Chapter Text
“I’m SSA Aaron Hotchner, this is SSA Derek Morgan. We’re looking for a Dr. Spencer Reid.”
The boy, leaning heavily against the doorframe, merely sighed. “You’re looking at him. Unless this is about card-counting. Then my name is Ethan Simone.”
Eyeing the boy somewhat suspiciously, Hotch gestured inside the house. “May we come in, Dr. Reid? We need to talk to you about—”
“Yeah, ‘s fine. Mind the mess, we didn’t expect company.” Spencer pushed himself off the doorframe and into the house, Morgan and Hotch following behind him.
True to his word, the house was in varying states of disarray no matter where you looked. Hotch had anticipated some mess given the state of the outside. The grass had long-since yellowed and died, and the windows were coated in a thick film of some sort. Even the wood of the house appeared to be in the middle stages of rotting away.
But the inside was worse. Hotch honestly would’ve preferred if it was just chaos, but it wasn’t. There was a clear sense of order amongst the decay, and it was a clear red flag in his mind for mental illness.
“Let me just…” Spencer trailed off as they entered the kitchen, shoving shuffling things on the table around awkwardly, visibly unsure what to do.
Morgan held up a hand, “It’s okay, Dr. Reid. We understand these last few days must’ve been pretty rough.”
It was empty—none of this was the result of a few days. But Spencer nodded regardless, shoving things off the chairs and gesturing for the two men to sit.
“How have you—”
“Cut the pleasantries, please.” Spencer said, a groan in his throat as he massaged the bridge of his nose, “I’d rather just go through whatever you need, so you can either find the killer—and Maeve—or just ignore it like you always do.”
Hotch leaned forward slightly, “We have no intention of simply ignoring this case, Dr. Reid. A man is dead, and another man is missing.”
“Woman.” Spencer said, venom dripping from his lips.
Quirking a brow, Morgan opened his file, “Is there another victim? We only have record of a Riley Jenkins and a John Donovan.”
Spencer glared an icy stare at the agent. “Maeve Donovan. Her name is Maeve.”
Hotch glanced at Morgan, who silently agreed to leave that be. “Well, Dr. Reid. Miss Donovan was reported missing by an anonymous source. One that connected her dissapearence to the recent murder of Riley Jenkins.”
Leaning back in his chair, Reid nodded. “Two people from the same house. Not a hard connection to make, really.”
“How old are you, Dr. Reid?” Morgan asked.
“Eighteen.” Spencer answered, but far too quickly. After a moment, he sighed. “No—fuck—you aren’t supposed to lie to the feds. Don’t, like, arrest me.”
Hotch kept a neutral face, “How old are you, really?”
“Sixteen.” Reid nodded, a slight air of anxiety looming over him, “Don’t arrest me for lying. Force of habit.”
Morgan waved his hand dismissively. “It’s fine. Now, what can you tell us about Riley’s murder. Anything you can remember is important, so don’t leave out any details.”
“He left the house twelve days ago, and didn’t come back.” Spencer deadpanned. “And that might’ve been like some of us, but not him. So we got worried.
“Maeve thought maybe he found better things, but I wasn’t so sure. And then…” he trailed off, eyes growing far more distant than they had been.
Morgan nodded, face serious.
Steadying himself with a deep breath, Spencer looked away from the agents. “Ethan found Riley’s body. Behind the Black Double-Diamond. He… fuck, we didn’t know what the hell to do. I think he called it in.”
Hotch wrote quickly in the file, little notes. Glancing up at Spencer, he tried to stay neutral. “And now you’re saying that Miss Donovan has gone missing, too?”
Spencer nodded. “Maeve had found in Riley’s stuff… His emergency duffle, there was a card. A two of diamonds. And it had ‘check’ written on it.”
“What does that mean?”
“Not much, until I looked in Maeve’s shit.” Spencer curled in on himself, no longer meeting either agent’s eye. “Zugzwang.”
The agents shared a glance. “Zugzwang?” Morgan asked.
“It’s a chess term. Like check.” Spencer clarified.
Hotch hesitated. “Is there anything else you remember? Or anything out of the ordinary lately? With Jenkins or Donovan’s behavior?”
Finally looking up at them, Spencer shot a violently cruel look at Hotch. “No. They didn’t leave of their own accord. This is not a case of a couple fucking transients just leaving. Either treat this seriously, or get the fuck out of my house.”
“Hey, kid, we’re just trying to get our facts straight.”
“Yeah, so when you drop the case, it still gets tied up in a neat little bow.” Spencer sneered, “I know how this works. Riley was poor. Maeve is transgender. You’re not going to try and figure out what’s happening. Not when the streets are getting cleaned up!”
“Dr. Reid—”
“Get out of my house, Agents.” He spat the title like a slur.
With a nod amongst themselves, Hotch and Morgan stood up. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Reid. Call us if anything changes.” Hotch spoke cordially, handing the young doctor a card. Without a second word, the pair quickly departed the house.
“Penny!” came a voice from upstairs that they caught as they weaved through the trash towards the door, “The stars, Penny! They’re melting again!”
There was joy in the voice, laughing. “I’ll be right up, love.” Came Spencer’s reply.
The agents slipped through the front door, into their cars, and away from the house.
To the untrained eye, it might’ve looked like a standard domestic scene. But squint even a little, and you’d spot the cracks that had been cemented in the image. Spencer would be lying if he said he didn’t wish every day that the holes in his arm would close and fade away. That he could wake up, and everything would be okay again.
But Spencer was also smart, and knew that if he wanted that reality, it’d take work. You have to put in effort to smooth out the cracks.
Syringes remained on the dresser, assorted bottles scattered around. Holes remained in his arm and his mind. And his friend was still dead.
“You’re thinking too hard, Penny.” Came Ethan’s voice, breaking through his spiral. The effortless notes that floated up from the piano had lulled him into his own mind, and the voice of the pianist brought him out.
Spencer sighed, sitting up on the bed and looking over at Ethan as he played a somber melody. “Sorry. It’s all I know how to do.”
Ethan gave a noncommittal sound, not once looking at Spencer. His eyes stayed on his hands, if they were even open at all.
“That’s Maeve’s favorite song of yours.” Spencer said, no real emotion in his tone. “Sounds good.”
Remaining still, Ethan gave a small sigh. “She said that on quiet days, she can hear it from the street. Maybe she’ll hear it, and…”
Spencer gave him no reply, for there was nothing great to say. The minutes ticked by, and Spencer could tell that at some point the song had looped, but he hadn’t noticed when it had. With weights tethered to all his bones, he forced himself up off the bed, grabbing a few supplies from the dresser before sitting back down.
He tied his bicep so tight he thought his skin might rupture around the elastic.
“Shoot up quieter, I’m trying to concentrate.” Ethan muttered.
Spencer chuckled a low rumbly sound, drawing his syringe. “Riley wanted me to stop. You too, I think.”
“Riley is dead.” Ethan spoke simply, nothing behind his words but exhaustion. “Maeve might be, too.”
“Shut up, Ethan.” Spencer snapped, needle hovering over the crook of his elbow, “I spoke to the feds earlier while you were high. I think they might be serious about trying to find her.”
Ethan scoffed, “Yeah, right. Like they cared any of the other times one of our kind has died.”
“Shut up, Ethan!” Spencer yelled, wrong notes punctuating the air between them as Ethan flinched.
Guilt filled the silence.
“Sorry, I didn’t…” Spencer sighed, his own hair having stood on end. “Just… let’s try and be hopeful for at least a few days.”
Ethan nodded, resuming his song.
Finally feeling ready to do so, Spencer stuck the needle in his arm and pushed down the plunger. Deep breath in, deep breath out. He set the syringe and glass vial on the nightstand, clumsily pulling off his elastic as he let himself fall back onto the mattress.
Just as he had every other time this week, Spencer stared up at the ceiling and counted the cracks.
There were seventeen cracks.
There had been sixteen last time.