Archive of Our Own

I close another case file, tapping the back of my pen against the corner of the desk in concentration. So far there are no active cases for the full team today, only a handful of local agencies reaching out with consult requests and possible links to open serial cases. Nothing urgent yet.

The morning sun slants across my desk, lighting the piles of folders stacked in a way only I understand. There’s a knock at the doorframe. I glance up to see Penelope Garcia leaning in, a bright pink scarf tied around her neck, tablet hugged against her chest.

“Agent Jareau,” she says, mock-formal, “your adoring public awaits.”

Penelope has a way of making me smile without even trying. “Thanks, Garcia. I almost forgot.”

She grins and steps fully into the office. “Career Day waits for no one. Go! Enlighten the tiny humans!”

I shake my head, grabbing my bag from the floor. “Pretty sure they’re more interested in the K-9 officer and the guy who shows off the bomb robots.”

“Still.” She winks. “You’re gonna be somebody’s hero today.”

I scoff, still not sure how I got roped into this. Some days, saying yes is easier than arguing. “I’ll be back by lunch.”

“Unless you get recruited for a middle school spy ring,” Penelope calls after me.

I laugh under my breath as I head down the hallway toward the elevators, heels clicking softly against the tile. The lobby smells like coffee and cleaning spray, the scent slipping past me when the glass doors open into a crisp, beautiful morning under a cloudless blue sky.

Traffic crawls on the way to Cardinal Falls, but I don’t mind. Somewhere between the red lights and the flashing silver of sun off windshields, my mind drifts toward Hamilton Middle School. I’ve been there before, gave this same talk a few years back, and something about the place always reminds me of Maple Ridge Middle School back home. Same polished floors, same drooping banners, same stale cafeteria smells. It’s the time of year, too. Early spring. The kind of restless days that came after we lost Rosaline. I shake my head to clear the memories as the four-story building comes into view, its red brick slightly faded, wide windows catch the morning light.

Inside, a woman with a clipboard smiles too brightly, checks my name off a list, and points me toward a small group gathering near the stairwell. Firefighter. Paramedic. And me. We nod polite greetings to one another as the last straggle of students clears the hallway, doors clicking shut behind them. A young teacher’s aide waves us toward the second floor, saying we’ll be speaking to a seventh-grade social studies class in the middle of their unit on public service careers. Our turns are coming up.

We move toward the stairwell, heels and boots scuffing lightly against the worn tile. The hallway smells faintly of cafeteria food, sharpened pencils, and floor wax. That weird mix you only ever find in schools.

I trail a few steps behind the others, mind half-drifting, half-tracking. Old habits. Halfway up the hall, a girls’ restroom door stands open, the edge of a faded “Be Kind” poster peeling away from the wall beside it. The hallway is settling into mid-morning quiet, most doors closed, students tucked into their routines. Except for one empty classroom, lights off, chairs stacked neatly on the desks. The nameplate by the door reads:

Room 214.
Mr. Ellis, History.

Farther ahead, the firefighter and paramedic peel off toward the end of the hall, where the teacher’s aide stands holding a classroom door open. I follow, falling into step a few paces behind them. Stepping inside, I automatically skim the room without thinking too hard about it. Old reflexes.

The classroom smells faintly of dry-erase markers and tater tots, and for a moment, I wonder how the scent of cafeteria food permeates every inch of a school. The windows are cracked open an inch, just enough to let the breeze push the edges of a few faded posters taped to the walls. The desks are arranged in neat rows, backpacks slumped against chair legs. A boy near the back drums a pencil against his sneaker; a girl two seats over is doodling flowers in the margins of her worksheet.

The firefighter moves toward the front of the room. I fall back along the side wall, arms loosely crossed, taking up as little space as possible. He launches into his speech with a warm voice and easy smile, regaling the kids with stories of running into burning buildings, carrying out victims, and saving lives. As he talks, the kids’ fidgety movements slow, each captivated by his words, hungry for his heroic stories.

He speaks for ten minutes, answers questions for another five, and with a quick grin and wave heads for the door. “Stay safe. Listen to your teachers.”

He says it so easily. So certain the world will cooperate. The teacher clears her throat and glances toward me. “Next up, we have Agent Jennifer Jareau from the FBI.”

I push off the wall and make my way toward the front of the room, rolling my shoulders back in a quiet attempt to look more confident than I feel, still wondering how I’m supposed to top running into burning buildings.

A few kids watch me with polite curiosity, their hands still resting on the desks where they’d been clapping a minute ago. Others are already fidgeting again. The spell of hero stories broken by the normal ebbs and flows of pre-teen attention spans.

I offer a small smile, aiming for approachable. “Good morning. I’m Agent Jennifer Jareau, and I work for the FBI.”

A ripple of excitement goes through a few of the kids, the letters alone stirring up images of the dramatic action scenes from TV and in movies.

“I work with a team at the FBI called the Behavioral Analysis Unit. We work with local and state police departments to figure out why people do the things they do, especially when it hurts others. By looking at a person’s actions — the choices they make, the patterns they leave behind — we help narrow down who the police should be looking for. It’s like putting together a puzzle, piece by piece, until you start to see the full picture. We work together to find answers. To help keep communities safe.”

For the next ten minutes I talk. About the BAU, about teamwork, about how the best agents are often the best listeners. A few kids raise their hands at the end, peppering me with questions about FBI badges and whether I’ve ever met anyone famous. Normal stuff. I keep my answers light, steady, careful not to let the heavier things slip through the cracks.

Finally, the teacher thanks me, and I move toward the door. The aide lets me out as the teacher introduces their final speaker. When the door clicks shut behind me, the bolt sliding into place sounds sharp and sudden in the quiet hallway. It startles me, but I shake it off, already clocking the time it will take to get to my car, through traffic, and return to work.

I head toward the stairwell, heels clicking against the old tile floor. The hallway hums with the low, steady noise of a normal school day. Distant voices behind closed doors, the faint clatter of a pencil dropped in a classroom somewhere.

I’m almost to the stairs when the sound splits the air. A pop. Muffled. Almost nothing. But it isn’t nothing. Not if you’ve heard it before. My hand goes instinctively to my side, reaching for the weight that should be there. But it’s not. My service weapon is back at Quantico, locked safely in my desk, where I’d left it before coming to the school.

I freeze for half a second, every nerve sharpening at once. The building around me is still holding its breath, still suspended in that thin, fragile space where no one else has realized yet that anything is wrong.

I pull the Blackberry from my blazer pocket, thumb already moving on instinct as I press the buttons 9-1-1. Nothing. No signal.

I try Hotch. No connection. Just dead air and the thudding of my heart in my ears. Anticipation floods the hallway, thick and suffocating.

The last seconds of before.
Before the world tilts.
Before everything breaks.

Another shot. Closer this time. Sharper. The building flinches around me, and now, it’s too late to pretend it’s anything else.

The intercom crackles as a voice — shaking with fear — breaks through the school speakers. “Code Red lockdown.”

More shots. Coming from below, but they sound like they’re steadily getting closer, as I stand in this empty hallway, weighing my next move. It’s like I’m frozen in place, my feet glued to where they are. Until a girl bolts from the bathroom ahead, her long blonde hair flying, clutching an old wooden hall pass like a shield. Her eyes are wide, her mouth open in a silent cry as she sprints to the nearest classroom door. She pounds her fists against it — frantic, pleading — but the door stubbornly stays shut.

I’m moving before I can even think. I grab her hand — small, cold, trembling — and yank her back down the hallway, not even sure where I’m going until I remember…

Room 214.
Mr. Ellis, History.

Chairs stacked on desks. Lights off. We’re there in moments, and I push her inside before closing the door behind us. I twist the tiny lock on the door, and it doesn’t seem like enough. Like how is that thing supposed to protect us? It’s dark inside, and my eyes haven’t even begun to adjust, but the noise outside is getting louder, and I need to find a place for us now. My phone is still in my hand, the faint glow of the screen just enough to see that the teacher’s desk is tucked almost into one corner. Hidden away. Just enough, and perfect for the two of us. I grip the girl’s hand hard, harder than I mean to, pulling her behind me to the one place we might find sanctuary.

I drop to my knees, pulling her with me, and wedge us behind the teacher’s desk, pressing her into the corner against the wall and settling in next to her, shielding her body with mine without even thinking about it. I look at my phone again, but there’s no signal strong enough for a call, so I switch to text, hoping it will go. The top thread is a group text with Penelope and Emily, and I quickly fire off a message:

Active shooter. Hamilton Middle School. 2nd floor. Unarmed. Hiding with child.

I kill the screen, shoving the Blackberry back into my pocket, my heart hammering so hard it feels like it might shake the floorboards loose. The girl’s breath is sharp and quick against my back, but she doesn’t make a sound. Carefully, I hook my thumb and forefinger under her chin, lifting her face to mine, and say, my voice as confident as I can make it, “I’ve got you. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

I feel more than see her head nod, and she leans into me, her small frame shaking against me. Silence settles over us like a second skin. The only sound inside the room is the heavy tick of an analog clock somewhere above the whiteboard, each second cutting through the dark like a blade. Every so often, a fluorescent light overhead buzzes faintly, its old ballast struggling against the quiet.

Until another burst of gunfire. Closer now. The girl tucks herself tighter against me, her small fingers clutching the lapel of my jacket in a death grip. I can feel the tremor running through her, but she doesn’t make a sound. I tighten my arm around her, my hand cradling the back of her head, pressing her closer, trying to make her invisible.

Another long silence. Another tick. Another breath. Then… the doorknob turns. A slow, rattling jiggle. The locked bolt holds, but the sound shreds through the stillness, sharp and wrong.

The girl goes rigid in my arms. I squeeze her gently, a silent promise: Stay quiet. Stay here.

The shot rips through the hallway. Deafening. Brutal. The door bursts inward with a crash, splinters skittering across the floor. The girl jerks against me, a silent, instinctive gasp, but I clamp my arms around her tighter, my body swallowing hers, willing her into stillness.

A harsh strip of fluorescent light spills into the dark classroom, slicing across the desks and the floor, not quite reaching the corner we’re hiding in.

Heavy footsteps. Boots crossing the threshold. I can hear his breathing. Sharp, uneven, and too loud in the suffocating silence. He stands there. Waiting. Listening.

The seconds stretch so long they lose their shape, melting into the pounding of my heart.

I don’t breathe.
I don’t move.
I don’t exist.

Until finally, the footsteps shift. Turn. Move away. He hasn’t spotted us. He’s left us alive. For now.

After the footsteps fade, silence swells again. We stay frozen — pressed into the dark, folded into each other — until the world shrinks to only the two of us.

More shots echo somewhere beyond the walls, but I don’t register them. Sounds come and go, distant and muffled, as if I’m underwater. I lose track of how long we sit like that.

An hour?
A minute?
A year?

The only real thing is the small, shivering body tucked against mine. The shallow, hitching rhythm of her breath. The warmth of her against me. The smell of her hair rising to greet me. I hold her tighter and let the rest of it drift away.

I don’t even know if I’ve fallen asleep, or if time just stopped, until sound finally breaks through.
A crash. Boots pounding down the hallway. Heavy steps in the doorway. A voice, sharp and commanding, cutting through the fog:

“Police! SWAT! If anyone’s in here, come out with your hands up!”

I blink — once, twice — the room tilting around me as I drag myself back to the surface.

Alive.
She’s alive.
We’re alive.

I have to move. My limbs are stiff from being still for so long. The girl is folded against me, heavy and still, and I force my voice to work, calling out to the SWAT team. Then I nudge the girl, careful not to startle her.

“Are you hurt?” one of them asks, and I have to think about it for a long moment.

Physically? No. We’re on our feet. We’re breathing. But the look on the officer’s face tells me how bad it is beyond the walls of this room.

I lower my head next to hers, my voice low and sure, looking her straight in her blue eyes, making sure she hears me. “Close your eyes, sweetheart. Don’t open them until I say.”

She obeys without hesitation, her small hands fisting in my jacket. I shift, lifting her into my arms. She’s light — all fear and tension — but my arms shake anyway.

A SWAT officer steps toward me, hand half-extended. “Ma’am, I can carry—”

“No.” My voice is harder than I mean for it to be. I tighten my grip, shielding her with my body.

“I’ve got her,” I say, and it’s not a negotiation.

We move. The hallway is a blur of broken glass, fallen papers, overturned desks. Other things I can’t — won’t — process. I don’t let myself look too closely. I don’t let her see at all. Step after step after step, I carry her down the long stretch of the second floor, past heartbreak and nightmares, and down the steps.

When we push through the front doors into the sunlight, it hits me like a slap. The light, the color, the normalcy of it. The cloudless day. The bright blue sky. How can the world look so normal when everything inside is wreckage? I squint against the light, moving toward the reunification area, refusing to let go. Not now. Maybe not ever. A woman’s voice cracks the air.

Too high.
Too broken.
Too desperate.

“Grace!” The girl stiffens in my arms, then lifts her face blindly toward the sound. I spot them — two adults, barreling toward us — the woman sobbing, the man white-faced and shaking.

I stop. For a breath, I hold her tighter. Then — because I have to — I crouch low and guide her into the arms waiting for her. The girl is swallowed into her parents’ arms, their sobs shaking the air around us. I stand there for a breath — long enough to be sure she’s safe — and then I turn away.

No one stops me. I start walking, not even sure where I’m going. Just away. The sunlight is too sharp. The voices too loud. My arms are empty now, and I don’t know what to do with them. I push through the crowd on autopilot. My eyes down, heart pounding, trying to keep the pieces of myself from spilling everywhere.

Then I see her.

Emily.

Standing just beyond the barricades.

Her face tight. Her eyes locked on me. She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t speak. She just waits — steady and sure — like a lighthouse in the middle of a hurricane I can’t even begin to name.

“Let me take you home.” It’s not a request even though she words it that way. I nod, still unable to speak, and follow her to the car. The drive home is a blur. My thoughts can’t stay on one thing, so I simply stare out the window, watching what now feels like a foreign world pass me by.

She takes the keys from me, unlocks the door, and lets me in, following behind. I go to slip off my heels. Something I do every day when I get home. It’s just another subconscious routine but when I do, I see it. Blood. On the soles of my shoes.

Blood.
There’s blood.
Blood.

My head swims, my stomach lurches, and I’m in a race for my bathroom, flipping the seat up, kneeling, praying to the porcelain god as whatever is left in my stomach reappears. My body retches. Shakes. Shivers. And then images appear for the first time. Unwanted. Unbidden. I force them down as I rise, gripping the sink tightly for a moment. I need a shower. Need to get this scent off of me. The scent of that school. The scent of every school. I need it gone. Now. I run the water in the shower, remove my clothes, and step into the peppery spray. As I do, my thoughts turn to the most menial of tasks.

Wet hair.
Shampoo.
Rinse.
Condition.
Rinse again.

I scrub until my skin burns, desperate to erase everything clinging to me. It takes forever. The water turns cold, and still I scrub, until finally I think I’m done. I slip into a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt before emerging into my too quiet house. At first, I think Emily’s gone, but I should know better. She comes from the kitchen with a cup of tea for me, motioning for me to sit on the couch. She doesn’t say anything. She just looks at me — steady, patient — the way only someone who’s seen the worst parts of you knows how to do. I cross the room like I’m moving underwater, sitting next to her, sipping tea, letting the heat try to stitch me back together.
The television is off, its dark screen daring me to make a decision.

I pick up the remote.
I don’t want to know.
I need to know.

The TV flickers to life, scenes of flashing lights, crime scene tape, and sobbing families greet me, and I swallow hard. A reporter’s voice fills the room:

“Authorities are still piecing together the timeline of this morning’s tragic shooting at Hamilton Middle School in Cardinal Falls, Virginia…”

I barely hear the rest as the words blend into static. Until… Her face. Grace. Eleven years old. Blonde hair and blue eyes. Nestled between her parents, small hands knotted tightly in her lap. Her mother speaks first. Telling the reporter how they were sure they’d lost their daughter. How when she didn’t come down with her class, they were sure she was gone. The screen flickers to the scene of the school, and there I am, carrying their daughter, handing her over to them, and I stare at myself for a moment. I don’t look as terrorized as I feel.

The segment clicks back over to the reunited family and the reporter asks Grace is she’d like to say anything. She nods, and her voice — soft, a little shaky, but clear — rises over the noise:

“Thank you… to the nice lady who stayed with me… who kept me safe… who didn’t leave me when it got really scary.”

My throat closes — sharp, splintering — and I can’t pull air into my lungs.

Beside me, Emily’s voice breaks the silence, low and certain: “She looks like you.”

I drag in a broken breath, enough to move, enough to lift my head and meet her eyes.

“No,” I whisper. “She looks like Rosaline.”

Rosaline Grace Jareau.