bunched at her chin. He steps down from the van, eyes never leaving Enid’s.
Enid moves in. “I’ve got her.”
Clara’s weight drops into Enid’s arms. Light and terrifyingly warm. She adjusts instinctively. One hand supports the occiput, the other frees the airway, her ear is pressed close to the child’s mouth to check for breathing.
Wednesday breaks the gap with a single step the instant Clara clears the line. A strike through the gun wrist at the radial nerve, twisting Hales’ arm into pronation, sending him to the ground. The gun clatters under the van in less than a heartbeat.
“Michael Hales,” Wednesday says, breath unshaken, her knee in the pocket of his shoulder, “you are under arrest for the abduction of Clara Jennings and Lisa Addington, and the murders of Emilia Johnson. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say—”
“I saved them!” He weeps, writhing against the cuffs. “I kept them safe!”
“—can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”
She finishes the caution and hauls him up in one clean motion.
Ajax is already waving the crew in, carving a path open. Bianca holds the crowd at the far line with a raised palm and trained authority.
Yoko climbs into the van beside Enid, gloving up on the move.
“Airway,” she says, and Enid shifts, two fingers to the jaw, lifting gently as Yoko checks pupils, counts respirations under her breath. “Shallow, but present. We can work with this.”
Xavier appears at the door, breathless but composed, eyes taking in the arrangement. “He made a bedtime,” he murmurs, staring at the blanket, the bear, the way the books have been stacked within reach. He begins to sketch without being asked. A record of delusion that will matter later.
“Photograph before movement,” Wednesday calls, and a Maryland officer snaps six frames in quick succession before the EMTs slide Clara onto a board and through to the gurney.
Enid stays with her until the last strap clicks, one hand still on the child’s wrist, where she can feel the thready pulse.
“You’re all right,” she whispers, whether to herself or the girl, she isn’t sure. “You’re all right.”
Hales sags against the bonnet under Wednesday’s grip, hiccuping sobs, his forehead streaked with dust.
“Please,” he says, his eyes trained on the ambulance doors, “please, don’t make me say goodbye.”
“You already did.”
She hauls him upright and hands him to the waiting deputy.
“Do not speak to him,” she tells the officer. “He invokes, you wait for counsel.”
The ambulance doors slam. The siren kicks life and rolls away, red and white cutting across the bright morning. Enid watches it go until it turns the corner and is swallowed by tents and laughter and a day that has no idea how close it came.
Only then does she look back at Wednesday.
There’s gravel dust on the Unit Chief’s cuffs and a smear on her cheek she hasn’t noticed. Her breathing hasn’t changed since the run. Calculations run behind the eerie stillness. Evidence chains to tally. Reports to file. Families to call.
“You hit him hard,” Enid says before she can stop herself.
Wednesday glances at her. “I hit him once,” she replies. “He would have needed three if I’d been slower.”
“Clara’s going to make it.”
“That was the objective,” Wednesday says. Her tone is flat enough to be mistaken for indifference.
Enid’s guts tell her it isn’t.
Bianca arrives at a jog, posture immaculate despite the sprint. “The crowd is contained, PD placated, and the press is redirected,” she reports, then tips her chin at Enid. “Medics said good call on the airway. You’ve got decent hands for someone who was supposed to be doing paperwork.”
Enid lets out a small laugh. “I try.”
Ajax appears from nowhere with a bottle of water and presses it to Enid’s palm. “Drink. And breathe. In that order.”
Xavier shows Wednesday his rapid sketch of the van’s interior. “He rehearsed it,” he says. “You can see it.”
“I could hear it,” Wednesday replies, eyes on the page.
Hales is loaded into a cruiser, still protesting through tears that sound almost childlike. Wednesday doesn’t look at him again. She brushes the dust from her sleeve and turns back to the work waiting on the other side of rescue.
Enid watches the woman who speaks in equations and ends children’s nightmares with a single, precise, too-hard movement, and for a moment she both recoils and leans in.
Then she squares her shoulders and falls back into step. There’s still the hospital, the parents, the report. There’s always the report.
Behind them, a child tugs a mother’s hand and asks if the storytime still starts at ten. The loudspeakers confirm it does. Life resumes. And somewhere ahead, an ambulance bellies down a bright road, carrying a little girl who gets to wake up and see her parents once again.
The highway carries a steady white noise that takes the edge off her adrenaline. The afternoon light flickers through the windscreen in bands. Sirens are someone else’s problem now.
Ajax takes the wheel. Bianca rides shotgun, her phone face-down for once.
“Excellent work for your first case,” says Bianca, not looking away from the road ahead.
It isn’t a performative praise, more like a measured assessment.
“Thanks,” says Enid. Her fingers worry the edge of a gauze packet Yoko had handed her earlier and she doesn’t quite know why. “I keep seeing his face. The moment he realised it was over. He looked… relieved and ruined at the same time.”
“Grief is messy,” Bianca says. “So is delusion.”
Ajax glances at the rear-view, mouth quirking. “File that under Things They Don’t Put on the recruitment posters. Along with ‘bring snacks’ and ‘cardio is your friend. ’”
A small smile escapes Enid. It doesn’t last. “At the briefing… you weren’t sure about me.”
Bianca considers. “This job empties people out. Even the ones with medals. Victim Services is one of the few places that teaches you how to stand next to panic without catching it. That showed today.”
Ajax drums the wheel. “Hey, you were steady when it counted. Gold star. We’ll laminate it when we get back.”
Enid watches the road slide past, winter-bleached fields and a billboard that’s lost half its letters. “It didn’t feel steady.”
“That’s fine,” Bianca waves her hand. “Outward steadiness saves lives. Inward can wobble later. Preferably after the paperwork.”
Ajax nods gravely. “Ah, yes, the sacred 302 Forms. Truly, where heroism goes to die.”
Enid lets the silence sit for a minute, then asks the question that’s been waiting.
“Is Wednesday always that… rough with unsubs?”
Bianca exhales through her nose. “She calibrates to the risk. If force gets a child clear, she’ll use force. If empathy buys thirty seconds on a line, she’ll use empathy, though she’ll most likely delegate one of us when it comes to that. Method isn’t moral for her.”
“Comforting,” Enid says. “And alarming.”
“Both can be true.” Bianca reaches for her bottle. “She’s like that for a reason. You’ll learn it in her own time.”
Ajax flicks the indicator to overtake. “Meanwhile, car rules: no true-crime podcasts on the drive, no singing until the state line, and whoever sits behind me is legally required to nap. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not a doctor,” Bianca says.
“I’m a doctor of vibes,” Ajax shrugs. “And the vibes say Sinclair needs twenty minutes with her eyes shut before Weems throws a mountain of forms at her.”
Enid leans back, head against the rest, the gauze finally forgotten in her hand. “I’m fine.”
“Good,” Ajax says. “Be fine with your eyes closed.”
Bianca half-turns around, her voice soft.
“Clara’s alive because you kept your voice level and your humanity intact. Remember that when the replay starts.”
Enid nods, her breath easing. Outside, the light evens out as the lanes unspool towards Quantico. In her mind, there’s still the lavender, a blue blanket, a child’s slow breath. Behind it is Wednesday’s voice, flat as a line on a graph: That was the objective.
Ajax taps the indicator again. “Can someone pick a song?”
“No ballads,” Bianca says immediately.
“No problem,” Ajax answers, already grinning. “I only listen to bangers approved by the Bureau.”
Enid closes her eyes as the first drumbeat rolls in, and for the length of a chorus, the SUV is just a car, the road is just a road, and a team sounds like a team.
Back at Quantico, the bullpen looks bleached by fluorescent light and fatigue. Most agents have already packed up.
Through the glass wall, Wednesday’s office glows. She’s already there, jacket off, sleeves neat, pen moving across a report. Not even a pause to breathe.
Enid hesitates a heartbeat, then knocks.
“Enter,” says Wednesday without looking up.
The bitter and botanical smell is stronger in here. Enid has yet to decide whether she likes it or not. Files on the shelves are arranged with military tidiness, not a single spine misaligned. A cup of tea sits untouched on the desk.
“Chief, I just wanted to—”
“I read your file.” Wednesday turns a page. “And I was present for your work product. If this is an attempt at introductions or rapport, spare us both and submit your debrief by 0900.”
The words land colder than they probably are.
Enid straightens. “Understood. Good night, ma’am.”
She turns for the door, hand on the handle.
“Agent Sinclair?”
Enid looks back.
Wednesday doesn’t lift her eyes from the report. “Adequate work talking down Hales today.”
“Thank you,” Enid says, and isn’t sure whether she means it for the comment, the recognition or the fact she’s still standing.
She steps back into the bullpen. The glass door closes on the soft scratch of a pen. She exhales. The word adequate sits in her chest like a small, stubborn coal.
It’s not much.
Yet it’s something.
And she is definitely throwing out all of her lavender-scented cleaner from her apartment tonight.