untitled7sblog

[untitled7sblog]

(8) Where the Light Lands

The sunrise over Quantico didn’t feel earned.

Wren watched it rise from the breakroom window, coffee cooling in her hands. The clouds were peach-colored and soft, washing the BAU in quiet gold. Down the hall, footsteps echoed. Someone was already in the gym. Someone else was printing files. Life continued.

And Wren still felt like she was watching it from underwater.

She hadn’t slept. Not really. The hours at home had passed in low jazz and scribbled notes. Now she stood in her black blazer again, as if sleep hadn’t happened, because it hadn’t. Not in any real sense.

The quiet broke when Rossi appeared in the doorway.

“No rest for the wicked,” he said, voice low but not unkind.

She turned slightly, offering the ghost of a smile. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

He stepped inside and poured his own coffee. No tie today—just a black dress shirt rolled at the sleeves. Wren wondered if anyone on this team actually took time off.

“Garcia already flagged two new cases for Hotch,” Rossi said, stirring his coffee with unnecessary concentration. “But he’s holding them for the rest of the day. Said we could use the downtime.”

Wren nodded slowly. “I don’t think I know how to take downtime anymore.”

Rossi looked at her, really looked, the way only he could—like he was reading the margins around her posture.

“You’re allowed to let it hit you,” he said quietly. “The first case is the loudest. It leaves the deepest cut.”

Wren’s eyes flicked down to her coffee. “I keep thinking about Mira.”

“She’ll think about you too,” Rossi replied. “You were one of the first safe people she’s seen in years.”

“I didn’t feel safe. I felt—” Wren stopped herself. “I was scared.”

He nodded. “Good. Means you care. And caring means you’re in the right place.”

She didn’t reply, but the knot in her chest loosened just slightly.

“Go take a walk,” Rossi added, patting her shoulder before heading out. “Sunlight does wonders.”

She followed his advice.

⸻

She wandered the halls of Quantico like a visitor in her own home.

The bullpen was half-full. JJ sat at her desk on a conference call, nodding as she took notes. Morgan breezed by in gym clothes, sweat on his brow, offering Wren a playful salute. Reid leaned back in his own chair, muttering quietly as he scanned a psychology text.

Wren lingered near the map board, hands tucked into the pockets of her blazer. Her eyes tracked the constellation of red pins that marked the Bureau’s reach—some faded, others newly pricked into place like wounds trying to scar.

She didn’t hear the footsteps until they were close.

Hotch came to stand beside her, his presence quiet but unmistakable. He wore a crisp charcoal suit, jacket buttoned, white shirt neat beneath a tie so dark it looked like a shadow. His hair was combed back but not too precisely—enough to suggest the early start and the weight of too many years doing this exact thing.

“Agent Bennett,” he said.

She turned slightly, posture stiffening. “Sir.”

“Thought I might find you here.”

She nodded faintly. “Just... getting a sense of the ground again.”

Hotch looked at the board, eyes scanning the familiar lines. “The ground changes,” he said, tone measured. “But the weight stays the same.”

Wren didn’t speak. The silence between them was brittle—not tense, just sharp around the edges.

“I reviewed your notes,” Hotch said. “Your instinct about Mira’s language—about the way she framed her captivity—it was a crucial turning point.”

Wren glanced down. “I second-guessed it the whole time.”

“That’s what good agents do.” He paused. “The ones worth keeping.”

She looked up then, surprised.

His expression was unreadable, as always, but something in his voice had softened since the night in Brookings. Less formality. More human.

“Mira’s recovery will be long,” he continued, eyes now back on the board. “You saw that. You saw her. That’s not a skill everyone has.”

“I wasn’t sure I belonged there,” she admitted. “Even at the cabin... I kept waiting for someone to pull me back.”

Hotch’s gaze turned to her again, sharper now, but not unkind. “You belonged.”

Wren tried to absorb the words, but they sat awkwardly in her chest—hopeful and heavy all at once.

“You walked in with fear,” he said. “That’s what made you steady. People who feel nothing don’t lead. They damage.”

She studied him for a long beat. “You trusted me.”

He didn’t blink. “I still do.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

Hotch adjusted the folder in his hand, glancing toward her desk.

“There’ll be another case,” he said. “Tomorrow, probably. There always is.”

Wren gave a small nod. “I’ll be ready.”

“You already are.”

And with that, he turned and walked away—each footfall quiet, precise, like he didn’t need to raise his voice or his presence to be heard.

Wren stared at the board a moment longer, the weight in her chest settling—not disappearing, but shifting into something more solid. Something that might carry.

⸻

Later that afternoon, Wren found herself at her desk with the case file open in front of her.

She stared at Mira’s intake notes. Psych evaluations. Hospital records. A drawing Lila made in crayon—three stick figures holding hands, all with long dark hair.

There was a fourth figure drawn in green marker. With short brown hair and a blue shirt. Lila had labeled it: “REN.”

Wren blinked. Smiled softly.

Then closed the folder.

And finally—let herself breathe.

⸻

The hallway outside Hotch’s office was empty, the bullpen dimly lit as the clock edged toward seven. Most of the team had already cleared out, their laughter and footfalls fading an hour ago. Only the low hum of printers and distant clatter of someone in the records room remained.

Wren stood with a manila folder in her hand—the final version of her case review. Clean, precise, cross-checked half a dozen times. Still, her fingers hesitated before knocking.

She exhaled, then tapped twice.

“Come in.”

Hotch’s voice was calm, neither hurried nor cold. Wren stepped inside, quietly shutting the door behind her. His office was neatly kept, a few case files stacked to his right, a legal pad open beside a black pen. The blinds were halfway drawn, casting soft stripes of amber light across the desk.

“I wanted to hand this to you directly,” Wren said, holding the folder out.

Hotch stood to receive it. “Thank you.”

He took a moment to glance over the front page, then set the file down gently.

“It’s a strong report,” he said. “Thoughtful. Honest.”

“I hope it helps,” she replied. “The case was... difficult to quantify.”

Hotch nodded, his eyes lifting to meet hers. “The best ones are.”

A small silence stretched between them—not awkward, just quiet, like the way an old house settles after dark.

“You did well out there,” he added. “You showed restraint when it counted. And you listened. That matters more than most people realize.”

Wren shifted her weight. “I’m still finding my footing.”

He gave the faintest of smiles, brief and grounded. “So did every agent I’ve ever trusted.”

Her brows pulled slightly. “Even Gideon?”

Hotch’s jaw ticked, but the warmth in his voice didn’t fade. “Especially Gideon.”

He stepped around the desk, arms loosely folded.

“I’ve seen agents with flawless credentials fall apart the first time a case hits too close. And I’ve seen the unlikeliest ones grow into something solid. You’re not the first to wonder if you’re the right fit.”

“And?”

Hotch looked at her with measured clarity. “You are.”

Wren swallowed. Her throat ached from the weight of everything unsaid.

“I don’t take it lightly,” she said softly. “This job. This place.”

“I know,” he replied. “That’s why I’m looking forward to seeing what you bring to this team.”

The words weren’t showy. There was no dramatic swell, no speech to mark the moment. But they landed somewhere deep inside her, soft as a stone dropped in still water.

“Get some rest,” Hotch said, returning to his desk. “We’ll regroup in the morning.”

She nodded, stepping back toward the door.

“And Wren?”

She paused with her hand on the knob, glancing back.

He didn’t look up from the file. “You don’t have to prove yourself. Just be yourself. That’s enough.”

Her chest pulled tight—but not in fear. It felt a little like peace.

“Good night, sir,” she said quietly.

And she meant it.

⸻

Wren sat curled on the floor of her living room, the hum of the dishwasher behind her the only sound in the apartment. The lamp beside the couch cast a soft cone of light, pooling over the worn shoebox in front of her. Its edges were frayed, the lid creased, like it had been opened and closed more times than she’d admit.

She hadn’t touched this box since Quantico. Not since she packed it as a reminder of why.

Tonight, she wasn’t sure why she opened it again.

Inside were photographs—some barely clinging to color, others newer but harder to look at. She sifted through them slowly, like she was sorting glass.

A snapshot of her younger siblings—Hazel and Jacob—standing in front of the yellow house back in Maine. Hazel had one arm flung dramatically around Jacob’s shoulders, both of them grinning through their missing teeth. Wren had taken that photo on a disposable camera, a week before they vanished.

She pressed her lips together and moved on.

Next came one of her mother. Not the woman from the end, but from before. She was beautiful in a windswept, distracted kind of way—half-smile, half-mind elsewhere. Wren remembered her humming under her breath as she stirred soup in the kitchen. Remembered how she used to braid Hazel’s hair on the porch, fingers deft and quiet.

But the photo didn’t show what came later.

Didn’t show the decline—the paranoia, the way her mother stopped sleeping, stopped trusting people, started locking the children inside on sunny days. It didn’t show the morning Wren came home to find the back door wide open, her siblings gone, her mother silent on the stairs. It didn’t show the hospital stays, or the police interviews, or the way the note had said they were taken because of me.

It didn’t show the moment Wren found her mother’s body in the upstairs bathtub just over a year later.

She swallowed hard and moved to the next one.

Her father, blurry in a photo she barely remembered taking—beer bottle on the porch railing, his face turned toward the ocean. He didn’t drink back then. Not like now. Not like the last time she saw him, slurring through an apology that never landed.

Wren shut the box for a moment. Let her fingers rest on the lid.

This was the legacy she carried into the field: children gone. A mother lost to madness and grief. A father lost to a bottle.

No wonder she saw Mira Carson so clearly.

Wren rose and crossed the apartment to the window, glass of water in hand. The city glowed dimly beyond the trees, a soft smear of gold and red beneath the clouds. She pressed her forehead to the cool pane and tried to breathe.

Mira had looked at her like she knew. Not the details, but the feeling.

Of being left.

Of having to keep going anyway.

The BAU had rescued Mira. But Mira had also rescued Annie and Lila. Just like Wren had tried to do—once.

And failed.

Wren closed her eyes.

That small, flickering thing beneath her ribs stirred again.

Not peace. Not forgiveness.

But maybe… the start of healing.

She returned to the box in her living room. This time, she pulled out one photo and walked it over to her fridge. Hazel and Jacob—caught mid-laugh, wind in their hair.

She stuck it beneath a magnet from Quantico.

Then turned off the lights and let the apartment go quiet.

Some ghosts didn’t fade.

But maybe, just maybe, they could learn to live with the light.

⸻

@ninniesontheglass3

[untitled7sblog]

(7) After the Storm

The frost was beginning to melt by the time the BAU packed up.

Brookings felt quieter than usual, like the town was holding its breath. Word had spread fast—three girls rescued from a madman’s cabin in the woods. Two reunited with grieving relatives. One, Mira Carson, had no one waiting. No parent left to claim her.

But she had survived.

And she wasn’t alone anymore.

Wren stood by the hospital window in her same windbreaker, watching Mira through the double-paned glass. The girl sat on the edge of the exam table, bare feet dangling, her dark hair still damp from the medic’s sponge bath. Her posture was rigid. Her expression unreadable. But her hand—Wren noticed—never left the grip of Annie’s.

Lila sat on the other side of her, chewing on a cup of ice chips and watching cartoons, unaware of how much Mira had shielded her from. Annie, barely able to speak, leaned into Mira’s side like it was the only thing holding her up.

“She made sure they ate,” the attending nurse had said. “Taught them how to answer calmly. She put herself between them and Hale. She was... their little general.”

It stayed with Wren even as she boarded the jet.

⸻

The hum of the FBI’s Gulfstream jet was a familiar comfort to the rest of the team. To Wren, it still felt new. The beige leather seats, the overhead hum, the files tucked into netted sleeves—all of it faintly unreal, like stepping into a movie after living backstage.

She took a seat across from Reid, who was flipping through a slim medical journal. His expression was drawn, but calm. Garcia was back in Quantico, having sent her final update on Hale’s digital footprint—minimal, almost deliberately erased. The rest of the team settled in one by one: Hotch with his folder already open, Emily nursing a mug of tea, JJ and Morgan sharing quiet conversation near the window, and Rossi seated at the far end, watching them all like a weathered captain of a strange, steady ship.

“We’re officially closed,” Hotch said to the room, breaking the silence. “Local PD is finishing the last of the evidence catalog. Hale is in custody, and the girls are safe.”

Wren exhaled slowly, letting the truth settle in.

“They’re safe,” she repeated.

Rossi gave a slow nod. “And Mira made sure of that. Seven years in captivity, and she still found a way to fight for them.”

“She was his original focus,” Reid said. “The fantasy began with her. Everything since has been him trying to replicate the control he felt over her.”

“But she never gave him full control,” JJ added. “You could see it in how she handled the other girls. She kept her mind.”

Hotch glanced down at his notes. “Psych evaluations confirm what we suspected. Hale began grooming her early—telling her she was chosen, that she’d been saved. Reframing captivity as protection.”

Emily leaned forward. “He was preparing her. Not just to obey—but to eventually take over. When she was old enough, he planned to make her a ‘mother’ to the new girls.”

“Disgusting,” Morgan muttered. “He wanted to make a world where he never had to be rejected again.”

“Except Mira resisted,” Wren said. “She protected the girls. Taught them to behave so he wouldn’t hurt them. But she never broke.”

Everyone looked at her.

It was the longest stretch of uninterrupted silence she'd received since joining the team.

“She told the ER nurse that she never cried in front of him,” Wren continued, voice low but steady. “That she didn’t want him to know he got to her.”

Hotch gave a small, solemn nod. “That’s strength.”

Reid closed his journal. “What Mira did goes beyond survival instinct. That’s cognitive resilience. She rewrote the story in her head to keep her identity intact.”

Wren’s throat tightened. “She raised them in hell. And now she’s the reason they’re alive.”

Rossi looked toward the windows, his voice roughened by the years. “Sometimes the strongest survivors are the ones who were never allowed to be kids.”

No one argued with that.

The plane hit a patch of light turbulence, but Wren barely noticed. She stared down at her clasped hands, the tight knots in her shoulders starting to unwind—not all the way, but enough.

JJ stood and gently placed a folder in front of her. “You’ll need to write up your version of the profile for the case file. Hotch will sign off, but it goes in under your name.”

Wren blinked. “Mine?”

JJ smiled. “You saw things we didn’t. You spoke up. You’re part of this.”

“Get used to it,” Morgan added, grinning from the other row. “This job’s not about seniority. It’s about instinct. And you’ve got it.”

Wren felt something stir—some small, bright thing under her ribs. Not pride. Not yet. But the start of it. The quiet flicker of I belong here.

Hotch spoke again, voice quieter this time.

“We did good work. And we’ll keep checking on the girls.”

He didn’t look at anyone in particular—but Wren knew it was for her.

Rossi raised his coffee cup. “To Mira Carson. Stronger than anyone gave her credit for.”

JJ followed, then Reid, Emily, Morgan.

And slowly, Wren raised her own.

The jet soared above the clouds, slicing through the soft light of late morning.

And beneath the echo of their toasts and the thrum of the engines, Wren closed her eyes briefly—letting herself feel, for just a moment, what it meant to win.

⸻

The Quantico bullpen was quiet when Wren stepped off the elevator.

Her boots echoed lightly against the tile, duffel bag slung over her shoulder, windbreaker wrinkled from the long flight. The sun outside was still high, but the air inside felt low and cool, like the building had been holding its breath.

She walked to her desk—her desk—and set the bag down. The paperwork from the Brookings case was still being processed. JJ and Emily were giving statements to child protective services. Reid was buried in the psychology behind long-term captivity. Garcia was already sifting through case leads back in her "cave."

Wren just… stood still.

And then she heard a familiar voice behind her.

“Hell of a first case.”

She turned. Rossi stood a few feet away, arms folded, suit jacket unbuttoned, a coffee in his hand that smelled criminally strong.

“I keep thinking I missed something,” Wren said, not turning back to her desk. “That I forgot a detail. That I could’ve said something different to Mira. Or been faster.”

Rossi approached and leaned against the edge of her desk. “Everyone thinks that after their first case. Some still do after their hundredth.”

“She looked at me like I was the enemy.”

“She looked at you like she was trying to figure out how not to drown.”

Wren exhaled. Her shoulders finally dropped.

“She protected them,” she said softly. “That whole time.”

Rossi nodded. “Survivors often do. They become protectors, not because they want to, but because they have no other choice. You saw that in her.”

Wren met his gaze. “You think I did okay?”

“I think,” Rossi said, pushing off the desk, “that you saw her. And she saw you. That matters more than you know.”

She watched him go, his steps unhurried, his presence still somehow anchoring even after he turned the corner.

Wren sat slowly at her desk, fingers trailing the grain of the wood.

Maybe she could breathe now.

⸻

The sky was burning with late-afternoon orange when she finally made it down to the parking garage.

The echo of her footsteps was swallowed by concrete and quiet. She pulled her car keys from her pocket, aiming for the sleek black sedan tucked against the wall—and then froze.

Hotch was already there.

Leaning against the driver’s side of his SUV, jacket draped over one arm, eyes on her as if he’d been waiting.

Wren hesitated. “Sir.”

He offered a small nod. “Wren.”

Her hand tightened on the strap of her bag.

Hotch pushed off the car and approached. The lines on his face were softer today, the dark suit still sharp but slightly rumpled. His tie had been loosened, and there was a weariness in his posture that mirrored her own.

“You did good work,” he said.

She blinked. “I—thank you.”

Hotch studied her for a moment longer, as if weighing his next words. “You handled the scene with calm. With restraint. With empathy.”

Wren looked down. “I was scared.”

“That’s why I trusted you.”

She looked up then, surprised.

Hotch’s expression didn’t waver. “People who aren’t afraid walk into danger blind. You walked in with your eyes open.”

She didn’t quite know what to say.

He continued, voice low and measured. “Mira’s path is going to be long. You won’t be able to fix that. None of us can. But what you did—helping her take the first step—that matters.”

Wren felt her throat tighten. “It doesn’t feel like enough.”

“It never does.” He glanced at her duffel. “Go home. Rest. You earned it.”

She hesitated, then asked, “Why me? You read my file. You knew I was a risk.”

Hotch’s answer came without delay. “Because risks don’t scare me. The wrong reasons do. And you didn’t have any.”

Wren swallowed.

He turned back toward his SUV, unlocking the door. “You’ll be on the next case.”

She gave a small nod, more to herself than him. “I’ll be ready.”

Hotch glanced back, a rare flicker of warmth in his gaze. “You already are.”

And with that, he stepped inside, started the engine, and drove away—his taillights fading slowly into the quiet hum of the garage.

Wren stood alone for a moment longer, the weight of the case still in her limbs but less heavy somehow. She looked up, past the rows of cars, toward the ramp that led back to the surface. Back to daylight.

Then she slid into her own car, turned the key, and drove toward the exit.

For the first time since joining the team, she didn’t feel like she was pretending to belong.

She did.

⸻

Wren stood in the doorway of her apartment, keys still dangling from her fingers.

The silence hit first.

After days of radio chatter, crying children, boots on gravel, and the constant hum of tension—it was deafening.

She stepped inside.

Dropped her duffel by the coat rack.

Kicked off her shoes.

The soft thud of each movement echoed through the space like a song with too few notes. The living room was exactly how she left it—couch still slightly askew, her throw blanket bunched up in the corner, an empty wine glass on the coffee table from a night she barely remembered.

She moved toward the kitchen without turning on the lights.

The refrigerator opened with a mechanical sigh. A bottle of water. Half a lemon. Leftover Chinese she wouldn’t touch.

She closed it again.

The apartment wasn’t big. A modest two-bedroom with hardwood floors, white walls, and one large bay window that overlooked the quiet street below. It felt too clean. Too still.

She poured herself a glass of water and leaned against the counter, arms folded.

Mira’s face wouldn’t leave her.

That moment in the cabin, the way she stepped between the others and the younger girls, like a wall that had stood for too long. The look in her eyes—distant, tired, too grown for her years.

You’ll ruin everything, she’d said.

Wren had been trained for that. Prepped for psychological resistance. But nothing prepared her for the shiver that traveled up her spine at the sound of that voice—half-child, half-prisoner.

And yet Mira had stepped forward. Had let them help.

That was something.

Wren carried her glass to the small table near the window, sinking into the chair. The city lights blinked faintly beyond the trees. Somewhere, people were living normal lives. Ordering takeout. Folding laundry. Laughing at sitcoms.

She felt galaxies away from all of it.

Her phone buzzed.

She flinched before reaching for it.

Text from Penelope Garcia:

Hey Wonder Agent. Just checking in. You okay?

Wren stared at the screen for a long beat. Then typed:

I don’t know.

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then came back.

That’s okay. We’re all figuring it out. Proud of you.

Wren set the phone down and blinked hard.

She reached for her notebook—the one she kept hidden beneath her stack of field guides. Flipping it open to a blank page, she wrote:

Brookings, SD – Case #1

Mira Carson. Lila Meadows. Annie Cole.

Still breathing.

Then, below that:

What did I learn?

1. Fear is not weakness.

2. Trust is a slow thing.

3. Some survivors protect others before themselves.

4. I don’t know if I’m built for this. But I’m here.

She let the pen fall beside the notebook.

Then stood slowly, walking to the stereo tucked into the bookshelf. She clicked it on, let the soft hum of jazz filter through the room. A record her aunt used to play. Miles Davis. Low and warm and slow.

She curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath her, arms wrapped around a pillow like armor. The streetlight outside cast long shadows through the window. The music played on.

She didn’t cry.

But she also didn’t sleep.

Not yet.

Not tonight.

Because this was what no one prepared you for—not the gun range, not the psych evals, not the pages of criminal theory.

The quiet after.

The moment when no one’s watching. When the children are safe. When the suspect’s in custody. When the team goes home.

And you sit in the stillness of your own mind, wondering what part of you changed and if it’s ever coming back.

And whether that’s a bad thing… or just the beginning.

⸻

@ninniesontheglass3

[untitled7sblog]

I haven’t uploaded. I’m sorry and the guilt is eating at me. I’ve been working a trial for work, moved and have been flat out exhausted. I expect to upload some material tonight 06.17.2025! 😌☀️

[untitled7sblog]

(6) Into the Light

The conference room felt different in the morning light. Less claustrophobic, more charged—like the air had changed while they slept.

Wren sat at the far end of the table, a cup of black coffee cupped in both hands, her fingers wrapped tight around the heat. The smell of stale folders and sharpened pencils clung to everything. JJ was organizing printouts. Emily leaned against the wall, arms folded. Morgan paced slowly behind Hotch, while Reid scribbled last-minute notes onto the whiteboard in an indecipherable scrawl.

Hotch stood at the head of the table, stoic in his dark suit, flanked by Chief Reynolds and two of his detectives. Penelope Garcia was patched in via speakerphone, her voice clear but distant.

“Let’s begin,” Hotch said. “We’re ready to give the profile.”

Everyone went still.

Rossi stepped forward first. “We’re looking for a white male in his early forties, likely single, isolated, possibly living with a relative—likely a mother or caretaker figure. He’s local. He blends in because he doesn’t stand out.”

“He has a pattern,” Emily picked up. “Not just in the killings—but in the silence between them. His crimes aren’t reactive. They’re premeditated, ritualistic, and symbolic.”

Reid turned from the board. “He’s re-creating something. Likely an event from his childhood or adolescence. He selects single mothers and abducts their daughters. The mothers are seen as obstacles—figures of control. The daughters are symbols of purity, of innocence. Of something he believes he lost.”

“Which is why he doesn’t just kill,” JJ added, her voice low and steady. “He takes. He wants to possess. To protect. To rewrite the narrative.”

Reynolds crossed his arms, skeptical. “And you’re saying he’s done this before?”

Hotch nodded. “We believe this is at least his third victim. Garcia found a cold case seven years ago with nearly identical conditions—a mother murdered, daughter missing, and no suspect ever brought in.”

Wren reached across the table and slid forward a photo.

Mira Carson.

Seven years old. Brown eyes. A ribbon in her hair.

Reid followed with another photo: Stephanie Cole and her daughter Annie, the most recent victim and her missing daughter. Beside it, Lila Meadows, still missing.

“They’re all around the same age,” Wren said quietly. “And all three mothers lived within a sixty-mile radius of Brookings.”

Reynolds finally sat. “So who is this guy?”

Hotch looked to Garcia’s speaker.

Penelope’s voice piped through, calm and clipped. “Isaac Hale. Age forty-four. Dropped off the grid five years ago. I tracked his name through a neighbor complaint connected to Mira Carson’s case. He recently started paying for utilities again at a cabin twenty minutes west of here. Property’s under his deceased uncle’s name. One road in. Dense woods around the perimeter.”

Morgan leaned in. “We think he’s there now. With the kids.”

Wren’s heart thudded.

Hotch turned to Reynolds. “We’d like to coordinate a tactical approach. We have enough to move on a warrant, and if he’s escalating, we may not have much time.”

Reynolds hesitated.

Then he nodded. “I’ll call my guys. You’ve got support.”

⸻

The war room came alive.

JJ was organizing radios and go-bags. Morgan coordinated with local SWAT, reviewing property maps on a dry erase board. Rossi made calls to DC, looping in legal for the emergency warrant. Reid and Wren sat in a quiet corner, reviewing photos of the property and cross-referencing Hale’s known movements.

Wren felt the weight of it.

Not just the case, but the moment. She wasn’t standing outside the circle anymore. She was elbow-deep in the rhythm. Trusted. Present.

Reid tapped his pen against the map. “He’s not a runner. He’s a bunker.”

She looked at him. “You think he’s prepared to wait it out?”

Reid nodded. “If we show up loud, he may barricade. That’s time we can’t lose.”

Wren looked at the aerial shot of the property. The narrow road. The rusted car in the drive. The thick tree line.

“If he sees us coming,” she said, “we’ll never make it to those kids.”

Morgan approached then, tactical vest half-zipped. “We’ve got four cruisers and a blacked-out SUV ready to move in five.”

Hotch walked in next, already briefing SWAT. “Quiet approach. No sirens. We establish perimeter and hold back unless we get eyes on the children.”

He looked directly at Wren.

“You’re with Reid and me. You’ve studied Hale’s behavioral triggers. If he’s watching, you may be our best read.”

Wren stood slowly. “Understood.”

Reid offered her a small nod, quiet support humming just beneath the surface.

Garcia’s voice crackled again from the desk speaker. “I’ll stay on comms. Any movement, I’ll be your digital goddess of overwatch.”

“Copy that,” Hotch said.

Wren turned once more to the pictures—Lila, Mira, Annie and the bedroom scenes etched in memory. And then she looked toward the door, where SWAT was gathering, where the daylight outside was beginning to burn through the gray.

The hunt was on.

And she wasn’t just observing anymore.

She was going in.

⸻

The SUV moved through the back roads of Brookings like a shadow, headlights low, tires humming against the frost-rough pavement.

Wren sat in the passenger seat, her hands gripping her knees to keep them from shaking. Her BAU-issued windbreaker felt stiffer than usual, zipped up all the way to her neck. Outside, the pine trees blurred into a dark curtain, barely separating them from the deep stretch of woods Hale had likely called home for years.

Hotch drove in steady silence. His eyes were locked on the road, his jaw tight. In the rearview mirror, Reid’s reflection blinked slowly—his fingers moving over the ridges of a folder he wasn’t reading.

It was Wren who broke the silence first.

“If Mira Carson is still alive… she’d be fourteen now.”

Reid’s voice came from the backseat, soft but clear. “That’s almost half her life in captivity.”

“She wouldn’t be a child anymore,” Wren murmured. “At least, not to anyone else.”

“She would be to him,” Hotch said, gaze unmoving. “If he’s trying to recreate something from his past, Mira was the beginning of that fantasy. He wouldn’t let her grow up.”

Reid leaned forward slightly. “It’s a forced stasis. Arrested development—not just for her, but for him. His delusion can’t tolerate reality. That’s why he keeps starting over.”

“With Lila,” Wren whispered. “And now the new girl.”

Hotch gave a slight nod. “Stephanie Cole’s daughter, Annie. Seven years old. The same as Mira was. He’s not just kidnapping. He’s patterning. Resetting the clock.”

Wren looked out the window at the looming woods. “But the girls… they must be terrified.”

“They are,” Hotch said plainly. “But they’re also survivors. And the longer he’s had Mira, the more likely it is she’s been taught how to stay alive. How to keep Lila and Annie safe.”

Reid’s voice grew tighter. “The key now is what Hale believes he’s doing. If he sees himself as a protector, he won’t hurt them unless the fantasy cracks.”

“Which it will,” Hotch said. “Once we arrive.”

Wren’s fingers curled into her palms. “So we keep it intact until we get them out.”

Hotch glanced at her briefly, just enough to let her know he’d heard. “Exactly.”

For a moment, the car returned to silence—only the rhythmic thrum of the road beneath them, the faint breath of winter air seeping through the vents.

Reid shifted in his seat. “It’s likely he’s used isolation as a tool—reinforcing dependence. They don’t run because they don’t believe they can.”

Wren nodded slowly, her throat dry. “And if Mira’s been conditioned long enough, she might even see him as…”

“A savior,” Hotch finished. “It happens. Even in abuse.”

The cabin would be close now. They were less than five minutes out.

Wren’s pulse tapped against her ribs like Morse code. She looked down at her lap, then back out the windshield, catching the soft glint of sunlight breaking over the trees.

“Sir,” she said softly, “when we go in—”

Hotch looked at her again. “Stay with me. You don’t leave the entry line unless I tell you to. If we see the girls, you wait until we have a clear shot of extraction.”

“Yes, sir.”

Reid added gently, “And if Mira speaks… let her speak. Don’t rush her.”

Wren nodded again.

The SUV turned slowly down a narrow dirt road, barely wide enough for one vehicle. A rusted mailbox leaned to the side—no number, no name.

They were here.

And inside that cabin, if they were right, three lives were still waiting to be rescued.

⸻

The trees opened like ribs, revealing a squat cabin nestled in a clearing. Weather-worn wood, shuttered windows, a chimney that no longer smoked. A satellite dish hung broken on the side of the roof.

Morgan’s voice crackled in Hotch’s earpiece. “SWAT’s in position. We’ve got perimeter.”

Hotch gave a sharp nod, eyes sweeping the tree line. “On my count.”

Wren stood just behind him, weapon raised, breath slow but tight. She followed his lead, every nerve attuned to his movements.

Reid was stationed further back, covering the rear with Rossi. Emily, JJ, and a medic team flanked the side.

Hotch raised a fist. Then—

“Go.”

SWAT hit the door in one clean breach. Wood splintered, a shouted command rang out, and they flooded into the space like a tide.

Wren moved with Hotch, clearing left. The inside was worse than any of them expected—bunk beds built into the wall, a padlocked door in the back, a table lined with canned goods and open medical kits.

And in the center of it all—

Isaac Hale.

He didn’t flinch.

He stood calmly, hands at his sides, watching them with a glassy-eyed serenity. He was gaunt, pale, mid-forties with shaggy brown hair and a beard that looked like it had been trimmed with a pocket knife.

Hotch had his weapon aimed center mass. “Hands. Now.”

But Hale didn’t move.

“I knew you’d come,” he said. “You don’t understand. They chose to stay.”

Morgan came from behind and tackled him cleanly, pressing him hard to the floor as SWAT closed in. Cuffs clicked. Hale didn’t fight. He just smiled up at the ceiling.

“They love me,” he whispered.

Hotch motioned forward. “Clear the rooms.”

Wren’s heart pounded as she followed Emily toward the padlocked door.

JJ was already cutting through the lock with bolt cutters retrieved from the medic’s bag. “Hold on, we’ve got you,” she called through the door.

A beat—

Then it opened with a reluctant creak.

Inside, the air was stale. A single mattress on the floor. And three girls huddled in the far corner, blinking against the sudden light.

Mira Carson. Lila Meadows. Annie Cole.

Mira stood in front of the others, her arms out protectively. She looked about fourteen, thin but alert, long brown hair matted at the ends.

Emily stepped forward, slow and open-handed. “You’re safe now.”

“No,” Mira said, voice hoarse. “You’ll ruin everything.”

JJ’s voice softened. “Mira, we know what he told you. But he lied. You’re not his. You’re your own.”

Mira trembled, eyes darting between them—JJ’s calm, Emily’s stillness, Wren’s gentle focus.

“We’re not here to take you away,” Wren added carefully. “We’re here to bring you back.”

Mira blinked. Behind her, Lila whimpered. Annie clutched a worn stuffed cat.

Then—slowly—Mira nodded.

She let Wren approach, arms gently guiding the younger girls forward. Emily took Annie. JJ scooped up Lila.

Outside, the cold slapped them like a reminder that the world was still real.

Wren felt Mira’s small hand wrap tightly around hers, trembling.

“They’re okay,” Hotch said, voice low. “Get them in the med van.”

Wren nodded, guiding Mira into the light.

The cabin door closed behind them.

And the girls began to breathe.

⸻

@ninniesontheglass3

[untitled7sblog]

(5) Into the Fold

The conference room at the Brookings Police Department was cramped, fluorescent, and smelled faintly of coffee that had been sitting on a burner too long. Crime scene photos were taped up unevenly across one wall. A cork board displayed timelines, receipts, witness statements, and a school photo of nine-year-old Lila Meadows—smiling, missing a front tooth, hair in a red ribbon.

The team took up most of the space.

Hotch stood nearest the chief, arms folded, explaining calmly what they were looking for. JJ was coordinating interview groups with two local detectives. Morgan and Reid were inspecting the cork board, tossing theories back and forth. Emilywas sorting victimology notes on a cluttered table while Rossi leaned against the back wall, watching everyone like he was always two steps ahead.

And Wren stood just outside the horseshoe they’d naturally formed—close enough to listen, not close enough to feel like part of it.

Her hands were clasped loosely in front of her. She hadn’t spoken since they entered.

“We’re not here to override your investigation,” Hotch was saying to police chief Reynolds, a barrel-chested man with a permanent frown and suspicious eyes. “But our unit specializes in identifying and anticipating behavior. The kind of patterns that don’t always show up on first review.”

“You saying we missed something?” Reynolds asked.

“No,” Rossi cut in with a smooth smile. “We’re saying it’s easy to miss something when you’re too close to it. That’s why you called us in.”

Before the Reynolds could reply, Emily’s phone buzzed.

“Garcia,” she said as she answered, turning slightly from the room. “Talk to me.”

“Hello, my goddess of justice and high cheekbones,” Garcia chirped through the speaker. “I dug into background checks on neighbors within a two-mile radius. You were right—two recent complaints against a man named Dean Ellerby, thirty-two, for loitering near school bus stops and ‘creepy’ comments to neighborhood moms.”

“Send it,” Emily said. “Wren, can you pull the statements from the last folder—witnesses who saw something near the park?”

Wren blinked. “Me?”

Emily didn’t even look up. “Yeah. You’re good at timelines, right?”

Wren stepped forward, pulled the folder, and began scanning.

Garcia buzzed again—this time to Reid. “Pretty boy, Ellerby has a sealed juvie record.”

“Access it,” Reid said.

“Already ahead of you,” Garcia replied. “He was arrested at age sixteen for trespassing on a neighbor’s property—inside the home. No forced entry. Claimed he thought it was empty.”

“Which means he’s done this before,” Reid murmured.

Morgan looked to Wren, who was quietly flipping through statements.

“Bennett, what do you see?”

She glanced up, hesitant.

“I…” She swallowed. “Two reports from the last week mentioned a ‘tall man with a limp’ hanging near the trail behind the Meadows’ house. No formal complaint was filed.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Limp?”

Wren nodded. “One of the witnesses said he dragged his right foot. Could explain the staggered prints the forensics team found near the back fence—ones they assumed were the victim’s son.”

That got their attention.

Rossi looked up. “She’s right. I remember the report said the shoe size was too large, but they chalked it up to the boy running in his mother’s shoes.”

Hotch turned back to the chief. “We need to question Ellerby immediately.”

“I can have a squad car bring him in,” the chief said, more agreeable now. “You’re saying he’s the guy?”

“We’re saying he fits the early profile,” Hotch replied. “He’s familiar, he’s local, and he’s not new to this.”

Emily tapped her pen against the desk. “He’s reenacting something—something unresolved. The murder was secondary. The girl is the center of the fantasy.”

The room grew tighter. Focused.

And Wren… felt different.

No one was watching her like she didn’t belong. They were listening. JJ handed her a printout without saying a word, like it was normal. Reid leaned in to peer at the witness statements beside her. Emily offered her a pen to underline key times.

She was inside the circle now.

When Garcia pinged in again, this time on speaker, she said cheerily, “I’ve got property records. He lives with his mother. Dead father. Basement bedroom. You know—the usual red flag starter pack.”

“Send it,” Hotch said.

Wren looked at the photo of Lila, then at the photos of her mother’s body.

She spoke quietly. “He didn’t just want to take her. He wanted to remove the person who didn’t notice him. The mother was the symbol of his rejection.”

Everyone paused.

Emily looked over her shoulder at her. “You thinking premeditation?”

Wren nodded slowly. “I think this was a ritual. But I don’t think it’s the first.”

Hotch’s eyes met hers—steady, not cold. “Then we find the first one.”

And Wren, still clutching the file in one hand, nodded back.

This wasn’t just her first case.

It was the beginning of something.

⸻

Dean Ellerby had been sitting in Interview Room B for nearly six hours.

JJ and Morgan had taken the first round with him—a subtle push-pull, pressing for consistency, looking for cracks. He gave them plenty of weird, but nothing solid. He fidgeted with the cuffs of his jacket. Stared too long without blinking. Laughed inappropriately. Talked about the “frequency of shadows” on his street.

JJ had emerged from the room first, shaking her head.

Morgan followed. “He’s off,” he said to Hotch. “But not that kind of off.”

“No trauma signature,” JJ added. “And he can’t maintain a narrative. He gets caught in loops.”

Hotch turned to Rossi. “You and Reid try. See if he gives anything useful.”

“Lucky us,” Rossi muttered, already reaching for the door.

Inside the room, Ellerby sat hunched over the metal table, picking at the edges of a paper cup like it was some kind of puzzle. When Rossi and Reid entered, he looked up, eyes glassy and far too wide.

“Am I under arrest?” he asked.

“No,” Rossi said easily, taking a seat. “But we’d like to ask a few more questions.”

Reid sat beside him, folding his long fingers on the table.

Ellerby leaned forward. “Everyone thinks I’m crazy. But I see things.”

“What kind of things?” Reid asked.

“Patterns. Faces. People in this town—there’s something wrong with them. They pretend to be good. But they’re not.”

Rossi tilted his head. “Who, specifically?”

Ellerby grinned. “That coffee shop guy. The woman who teaches violin. You know who gives off the worst vibe? That mail lady. Swings her keys around like a damn pendulum. Trying to hypnotize people.”

Reid blinked.

Rossi sighed. “Thanks, Dean.”

They stood to leave.

Ellerby called after them, “They’re not watching the kids close enough. People see what they want. People see right past you.”

They left him in the room, under soft surveillance.

In the hallway, Hotch was speaking with Chief Reynolds when a uniformed officer ran up, breathless.

“We just got a 911 call. Woman found dead in her home—south side. Her daughter’s missing. Seven years old.”

Everything shifted at once.

Hotch’s eyes locked on the officer. “Address?”

Reynolds muttered a curse under his breath, then barked into his radio for confirmation.

Rossi turned sharply toward the rest of the team. “Same pattern?”

“Sounds like it,” Reynolds said, jaw tight. “Single mother. Quiet neighborhood.”

The air felt like it dropped five degrees.

Hotch turned toward the bullpen, toward where Wren sat reviewing neighborhood maps beside Reid’s earlier notes. She looked up the moment she felt the room tighten around her.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t ask twice.

“Bennett. You ready to go to a scene?”

Wren blinked. Then stood. “Yes, sir.”

Emily was already zipping her jacket.

“I’ll come,” she said.

“Me too,” Reid added.

The three of them moved like muscle memory. Wren’s heart pounded, but her movements were clean, automatic. She grabbed her go-bag, the tablet Reid had been using for case data, and followed Hotch toward the exit.

⸻

The SUV hummed along the quiet streets of Brookings, its tires a low whisper against pavement. Outside, porch lights flickered, illuminating tidy homes that all looked the same: manicured, forgettable. The kind of places where bad things weren’t supposed to happen.

Wren sat in the backseat beside Reid. Emily rode up front with Hotch.

Nobody spoke much.

But the silence wasn’t empty. It was full of evaluation, connection, prep.

Finally, Hotch broke it. “The first crime scene is going to matter more now. We compare staging. We look for escalation.”

Emily added, “If this is his second attempt, he’s refining his ritual. He’s getting bolder.”

Reid turned to Wren. “What do you think he’ll leave behind this time?”

Wren looked down at her hands, then back up at the windshield. “Something smaller. More personal. Less theatrical. He’s not trying to shock anymore—he’s trying to communicate.”

Hotch met her eyes in the rearview mirror, just for a second.

She didn’t look away.

⸻

They arrived to the pulsing glow of flashing red and blue. Yellow tape crisscrossed the small front lawn of a modest ranch-style home. A lone tricycle sat at the base of the front porch.

Wren zipped up her jacket as she stepped out, the wind biting at her neck.

Officers were already moving through perimeter checks, and a crime scene tech nodded as Hotch flashed his badge. Emily and Reid followed him up the walkway, and Wren—after one long, quiet breath—followed, too.

Inside, the lights had been turned low to preserve the evidence. The hum of a hallway lamp buzzed like a warning.

The mother’s body was found in the bedroom. Slumped against the foot of the bed. Stabbed. The room was tidy otherwise—too tidy.

Reid knelt, glancing toward a stuffed rabbit placed carefully on the nightstand.

Wren stood in the doorway, scanning every detail.

And then she saw it.

Near the dresser.

A child’s sock. Neatly folded. Alone.

She turned toward Hotch. “Sir…”

He was already walking toward her.

And she knew—this was no longer theory.

She was in it now.

⸻

Stephanie Cole’s house was too quiet.

The kind of quiet that settled after the screaming. The walls still held the echo, even if the air didn’t.

Wren moved slowly, keeping behind Emily and Reid, the three of them walking room by room as the techs snapped photos and marked blood spatter with numbered placards. The crime scene was disturbingly clean—just like the first.

Single mother. Multiple stab wounds. No sign of struggle.

Wren hovered near the doorframe, notebook in hand, but her eyes were moving constantly. She was absorbing, not just watching.

“Same precision,” Emily murmured, crouching near the victim. “Entry wound spacing is almost identical to the last scene.”

Reid was running his gloved fingers just above the dresser surface, not touching, just tracking. “Nothing out of place. Except the sock.”

“Two different placements,” Wren said quietly. “But same message. He’s not escalating in violence. He’s escalating in intimacy.”

Emily looked up. “Meaning?”

Wren stepped further into the room, glancing at the doorway where the killer likely entered. “The first crime scene was performative. Staged. He wanted us to see it. This is quieter. Tighter. He’s not just showing off anymore—he’s reenacting something. Trying to get it right.”

Reid turned to her, intrigued. “So he’s refining?”

“Or reliving,” she replied. “Whatever this is, he’s building toward something. Or someone.”

Hotch entered behind them, silent as ever. “Anything feel off?”

Wren’s eyes lingered on the sock, then the victim’s body, and finally the window.

“No forced entry here either. Same as before. But this time he left the sock higher up. Visible immediately.”

She turned back to the team. “He’s getting bolder.”

Emily’s eyes met Wren’s with a flicker of agreement.

Hotch gave a single nod. “We’ll take statements from the neighbors again. See if anyone saw the same ‘man with a limp.’”

As the team broke off to cover the rest of the house, Wren lingered just a moment longer. She closed her eyes briefly and tried to reverse the scene in her head.

He walked in quietly. Knew the layout. Avoided the child’s room. Went straight to the mother. Fast. Focused. Left the sock.

Why?

⸻

The BAU's tech analyst, Penelope Garcia sat cross-legged in her office chair, one sequined slipper kicked halfway off as she clacked away at her keyboard with rapid-fire intensity. Her monitor glowed with public records, background checks, and scraped social data.

A coffee cup with “QUEEN OF CRIME (SCENES)” glittered on her desk beside three empty wrappers of sour candy.

“Come on, come on…” she muttered.

She had been filtering every incident report in Brookings and the surrounding counties from the past ten years—looking for anything that smelled of pattern.

And then, one file popped.

Her eyes widened.

Two counties west. A town called Ainsley. Seven years ago. Single mother. Found stabbed. Daughter missing. Girl never found.

Garcia sat upright.

“No… no one cross-referenced this?”

She opened the case file. The girl had been named Mira Carson. She was seven. Just like the newest victim’s daughter.

Garcia’s fingers danced across her tablet as she dialed Emily’s phone.

“Answer, answer—”

⸻

Emily’s phone buzzed.

She put it on speaker without hesitating.

“You’re on with me, Hotch, Reid, and Wren,” she said.

Garcia’s voice filled the quiet bedroom. “I cross-referenced old regional files with your current victimology pattern. Found a cold case in Ainsley—same MO. Single mother stabbed, daughter vanished. Girl was never found.”

Reid stepped closer to the phone. “Seven years ago?”

“Yep. And you’ll love this part: the mother had filed complaints about a man watching her house from the woods behind her property.”

Hotch’s voice was tight. “Name?”

“Was never confirmed. The case just… died. Sheriff at the time called it a domestic that went wrong. But I dug deeper. Found a name in a neighbor complaint. Someone who used to live three blocks from your current crime scene.”

“Who?” Hotch asked.

Garcia took a breath.

“Isaac Hale. Forty-four. Moved off the grid five years ago. But according to utility records? Guess who just started paying electricity on a rural cabin outside Brookings last month.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Then Hotch said, “Send the address to JJ and Morgan. Now.”

“I’m on it,” Garcia said.

Emily turned to Wren.

“You still with us?”

Wren nodded. “Yeah. I am.”

⸻

The vending alcove smelled faintly of powdered detergent and whatever air freshener the inn staff had tucked behind the soda machine. Pale yellow lighting flickered overhead. A pair of machines buzzed quietly—one for drinks, one for snacks—and the carpet was the kind of tired paisley pattern only small-town motels still used.

Wren stood barefoot in thin socks and a worn navy t-shirt, her black leggings cuffed above her ankles. Her hair was pulled into a half-hearted twist, the kind she’d forgotten she even knew how to do. She stared through the vending glass at a row of protein bars she didn’t really want.

Her fingers hovered over the keypad. She just needed something—anything—to occupy her hands and quiet her mind.

Behind her, a soft shuffle of footsteps.

She turned, slightly startled.

Spencer Reid stopped just short of bumping into her, a tattered paperback tucked under one arm and a half-buttoned cardigan hanging crookedly over his shoulders. His hair was tousled in a way that said he’d been running his fingers through it for hours. The socks peeking out from beneath his lounge pants had small gray moons on them.

He blinked. “Didn’t expect company.”

Wren stepped aside a little. “Didn’t expect to still be thinking.”

Spencer smiled faintly and glanced at the machine. “Chips are a mistake. They always seem like a good idea until your mouth tastes like sandpaper.”

“That’s what JJ said,” Wren murmured, crossing her arms. “You all have strong opinions about vending machines.”

“She and I have logged a lot of late-night hours in front of these,” he said. “We’ve formed theories.”

A quiet pause passed. He didn’t press her, and she appreciated that.

“I thought if I wrote out what we already know, it would help,” she said. “But it’s like trying to read in a mirror—everything feels reversed.”

Reid glanced at her sidelong. “That’s a good sign. Means your brain’s still working the case from angles the rest of us haven’t burned out yet.”

“I keep coming back to the sock.”

Spencer nodded, already thinking. “It’s a ritual. A marker.”

“But why something so mundane?” Wren asked, reaching for a bottled water without fully realizing it. “Why not something more visceral, more symbolic?”

“Because he doesn’t want you to understand the message,” Reid said. “He wants to feel like he’s in control of a story no one else can read.”

Wren turned that over in her mind, chewing on the cap of the water bottle.

“You know,” Reid added softly, “I didn’t speak during my first two weeks on the team. I just... memorized everything. Sat at that table and stayed quiet.”

Wren gave a soft, surprised laugh. “I find that hard to believe.”

He smiled. “It’s true. And when I finally did speak, I thought I’d said the wrong thing. But Gideon looked at me like I’d just cracked a code. And JJ brought me coffee the next morning. We all start somewhere.”

Wren leaned back against the counter, the water still untouched in her hands. “You make it look easy now.”

“It’s not. But it gets easier when someone tells you that you belong.”

She met his eyes—steady, kind, and sharper than they looked.

“You do,” he added simply. “You belong.”

Her throat tightened unexpectedly. “Thanks.”

Reid held up his paperback—Symbolism and Displacement in Ritual Psychology. “I was going to read this. But it can wait.”

“Is that light reading for you?”

“There’s a chapter on resilience that’s surprisingly hopeful.”

Wren smiled. “That’s your version of bedtime stories?”

He grinned. “Only the ones with statistical footnotes.”

They stood there a moment longer in companionable silence, the low hum of the machines filling the space between their words.

Then, Wren pressed a button.

The granola bar clattered to the bottom.

“Guess I’m sticking with what I know,” she murmured.

Reid nodded. “It’s a good place to start.”

He turned to head back down the hallway, but paused halfway, glancing back over his shoulder.

“You don’t have to think out loud,” he said. “But don’t silence yourself when you’re the only one who sees something differently.”

Then he walked off into the soft quiet of the motel.

Wren stood still for a beat, the granola bar warm between her palms.

She wasn’t sure if her heart had slowed or sped up—but for the first time all day, she felt like it wasn’t going to wear her down.

Not yet.

She padded quietly back toward her room, granola bar in one hand, notes in her mind, and Reid’s words echoing somewhere in the space between them.

⸻

@ninniesontheglass3

[untitled7sblog]

Author Note: 06.01.2025

Hello, my little cherubs!

My name is A (my given name is far too long). I hope you are all enjoying the first four chapters of The Mind's Eye! I have adored the complexity of Criminal Minds for ages and I have finally decided to bite the bullet, compile all of my writings on it (throw most of them out) and begin the slow burn connection of Aaron Hotchner and Wren Bennett!

I am a full time student, year round on a rolling schedule, but I have decided to take the summer off of school and focus on myself and my work. In truth, I was becoming a bit insufferable and a little grippy sock vacation was probably in my near future. Now, with finals behind me (cue the nausea waiting for those final grades), I wanted to deep dive into Wren and her fitting into the Criminal Minds world.

You may notice with The Mind's Eye and some of my other future works, that for the first few chapters, I will probably not be following any episodes, scripts, etc. I feel like this is a more organic way to fit original characters into shows, movies etc.

Finally, I wanted to let you all know that I adore Tumblr and the amazing communities it creates. I love that we can post our words in a way that others who have a common interest can enjoy them. I am fairly new with Tumblr, mainly just original posting, so any tips or advice, PLEASE feel free to message me. Any notes are appreciated.

Finally, (once again, ooppppssss...) Once I get my footing with Wren's story, I will begin posting a Matt Casey story, I also intend on adding more characters from other universes, but to not overwhelm myself, I will take one project at a time.

I appreciate and love you all wholeheartedly!

A

[untitled7sblog]

(4) Threshold

The room buzzed with quiet urgency.

Files were spread across the table. Crime scene photos, victim timelines, behavioral patterns. Coffee cups perched on corners. JJ was organizing the timeline on the whiteboard while Emily jotted notes beside her. Derek leaned back in his chair, tapping a pen against his palm. Spencer stood near the projector, already mid-stream of rapid analysis.

Wren sat near the end of the table, legal pad in front of her, pen in hand. She hadn’t spoken. No one had asked her to.

This wasn’t her room yet. It belonged to them—the ones who had solved hundreds of cases, who shared glances instead of sentences, who moved as a single unit.

Rossi entered last and took a seat across from Hotch, who sat at the head of the table in his usual posture: composed, hands folded, expression unreadable.

“Victim is Cynthia Meadows,” JJ recapped. “Single mother, murdered in her bedroom sometime between ten p.m. and midnight. Nine-year-old daughter missing. Six-year-old son found asleep in his bed. No signs of forced entry. No known enemies. Quiet life. Recently divorced.”

“The unsub likely entered through familiarity,” Spencer added. “Someone she didn’t perceive as a threat. Possibly a neighbor or acquaintance.”

“Or someone watching from a distance who finally made his move,” Morgan said. “The murder feels like a heat-of-the-moment obstacle. The girl was the target.”

“But he didn’t hurt the boy,” Emily pointed out. “Why leave a witness unless you think the kid won’t remember anything—or you don’t see him as worth the effort?”

There was a beat of silence. Pages turned. Pencils scratched.

Wren’s eyes flicked between them. They’re good, she thought. They’re fast.

Then she looked back at the crime scene photos.

The dresser.

The child’s shoe.

The mother’s position on the floor, turned toward the door, not the window.

Her pen tapped twice, then stilled.

She didn’t plan to speak.

But the words left her anyway.

“He’s used to being ignored.”

The room quieted just enough for heads to shift.

Hotch looked up.

Rossi didn’t react—he just watched.

JJ turned slightly toward Wren, brows raised. “What makes you say that?”

Wren sat straighter, steady now.

“The mother. She was found with her body angled toward the door. Not defensive—surprised. No forced entry. Which means she opened the door.”

She flipped to the crime scene detail page. “The unsub didn’t come through the house. He returned to it. Maybe someone she’d rebuffed. Or dismissed. Someone small in her eyes. Unimportant.”

She looked at the photograph again. “But the shoe on the dresser? That’s not just a signature. It’s a message. A reminder. She didn’t see me. But I saw her.”

The silence that followed was heavier.

Emily’s pen stopped moving.

Morgan studied her face.

Spencer tilted his head just slightly—curious.

JJ gave a slow nod. “That’s… good.”

Rossi leaned back in his chair. “She’s not wrong.”

Hotch didn’t smile, but something in his eyes shifted—just a little.

“You think he’s escalating?” he asked.

Wren met his gaze. “I think he’s rehearsed this in his head for years. And if he doesn’t get what he wants out of the girl, he’ll do it again.”

Another silence. This one tighter.

Hotch turned to JJ. “Get local law enforcement to check registered complaints in a two-mile radius. Anyone with a record of low-level stalking, neighbor disputes, voyeurism—anything that would’ve made a woman like Cynthia shrug them off.”

JJ was already reaching for her phone.

Emily glanced toward Wren—no smile, but a look that said interesting.

Rossi folded his arms. “Guess the rookie’s got a mouth after all.”

Morgan grinned, but didn’t tease. Not this time.

Wren looked down at her notes, pen back in her hand.

She didn’t smile.

But her heart was steady now.

And for the first time since she walked into the BAU…

She felt like she was supposed to be here.

——

The team had filed out in loose twos and threes, already moving into action—phones dialing, files in hand, conversations flowing. The energy had shifted. The room had accepted Wren’s voice, but only barely. Just enough for her to feel the door crack open.

She lingered behind, collecting her notes with slow, methodical movements.

Rossi stayed.

He stood near the whiteboard, arms crossed, his gaze pinned to the pinned photos one last time. Then he turned to her.

“You alright?” he asked.

Wren glanced up. “Yes, sir.”

“That wasn’t a formality.”

She hesitated. Then: “I’m not used to speaking into a room like that.”

“You didn’t flinch.”

“I almost did.”

Rossi smiled faintly, stepping closer, his voice dropping a bit. “Listen, Bennett. First time I sat at that table? I talked too much. Tried too hard. You didn’t do either.”

She met his gaze, searching it. “Did I cross a line?”

“You crossed into it,” he said. “That’s what matters.”

Her shoulders relaxed just slightly.

Rossi glanced at the board again, then back at her. “You’ve got good instincts. Don’t second-guess them. And don’t let silence convince you that you were wrong. This team doesn’t hand out compliments. We hand out trust. Slowly.”

She nodded.

“You did well,” he added, quieter this time. “Don’t ruin it in your own head.”

Then he left, his footsteps soft against the tile.

Wren stood still a moment longer before making her way back to the bullpen.

The atmosphere was quieter now. JJ had moved to the small conference office. Reid had disappeared—likely off to read six books before dinner. Morgan was on the phone. Garcia had retreated to her tech cave.

Hotch’s door was shut.

Wren sat at her desk, the open file spread out in front of her again.

Same pages. Same photos. But now, they felt heavier—hers in a way they hadn’t been this morning.

She rewrote a few notes in cleaner pen strokes, adjusting her earlier observations, refining details. Her handwriting was small and neat, methodical.

She paused over the photograph of the dresser. The tiny shoe. The mother’s body.

Had she said too much? Had her words landed wrong?

What if she’d pushed too soon?

She picked up her pen again, trying to distract herself by sketching the layout of the crime scene. Bedroom. Living room. Entry points. Dresser placement.

But her mind kept circling the same thought: You spoke too soon. You stood too tall.

And then—

The soft click of a door opening.

She looked up.

Hotch stepped out of his office.

Their eyes met briefly.

He gave a small, unreadable nod.

And then—he didn’t look away first.

Wren swallowed and turned back to her file, cheeks warm, heart beating a little too fast.

She didn’t need him to say anything.

He had already said enough.

——

By early afternoon, the official request came through.

The Brookings, South Dakota Police Department had formally invited the BAU in to consult. The local chief, exhausted by pressure from the community and media, had made the call. Missing child. Murdered mother. No leads. They needed help. And the Bureau had sent them.

Hotch made the call. JJ coordinated the logistics. Garcia printed boarding passes, barked at the travel system for assigning Reid a middle seat, then insisted on printing her own in bright pink ink “for the emotional wellbeing of the plane.”

By 3:30, the jet was in the air.

Wren sat in one of the aisle seats toward the back, legal pad in her lap, the case file open across the tray table. Her hair was still in its braid, but her blazer was folded and tucked into the seat pocket beside her.

Across the aisle, Emily read silently from her own file copy. Reid muttered to himself, scribbling in the margins of a printout. Morgan sat in the back row, long legs stretched out, arms folded, eyes shut—but Wren didn’t believe for a second he was asleep.

Garcia, wearing glitter-dusted glasses and a navy cardigan with a sequined moon on the shoulder, plopped dramatically into her computer chair through the iPad set up on the table next to Wren.

“I need light,” she said, “and color. And vibes.”

Wren blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve been looking at pictures of bloodied beds and single shoes all day,” Garcia continued. “I need bright paintings, sparkling rings, and a glitter bomb the size of a football field to feel like a person again.”

Wren actually smiled, just a little. “There’s a bookstore across from my apartment that sells art prints. You’d like it. The owner’s cat is named Frida Kahlo.”

Garcia placed a hand dramatically to her heart. “This is why you’re my favorite already.”

“You say that to everyone.”

“I say it because it’s true, every time.”

Hotch and Rossi were seated up front, conferring quietly. JJ passed through, dropping a folder in front of Morgan with a tap of her fingers.

“Let’s walk the unsub,” she said. “We know he’s controlled, organized, but there’s a ritual component. He didn’t just take the girl—he left something. A mark. A story.”

Emily looked up. “Which means it’s not just about the child. It’s about the impact of taking her.”

“Exactly,” JJ replied. “He wants it to mean something.”

Wren glanced between them. “He’s waiting for the fallout. The press, the panic. He doesn’t want the act itself. He wants the attention it demands.”

Hotch turned slightly in his seat. “So he’s not just compulsive. He’s performative.”

Reid finally looked up. “He’s reenacting something. A narrative he’s built in his head—he’s the misunderstood outsider reclaiming what was taken from him.”

Morgan opened one eye. “So what’s the endgame?”

No one answered right away.

Garcia sighed and whispered though the screen, “See? This is why I need glitter.”

——

They landed just after sunset.

Brookings was quiet. Small-town quiet. Golden-hour light stretched over brick storefronts and empty sidewalks. The air was cooler than D.C.—a prairie wind that made Wren zip up her jacket as they stepped off the jet.

JJ drove the lead SUV. Hotch coordinated with the local PD via phone. They decided to table the full meeting with the department until morning.

“Best to start fresh,” Rossi said. “We’ll get more out of them if they’re not half-asleep.”

They pulled up to a small, wood-paneled inn two blocks from the sheriff’s office. One of those mom-and-pop places with flower boxes under the windows and a neon Vacancy sign that buzzed quietly in the dusk.

Everyone was given separate rooms.

Wren stood outside hers for a moment, looking up at the pale porch light flickering overhead. The key card felt cold in her hand.

Inside, the room smelled faintly of lavender cleaner and pine. There was a queen bed, a small desk, a dresser, and a single framed print of a wheat field.

She didn’t unpack.

Instead, she sat on the bed, opened her file, and reread her notes by the soft yellow lamp on the nightstand.

The stillness felt both peaceful and heavy.

Outside her window, the rest of the team filtered into their rooms—door latches clicking, murmured voices disappearing behind walls.

They’d do the work tomorrow.

Tonight, they rested. Or at least… they tried.

——

The inn was silent, save for the occasional creak of old wood and the distant hum of a television left on too long in another room.

Wren slipped out of her room in black leggings, a loose navy tee, and socked feet slid into her boots without bothering to lace them. Her hair was pulled into a lazy twist, a few wisps falling into her eyes. She hadn’t planned on leaving, just needed movement. The kind that could distract her from rereading the same sentence in the case file over and over again.

The vending machines were in a narrow hallway off the lobby—one for drinks, one for snacks. Wren stood in front of them, arms crossed, trying to decide between a granola bar and a bag of salt and vinegar chips.

“You’ll regret the chips,” a voice said behind her. “They always seem like a good idea until your mouth feels like sandpaper.”

Wren turned.

JJ stood there, barefoot in gray joggers and a black tank top, her blonde hair braided loosely over one shoulder. She held a bottle of water in one hand and a small bag of peanut M\&Ms in the other.

Wren blinked, a little surprised to see her. “Can’t sleep either?”

JJ gave a soft smile. “Rarely do on the first night out. Something about small towns and big cases.”

Wren turned back to the snack options. “Didn’t want to stare at the ceiling anymore.”

JJ leaned against the wall, watching her. “You handled yourself well today.”

Wren hesitated. Then: “I spoke when I shouldn’t have.”

“No,” JJ said gently. “You spoke when we needed it.”

Wren glanced at her, unsure.

JJ shrugged. “The first time I spoke up in a case review, I cried afterward. In the bathroom. Twice.”

That pulled a small laugh from Wren—soft, involuntary.

JJ grinned. “No one talks about how hard it is to start here. Everyone sees us as this tight machine—but it wasn’t always like that. We’ve all earned our place. One hard moment at a time.”

Wren considered that, then bent to press a button. She picked the granola bar.

“I’m not trying to impress anyone,” she said. “I just… want to do the work.”

JJ nodded. “Then you’re already ahead of half the agents who come through Quantico.”

They stood in quiet for a moment. The vending machine buzzed as Wren retrieved her snack.

JJ looked over, voice softening. “We don’t expect you to know everything. We just need to know you’ll keep showing up.”

Wren looked down at the bar in her hand. “I can do that.”

JJ smiled again. “Good. Because tomorrow’s going to be a long one.”

With that, she turned and padded down the hallway.

Wren lingered behind, the vending machine light casting a faint glow across her face.

For the first time all day, her chest didn’t feel like a vise.

She took the granola bar, pressed it between her palms for warmth, and walked quietly back to her room.

[untitled7sblog]

(3) Static

The alarm hadn’t even gone off yet, but Wren was already awake.

She lay in bed with the covers pulled to her chest, staring at the ceiling as the soft gray of early morning filtered through the blinds. Her stomach felt like it was full of gravel—solid, sinking, uncomfortable.

Her phone buzzed gently on the nightstand: “Good luck today” from a number she didn’t recognize until she opened it. Strauss. Huh.

Wren exhaled through her nose, rolled out of bed, and moved on muscle memory toward the bathroom. Wash. Braid. Moisturizer. The mechanics were soothing, but her mind wouldn’t stop cycling through what ifs.

What if she came off too cold?

What if she overstepped?

What if they thought she didn’t belong?

She tugged on her favorite pair of black slacks and stood in front of the mirror, squinting at her reflection.

Then came the shirts.

First: a crisp white button-up. Professional. Classic. She buttoned it all the way to the collar, then frowned. Too stiff. Too clinical. Like she was trying to be invisible.

She tried a soft blue blouse next. The color was calming, and it matched the undertone in her eyes, but the fabric clung at the wrong places. It made her look younger—too soft, maybe even uncertain.

Off.

Then a deep forest green—her favorite color to wear—but the neckline was a little low and the sleeves slightly short. She stared at it for a long time before pulling it off too.

The fourth blouse was a muted charcoal gray, structured but subtle, with clean lines and no embellishment. She slipped it on and buttoned the cuffs, then looked in the mirror.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t soft. It was… efficient.

Unassuming, but sharp.

She could live with that.

She pulled her braid over her shoulder and tightened it. No makeup beyond concealer and a swipe of mascara. Lips bare. No jewelry except the watch she always wore—her mother’s old one, still ticking quietly, as if reminding her to keep moving.

Wren holstered her firearm and grabbed her go-bag and her badge from the dresser. She paused by the door, staring at the folder Strauss had mailed her days before: case examples, expectations, contact sheets. It felt heavier now.

She pressed a hand against her sternum, trying to ground herself.

You’ve trained for this. You’ve studied for this. You know what you’re doing.

But still—she was walking into the lion’s den. A room full of legends.

She wasn’t afraid of violence, or blood, or the unsubs she’d eventually face.

But she was afraid of walking in and being seen as nothing more than a resume.

Taking one last glance at herself in the mirror, she murmured, “Don’t flinch.”

Then she opened the door and stepped into the morning air.

⸻

The elevator was too quiet. No music, no noise but the soft mechanical whirring as it ascended floor by floor. Wren stood still in the center, her go-bag slung over one shoulder, both hands clenched lightly around the strap.

She adjusted her breathing.

In through the nose. Two counts. Hold. Out through the mouth. Three counts.

Her heart didn’t care.

The charcoal blouse she’d settled on was crisp against her skin, tucked neatly into her black slacks. Sensible shoes. Hair in a tight braid that skimmed between her shoulder blades. Watch on her left wrist, ticking evenly, grounding her with each faint beat.

She looked calm. But she wasn’t. Her mouth was dry, her stomach an ache of static.

You’ve done harder things, she reminded herself.

But not with all of them watching.

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.

The bullpen was dimly lit, the overheads still set to early mode. File cabinets lined the walls, and half a dozen desks formed a loose ring around the central workspace. Her heels tapped lightly on the tile as she stepped out, pausing at the edge of the room.

She didn’t know where to go.

No one else had arrived yet—except one.

Behind the glass of his office, elevated just slightly above the bullpen, Aaron Hotchner stood by his desk. He was sorting papers, but he paused as the movement outside his window caught his eye.

Their gazes met.

For a second, neither moved.

Then the door to his office opened, and he descended the steps with that precise, intentional way he moved—like everything he did was part of a strategy he hadn’t bothered to explain yet.

Wren turned to face him fully.

He was exactly as she remembered—yet different.

The harsh silhouette she recalled from the interview was softened now by the golden morning light filtering through the blinds. His dark brown hair was slightly longer than expected, swept back but still a little tousled, like he hadn’t run a comb through it more than once. He was clean-shaven, his sharp jawline clearly defined.

He wore a black suit, tailored and quiet in its authority. A white dress shirt, crisp. A charcoal gray tie, perfectly knotted. No badge on display. He didn’t need one.

Wren found herself unexpectedly steady in his presence—not relaxed, but focused.

Hotch came to a stop a few feet in front of her. His eyes—dark, assessing—were no less intense than they’d been in the interview. But there was something else now.

Not warmth. Not quite.

But maybe understanding.

“You’re early,” he said simply.

“I didn’t want to be late.”

He nodded once. “That’ll serve you well here.”

Wren hesitated. “Thank you for the opportunity.”

Hotch looked at her—really looked at her—and gave the slightest incline of his head. “You earned it.”

That settled something in her chest. Just enough to breathe normally.

“Coffee’s fresh,” he added, nodding toward the break area. “Everyone else will be in by seven.”

Then he turned and walked back to his office, leaving her alone in the soft, humming quiet of the bullpen.

Wren glanced around the room again, taking in the desks, the clutter of case files, the half-filled whiteboard at the center. The chairs. The bulletin boards.

The traces of people not yet present.

She moved slowly to the edge of the space and let her hand rest on the back of the desk nearest the door—her desk, maybe. Maybe not.

You’re here, she told herself.

You’re in.

And she was.

For now.

⸻

The lights had brightened gradually as the hour crept closer to seven, and Wren remained at the desk just outside Hotch’s office—her desk, she’d been told. It sat squarely at the base of the steps, positioned with an unobstructed view of the entire bullpen. A strategic location, she realized. Easy to watch. Easy to be watched.

A fresh file sat on her desk, left by Hotch himself before he disappeared behind his office door once more. Paperwork. Internal transfer forms. Access level upgrades. A light orientation packet with the words BAU Probationary Assignment stamped across the top.

She’d only just begun reviewing the forms when the bullpen door opened.

David Rossi entered first.

Sharp suit. Navy with a subtle check pattern. Burgundy tie, half-knotted like he’d thrown it on in the car. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed back with precision, though a few strands defied it at the temples. He carried a sleek leather briefcase in one hand and a large travel coffee in the other. His eyes, deep-set and quick, swept the room—and landed on her.

He didn’t smile, but his head dipped in recognition as he passed her desk.

“Bennett.”

“Morning, sir.”

“David is fine.” Then, more softly: “You’re earlier than Hotch told me to expect. Good.”

He headed for his office, not waiting for a reply—but the approval in his voice lingered.

A moment later, the bullpen buzzed open again.

Jennifer Jareau, known as JJ, stepped in with her usual graceful efficiency. Blonde hair loose around her shoulders in soft waves, navy blazer, white blouse, gray slacks. She had that calm, polished air that made her seem both approachable and untouchable. She offered Wren a small, professional smile as she passed.

“You must be Agent Bennett. I’m JJ.”

“Nice to meet you,” Wren said.

JJ’s smile warmed by a few degrees. “Welcome to the BAU.”

Wren nodded, tucking the greeting away like a fragile gift.

The door opened again—this time, laughter preceding it.

Derek Morgan and Spencer Reid entered side by side.

Morgan was everything his file said—tall, athletic, confident in a way that didn’t need explaining. His black dress shirt stretched just enough across his shoulders, sleeves rolled to the elbow, tie loosened with intention. He carried himself like a man who always belonged in the room. His dark eyes flicked to Wren, and he gave a smirk that walked the line between charm and curiosity.

“Well, look at that. New blood.”

Spencer was beside him, coffee in hand, looking like he hadn’t slept more than three hours. His khakis were slightly wrinkled, his lavender button-down buttoned to the top, and his tie was a little too short, like he’d tied it in a rush. His cardigan was forest green and oversized, sleeves nearly swallowing his hands. But it was his eyes—sharp, alert, always thinking—that met Wren’s and held there.

“We met briefly,” Spencer said to Morgan, then turned back to her. “Your spatial analysis paper. You use cross-modal imaging techniques to track offender movement through cognitive mapping?”

Wren blinked, surprised. “You read it?”

“I annotated it,” he said earnestly.

Morgan grinned. “Oh boy. It begins.”

Wren wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered or panicked.

Then came the burst of energy known as Penelope Garcia.

She swept into the bullpen like a glittering storm cloud of color and sound. A fuchsia cardigan over a patterned black-and-white dress, yellow glasses perched on her nose, hair in two space buns with a headband that read CRIME QUEEN in rhinestones.

“Where is my beautiful little newbie?” she announced.

Wren stood awkwardly, half-raising her hand. “That would be me.”

Garcia let out a delighted squeak. “Oh, honey. Look at you. So serious. That will not last.”

She crossed the bullpen and wrapped Wren in a hug before she could even process what was happening.

“I—don’t usually hug this early,” Wren mumbled.

“You will learn,” Garcia replied, pulling back with a wink. “I’m Penelope. I live in the Bat Cave. You’ll learn what that means soon enough.”

Finally, the last of the core team stepped in.

Emily Prentiss.

Dark hair in loose waves, a black blazer over a slate blouse, black trousers, and boots that clicked with quiet confidence as she walked. She carried a manila folder tucked under one arm, her expression unreadable—but her eyes locked onto Wren’s with a curious steadiness.

She walked over, slower than the others, and held out a hand.

“Prentiss,” she said.

“Bennett.”

Their handshake was firm, brief, and full of unsaid things.

Emily studied her for a breath longer than necessary, then nodded and moved toward her desk.

As the team filtered to their usual spots, the hum of familiarity returned. Jokes over coffee. Debrief chatter. Reid mumbling to himself. Garcia had retreated back to her private office, or the “Bat Cave” as she had told Wren. JJ already halfway through a case file.

Wren returned to her paperwork, her pen poised but unmoving.

No one had told her to prove herself.

But it hung in the air anyway.

And she didn’t mind.

She’d been proving herself her whole life.

⸻

Wren sat at one end of the conference table, a yellow legal pad in front of her and a capped pen resting in her hand. She’d been summoned—not by Hotch, but by David, who had appeared at her desk with a half-smile and a dry, “Come on, rookie. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Now, he paced slowly near the whiteboard, a case file open in his hands. On the board, photographs of a crime scene were pinned up: a small bedroom with blood spatter, a broken mirror, and a missing child’s shoe placed on the dresser like a token.

Hotch hadn’t come in with them. He’d handed off the review to Rossi intentionally.

“She doesn’t need us circling her like vultures,” he’d told Dave quietly.

“You’ve got the instinct for this. Show her the ropes.”

Rossi had only nodded.

Now, he glanced up at her from the file. “You read this yet?”

“I skimmed it this morning,” Wren replied. “No full profile. Just details.”

“Good. I don’t want memorization. I want instinct.”

He turned the board slightly toward her. “Single mother, early thirties. Found murdered in her home. Multiple stab wounds. Bedroom staging. Two kids—only one present when the body was discovered.”

He tossed her the file.

Wren caught it, opened it, and ran her eyes over the page.

“No signs of forced entry,” she murmured. “The six-year-old boy was asleep in the next room and unharmed. Older sibling, a girl, missing. Age nine.”

She looked up. “The unsub took the daughter.”

Rossi gave a single nod, then leaned against the table. “Walk me through it.”

Wren took a breath. She could feel her hands wanting to tremble, but she tightened her fingers around the pen instead.

“He came for the girl,” she said. “That was the objective. The mother was the obstacle. The boy was a non-threat—too young, possibly not part of the fantasy.”

She flipped a page. “Stabbing suggests personal violence. Anger. But the shoe on the dresser—that’s a signature. Which makes me think this wasn’t just about control or removal. There’s ritual.”

“Keep going,” Rossi said, watching her carefully.

Wren’s gray eyes narrowed on the photo. “He might have a history of escalating violence. Animal mutilation, voyeurism. The staging feels theatrical—but not chaotic. It was controlled. I’d guess he knew the family, or had watched them for a long time.”

Rossi didn’t speak for a few seconds. Then he pushed off the table and moved to the whiteboard.

“The rest of the team will review this case this afternoon. You’ll be quiet at first—but when you speak, they’ll listen. Because I will.”

Wren blinked, surprised.

“I’m not handing you a gold star, Bennett. I’m telling you you’ve got the makings of a profiler. That’s not the same as being one.”

She nodded slowly. “I understand.”

“You will be watched,” he added. “Not because we’re waiting for you to screw up—but because that’s how this works. We read people. And until you’re one of us, you’re a variable.”

He gave her a look, half sharp, half amused.

“You get used to it.”

Wren’s voice was low. “I don’t mind being watched. I just don’t want to be underestimated.”

At that, Rossi actually smiled.

“You keep talking like that,” he said, “you might just make it.”

Then he closed the case file and handed her a marker. “Come on. Show me where you think he first made contact.”

She stood and walked to the board, her posture straightening as she took the marker from his hand.

And just like that, she stepped into the work.

[untitled7sblog]

(2) Low Priority

Wren Bennett sat with perfect posture in one of the high-backed chairs at the long, dark wood conference table. The room was cool, clinical, and quiet—lit with soft fluorescent panels and flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Quantico grounds. A black leather folder rested neatly in front of her, untouched.

She looked composed. Her dark hair was pulled into a thick, tidy braid that rested down her back. The slate gray blazer she wore was fitted but simple, paired with black trousers and low-heeled shoes that didn’t make a sound when she walked. A pale blue blouse softened the look, just enough to keep her from seeming severe. Her eyes—large, cool gray, and watchful—took in the room without ever darting. She looked like someone who had spent her life trying to stay still.

Across from her sat Erin Strauss, sharp as ever in a tailored navy pantsuit, a thin gold watch circling her wrist. Her blonde hair was swept into a sleek French twist, her posture as upright as her tone. A manila folder lay open before her, Wren’s ID photo clipped to the top page. Strauss didn’t look up right away—she read in silence, flipping a page with a manicured finger.

Aaron Hotchner stood at the far end of the room, near the window. His black suit was crisp, shirt white and collar sharp, no tie today. He had the air of a man who had already been awake for hours—alert, composed, but faintly shadowed under the eyes. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his eyes—dark, calculating—were fixed on Wren.

She could feel the weight of both of them without looking directly at either.

“Agent Bennett,” Strauss said finally, her voice cool but not unkind. “Your file is… thorough. Top marks at Quantico. Commendations from instructors. Perfect PT and psych evaluations. And yet, the concern flagged repeatedly—”

“—is my history,” Wren said softly, with no trace of hesitation.

Strauss lifted her chin, regarding her carefully. “Yes. The loss of your siblings. Your mother’s suicide. Your father’s record of substance abuse and domestic disturbances. None of it reflects on your qualifications, of course. But we are in the business of human behavior. We have to ask how your past may impact your performance.”

Wren’s eyes didn’t waver. “With respect, Chief Strauss, my past is the reason I perform the way I do. It’s what taught me how to see patterns in behavior. I don’t detach—I observe. I understand the line between empathy and enmeshment.”

Hotch finally spoke, his voice low and direct. “And what happens when that line blurs?”

Wren turned to look at him directly, her voice steady. “Then I have a team. Or at least, that’s what I understand about yours.”

That earned her the slightest lift of Hotch’s brow. His face gave away little, but Wren could feel him reevaluating.

Strauss leaned back slightly in her chair, fingers laced together. “You seem to know a great deal about the BAU, Agent Bennett.”

“I’ve read every case file made public since 2005,” Wren said. “I studied the team dynamics. Watched press conferences. I’ve prepared.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to Hotch. “And I’ve wanted this since before the Bureau would even look at me.”

There was a beat of silence. The hum of the lights above filled the space between breaths.

“You’re aware this isn’t a typical assignment,” Hotch said, stepping forward, his gaze steady. “There are nights that bleed into mornings, weeks where the only people you speak to are victims and offenders. You’ll see the worst of humanity up close. Are you prepared for that?”

“I don’t flinch,” Wren replied. “And if I ever crumble, I won’t do it where anyone can see.”

Strauss exchanged a glance with Hotch—silent, assessing.

Then, with the clean precision of a verdict, Strauss closed the folder. “We’ll be in touch, Agent Bennett.”

Wren stood smoothly, gathering her folder and offering a short nod. “Thank you for your time.”

She turned to go, her shoes silent on the tile. But just as her hand met the door handle, Hotch’s voice cut through the quiet.

“Agent Bennett—one last question.”

She turned, meeting his eyes.

“You’re not afraid of the dark?”

Wren didn’t blink. “No, sir. I’m more afraid of what people hide in the light.”

And with that, she opened the door and walked out, leaving behind the quiet weight of her presence.

Strauss exhaled, a subtle shift in her expression. “She’s either exactly what this team needs… or exactly what could break it.”

Hotch watched the door close behind Wren.

“We’ve all walked in with baggage,” he murmured. “The ones who stay figure out how to carry it.”

⸻

The elevator doors slid closed with a muted hiss, sealing Wren inside. She stood alone in the corner, hands clasped lightly in front of her, the reflection of her braid distorted in the brushed metal walls. Her breath came even, her expression unreadable—but inside, adrenaline still pulsed like static under her skin.

The floor display blinked as she descended:

12… 11… 10…

She leaned back slightly against the wall, just enough to feel it, her head tilting up toward the ceiling lights. It had gone better than expected. Or at least, not worse.

Strauss had been clinical. Hotchner—controlled, intense. But neither had dismissed her. That was more than most people ever gave her.

3… 2… 1…

The elevator dinged. The doors parted with a mechanical sigh, and Wren stepped out into a completely different world.

The first floor buzzed with quiet conversations, the low hum of printers, and the clack of keyboards. White Collar Crimes. A maze of gray cubicles and glassed-in side offices, where agents wore clean suits and debated embezzlement cases like chess matches.

Wren crossed the floor without drawing attention, returning to her workstation tucked into the back row. A small nameplate—Bennett, W.—was taped to the edge of her monitor. No one looked up as she sat down. No one ever did.

She pulled her chair in and logged into her system. Rows of fraud cases blinked onto the screen. Credit card schemes. Insurance rackets. Money laundering spreadsheets. She opened one of them and began to update the location flags, cross-referencing suspect names with state-level jurisdiction reports.

Her fingers moved automatically, efficiently. She could do this with her eyes closed.

But her mind… drifted.

She thought of the conference room upstairs. Of Strauss’s clipped cadence, and Hotch’s dark eyes studying her like a puzzle he hadn’t decided how to solve. She thought of the sharp silence between their questions, the way she had to work to keep her voice from shaking—not from fear, but from something that felt too much like want.

Not for approval. For the work. For the weight of it. The fire of it.

Her gaze slipped sideways, landing on the beige wall beside her. It was blank, like everything else in this place. Flat. Forgettable.

Wren returned her eyes to the monitor and kept typing. But her chest ached with restlessness.

She didn’t belong here. Not in this chair. Not in this quiet corner of the Bureau where nothing was ever urgent and everything followed a script.

She wanted cases that clawed at her.

People who made her dig for the truth.

She wanted to be seen.

And she didn’t know how long she could stay buried down here before something inside her began to crack.

⸻

The apartment was dimly lit, the only glow coming from the floor lamp in the corner and the flicker of the muted TV playing some documentary she wasn’t really watching. Wren sat curled into the corner of her worn blue couch, barefoot and in a pair of gray sweatpants and an oversized Yale hoodie. Her braid had unraveled into loose waves over her shoulder, and her makeup, if she had worn any that day, was long gone. A bowl of popcorn balanced on her lap. A half-drunk glass of Pinot Grigio rested on the coffee table. She had meant to make something real for dinner, but work had dragged, and her thoughts had been too preoccupied to even boil water.

Her phone buzzed against the armrest.

Unknown number.

Virginia area code.

Again.

Wren set down her wine glass and reached for the phone, thumbing it to her ear.

“This is Bennett.”

There was a pause, and then the smooth, familiar voice of Erin Strauss.

“Agent Bennett. I trust I’m not calling too late.”

Wren straightened slightly. “No, ma’am. Not at all.”

“You start tomorrow,” Strauss said plainly. “Report to Quantico, 7 a.m., Behavioral Analysis Unit. You’ll be joining the team on a probationary basis. Fieldwork will begin immediately.”

Wren blinked, caught somewhere between disbelief and adrenaline. “I—yes. Of course. Thank you.”

There was a pause. Strauss’s voice softened, almost imperceptibly.

“You’re going to be tested, Wren. This unit will expect everything from you—your mind, your instincts, your composure. They work differently than any team in the Bureau. They’re a family, and families don’t let outsiders in easily.”

“I understand,” Wren said quietly.

“I don’t think you do yet,” Strauss replied. “But you will. Expect the unexpected. Trust your instincts. And for God’s sake, let them know when you need help. That’s not weakness—it’s longevity.”

Wren didn’t answer right away. Her throat tightened.

“I will,” she said eventually.

“Good,” Strauss said. “Agent Hotchner will meet you in the bullpen tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.”

The line disconnected.

Wren sat still, the phone pressed to her leg, the popcorn forgotten.

Her eyes drifted to the glass of wine on the table. Then to the television. Then to the black bag already packed near the front door—half hopeful, half superstitious.

She exhaled slowly, shoulders relaxing into the couch. Tomorrow, everything would change.

And for the first time in a long time… that didn’t scare her.

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The Mind's Eye

(1) The File

(2) Low Priority

(3) Static

(4) Threshold

(5) Into the Fold

(6) Into the Light

(7) After the Storm

(8) Where the Light Lands

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(1) The File

The File 

Aaron Hotchner sighed, the sound barely audible over the soft hum of the desk lamp. The rest of the floor was quiet—everyone else had gone home hours ago. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing tired eyes that had gone watery from scanning file after file. Candidates for the BAU. Dozens of them. Veterans, rookies, specialists. All brilliant on paper. And yet none felt like the right fit.

The idea of bringing someone new onto the team felt heavy. It wasn’t just about skill sets or credentials. The BAU was a family—dysfunctional, wounded, resilient—and introducing the wrong person could shift everything off balance.

He exhaled slowly and reached for the stack of manila folders on his desk. Without much thought, he pulled one from the middle and opened it.

A young woman stared back at him from the ID photo clipped to the first page. Cool gray eyes. Dark hair past her shoulders. There was a quiet intelligence in her expression—measured, restrained. Wren Bennett, he read.

Graduated top of her class at Princeton with a double major in cognitive science and psychology. Perfect scores across the board—cognitive assessments, physical training, psych evals. Smart. Disciplined. Exceptional.

And then he reached the personal history section.

Her younger siblings—twins—listed as missing since she was sixteen. Her mother’s suicide a year later. A father with a record of domestic disturbances and documented alcohol abuse. Tragedy layered upon tragedy.

Aaron felt his throat tighten. He closed the file halfway, fingers resting on the edge. He’d seen it before—brilliant minds forged in pain. And he knew better than most that the past didn’t disqualify someone from this work. Sometimes, it was the very thing that made them capable of understanding the darkness they were up against.

He glanced at her photo again.

“She’ll either burn out or change everything,” he murmured to himself.

Hotch stood, sliding on his suit jacket with a practiced motion. He tucked the folder under his arm and stepped out of his office, the halls dim and still. When he reached Rossi’s door, he bent down and slipped the file under it.

Let Dave look her over with fresh eyes in the morning.

Aaron lingered a moment before turning to go, the echo of his footsteps quiet against the linoleum. He didn’t know if Wren Bennett was the right choice.

But something about her told him she might be.

⸻

Dave Rossi strode into the BAU earlier than usual, steam curling from the triple espresso in his hand. Unlocking his office, he paused at the sight of a manila folder on the floor. He picked it up, flipping it open once he was settled at his desk.

Wren Bennett.

The name was familiar. He remembered her from a few lectures he’d given—sharp, reserved, intense. Resilient. The FBI had been cautious about her, wary of the trauma in her past. But Wren had passed every test they threw her way. She could read an unsub like she was flipping through a paperback.

Rossi scanned her credentials, then leaned back slightly in his chair. This had Hotch written all over it. Aaron had left the file for him—his way of saying, Tell me what I’m missing. Hotch always led with the facts. Rossi? He read people.

And Wren Bennett… well, she wasn’t going to be easy to read.

He tapped his finger against the page, wondering not only how Wren might fit into the team—but how the team might bend to fit around her.

A knock pulled him from his thoughts.

Hotch stood in the doorway, eyes sharp. “What do you think?”

Dave shrugged, not unkindly, and gestured to the folder. “She’s brilliant. Knows how to see what others don’t. Cases with emotional resonance might get to her, but… that’s true for all of us.”

Hotch stepped into the office, nodding.

“I say bring her in,” Rossi added. “Let’s see how she holds up in the field.”

“Do you know what department she’s in now?” Hotch asked.

“White Collar Crime,” Rossi replied with a smirk. “Poor kid. Must be bored out of her damn mind.”

“I’ll talk to Erin. If she agrees, we’ll make the offer,” Hotch said.

With a short nod, he turned and walked out, leaving Dave alone again.

The folder sat open on the desk. Wren’s photo stared back at him—cool gray eyes, unreadable.

Rossi reached for his coffee, muttering to himself.

“Let’s see what you’ve really got, kid.”

⸻

The call came in late—just shy of eight. An unknown number with a Virginia area code.

Wren wiped her hands on the floral apron tied neatly around her waist and grabbed the buzzing phone off the kitchen counter. The scent of lemon zest and sugar still lingered in the air.

“This is Bennett,” she answered, bringing the phone to her ear.

“Hello, Agent Bennett. This is Erin Strauss, Section Chief of the BAU.”

Wren blinked, brows lifting in quiet surprise. “Hello, Chief Strauss. How can I help you?”

“We’ve reviewed your file as part of our internal selection for an additional agent within the Behavioral Analysis Unit. This is a specialized role on our lead investigative team. Are you available for an interview in the next few days?”

“I’m available anytime,” Wren replied coolly, though the coils in her stomach twisted tighter.

“How is nine o’clock tomorrow morning?”

“That works. Thank you, Chief Strauss.”

“Thank you, Agent Bennett. We’ll see you then.”

The line clicked.

Wren lowered the phone slowly, her gray eyes sweeping across her kitchen. The lemon loaf she’d been attempting sat abandoned in the mixing bowl. Specks of flour dusted the sage green cabinets, and two cracked eggs oozed across the countertop.

She glanced at her reflection in the stainless steel fridge—dark brown hair pulled back in a thick braid, flour smudged on her cheek, tension sitting just beneath the surface of her otherwise calm face.

She sighed. The apartment was warm and golden from the overhead lights, but suddenly it felt a little too quiet.

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Untitled Masterlist

Started: 05.28.2025

Last Updated: 06.22.2025

Total Works: 1

Criminal Minds

Aaron Hotchner

One Chicago

Matthew Casey

Some Author Notes!

06.01.2025

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Aaron Hotchner sighed, the sound barely audible over the soft hum of the desk lamp. The rest of the floor was quiet—everyone else had gone home hours ago. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing tired eyes that had gone watery from scanning file after file. Candidates for the BAU. Dozens of them. Veterans, rookies, specialists. All brilliant on paper. And yet none felt like the right fit.

The idea of bringing someone new onto the team felt heavy. It wasn’t just about skill sets or credentials. The BAU was a family—dysfunctional, wounded, resilient—and introducing the wrong person could shift everything off balance.

He exhaled slowly and reached for the stack of manila folders on his desk. Without much thought, he pulled one from the middle and opened it.

A young woman stared back at him from the ID photo clipped to the first page. Cool gray eyes. Dark hair past her shoulders. There was a quiet intelligence in her expression—measured, restrained. Wren Bennett, he read.

Graduated top of her class at Princeton with a double major in cognitive science and psychology. Perfect scores across the board—cognitive assessments, physical training, psych evals. Smart. Disciplined. Exceptional.

And then he reached the personal history section.

Her younger siblings—twins—listed as missing since she was sixteen. Her mother’s suicide a year later. A father with a record of domestic disturbances and documented alcohol abuse. Tragedy layered upon tragedy.

Aaron felt his throat tighten. He closed the file halfway, fingers resting on the edge. He’d seen it before—brilliant minds forged in pain. And he knew better than most that the past didn’t disqualify someone from this work. Sometimes, it was the very thing that made them capable of understanding the darkness they were up against.

He glanced at her photo again.

“She’ll either burn out or change everything,” he murmured to himself.

Hotch stood, sliding on his suit jacket with a practiced motion. He tucked the folder under his arm and stepped out of his office, the halls dim and still. When he reached Rossi’s door, he bent down and slipped the file under it.

Let Dave look her over with fresh eyes in the morning.

Aaron lingered a moment before turning to go, the echo of his footsteps quiet against the linoleum. He didn’t know if Wren Bennett was the right choice.

But something about her told him she might be.

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“Their eyes locked from across the room”

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I am stealing toilet paper, paper towels, plastic cutlery, disposable plates, various cleaning supplies and coffee creamer from work until further notice.

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My Roman Empire, Criminal Minds version.

I need an criminal minds episode with the 4 of them in it 😭