ABLOCATE ▇▇▇▇ VOLUME ONE
━━ ❛ 𝒔𝒉𝒆'𝒔 𝒌𝒆𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒆 ❜

chapter no. 022!

❪ 𝚃𝚆 : 𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽𝚂 𝙾𝙵 𝚂𝙴𝚇𝚄𝙰𝙻 𝙰𝚂𝚂𝙰𝚄𝙻𝚃. ❫

❝ IN DENIAL. ❞
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     THE CONCEPT OF HAVING A "NORMAL CHILDHOOD" IS ONE CARA VALENTINE NEVER UNDERSTOOD. Human life is sprinkled with conflict, worry, high peaks of happiness, rock-bottom lows, triumphs, disappointments, broken hearts, and unpredictability. So, how can one take the period of one's childhood and reduce it to a notion of normality? What exactly does invoking this concept conceal, and isn't the ideology behind having a normal childhood a wistful, childlike fantasy that we wish were true?

     Cara's version of a "normal childhood" was nowhere near the illusion that was painted as reality. Growing up, Ross Valentine kept her as sheltered and safe as he could. Much of her time was spent indoors and playing with their family cat, Blue, who she allegedly named after Ross brought her home and asked her to say the word "cat." However, instead of saying "cat," she responded with her favorite color.

     In her defense— she was two years old.

     Aside from time spent with Blue, Cara spent a chunk of her childhood watching Ross struggle with a cocaine addiction and attempt to hide the double life he had with the Red Scorpions. A process she tried her hardest to help him with.

     Despite he and Hennessy Lu being engaged, they never lived together and she rarely saw Hennessy or Kirk. Her interactions with anyone were limited to herself, Ross, and Michael Le.

     Cara never experienced her first birthday party or the first day of school. Her first kiss was forced, and her first two friends were shot in front of her.

     Cara never went to the movies or to the library to study. She never did anything and never went anywhere unless she was instructed or allowed to.

     Cara never lived a life of her own.

     For twenty-nine years, she was confined to a red-stained fallacy hand-crafted by the life Ross Valentine and Michael Le led. The fallacy that eventually became her reality.

     But finally, after all those years, Cara was living. She was being given a chance at normalcy— something she thought only applied to good people. Now, that notion was changing, and she wasn't quite sure what she believed anymore. All she knew was that she was slowly growing attached to those around her and reluctantly permitting herself to step out of her comfort zone and do things normal people did. This included attending Morgan and Savannah's Christmas Eve party with Spencer while wearing an outfit Penelope had picked.

     A choice Cara was regretting all too much already.

     Inhaling deeply, she applied one more coat of mascara before quickly twisting the cap back on. She threw it into her makeup bag and took a step back to stare at herself in the bathroom mirror.

     Not bad.

     Penelope had picked out a black dress that hugged her frame perfectly. The airy fabric around the sleeves and ends of the dress fell loosely off her in an almost elegant way. She liked it. It was much more conservative than the dresses she used to wear, which she didn't mind. However, the thought of wearing a revealing dress in front of any of the BAU team members made her cringe.

     Cara was becoming more comfortable with them, but not that comfortable.

     Once the lights were off, she exited the bathroom and her room and went to the living room. A part of her hoped tonight would go by quickly and she could return to the apartment and read. Another part was hoping the night wouldn't go by too fast and she could appreciate the sensation of normality— a feeling she hadn't experienced much.

     Part of her desperately wanted to lower her guard and create real connections with the people responsible for getting her away from the Red Scorpions. Meanwhile, another part was terrified that if she allowed herself to develop attachments, they would be used against her in ways she couldn't fathom.

     In a way, Cara was stuck.

     She was stuck in a position where the choice of where her life went was solely up to her, and she couldn't decide.

     Heart or head?

     Connection or isolation?

     Suddenly, there was a knock, and she blinked. "Thank God," she muttered, relieved that her flow of thoughts was interrupted.

     Cara grabbed her trench coat and keys and began opening the door.

     "Wait!" Morgan called from outside. "Don't open the door!"

     Rolling her eyes, she closed it shut. "Why? What the hell is this?" she groaned, leaning her forehead against the door. She glowered down at the ill-fitting high heels Penelope insisted upon ordering.

     "Are you wearing the outfit? Penelope wanted me to make sure you were before you left your apartment."

     "Fucking hell," she grumbled. "Yes, I'm wearing the outfit with the stupid shoes she forced me to buy."

     From the other side, Cara heard Morgan chuckle. "All right, all right. Then, you're good." Sighing dramatically, she yanked the apartment door open with her coat and keys in hand. She merely glanced up when she stepped out and locked the door. "Well damn, Valentine."

     As she turned around, Cara looked up. "Don't think Savannah would appreciate you checking me out like that, D," she snorted, shrugging on the trench coat.

     Morgan snapped his gaze upward, a smirk on his lips. "You look great. Wouldn't you agree, Reid?" he asked, turning his head, and Cara followed his stare.

     Spencer Reid stood there in a suit similar to the ones he wore every day to work, except his tie had snowflakes sewn into it. He was visibly biting the inside of his cheek, and Cara could make out the unconscious tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyebrows were relaxed, and his eyes were a soft caramel brown— a shade she had yet to see them in. All in all, he looked good.

     It took only two seconds before Spencer blinked, snapping out of the trance he was apparently in as his eyes met hers. He nodded and cleared his throat. "Uh yeah, yeah, you look really nice," he stammered, reaching up to flick his hair away from his face.

     "Thank you." There was a slight smile on Cara's face, and her focus drifted to Morgan, whose eyes were continuously bouncing between the pair. "The longer you stand there staring, the more likely Savannah's going to kill you if we show up late," she quipped, patting Morgan on the shoulder and making her way around the men.

────

     "YOU MUST BE CARA VALENTINE." Savannah Hayes smiled the instant Cara walked through the front door. Cara nodded, but she had a chance to open her mouth, a set of arms were thrown around her. "Derek told me you're not a hugger like Spencer, but I'm still going to. It's so nice to finally meet you! I've heard so much about you!"

     Right away, Cara tensed and pressed her lips together. No matter how many times a day Penelope hugged her, she still wasn't the biggest fan of physical touch and had yet to grow accustomed to it.

     "It's uh, it's nice to meet you as well," she choked out, staring at Morgan helplessly. He just smirked.

     Savannah pulled away, a bright smile still glued to her face. "Derek, you didn't mention how pretty she is," she hissed, and Cara could feel her cheeks beginning to burn.

     "Well, why do you think I call her Pretty Girl, babe?" Morgan asked, gesturing to her awkwardly frozen figure.

     Behind Cara, someone gasped.

     "Oh, my God, you did wear it!" Penelope squealed, and Cara turned to see the analyst dressed in a Christmas-themed dress.

     Narrowing her stare, she stated, "I hate you."

     Penelope smirked. "Now, we both know that's not true," she argued, patting her cheek adoringly.

     "You're responsible for this cute outfit?" Savannah gasped, and Penelope nodded happily.

     Turning around, Cara met Spencer and Morgan's stares, shooting them a nonverbal cry for help. Spencer shrugged cluelessly while Morgan laughed, shaking his head.

     This was going to be a long night.

────

     "DON'T BE OBVIOUS, KID..." Morgan joked, coming up from behind Spencer and clapping him on the shoulder.

     Spencer jumped slightly, turning his head as his brows furrowed. "Huh?" he questioned, confused.

     Three hours had passed since the party commenced, and Spencer Reid found himself separated from the crowd and leaning against the dining room doorframe. His focus was settled on Cara, who was currently engaged in conversation with Penelope and Justice, one of Savannah's co-workers. The trio stood on the opposite end of the living room, near the front door.

     "You haven't taken your eyes off Valentine since the moment she walked out of her apartment," Morgan pointed out, nodding in Cara's direction.

     Spencer's cheeks burned, and he looked away. "I'm just making sure she's okay. Being around a lot of faces she doesn't know can make her on edge," he murmured, ignoring the smirk on his friend's face.

     "Uh-huh," Morgan hummed, his gaze flickering between the two. "So, you're telling me seeing her in that dress doesn't make you feel anything?"

     "I don't know what you mean," Spencer said quietly.

     A chuckle left Morgan's lips. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say someone is in denial of their feelings."

     "What're you talking about?" Spencer retorted, crossing his arms.

     "All right, let me spell it out for you, Dr. Reid." Morgan paused, moving so he was standing in front of the man. "You're constantly keeping an eye on her no matter where we are, you introduced her to your favorite coffee shop, you both share a love for old British literature, you've given her personalized tours of the city and shown her your favorite places to go, you're always making sure she's okay, and the two of you are always together. I could go on, but you get my point."

     Spencer narrowed his eyes. "Don't," he said simply.

     "Reid, come on," Morgan exclaimed exasperatedly.

     "I know where you're going with this, and you're wrong."

     Blinking, Morgan sighed. "Am I?" he questioned, raising a challenging brow.

     "Look, Cara is not the kind of girl that's interested in me," he mumbled, staring down at the ground.

     "Did you really just say that?" Morgan deadpanned, lowering his glass of beer.

     Spencer's brows drew into a straight line. "What? You said the same thing about Emily, and it's true. Now, it's true for me with her."

     Morgan rolled his eyes. "No, it's not," he argued. "You're only saying that because you think if you allow yourself to fully care for her, you'll disrespect the memory of Maeve." Once the words left his mouth, he couldn't help but feel a small weight lift off his shoulders.

     Ever since Spencer initially asked to have a go at interrogating Cara two months ago, Morgan noticed that there had been a slight glow in his eyes that he had only ever seen once before. Much over a year ago, on the jet, he confronted Spencer about his secret girlfriend. When teasing him, Morgan couldn't help but notice a soft glow reflecting in Spencer's eyes at the thought of Maeve.

     Following her murder, however, that light had vanished, and he hadn't seen it return once. At least not until Cara Valentine entered the team's lives.

     Although the two women were vastly different from the other, they both had equally ensured Spencer Reid's undivided attention.

     Maeve Donovan was Spencer Reid's intellectual equal, his person. They understood one another, shared similar interests, laughed at mathematical puns, and had a similar sense of humor. Maeve Donovan was Spencer Reid's first love.

     And then there was Cara Valentine— the daughter of Ross Valentine, a founder of one of British Columbia's most infamous gangs. On the surface and at first glance, Cara Valentine wasn't the type of woman the team would ever picture Spencer with.

     She was cold, reserved, unreadable, impassive, tense, manipulative, and resilient. She was calm and calculated, never once allowing herself to let down her guard completely. She made it nearly impossible for anyone to get close to her. Yet, despite all of that, Cara was a suitable match for Spencer.

     Somehow, someway, he'd gotten under her skin to a certain extent, and vice versa.

     In the beginning, it was undeniable that Spencer only showed an increased intrigue in the woman because she'd proven every profile, theory, and assumption they'd made about her wrong. Cara Valentine wasn't who Spencer Reid thought she was. Instead, she was the complete opposite of everything he assumed. And that caught his attention.

     However, as the time spent with her increased, the desire to figure her out turned into one of getting to know her.

     She became someone Spencer had unknowingly latched onto. Whether it was because she was an enigma or because he genuinely cared about her, it didn't matter. Cara Valentine had, undeniably, become someone Spencer Reid valued greatly. The reasons for why and how didn't mean a thing. At least not anymore.

     "I uh, I don't know what you mean," Spencer coughed, straightening his posture.

     "Kid, the light you had in your eyes when it came to Maeve comes to your eyes when you're with Valentine," Morgan stressed. "Even when you were only interested in saving her because you had failed to save Maeve."

     Spencer shook his head. "Saving? That's not true."

     "Ask yourself this: Do you view her as a surrogate for Maeve, or is she different? Does your two's dynamic make you feel something you haven't felt before? Or, if she is a surrogate, did you only dedicate yourself to helping her because this was your chance at redemption?"

     Glancing away from Morgan, he was startled to see that the woman in question had her eyes locked on him. Did he view her as a surrogate for Maeve? Furrowing his brows, he sighed. Perhaps at first, but now?

     "I uh," he mumbled, feeling a loss for words as his stomach twisted. "I don't think I'm ready yet."

     Following his line of sight, Morgan's lips tugged upward. "Maybe you're a lot more ready than you realize," he observed, repeating the words once told to him.

     Turning his attention back to Morgan, Spencer narrowed his eyes. "Is this what it's like every time I correct you?" he asked.

     Morgan snorted. "Yup. Welcome to the club, Pretty Boy."

     Across the room, Cara exited the conversation she'd found herself listening in to between Penelope and one of Savannah's co-workers. Only three hours had passed since she'd arrived, but she'd reached her peak of social interaction for the night. That, and she felt extremely out of her element. Despite Savannah and Penelope's attempts to include her in the conversations, she had nothing in common with anybody there and felt like an outsider.

     Instead of tuning into anything happening around her, she had her focus on Spencer Reid, who looked equally as awkward and out of place as she felt. He'd been talking to multiple people throughout the night, as had she, but their eyes constantly found their way back to the other.

     Making her way to the dining room, Cara finally reached Morgan and Spencer, who were talking.

     Noticing her presence, Morgan paused mid-sentence. "Pretty Girl, how's it going?" he asked, nudging her with his arm.

     "Well, I just listened to Penelope exchange knitting tips with Justice, so it's going pretty monotonous," she remarked.

     He snorted. "That sounds like Penelope, all right. Well, I'm going to go find Savannah. I'll see you crazy kids later," he said, winking at the pair before walking away.

     Spencer cleared his throat. "You want to leave, don't you?" he asked, suppressing the smile that was threatening to show.

     Cara's eyes snapped to his. "Is it that obvious?" she asked, raising a brow.

     "Not really. I can only tell because I know you," he shrugged, and his words brought a small smirk to her lips.

     "Fair enough."

────

     THE MOMENT CARA VALENTINE STEPPED FOOT INSIDE THE APARTMENT COMPLEX, SHE LET OUT AN INAUDIBLE SIGH OF RELIEF. She was finally back in the place she was close to calling home.

     It had only taken precisely thirty minutes for her and Spencer to arrive back at the apartment building. They'd called a taxi to come and pick them up at Savannah's and spent the ride back talking about the Christmas party and Cara's heels, which were slowly killing her feet.

     "I thought shoes were something women couldn't get enough of," Spencer commented, furrowing his brows. He and Cara walked side-by-side up the stairs to the second floor.

     "Well, I certainly do. Do you have any idea how many pairs of black heels Penelope has that all look the exact same? It's astounding," Cara said, shaking her head.

     Spencer chuckled. "Given that it's Garcia, I would expect nothing less," he shrugged, the two stopping once they reached Cara's apartment door.

     "I asked her if I could clean out her shoe collection the other day, and I don't think I've ever offended anyone more in my life," Cara mentioned, pulling her keys out of her pocket. "Do you want to come in?" she asked, looking back at him as he was about to say something.

     Spencer's eyes widened slightly. "Uh, yeah, sure," he answered, thrown off-guard by the sudden invitation. The last time he'd been in her apartment was the night she arrived in Quantico with the team, and he refused to allow her to unpack by herself.

     "What were you about to say?" she asked, realizing that she'd previously cut him off.

     "Oh, I was going to say that it makes sense that she would be offended. From what I've gathered, women apparently need dozens of pairs of shoes," he said, reflecting on all the conversations he'd had with JJ, Garcia, and Emily.

     "Yeah, well, this woman only needs about seven pairs to survive," Cara retorted, flipping on the light switch as the two walked into her apartment. "Those do not include these. I'll be back. I need to get out of these shoes and this annoying dress."

     Spencer watched her go to her room and disappear. Letting out a soft breath, his eyes trailed around the adjoining living room and kitchen. In the short amount of time that she'd been there, the apartment had somewhat become a new home. She'd grown comfortable living there, and that thought brought a small smile to his lips.

     Unlike his apartment, hers had black-stained wood-trimmed doors and molding, and the doors themselves were matte white. It was more modern in design than his. The walls were, for the most part, bare, aside from the keyrings on the wall beside the front door and two framed pieces of art on the wall to the left of Spencer.

     There were two bookshelves in the living room, on either side of the TV mounted on the wall and the table that sat directly underneath it. The shelves were adorned with books, a record player, and a potted cactus that took up a fair amount of room on the right, middle shelf. There was a small photograph to the left of it, and Spencer tilted his head to the side. From where he stood, it looked like a baby photo, but he couldn't be certain.

     Moving his eyes, he trailed his gaze to the couch near him. A fuzzy light blue blanket was folded over the back of it, joined by white throw pillows. The coffee table in front was decorated with two wooden coasters and worn-out copies of Othello by Shakespeare and The Poems of John Keats by John Keats.

     A few more minutes passed before Cara walked out of her room, midway through pulling her hair into a loose bun. At the sight of Spencer awkwardly standing by the door, she felt a smirk tug at her lips.

     "You know..." she started, making her way into the kitchen, "you can make yourself comfortable, right?"

     At the sound of her voice, Spencer looked over at her. She'd been so quiet on her arrival that he hadn't even realized she was there.

     Blinking, he quickly washed his eyes over her appearance. She wore baggy grey sweats and the Prince tour t-shirt the team had given her back in Vancouver. The makeup from that night was long gone, and she wore a pair of glasses that he'd never seen before.

     "Uh, yeah. I just didn't want to... you wear glasses?" he stammered, his brows scrunching together as he slipped off his shoes.

     Cara nodded, pulling out two mugs. "My friend Raine knew an eye doctor that would see me off the books. I've had them since I was twenty-one," she answered offhandedly. Once the words left her mouth, she bit back a frown. It'd been a long time since she'd said her best friend's name out loud. The last time she could remember saying it was the day of the Surrey Six. The day Raine was murdered.

     "Raine? That's an interesting name." Spencer commented, making his way over to the kitchen island.

     "It's a variant of Raina and Rani, which are of Sanskrit origin with Hebrew ties. As well as Regina, which is Latin and translates to—"

     "—Queen. The name Raine can also mean she is singing."

     Narrowing her eyes, she paused in her movement. "How much, exactly, do you know?" she questioned, leaning against the island.

     "The human brain's memory capacity in the average adult can store trillions of bytes of information. In a 2010 Stanford Study, it was reported that the cerebral cortex alone has one-hundred-and-twenty-five trillion synapses. In another study, it was reported that one synapse can store 4.7 bits of information. If you run the numbers, the storage capacity of the brain equals an amount over seventy-four Terabytes, and this is just in the cerebral cortex alone," he explained, using his hands avidly as he spoke.

     From across, Cara listened attentively, pushing her glasses up with her index finger. "However, the brain's exact storage capacity for memories and knowledge is difficult to calculate. Modern science has yet to figure out how to measure the size of a memory. Certain memories involve more details and thus take up more space; other memories are forgotten and thus free up space. Also, some information is just not worth remembering in the first place. But to answer your question— essentially, I know a lot."

     Once he'd finished talking, Spencer met the stare of the woman across from him. Her eyes were soft, and her focus was directly on him; she'd listened to every word without interrupting or telling him to stop— a reaction he was generally accustomed to.

     "Huh," Cara murmured, nodding to herself as she processed everything he'd just said. "So, how do our brains decide which memories to hold on to? That might be a dense question, but you've got me intrigued, Dr. Reid." A rare and small, crooked smile spread across her lips, and Spencer felt his cheeks burn.

     "Uh, well, the brain uses a number of automatic mechanisms to determine what information to retain, and everything else naturally fades away. The brain's overriding principle, given to it from millions of years of evolution, is to retain whatever is likely to be useful later for long-term survival. Since the future utility of information is impossible to predict, the brain uses a number of heuristics that have been honed over the millennia.

     "Overall, memory is a complicated subject, not the least of which is that all manner of creatures have memories, from very simple organisms like sea slugs and insects up through humans and other animals with complex brains. Differences in how memory works may sometimes go along with those different nervous system architectures. For humans, our brains are constantly flooded with sensory input and have to decide what to keep and what to throw away.

     "Researchers call this process "meaningful encoding." Think of it as the bouncer at an exclusive club. It decides whether the information is important enough to get past the velvet rope, metaphorically speaking. But sometimes it makes mistakes—deciding something is "meaningful" for purposes of encoding when it really isn't. Sometimes bouncers turn away information that should have gotten through. But when the brain is processing this information at the moment, it may not consider it meaningful enough to encode.

     "That's because the "meaningful encoding" process, like a bouncer, has to use shortcuts and rules of thumb to quickly decide who or what makes the cut. A bouncer might consider what people wear or who they're with. In a similar fashion, the brain looks for certain cues that tell it what's worth remembering and what isn't." Spencer concluded, noting the woman's tilt of the head indicated she was willingly engaged in their conversation.

     Placing her hands back on the mugs, Cara nodded. "Interesting. I really like that bouncer analogy. Do you like hot chocolate?" she asked offhandedly, peering up as she poured two cups of almond milk into a bowl.

     Spencer blinked. "Oh, uh yeah. Yeah, I do."

     "Good. 'Cause I was going to make you a cup either way," she commented, stirring in two tablespoons of unsweetened cocoa powder. Her comment caused the corners of his lips to curl.

     A comfortable silence settled between the two of them. The ex-convict hummed 'Carol of the Bells' under her breath as she continued to make the hot chocolate.

     "Can I ask you something?" Spencer suddenly spoke up, watching Cara pour the drink into both mugs. She nodded, her mind not entirely there for she was still humming to herself. "Have you ever taken drugs?"

     The second the question reached her ears, Cara looked up as she was about to hand over his cup. Her brows drew in, and she momentarily froze.

     "Y-You don't have to answer that if you don't want to. It's none of my business. I was just—"

     "Addiction runs in my family." Cara cut him off. Spencer closed his mouth. "I had to take care of my father for most of my childhood while he was battling a cocaine addiction. So, no. I've never taken or done drugs despite working in a drug trafficking gang."

     Spencer frowned, gratefully taking the drink from her as she handed it over. "I'm sorry," he murmured. This was the first time the woman was bringing her father up on her own accord and openly sharing her past with him.

     She shrugged. "Don't be. Why do you ask?" she raised a brow, taking a gulp of hot chocolate.

     "Seven years ago, a man named Tobias Hankel kidnapped and drugged me during a case. I was addicted for a bit before I got clean." Spencer admitted, clearing his throat. "I was simply asking to start a dialogue."

     This time, it was Cara who frowned. "What drug did he use?"

     "Dilaudid."

     "Hydromorphone," she murmured, familiar with the opioid.

     Spencer nodded. "I saw hallucinations of my past."

     "I knew someone who took Dilaudid. He solely took it so he could relive the memories he had of his brother. He was addicted for years," Cara mentioned, taking a deep breath as she could still vividly picture Michael Le shooting up.

     Noticing her involuntarily shiver, he furrowed his brows. "Who?"

     "Michael Le," she replied, allowing a hint of bitterness to roll off her tongue as she took her hot chocolate and walked to the living room.

     Grabbing his mug, Spencer followed and sat across from her on the couch. "The primary Founding Father," he noted. Cara nodded, downing more of the drink so she wouldn't have to talk. "What was your relationship like with him? We never really asked you about your history with them."

     Cara slowly lowered her cup as an image of Le's greedy eyes flashed through her mind. The man responsible for her becoming a Scorpion and destroying her innocence. The number one person she feared more than anyone else in the world, aside from Joseph Arthur, who had spent just as much time with Le as she had.

     People had a habit of saying there was nothing to fear but fear itself, yet in her world, that wasn't true. There are many things worse than fear.

     There were people who were much worse than fear.

     Micheal Le was that person.

     Of course, she feared the other Founding Fathers and leaders, but not in the way she feared Micheal Le. No one had taken her apart and built her back together, piece by piece, in the style that Le had. Nobody else had put her through the same psychological, physical, and emotional abuse that he had.

     Owen was the only person who knew about her and Michael's complicated relationship. He was the only person she ever confided in about the reigning leader. But maybe it was time to change that.

     Maybe this was it— her moment and opportunity to choose heart over head, to choose connection over isolation. Out of everyone on the team, the only person she could trust enough to talk to them about anything Red Scorpion-related was Spencer Reid. He'd proven during her arrest that he was to be trusted and he wouldn't break his promises to her. He still proved that point every day.

     Cara knew that telling Spencer about Le would put him at a greater risk than he and the team already were. However, as she sat there, her mind kept flashing back to the memories she'd accumulated over the short amount of time she'd been with everyone. Since she had Spencer in her life.

     He'd earned her trust. Now, it was a matter of confidence. Assurance that whatever she told him would not be repeated. At least until the Red Scorpions were no longer a threat.

     "Cara?" Spencer questioned, his brows furrowing in concern. The woman had been quiet for far too long, causing him to grow uneasy. She hadn't been this silent after being asked a question in a while. Moving his head down so she could see him, he frowned. "You don't have to answer any of my questions, all right? You don't owe me answers."

     It was then that she looked up.

     "Can I trust you?" Cara whispered, darting her eyes in between Spencer's. "Can I trust that anything I tell you, you won't repeat?"

     Spencer nodded. "Always," he stated firmly, not once breaking eye contact.

     He wasn't lying.

     Her shoulders dropped an inch, and she placed her mug on the coffee table. "The history between Le and I is ugly," Cara admitted, leaning back on the couch. "Do you remember when I told everyone that I was used for my physical appearance, skills, and sex to get what was needed from others?"

     As Spencer nodded in response to her question, it was then that it dawned on him.

     It seemed that Cara could see the puzzle piecing itself together in his mind as she grimaced. "That started when I was eleven, a year before I was initiated into the Red Scorpions. My father brought Le over to our house one night; it was the first time I met him. I didn't know who he was; I was told to call him 'Uncle Michael,' and that was it. I was extremely isolated as a child and didn't interact with anyone other than my father and cat. So, when I met Le, I got excited because I was making a new friend.

     "Then, my father started bringing him over more. At first, our interactions were harmless. He would play with me and listen to me ramble about whatever book I was reading at the time. Then, he would start coming over with presents for me. They ranged from stuffed animals to a new book to clothes. After a while, my father trusted Le enough to leave him at the house with me. That was when he started singing the song Oh, My Darling Clementine and told me that I reminded him of it. Every time we were alone, he would either sing it to me or hum it under his breath.

     "I didn't think anything of it at the time; it was a catchy song. It wasn't until he started reciting Tim Burton's poems to me and heavily investing in the story of Paradise Lost that I began to feel uncomfortable. The one poem I remember him reciting the most was Roy, the Toxic Boy. A part of me still believes that he found it comical in a twisted yet incomprehensible way. But then, everything sort of reached a tipping point. Both my father and Le were hooked on cocaine and would get high at our house. They began only doing it whenever I was asleep at night, so I didn't try and stop my father. Eventually, the two of them started getting high at any time during the day, despite my insistent attempts to throw away the drugs or stop them. More than half the time, my father would be as high as a kite, and never noticed that this was when Le began starting to make advances toward me. I didn't understand what was going on.

     "It wasn't until one night, when my father wasn't home, that Le snuck into our house and raped me. After that night, his fixation on me grew. He wanted me involved and a part of every aspect of his life. So, he went over my father's head and had me initiated. I never had any say in what happened and was forced into silence if I tried to tell anyone what Le was doing to me. I may not have grown up in a world where right and wrong were overtly clear, but I knew what was happening to me wasn't okay or normal.

     "The sexual abuse continued until I was sixteen. By this time, my father was on and off the wagon of sobriety. The way I like to put it is that he was sober enough to notice that his best friend was taking advantage of his daughter but not sober enough to realize that I needed him to be there for me. He caught Le at our house and that was the end of my relationship and in-person interactions with Le. I never directly heard from him again until he was put in prison. He would try to call me numerous times and send letters I never read. He would call every two weeks, like clockwork, on Fridays at exactly two in the afternoon. I never answered or talked to him. I haven't talked to him since that day at my house." Cara concluded, leaning her head against her hand as she kept her gaze fixated on the loose thread on her sweatpants.

     It was silent as Spencer sat there, processing everything she had just said.

     Eleven to sixteen?

     He felt sick at the very thought of what Cara had gone through and outraged at the fact that her father didn't notice or do anything until it'd been going on for years.

     "You're uh, you're the only person besides Owen that really knows about everything. At least knows my side," she muttered, picking at the loose thread. Suddenly a hand was placed on top of hers and she jumped, looking up to be met with the somber gaze of Spencer Reid.

     "Thank you," he whispered, and her stomach twisted as she felt him squeeze her hand. "You didn't have to tell me any of that, but you did. That takes real strength." A weak smile tugged at her lips, and she nodded. "When we find him and the other Founding Fathers, he's going to pay for everything he's done to you. I promise."

     A spark ignited in her chest, and Cara felt her breath hitch in her throat. His words meant more to her than he would ever know, and it took everything in her not to hug him. For once, she willingly wanted to hold someone.

     Rather than hugging him, she stuck with a response that would be perceived as typical of her. "Thank you, Spen," she murmured, squeezing his hand back.

     It'd been a while since she'd called him Spen, so the moment the nickname left her lips, he broke into a smile. Shaking his head, he chuckled. "Onto a lighter subject, that hot chocolate was probably the best hot chocolate I've ever had. Aside from Marcello's, obviously," Spencer complimented, mentioning the owner of Petit Café that they were both familiar with.

     Snorting, Cara shook her head. "Nothing will ever beat Marcello's hot chocolate, but I'm glad you liked it. It's a recipe I learned from my friend Ace."

     "Raine and Ace? Your friends have some interesting names," he noted, tilting his head to the left.

     "Yeah, they did," she murmured, smiling lightly at the memory of her two best friends. Spencer noticed her usage of the word did and furrowed his brows. However, before he could ask what she meant, Cara gasped.

     "Oh! I just remembered that I have something for you," she said, letting go of his hand. Spencer watched with curious eyes as she got up from the couch and dashed to her room, quickly reappearing with a wrapped present in her hands. "Merry Christmas," she breathed, plopping back down and holding the gift out towards him.

     Spencer sat up and darted his stare from the wrapping to Cara and back. "Y-You didn't have to get me anything," he cleared his throat, reluctantly taking the present from her hands.

     Cara tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear and shrugged. "I know. I just, uh, wanted to give you something as a token of my thanks," she said gently, and her tone of voice caught his attention.

     Darting his gaze to her, Spencer bit the inside of his cheek as the corner of his lips twitched upward. It was rare to hear the woman so soft-spoken and see her show any emotion aside from curiosity, frustration, or amusement. The last time he'd witnessed her behave this vulnerably and comfortably was during the week of her arrest, whenever the two were alone. Ever since then, she'd been quiet, stoic, nearly impossible to read. So, seeing her in this way was refreshing. Her walls were slowly lowering with him, especially tonight, and that thought was a gift in itself.

     Unwrapping the present, he placed the discarded wrapping paper on the table, and a small smile appeared on his lips. "Persuasion by Jane Austen?" Spencer questioned, raising a brow.

     "Yeah. It was Austen's last completed novel before she died. Aside from a few British lit classics, this story continues to be a favorite of mine. I don't know if you've read it, but it's a mature love story filled with humourous and somewhat charming observations of human behavior. It also offers readers a glimpse of redemption by giving the message that we change as we grow, and the mistakes made in our youth can be overcome." Cara explained, gesturing to the book as she spoke.

     "I wouldn't have pegged you as someone who reads romance novels," he mused, running his hand over the cover.

     She rolled her eyes. "I wanted you to have my copy as somewhat of a personal letter of gratitude. You gave me a second chance at life and the opportunity to redeem myself. My life has been... abnormal, to say the least, but now, because of you, I finally have real room to grow and change. I don't have to remain defined by my past and the mistakes I've made."

     His gaze softened at her confession. "Thank you. This is incredibly thoughtful, and I will be reading it tomorrow morning."

     Cara nodded, biting down on her lip. "Let me know what you think," she replied gently, tempted to break into a small smile at the sight of his widening.