Battlecry | Criminal Minds (gxg)

Chapter 18

~July, 1996~

I kneel down beside the body, lips pulled into a tight line as I examine the woman's injuries. Cuts along her arms, a slash at one wrist, her neck split wide open—

"D'angelo," Gideon calls me over. I stand and make my way to his side, peering over at what he's holding. "What does this mean?"

I take the kitchen knife from his hands. "Is this the murder weapon?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Then it means he didn't arrive with it." I glance towards the kitchen. "It matches the rest of the set. Didn't bring it, and didn't take it with him."

Gideon nods. "Go on."

"CSI said there was no forced entry. So she must have let him in, and he must have grabbed the knife. He wasn't planning to kill her when he arrived, or at least hadn't thought it through enough to bring his own weapon." I look back to the body. "And the way he tried to clean up, but ultimately failed... the random cuts on her body... this was completely impulsive." I meet Gideon's eyes. "And if she let him in, if he knew exactly where to reach the knives, where to find cleaning supplies—he was a friend."

Gideon doesn't smile, but something like pride softens his features. "Good work. Why don't you head on home, and I'll have the report waiting for you in the morning."

"I can stay if you want—"

"Go home, C. You need the sleep."

I just sigh, handing him back the knife. "Have fun without me."

He gives me a tight smile before turning away. I walk out of the house, duck under the police tape, and collapse into the driver's seat of my car. It's true, I'm exhausted. School's over, thank God, but the FBI has been keeping me more than occupied. It's clear what Gideon's doing—he's training me to be a profiler. Everyone already treats me like an agent, even if I don't have an official badge.

To make matters worse, I'm driving eight hours back to New Hampshire every weekend. Andrew offered to commandeer a jet for me, but I told him there was no need. The ride was the only time I got to myself these days.

My dad's sick. He acts like he isn't, and it wasn't until my sister called me that I even knew about it. Dad said I was too busy, that I shouldn't be worried about him. When I found out how bad it was, I was on the first flight home.

It's not cancer. That's the only good news. The doctors aren't entirely sure what it is. Some form of pneumonia paired with lung disease, they think. Either way, it's bad, and it's painful. I head home every weekend to help him now. Jordan's there all the time after moving back home with her fiancé.

I drove home last night, leaving around eight yesterday and finally making it to my apartment at four in the morning. I collapsed into bed, slept until 8:00, and headed to the FBI. I've been working all day, barely managing to stay awake.

I get home around ten and force myself to eat something. I had dinner with Andrew and Janelle at the field office, but I didn't eat much and now my stomach rumbles with hunger.

I moved apartments about a month ago. I didn't realize I could afford it, not really paying much attention to money except when I have to buy something for classes or pay rent. But the money from the FBI "internship" is starting to pile up, and I decided to treat myself to an upgrade. Too much has happened in my old apartment, anyway. Too many bad memories. I only want to make good ones here.

It's huge. So much bigger than I'm used to. A full kitchen and dining room, living room across from the front door. It's a loft apartment, my bedroom above the kitchen, with an open side to the floor below and the floor-to-ceiling windows on the far wall. It even has a fireplace, and a small balcony. And a bathtub. A beautiful, huge bathtub, that I drag myself to right now. I don't think I could stand upright long enough for a shower.