CHAPTER 6:
WHITE MOOSE MYSTERY
(original)

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

        THE CAFE HUMMED WITH ACTIVITY; waiters ran back and forth between the round tables and the counter to serve the customers their orders, the coffee machines whirred, ground, and hissed as the baristas tried to keep up with the endless list of requests, all while the people small-talked with their companions at their tables. There were all kinds of; blue and white-collar workers, students, and travelers, of all different ages.

        Bess kept listening to their chatter as she unconsciously stirred her large glass of flat white coffee, her booted foot repeatedly brushing against Rossi's calf under the table. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she must have been aware of this, but as long as he didn't mention it, she would not notice it. Not really. Just like she wasn't aware that it must have been the eighth time they had gone out for breakfast together in the past two weeks since the case following Haley's funeral, though there was nothing romantic about it. They were just two rich people eager to spend their money on overpriced coffee and croissants.

        Anyhow, the date in the calendar had now read December 12, which meant that in twelve more days, it would be Christmas Eve. Not that it meant anything to Bess, aside from another strict family dinner with her father, in keeping with their tradition from previous years. He would ask her about her recent job, and she would listen to his endless rambling about the bank sector, the ups and downs in the business, and money, money, and a bit more about money...

        "What's on your mind?" Rossi's voice broke her string of thoughts.

        Bess squirmed in her seat with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders. "I just remembered that in twelve days, I could spend some quality time with my dear old dad," she scoffed with a grimace. "It'd be interesting if I were a broker really, or someone actually interested in stocks and derivatives."

        The senior agent snorted at her mocking answer. "Cheer up, Sinclair. At least, you have someone coming over."

        "Ugh, careful now, Rossi. I might invite you over for Christmas Eve. If nothing else, I would be able to sell my dad that I want to fuck you in the back room, so that he would leave sooner." She grinned, lifting her coffee to her lips to take a sip. To tell the truth, her relationship with her father wasn't that bad; the man knew everything about his daughter's line of work and would do anything for her. He just found it a bit difficult to express his love, that's all.

        "Sure. And then your father would freeze all my bank accounts," Rossi scoffed, then drank up the rest of his coffee in one gulp. He felt her foot begin rubbing against his leg once again as she turned her attention back to her coffee. He checked the time. "We should go. It's almost 8 o'clock." He glanced up, catching her smile. "What?"

        "Nothing."

        Rossi narrowed his eyes, then turned to ask for the check while Bess finished her coffee. Leaving a tip large enough for the waitress to also treat herself to a coffee, he helped Bess into her coat and followed her through the maze of tables to the exit. He held the glass door open for her, then stepped out into the street himself.

        The frigid DC air immediately threatened to rob them of their warmth, they quickly pulled their long coats tighter as they headed for Bess' car parked down the street. "Wanna drive?" she proposed, holding up her hand with her Mustang's car keys hanging from the ring around her index finger.

        It made Rossi stop in his tracks. "You're kidding."

        "Fine. Then I'll drive." Bess shrugged, dropping the offer just as fast. Turning on her heels, she changed course to step up to the driver's door, but Rossi caught her hand before she could reach it.

        "Woah, not so fast, Sinclair." He shook his head, stealing the keys from her hand with a grin. "I'm driving this beauty." They got in, and he pushed the key into the ignition and then turned it, causing the engine to roar to life. "Aaa-haha, you heard that, Sinclair? I think she likes me." Rossi smirked, running his hands over the rim-blow steering wheel with the woodgrain finish. His gaze dropped to the round button of the mono AM radio, he delved into finding a channel according to his liking.

        Once some old-time country rock was playing from the speaker mounted in the center of the dashboard, Rossi stepped onto the gas pedal to draw another roar from the car. "I'm warning you, Rossi. Be gentle with her or I'll kick your ass. You have a royal woman beneath you, not some common village girl anyone can sink their teeth into." Bess clicked the lighter and brought the flame to the tip of the cigarette resting between her lips.

        "I hear you." The man nodded, then glanced into the side mirror for a second before pulling out onto the road and driving off.

        He took the longer route to the BAU, wanting to spend as much time as possible behind the steering wheel, and Bess, to her credit, didn't scold him for it. Parking down in the garage of their building about twenty minutes later, Rossi couldn't stop himself from burying the redhead under the thousand facts he had known about cars—hers included—as they rode the elevator up to the sixth floor.

        He was still talking about the different motor reviews when they stepped out of the steel doors, and most likely would have continued, if only Bess hadn't cut him off. "You must be kidding me," she groaned, noticing that there was one more person in the bullpen than usual. Derek Morgan seemed to find his way back into the building after his more than two-week-long hiatus. He either missed his job or Bess' knee pressed into his groin—she had a pretty good idea which one it was.

        Rossi followed her gaze staring into the bullpen through the glass walls, the only sound leaving his lips was a surprised, "Oh."

        "Oh? Really? I hope you're ready for a bit more than that, Rossi. We're gonna roleplay." She smirked, folding her arm into the senior agent's. "You ready, hon?"

        "I don't think that I—" Rossi began, but couldn't finish the sentence, because Bess set off confidently towards the bullpen, pulling him with herself.

        Garcia instantly stopped talking to Morgan when she noticed Bess and Rossi stroll through the cubicles, a worried swallow bobbed her throat. Bess didn't wait for Morgan to turn around, she spoke up loud enough for everyone to hear, "Derek Morgan! I thought I'd been crystal clear about not wanting to see your face in this bullpen ever again." She had stopped a foot in front of the man with Rossi—by then Morgan had turned around with Emily and Reid—the corner of her mouth curled into a mocking smile.

        Morgan's gaze flicked to Rossi for a brief moment before clearing his throat. "I know. And I'd fully understand if you sent me back home, but I'm asking you, just hear me out." A nervous swallow moved down his throat as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "I sincerely want to apologize for everything I said. To both of you. It's none of my business if you—" Realizing he was getting dangerously close to the beehive, he stopped himself. "I was upset and acted impulsively, but I know that doesn't excuse my behavior. I want you to know, Sinclair, that I'm fully on board with you as unit chief and I've learned from my mistakes. If you gave me a second chance, I'd like to show you that I can be an asset to this team, and you."

        The words rolled off his tongue with one breath, and he didn't dare to look away from her now. Bess turned to Rossi with an eyebrow raised, watching him shrug negligibly before reaching forward and holding out his hand for Morgan. He didn't hesitate to shake it, holding the senior agent's gaze for long before finally letting go of his hand and turning back to Bess.

        She freed her arm from Rossi's to extend her hand toward Morgan, but pulled it back just before he could take it. "I'm telling you, Morgan. You accept my hand, you promise that you will never speak ill of me or anyone else on this team. Because if I hear that you did, I'll make sure you can't come back here, not on your own two feet, at least. Are we clear?" she asked, her gaze boring into Morgan's soul.

        He didn't say anything but reached for her hand and shook it. "Thank you. You won't be disappointed," he added finally when they parted, and Bess nodded back at him.

        "Welcome back, Agent Morgan. Oh, and before I forget it, there's two weeks' worth of paperwork waiting for you in my office," she noted, watching his expression shift. A wide grin spread across her lips. "Just kidding."

        Before Bess or Rossi could head to their offices, JJ entered the bullpen and approached the team. "I just got a call from the Luce County Sheriff's Department in Michigan. There was a double homicide in a hotel room last night. The sheriff asked for our help," the communication liaison summarized, then her gaze fell onto Morgan. "Morgan! You're back?"

        "Hi, JJ." He moved forward to hug the woman, then stepped back beside Reid as they all turned to look at Bess.

        She looked them over. "Alright. Grab your bags, we'll debrief on the jet. Wheel's up in 20."

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

        "SO, THESE ARE HERE THOMAS Corbeck, 75, and his wife, Evelyn Corbeck, 74," JJ revealed the first crime scene photo from the light brown folder lying on her lap and handed it over to Bess. She eyed the old couple bathing in their own blood as they lay in a king-size bed, a single, deep cut slashed both of their throats. "The Corbecks were spending their vacation in the White Moose Hotel in Newberry, Michigan when they were murdered in their hotel room last night."

        "These cuts go pretty deep into their throats. No woman could strike with such force. I think we can agree this was the work of a man," Bess noted, passing the photo to Rossi as they shared one of the twin seats in the club suite.

        "Or men," Morgan chimed in, flipping through the other photos the forensic team had taken of the Corbecks before leaning forward and giving them to Emily. "There aren't any defensive wounds on the bodies, which means they didn't have time to fight back. With only one Unsub, at least one of them should have tried to." 

        "Not necessarily." Emily shook her head in disagreement. "They are relatively old. If they were fast asleep, he could have killed one of them, Mr Corbeck I assume, in his sleep. Mrs Corbeck might not have noticed any of it. Or, if she had woken up, he could have easily overpowered her before she had a chance to cry for help."

        "Okay, we can't rule out either theory for now. What else do we know, JJ?" Rossi wondered, raising an eyebrow at the communication liaison sitting on the couch with Morgan.

        "Uh, according to the receptionist, it was the Corbecks' third night at the hotel. After dining in the hotel's restaurant, they returned to their room around half past eight. The housekeeper found them this morning."

        Bess furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. "But why target an old couple?"

        "And why do it in a hotel full of witnesses?" Reid added, sharing a glance with her.

        "Um, there's more," JJ muttered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she cleared her throat. "According to the town sheriff, there's a folklore legend tied to the White Moose Hotel. It was built in 1923 by a woman named Eloise Mallory and quickly became a cherished landmark, drawing hundreds of travelers to the town. The business thrived until one January night in 1938 Eloise was found murdered in her room. The maid discovered her the next morning, lying in her bed with her throat slashed. Her killer was never caught."

        JJ glanced down at her notes. "Uh, the hotel changed hands three times over the next fifteen years, until a man named Clayton Reed purchased it in 1953. He's owned it ever since. The hotel continued to attract visitors until 1988, when a guest was murdered in the same room that had once belonged to Eloise. Once again, the killer was never caught. The hotel reopened, but since then, strange phenomena have been reported throughout the building. Guests have claimed to hear scratching in the walls at night, whispers when no one else was around, and even footsteps pacing the hallways when the floors were empty. These incidents have led the locals to believe Eloise's ghost has returned to haunt the hotel, seeking revenge on her killer," JJ finished the story, leaving the jet in silence.

        Bess even forgot to blink as she stared at the blonde woman, unable to express her thoughts. Honestly, what the hell? Morgan seemed to be just as struck. He shook his head. "So, what? They believe it was a ghost that killed the Corbecks?" He grimaced, stunned by even his own words.

        "1988, that would've been the 50th anniversary of Eloise's death," Reid calculated with a frown forming on his face. "But today is 2009. I don't see any mathematical significance here," he mumbled, shaking his head slightly.

        "What is this? Supernatural?" Bess let out an incredulous laugh as she slumped back in her seat. "But the sheriff doesn't believe in the story, I assume?" She raised an eyebrow at JJ.

        She shook her head. "He's in town for only a year. But all the other people, even the ones in the police department, believe it's true. So, they don't even want to investigate."

        "Fascinating," Rossi muttered under his breath, tossing the photos from his hands onto the tabletop. "So, we've got a hotel full of people, and any one of them could've done it."

        "Or someone else from the town," Reid chimed in, pursing his lips into his usual tight-lipped smile.

        Rossi merely blinked as he turned his attention back to JJ. It was best not to think about the sheer number of people they might have to investigate in case the boy was right. "What about the owner, Reed?"

        "The sheriff said he's not worried."

        "That's logical. He's already dealt with one murder at his hotel. Another one might not exactly keep him up at night, especially if he's convinced it's good for his business," Emily noted.

        Bess let out a sigh. "Alright. So, we don't have any help on this one. That's not a problem, right? Reid and Jareau, when we arrive, I want you to go to the station and collect as much information as possible. Ask Garcia to look into that murder back in '88 and the Corbecks. Prentiss, you go and talk to the coroner, see if there's anything more to the murders than what we've seen in the photos. Once you're done, help Reid and Jareau. Morgan, Rossi, and I will go to the hotel and talk to Reed, check out the crime scene, and get a list of every employee and guest."

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

        THE BLACK BUREAU SUV LURED the attention of the few pedestrians scattered along the streets as it rolled down the avenue cutting through the small town of Newberry. It wasn't a large town, barely more than a thousand residents called it their home. Situated near the Canadian border and Lake Superior, the area experienced harsh winters, marked by bitter cold and snowfall. The SUV's heating system struggled to keep pace with the biting cold outside, and all Bess could think about was how thin her coat was against the fierce weather.

        "I think we're here," Morgan noted, leaning forward between the two front seats of the SUV and pointing at the large Craftsman-style building ahead. The wooden moose sculpture standing by the entrance made it even more obvious.

        "I'm already feeling the supernatural presence, don't you?" Bess scoffed, which drew a smile on Rossi's lips as he shot her a side glance. He pulled up to the curb, and they quickly stepped out, hurrying into the building before the piercing cold could freeze them to the bone.

        Upon entering, the first thing that came to Bess' mind was that Eloise must have been into rustic design. The tall walls of the lobby were adorned with warm, honey-colored oak paneling. Rich wood grain was visible in every piece of furniture, from the sturdy, low-slung armchairs to the thick, mission-style tables. Opposite the entrance stood the reception area, on its right, a fire crackled in a grand fireplace made of stone. Above it, a large painting hung on the wall; it portrayed a blonde woman in a blue dress—Eloise Mallory, Bess figured.

        They moved forward, walking up to the reception desk where a man in his 30s stood in uniform behind the counter. "How can I help you?" he asked, then stared down at Bess' upheld credentials. "FBI?"

        "That's right, Andrew." Bess nodded, reading his name off the name tag attached to his suit jacket. "We're here because of the murder of Mr and Mrs Corbeck. We'd like to talk to—"

        She couldn't finish, as an old, grumpy-looking man stepped through the wooden door to the left of the reception desk. His cold gaze swept over the three BAU agents, the tap of his wooden walking stick echoed against the polished hardwood floor as he approached. "Mr Richards," he said in a sharp voice, "why don't you show these guests to their rooms?"

        "We're not guests," Rossi answered, showing the man his credentials. "Are you Clayton Reed?"

        "You're FBI." Reed's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "The police are not welcome here. Your presence makes the guests nervous," he declared, nodding toward the entrance.

        His message was clear. Leave, right now.

        Bess glanced around the empty lobby, raising an eyebrow. "I don't see who we could possibly scare, Mr Reed," she remarked mockingly, locking eyes with the man's steely gray gaze. "The sheriff invited us into the homicide case that occurred here overnight. We'd like to see the crime scene, speak with you and your employees, and get a list of every guest currently staying at the hotel," she listed, making the old man laugh.

        "Listen here, Red. There's no homicide here for you to look into. What happened to Mr and Mrs Corbeck was unfortunate, but neither my hotel nor I have anything to do with it. Do you want to look around? Get a warrant. Or, pay for a room," Reed stated, smirking at Bess.

        She held his gaze for a long moment before reaching into her coat and pulling out her credit card. She snapped it onto the countertop. "I want the room Mr and Mrs Corbeck stayed in." From the corner of her eyes, she saw Andrew quickly snatch up her card and begin typing her information into the hotel's reservation system, but her focus remained locked on the old man. "And I want everything else I mentioned too."

        Reed's eyes flashed wickedly. "Sure, honey. I can tell you over dinner."

        "We can take you in for that," Rossi said in a casual tone, but Bess noticed his jaw tighten threateningly. "She's a federal agent. I advise you to mind your tongue, Mr Reed."

        "Oh, look at that. Loverboy emerging. How much older are you, son? Fifteen years?" The old man smirked, bouncing his gaze between Bess and Rossi. "But I guess we all want what we can't have, right?"

        Morgan shifted uncomfortably from one leg onto the other as he chose to keep his mouth shut, and Bess had to grab the sleeve of Rossi's coat to prevent him from jumping over the counter and hitting Reed into a pulp. "Stand down, Rossi. He's not worth it." She turned back to the receptionist, noting his flushed cheeks upon his boss' rude behavior. "Where do I have to sign?"

        "Here and here." Andrew placed a two-sided contract in front of Bess, and she quickly signed it with the pen he had handed her. "You can use the elevator over there or the stairs right this way, " he pointed out after handing over the room key. "Uh, I hope you have a pleasant stay," he mumbled, his voice so faint by now that it was as though he hadn't spoken at all.

        Bess turned back toward Clayton Reed. "Don't go far, Mr Reed. One way or another, but you'll answer our questions. I hope I don't have to remind you that I can arrest you for obstruction of justice. I guess you don't want to spend your last days in a prison cell, do you?" She looked him in the eye, then turned on her heels and led the way to the old elevator on the other side of the lobby. "Oh, and Morgan. You can speak up, you know," she added, stepping between the iron doors.

        On the second floor, they stepped out of the elevator and proceeded down the long corridor, its floor covered with a crimson carpet that absorbed most of the sound of their footsteps. "I don't get it. How could the guests hear someone walking here with this carpet? We're barely making a sound," Rossi muttered, his eyes scanning the numbers above the wooden doors.

        "Probably because it's all just made up," Bess replied, stopping in front of the door whose number matched the one carved into her key. She unlocked it, then pushed it wide open. "Oh, come on," she groaned, facing the cruel reality. If she'd been expecting a room drenched in blood, she couldn't have been more mistaken.

        "They've already cleaned it up?!" Morgan asked in shock, carrying his gaze over the freshly changed sheets, the scrubbed headboard and nightstands, and the moped and vacuumed dark oak floorboards.

        "Well, either this is a coincidence, or dear old Clayton is hiding something, and desperate to sweep it under the rug as quickly and quietly as possible," Bess declared, walking up to the bed and pulling down the cover and sheets to check the mattress beneath. She looked up at Rossi and Morgan still standing by the door. "Come on, boys! Don't just stand there. Let's tear this place apart."

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

        CLAIMING THAT THEY FOUND ANYTHING useful in the room would have been a gross overstatement. There was nothing left—not a single drop of blood, not a stray hair, nothing they could extract DNA from. The murder weapon had vanished with the killer, and even if he had left a clue behind, the housekeeper had made sure they wouldn't find it.

        Since the room was on the second floor, they believed the Unsub could only have entered from the hallway, which meant he either had a key or managed to pick the lock. To do so, he would have needed to pass the reception area, likely opt for the stairs to avoid breaking the silence of the night, and then slip into the Corbecks' room without being detected. It was completely doable, especially after Andrew revealed that Clayton Reed hadn't employed a night guard. From the receptionist, they retrieved the Corbecks' bags, and with a bit of persuasion—it cost Bess another 50 dollars—even managed to get a list of current guests and employees. For now, they gave up on trying to talk to Reed, considering he had locked himself in his office and refused to show his face.

        By the time they joined the others at the police station, it was already late afternoon. They met Sheriff Miles Callahan personally, then set up base in one of the free offices to summarize what they all had gathered by then. The town's doctor—who also bore the title of the local coroner—told Emily that there was nothing unusual about Thomas and Evelyn Corbeck's deaths, aside from the deep cuts across their necks, which had even severed their vocal cords. It was obvious overkill, but they had no idea what the old couple could have done to be treated with this kind of brutality.

        Reid and JJ had also done their part of the job, they delved into the history of the hotel, Eloise Mallory, and the circumstances of her death, the other murder occurred in 1988, and Garcia had dug into Clayton Reed himself as well. But what had they found?

        According to Callahan, who had by now become as familiar with the White Moose Hotel's history as the locals, Eloise's killer was believed to be a spurned guest. If the tale was to be believed, on the evening of her murder, Eloise was seen engaged in a long conversation with a young man in the dining room. The staff later recalled hearing noises from Eloise's room and assumed they were from a passionate rendezvous, but they couldn't have been more wrong. No one knew why he killed her, but it was said that the man left Newberry that very night and never returned. After Eloise's death, most of the staff left as well, and by the time Reed took over the hotel's management, they had all been replaced.

        Garcia couldn't uncover much about the 1988 cold murder case, except that the victim was a 46-year-old newspaper reporter named Walter Hensley. He died under the same circumstances as Eloise, and as with her, no evidence was left behind for the police to solve the crime. Only in his case, there wasn't even a person to blame. Hensley was a stranger in town, which led the local authorities to halt their investigation. Clayton Reed insisted that no one at his establishment was involved, and with no evidence to prove otherwise, the sheriff ultimately closed the case.

        And last but not least, there was Clayton Reed himself. Garcia managed to dig up quite a bit about the old man, who was now in his 88th year. Born in South Bend, Indiana, in 1921, he was the third son of the Reed family. After attending business school in Detroit, Michigan, Reed dabbled in various ventures before settling in Newberry—a place many would consider the end of the world. Yet, despite her best efforts to uncover some dirt on him, she came up empty-handed. Reed had never been charged with any crime.

        "Quite a case you have here, Sheriff," Bess admitted with a tired sigh as she leaned back in her seat at the conference table, which was now cluttered with case files and reports. Her mind was spinning with too much information, yet all of it seemed useless to their case.

        "You don't have to tell me," Callahan groaned, resting his head in his hand as he sat in the chair next to hers. "At least, you guys believe me."

        Emily eyed him with a small smile. "I'm sure Doctor Rickman does too, he just stays quiet about it."

        "So, what do we do now? How do we find who killed the Corbecks?" The sheriff dropped his hand and looked around with an eyebrow raised.

        "We still have a lot of people to look into, Sheriff," Rossi declared, sitting down on the edge of the conference table beside Bess. "Garcia will need to clear every guest currently staying at the hotel, and there is the list of employees to go over too."

        Bess agreed with him. "I think we need to focus on the murders of Walter Hensley and the Corbecks. Eloise's death happened way too long ago, and there's a good chance her killer isn't even alive anymore. But Hensley's murder was just 21 years ago, which is much more recent, and they follow the same MO. We should look into who worked at the hotel around that time and is still employed there. They might have useful information, and who knows, maybe we could even find our killer among them."

        "I'll tell Garcia to start looking," Emily offered, pulling her phone from her pocket.

        "Maybe we should call it a day," Rossi suggested, glancing down at Bess to see her reaction.

        Looking over the rest of their team, she realized that he must be right. "Do you know where we could stay for the night, Sheriff?" Bess questioned the man.

        "The White Moose Hotel is kinda the only place in town, so—" Callahan pursed his lips into a grimace as he shrugged, and Bess exchanged an annoyed look with Rossi. It seemed they were about to give Clayton Reed another lovely visit.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

        "YOU'RE BACK," REED MUTTERED, HIS tone laced with annoyance as his cold gaze swept over the other five agents before settling on Bess again. "What do you want now, Red?"

        She flashed him a mocking smile. "You know, you should be a little more welcoming to your guests, Reed. It might actually make people reconsider to come back to your hotel. We need five more rooms," she said, already slipping her credit card to Andrew, who stood behind the desk, fingers poised over the computer.

        The old man's mouth curled into a tight smirk. "We don't have any more rooms available."

        Bess could have laughed as she turned to the receptionist. "Is that true?" She raised an eyebrow, her eyes daring him to disagree as he glanced nervously at his boss.

        "We don't," Reed insisted, snatching Bess's card from the counter and handing it back to her with a dismissive gesture. "You'll have to find another place to stay overnight."

        He hadn't known her long enough to realize she wasn't the type to back down. "Make it two rooms, and I'll pay you double. No, actually, I'll pay three times your price if I can talk to you about your employees in the morning. And I'd take this offer, Reed, because the next one might land you in handcuffs," she said coolly, sliding her card back toward him on the countertop.

        As much as he wanted to refuse, the old man eventually accepted Bess' offer, handing the credit card to the receptionist. "Be careful in Eloise's room, Red. You want to make it to the morning, don't you?" Clayton Reed grinned, then turned on his heels and retreated to his office, the sharp tap of his wooden walking stick echoing through the lobby.

        "What a lovely man," Emily scoffed quietly, earning a hum from JJ and Morgan.

        By the time Bess turned away from the counter with the room keys in her hands, the alliances had already been made. Emily and JJ got one room, Reid and Morgan another, leaving Rossi with Bess. "Looks like we're sharing the double bed, Rossi," she noted with a playful smirk, that sent a hard swallow down the senior agent's throat. Suddenly, he wasn't as eager to follow her to the elevator, at all.

        The route to Eloise's room felt like the longest walk Rossi had ever taken in his life. He didn't know why, but every step just felt heavier than the last one. His heart seemed to have lost its usual rhythm, it pounded completely erratically against his chest. But the most terrifying of all was what was going on somewhere below his stomach. The tingling sensation in his pants, which he just couldn't get out of his mind.

        Bess unlocked the door and stepped inside, met by the chaos they had left behind earlier in the afternoon. She hadn't expected to spend the night in this very same room—had she known, she would have packed everything back in its place. With a deep sigh, she approached the nightstand on the left side of the bed, setting her phone, silver cigarette case, and lighter down, and dropped her go bag from her shoulder before turning to face Rossi.

        "Are you just going to stand there all night, or are you going to help me make the bed sleepable?" she asked, but he didn't seem to hear her. It made her walk up to him. "Rossi? Did you hear what I said?"

        Suddenly, he got tongue-tied. "What?"

        "You seem nervous," Bess noted, lifting his go bag from his shoulder. Rossi didn't respond, which drew the redhead ever closer, the lapels of his tweed coat slipped between her fingers. He felt her sweet scent sneak up in his nose. "I want you to cash out," she told him in a quiet yet demanding voice, continuing to watch his face.

        He felt his mind turn into mush. "What?" Rossi muttered again before another thick swallow bobbed his throat.

        "You know what I'm talking about." Bess smiled, leaning as close as possible without their noses touching. "I want you to play that card tonight. Because that look in your eyes? It's so obvious that even that jackass Reed noticed it. And I want it gone, Rossi." She pulled away from his mouth, which gave the man a breather for a second before he felt her hot breath fan his jaw. "I want to be friends with you, but I can't. Not as long as you have that burning lust in your eyes. So, stop resisting."

        "I'm not resisting," he mumbled, but even he knew how that sounded. He couldn't see his own face, but he was certain it was as red as the crimson carpet covering the hotel corridors.

        Bess let out a chuckle upon hearing his lie. "That's not exactly what your body is telling me, Rossi. You're as worked up as a teenager at his first sleepover. I'm telling you, it will only get worse and worse. I don't know what you're waiting for, but no night will be good enough. So, let's just get it over with, and fuck me good." She grabbed his coat and pushed it over his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

        He reached for hers and helped her out of it before pulling her closer with a tight grip on her waist. "You really want this," Rossi whispered, yet his voice was more questioning than certain.

        "I don't remember ever telling you otherwise," Bess scoffed, then a satisfied smile appeared on her lips as she stepped back, retreating until her legs hit the end of the bed. Her hands never let go of his arms as he traced her steps, but they slipped onto his waist when he cupped her cheeks and leaned over her lips.

        This kiss was different from their first two. It was much deeper, both physically and emotionally. His hands got tangled up in her vivid red hair while she freed his shirt from his pants. He immediately let go, tracing her slender form with his palms stroking down her back, and then over her ass. He lifted her off her feet. Her legs wrapped around his waist and he knelt down, dropping her onto her back before lowering himself between her legs.

        They kissed again. Tongue brushed against tongue as Rossi's fingers worked their way down the buttons of Bess's shirt. He pulled back to look her over. "You're wearing this to work?" he asked in a rapturous voice, surveying the design of her black bra. "You're so fucking gorgeous in lace, Sinclair."

        "Make it Bess tonight, Dave," she asked, reaching up to hook her fingers between his buttons. She tore his shirt open.

        Rossi let out an angry groan before leaning over her lips again. "I liked this shirt."

        "I'll buy you five more." Bess smirked, then moaned against his mouth when his hips bucked forward. "Go and get a condom from my bag. You don't want me getting pregnant with your child."

        He couldn't prevent a chuckle from escaping his mouth. He kissed her again, then again, finally straightening up after a third one. He rummaged through her stuff until he found what he was looking for, he tossed the small pack to her before getting rid of his dark blue shirt. Bess sat up in the bed and slipped out of her own shirt, then crawled to the end of the mattress and reached for Rossi's belt. She kissed his stomach, moving lower with each peck as she dragged his pants down from his hips. He groaned in pure delight.

        Rossi bent over and took Bess' cheeks between his hands, kissing her again. "Lie down," he whispered, and she obeyed him. First, she held up her right leg for him to remove her long leather boot, then her left. He lowered himself between her legs again, presenting her with a bruising kiss before moving to trace the curve of her jaw.

        "Dave," Bess sighed loudly. She turned her head to give him more room. His goatee scratched her skin red as he traveled down the side of her neck, goosebumps awakening in his wake. He lingered over her collarbone, enjoying her erotic moans before eventually moving on.

        She curled her arms around his neck while he kissed between her breasts, his fingers struggled to undo the hook and eye of her bra. Once he finally got it right, he pulled the bra off and tossed it across the room, then leaned over her bosom. Bess arched her back in pleasure as he traveled down the length of her stomach, stopping above the waistband of her farmer jeans.

        Rossi glanced up with a playful glint in his eyes. "I can do many things to you, Bess. All you have to do is ask," he murmured, planting another kiss on her undulating stomach while unbuttoning her jeans.

        Bess chuckled as her fingers ran into Rossi's dark brown hair. Another loud moan left her mouth. "Eat me out." She didn't have to tell him twice, he quickly removed her jeans and underwear—along with his own—then kissed his way up the inner side of her thighs, finally reaching the spot where she wanted him the most. Bess' cries mixed with loud profanities as Rossi licked, nipped, and pulled, but never for long enough to let her get what she desired. "Don't you dare stop now, Dave!" Bess snapped when she felt the man's fingers pull out of her, she wanted to yank him back in place, but he quickly moved out of reach.

        "You're coming when I'm telling you to," Rossi declared, then grabbed the condom and applied it on himself before leaning over Bess again. He kissed her deeply while positioning himself between her legs, eventually rolling his hips forward and entering her.

        They both moaned loudly when he sank impossibly deep into her warmth, then after a few seconds, he perched himself onto one elbow while his other hand held onto her waist, and he started to thrust. Waves of warm pleasure washed over Bess as her hands roamed the wide of Rossi's back, and he kept planting sloppy kisses onto her skin, wherever he reached.

        "Fuck, Bess. You feel so good," the Italian panted, his head dropping low, so their lips could collide in a fevered kiss. By now, Bess' hips had been grinding against Rossi's, her pace mirroring his own with a second's delay between them. "God, I won't last long if you continue doing that."

        She caught his chin and guided his mouth to hers for yet another kiss. "Come for me, Dave."

        In a few more minutes, they both did, crying out each other's names before their movements faltered and eventually came to a stop. Bess closed her eyes as she slumped back into the soft pillow under her head; her fingers lazily caressed Rossi's hair while he kept his face buried in the crook of her neck.

        After a while, he removed himself from Bess and curled up beside her. "Where are you going?" he muttered when she rose to reach out towards the nightstand.

        "Nowhere. I just need a cigarette."

        She rolled back onto her back and he half-reclined on her again, pretty soon smelling the burning tobacco mingling with her perfume. He closed his eyes but prevented himself from falling asleep right on the spot, he focused on her fingers wandering between his soft strands. It had been a long time since he'd had such good sex with anyone, and though he couldn't have known it, the same was true for Bess.

        "I'd like you to come over for dinner on Christmas Eve," she murmured, glancing down at the man resting his head on her chest. "Who knows, maybe my dad will finally share his 'foolproof' investment tips with someone else too."

        Rossi hummed in response, then turned his head and pressed his lips on her skin. "We should hit the shower," he noted after the redhead had finished her cigarette and stubbed out the butt. He propped himself up on one elbow, brushing her hair from her face with a warm smile tugging at his lips.

        "You think you've rested enough?" Bess joked, placing a hand on his chest before reaching behind his neck to toy with the hair at his nape.

        He raised an eyebrow at that. "Thought you said it can happen only once."

        "I sure did. But I'm counting nights, Dave, not rounds." Bess smirked, pulling Rossi down to her mouth. "You'll need another condom."

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

        THE FAMILIAR TAPPING OF A wooden walking stick heralded Clayton Reed's arrival at the Luce County Sheriff's Department. The BAU team sat around the conference table in the office they had established the day before, each nursing a fresh cup of coffee as they reviewed the personnel files Garcia had compiled from the lists of employees and guests Andrew Richards had provided.

        "I can't believe you ordered me here. Why couldn't we do this at the hotel?" the old man began complaining the moment he realized the BAU agents were within earshot. Despite being 88 years old, he moved surprisingly fast with that stick in his hand.

        "Good morning to you too, Mr Reed," Bess greeted the man, then gestured towards the empty chairs around the round table. "Join us."

        Reed only grunted in response as he looked them over but didn't move. "What do you want from me?"

        "Just some answers to our questions," Rossi explained, nodding towards the chairs. "Take a seat, Mr Reed. This might take a while."

        Reed shook his head, a grimace marring his face. "Don't order me around, son!"

        "Sit down, Mr Reed." Bess locked eyes with the man, her tone made it clear she was running out of patience. "We don't have time for your temper tantrums."

        The old man snorted at her successful attempt to humiliate him. He finally moved forward to occupy one of the empty seats around the table. "How was your night in Eloise's room, Red? Did you have some fun?" A wicked grin spread across his face as his gaze flicked to Rossi for a moment, and Bess studied his expression. She couldn't tell if he was bluffing, or if he actually knew what had gone down in the room overnight. Frankly, she couldn't care any less.

        "Oh, I had plenty. Unlike you." She shot the old man a mocking smile, then reached forward and grabbed four photos from the tabletop. "I want you to take a look at these." She handed them over to Emily and she placed them in a line in front of the hotel owner.

        "Why should I?" Reed questioned, staring back at Bess without sparing a glance at the close-ups.

        She let out a laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. He was worse than a child—but then again, a child could be easily swayed with the right carrot on a stick. "Do you smoke, Reed?" Bess changed tactics, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

        His surprise was unmistakable, but he masked it by narrowing his eyes suspiciously. "Depends."

        Bess grabbed her cigarette case and lighter from the table, and slid them across the shiny surface toward him. "Here. Help yourself. Best cigarette you can buy around here," she added, watching the old man pick a cigarette from the silver case, and pretty soon he was happily puffing away on it. "So? Are we good or do you need something else as well? Coffee, maybe? A pillow behind your back?" she scoffed, perfectly copying his style.

        "Kiss my ass, Red," Reed replied, though he leaned forward in his seat to examine the photos for the first time. Bess leaned back, crossing one leg over the other as she exchanged a glance with Rossi. It seemed she'd succeeded in winning the little prince's favor. "Do you have anything new to show me, or is it just more photos of my employees?" Reed looked up with a bored expression. "Because if not, I have better places to be."

        "Not so fast, Mr Reed," Callahan declared. He placed a hand on the old man's shoulder to stop him from standing up, but then quickly withdrew it when Reed's silent stare burned his skin.

        "Who the hell are you?"

        Callahan's cheeks flushed red for a second. "I'm the town sheriff."

        "Really? Since when?" Reed wondered, causing the man in uniform to blush even deeper in his embarrassment.

        "Last year," he muttered as his gaze moved to the BAU agents for help.

        Morgan spoke up, "Uh, Mr Reed. Could you tell us more about these four men here?" He pointed at the images on the table, and the hotel owner, reluctantly, but gave in to their request.

        This was how they met Ethan James Carter, 58-year-old chef, Julian Bennett, 42-year-old head waiter, Frank Dawson, 55-year-old maintenance technician, and last but not least, Henry Douglas, 47-year-old groundskeeper. Since Garcia couldn't find anything fishy about the guests, the BAU team began to suspect the killer was someone from the staff. These four men stood out, whether due to their professions or their visible strength. Adding to the suspicion, all of them had been working for Reed since before 1988.

        Reed put down the photo of Henry Douglas from his hand and reached for one that caught his eye. "Marcus Hayes is Ethan Carter's nephew," he noted, lifting the young man's close-up from the tabletop. "He works in the kitchen with him."

        This statement put the room in silence for a moment.

        "His nephew?" Emily spoke up first, staring at the old man.

        He nodded. "Yes. Poor kid lost his family in some kind of an accident. They never really talked about it. Ethan asked me to hire him too."

        Bess squirmed in her chair. "When was this?"

        "Hmm, fifteen years ago, maybe? Why? You think the boy killed the Corbecks?" A bold smirk flashed across Reed's face as he shot her a glance.

        Bess snorted back at him. "I thought Eloise's ghost was behind the killings."

        It drew a heartfelt laugh from Reed. "A ghost? You're funny, Red. There's no such thing as ghosts." He shook his head, leaning back in his chair as he picked another cigarette from Bess' case. "That story's great for business. You'd be surprised how many gullible people believe it, even around here. But it doesn't change the fact that Ethan's a good man. He didn't kill anyone. Neither did Marcus."

        Emily crossed her arms over her chest. "You seem pretty certain about that."

        "I've known them for long enough. Two of my best employees. And I've seen many, believe me."

        "How old is Marcus Hayes?" Rossi turned to the old man, but he just shrugged as he exhaled the smoke through his mouth.

        "According to his birth certificate, thirty-seven," JJ answered, handing over the boy's file to Rossi.

        "Wait for a second." Morgan held up his hand, drawing the others' attention to himself. "So, what? Are we thinking that the uncle killed the reporter in '88 and now the nephew killed the Corbecks? That's a pretty wild guess, don't you think?" He shook his head with a grimace, clearly unconvinced by the idea.

        Reid chimed in, "But there's a connection here. Let me show you." He rummaged through the case files spread across the table. "Walter Hensley was killed in 1988, right? Ethan Carter is 58 years old now, which means he was 37 at the time of the murder. And Marcus? He's 37 years old now. In both cases, the MO is identical: one deep cut across the throat, severing the vocal cords." He paused, glancing up at the rest of his team. "There's a pattern here."

        "Okay, but why would a hotel chef kill a guest?" Bess asked with knitted eyebrows.

        "We're still missing something here," Rossi agreed with a mild shake of his head.

        Morgan pulled his cell phone from his pocket. "Let's talk to Garcia." He put the call on speaker and waited for the line to connect.

        "Well, if it isn't my fine, chocolate Adonis! Tell me, sugar, to what do I owe the honor of your dulcet tones today?" the woman flirted over the phone, and Bess noticed Reed lean forward in his chair, as if he could hear Garcia better that way.

        "I need your help, baby girl. The man you looked into yesterday, Ethan Carter, it turned out he has a nephew. He's another employee at the White Moose Hotel. The name is Marcus Hayes."

        "Yeah, I remember him. He was on your list too. Just a sec until I look into this." They heard Garcia type on her keyboard with the speed of a rocket, and then she spoke up again, "Okay, ladies and gents, we might actually have something buried here. So, I found a death certificate for Marcus' parents, both died in a car crash when he was five, so 32 years ago. The mother had a half-brother, that would be Ethan, who took the boy into his care."

        Bess turned towards the phone held in Morgan's hand. "Garcia, does Ethan have any sort of connection to Eloise Mallory?"

        "Eloise didn't have children, Red," Reed muttered, glancing at the redhead.

        "Uh, actually, you're wrong there, sir," Garcia said, her fingers flying over the keyboard, "Eloise Mallory had a child. A boy, named Alexander Mallory, was born in 1925. I just sent you his photo from when he was in his 50s, I think. He died in 1987, in Detroit."

        Morgan's eyebrows arched in surprise. "Well, I'll be damned." He turned the phone around, offering it to the group for a closer look.

        "That looks bizarrely similar to Ethan Carter, doesn't it?" Emily frowned at the image, comparing it to the one they had shown Reed a few minutes ago. The room fell silent as no one seemed eager to argue.

        "I dug into Alexander, but there's no record of him ever having a son. But Ethan Carter's mother, Molly Briggs, whose maiden name was Molly Carter, was once married to Alexander Mallory, but they divorced before Ethan was even born," Garcia revealed the twisted family line. "She remarried to a Michael Briggs and had a daughter after Ethan, whose name was Stephanie Briggs, up until she married Lukas Hayes and got pregnant with Marcus."

        "I think I lost track after Alexander and Molly divorced," JJ muttered, rubbing her temple in frustration at the endless name changes.

        Rossi spoke up next, "Do we know who Alexander's father was, Garcia?" Bess turned to him with an eyebrow raised in silent question, as if to ask, 'What are you getting at?', but he just held up his hand, signaling her to let him finish his thought.

        "Uh, there is... Matthew Mallory."

        Silence.

        "Wait, what?" Bess grimaced in confusion. Maybe they heard it wrong. "Eloise is not even a Mallory?"

        Garcia mumbled, "Not originally, at least. Uh, Matthew died in 1962. Cause of death... Um, his throat was slashed."

        "1962. Alexander was 37 years old that year," Reid calculated, and Bess shook her head as the puzzle pieces slowly began to fall into place, forming a surprisingly clear picture.

        Morgan looked taken aback. "Okay, so, just to make things clear. Eloise Mallory had a son, Alexander, who had a son, Ethan, who had a half-sister, Molly, who when died, her son was taken in by Ethan. Alexander, God knows why, but killed his father, Matthew, at the age of 37. Then Ethan, also at the age of 37, killed that reporter Hensley. Again, we don't know why. Then now, Marcus, who's Ethan's nephew, killed the Corbecks, also at the age of 37, and just like before, we don't know why."

        "And on top of that, Matthew might have been the guest who killed Eloise. I mean, why on earth would a son kill his own father if he hadn't done something wrong?" Emily muttered, giving Morgan a side glance.

        Bess agreed with her. "Alexander was thirteen back then. Maybe he saw what happened. He had plenty of time to plan his revenge."

        "Okay, but why kill Eloise in the first place?" JJ wondered.

        "Money?" Rossi guessed. "Matthew would have inherited the hotel."

        Emily shook her head. "But he didn't keep it."

        "True. But he must have gotten a decent price for it. He could start a new life anywhere."

        "But even if that's true, why did Ethan Carter kill that reporter you mentioned? That is, if he really did kill him," Sheriff Callahan said, whom Bess had forgotten was even present, just like Clayton Reed.

        She turned to the old man with an eyebrow raised. "Mr Reed, you're surprisingly quiet there."

        "Oh, give me a break, Red. Finally, something interesting is happening around here. Do you know how boring Newberry is, Red? You have no idea." The hotel owner shook his head, causing the BAU team to exchange a stunned stare with one another. They didn't really know how to answer that.

        "Well, if Ethan somehow learned who his father was, he might have sought him out, talked to him, and learned about the family history," Morgan suggested.

        Reid added, "And 1988 marked the 50th anniversary of his grandmother's death. That could have been a stressor, given the family's violent past and his sister's tragic accident."

        Rossi continued, "And Marcus was living with him by then. He might have known about the whole thing. If he looked up to his uncle, his affection might have been enough to lead him down the same path that Alexander had put Ethan on before."

        "The only problem with this is that you don't have any proof," Callahan spoke up with a troubled expression—and he was completely right about that, by the way.

        His statement put the room in silence once again as they all got immersed in their own thoughts. After a while, Bess pushed herself up from her seat and walked up to Reed, perching herself on the edge of the conference table. "What do you want, Red?" the man muttered, glancing up at her with a suspicious glint in his eyes.

        She leaned forward, saying, "I think deep down you know what happened, Reed. Even if you don't want to believe it."

        "I don't know what you're talking about," the man stated, and to his credit, his gaze didn't waver from hers.

        Bess' lips curled up into a smile. "Of course you do. That's why you pointed out the family connection between Ethan Carter and Marcus Hayes. Without that, we'd have nothing. But I need more than that, Reed. And I know that deep down, you want to punish them. They killed innocent people. In your hotel. Right under your nose. That tarnishes your image, doesn't it?" she whispered, but the man refused to answer her. "Do you really want two killers in your hotel? What happens when one night they decide to go after you and take back what should have been theirs in the first place?"

        A thick swallow moved down the man's throat. His voice wasn't that confident anymore. "I don't want to go to prison, Red."

        "Help me, and I'll keep you out of it."

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

        TO MAKE A LONG STORY short, Clayton Reed had indeed suspected what Ethan Carter had done, much like he had suspected Marcus' crime. But, as he'd said before, it was great for business, so he'd kept his mouth shut all these years, sweeping his gut feelings under the rug. Now the cat was out of the bag, and he told them everything he believed to be true. All that remained was the arrest of Ethan Carter and Marcus Hayes. If they were lucky, it would go down smoothly. If not...

        All the guests had been told to leave the building until the situation was sorted out, and the BAU team dressed into bulletproof vests and went inside to put their two living Unsubs in handcuffs. Emily and Rossi headed to the kitchen in the basement while JJ and Reid went to Ethan's room, leaving Marcus' to Morgan and Bess.

        They ran up the stairs onto the first floor where the man's room was located, but before they could get there, its door opened and Marcus stepped into the corridor. He immediately realized that they had cornered him, he turned on his heels and set off running towards the other end of the floor. Without any hesitation, Bess and Morgan chased after him, rounding the 90-degree turn at the end and hurrying to catch up with him on the south side of the building.

        They stopped in front of the open door in the middle of the floor, silently agreeing on their strategy before entering with their guns drawn. Bess moved to check the bathroom while Morgan looked around the room, crouching down to check under the bed when Marcus lunged at him. Bess barely made it out of the bathroom in time to see the two men crash against the window, the force of the blow shattering the glass behind Morgan's back.

        Seizing the brief opportunity, Bess fired her gun, the bullet burrowing into the back of Marcus' head. Unfortunately, it lacked the force to keep them in the hotel room, and Morgan couldn't fight against the gravity pulling him toward the ground 20 feet below. In his last desperate attempt, he tried to hook his foot in the window frame while shoving Marcus' lifeless body out the window—yet in vain.

        Bess let her years of training take control of her body. She didn't waste a second deciding where to place her legs or shift her weight. Anchoring herself between Morgan's legs, she wrapped her arms around his body just in time to stop him from plunging out the window after Marcus and potentially dragging her down with him.

        It happened so fast that before he knew it, Morgan was leaning on Bess's shoulder for support to keep himself on his feet. "Are you alright, Morgan?" she asked, watching his pale face.

        "I'm pretty sure you just saved my life, Sinclair," he mumbled, trembling from head to toe. "Thank you."

        "Well, you'd have only fallen about 20 feet. Not enough to kill you, but it would've cost you a few bones," she replied, guiding him toward the door. "Let's get out of here. I hope the others caught Ethan Carter. It'd be a shame to leave empty-handed," she added with a scoff.

        Morgan managed a weak snort, finally letting go of her to stand on his own. Honestly, it would've been downright humiliating if anyone had seen him relying on her just to stay on his feet. Not that Bess was likely to forget it anytime soon.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

        AN ENDLESS LIST OF CHRISTMAS carols played on the Hi-Fi system as Bess lost herself in the abundance of decorations she planned to hang on her 10-foot-tall Christmas tree. Since she sang a duet with Brenda Lee, she almost didn't hear the knock on her front door. She lowered the volume slightly before heading to answer it, unsure of what Rossi might want this time.

        "Hotchner? What are you doing here?" Bess' eyes widened in complete astonishment as she looked the man in the long tweed coat over.

        "Can I come in?" he muttered with his usual stoic expression, and she stepped aside to let him in.

        She closed the door and then turned around, watching him look around the place. "How do you even know where I live?" Bess wondered with knitted eyebrows.

        "Rossi told me," Hotch replied casually, his gaze bouncing between her more and more expensive belongings. He tried to buy some time, hoping to figure out how to tell her what he needed, but quickly realized there was no good way to do it. He might as well give up trying. "I need more," he admitted finally, facing Bess.

        One good look at his face told her what he was talking about. "You should still have some left from the pack I gave you," she noted, her eyes narrowing at the man.

        A nervous swallow moved down Hotch's throat. "I smoked them. I smoked them all last week, and I've tried every cigarette since, but nothing is as good." He moved closer, his eyes filled with despair, and it hit Bess right in the chest.

        Look at what you've done to him!

        "Of course, nothing is as good, Hotchner. Marijuana and nicotine are two completely different things." She shook her head. "How did you smoke the entire pack? A few drags should have knocked you out cold." Hotch merely shrugged, causing Bess to sigh with another headshake. "Sit down there." She nodded towards the couches around the coffee table before moving towards the long hallway leading to the bedrooms, but he caught her hand.

        "Sinclair—"

        "I know. Please, sit down." She led him by the hand to the closest couch, then left him there with her white Persian cat. "I'll be back in a minute."

        She walked into the first bedroom on the left, heading straight to the drawer where she kept a few packs of the joints she'd given Hotch after their previous case. By now, she cursed herself for leaving that pack at the cemetery. She knew the consequences but had done it anyway. All she wanted was to help him, but she never believed he'd pick up on it this fast. But he had, and now all she could do was hope it wasn't too late to bring him back down.

        Bess exited the room and walked back to Hotch, surprised to find her cat curled up in his lap. "Oh, Mr Grumpy likes you." She smirked, perching herself beside him on the couch. "That doesn't happen often, Hotchner."

        "I didn't do anything." Hotch shook his head and moved to put the cat down on the rug, but the clingy furball jumped right back up with a loud meow.

        Bess chuckled as she drew a cigarette from the pack and placed it between her lips, holding the small flame emerging from her lighter to its end. Taking a long drag, she passed it to Hotch, and he greedily snatched it from between her index and middle fingers, bringing it to his own mouth. He leaned back against the cushions, resting his head on the top as he closed his eyes and exhaled the smoke. He immediately felt himself better.

        "You know that you can't continue like this, right?" Bess noted after a while, reaching forward and taking away the joint from Hotch when she believed he had enough. "It's not too late to quit."

        "It makes me feel better," he opposed with a shake of his head.

        "That's how it works. But once you get hooked, it gets harder and harder not to light one. It will mess with your head and—"

        Hotch butted in, "It's already messed up. I either see what that stuff makes me see, or I see Foyet. And I know which one I'm choosing." He grabbed the pack from the coffee table and rose, ignoring the cat's loud protest as it hissed at him for being sent to the floor again.

        "You might as well accept Strauss' retirement offer," Bess called after Hotch, making him turn back as he was about to leave. "I'm not letting you come back until your head is clear. You'll get someone killed, if not yourself first." She also emerged from the leather cushions of the couch, her arms folded over her chest. "This is not a game, Hotchner."

        He held out his arms in exasperation. "Then why did you give me the cigarettes in the first place?"

        "Because I thought they would help you," Bess shot back, then shook her head. "I guess I was wrong," she muttered, watching him stare back at her. "Please, Hotchner. You don't want to mess up your life with an addiction like that. It won't be good for anyone, believe me. Go for a run, take up boxing, it doesn't matter. Just don't let that stuff take control of your life. Take it from someone who knows."

        Hotch remained silent as he considered her words, turning the pack over and over in his hand. He didn't want to put it down, though he knew that would have been the right choice. "I won't come for another one," he promised, holding up the pack for her to see, then turned towards the door.

        "Wait," Bess called after him again, and Hotch turned back. "You could stay. I, uh, you could help me decorate the tree if you'd like. I wouldn't have to stand on a chair to put the star on top," she joked, drawing his eyebrows into a frown.

        "How tall do I look like to you?" Hotch asked, and Bess shrugged at him with a smile tugging at her lips.

        "I have ice cream," she added, then immediately regretted her words upon his answer.

        "You eat ice cream in December?"

        She bit down on her bottom lip, mumbling, "It's strawberry flavored."

        Hotch even forgot to blink as he stared at her, then couldn't stop himself from laughing out loud. Bess stood there, taken aback by his sudden change of mood, realizing that not only had she never seen the man smile before, but she had never imagined she'd hear him laugh, like ever.

        The jet-black-haired man moved to take down his coat and hang it up on the hanger beside the redhead's, then walked back to her. "I'm staying, but only because our fridge can fit only one bucket of ice cream, and Jack likes chocolate," he stated, causing Bess to shake her head in amazement.

        "You should buy a bigger fridge, Hotchner," she scoffed, laughing at him before turning away to get themselves two bowls of strawberry ice cream, and he stared after her with a small smile playing on his lips.

        "Why do you keep calling me by my full name? Everyone calls me just Hotch."

        Bess turned back with a light shrug of her shoulders. "I'm not everyone."

author's note

Okay, I wanna marry Bess RIGHT NOW! I don't want to brag, but damn, I believe I've never written an original this good before. Honestly, this is my favorite story ever lol. Hope you liked it guys, and sorry if there were any plotholes left, the story got so twisted in the end that I just stared at it in pure shock lmao. Anyway, now I can't wait to write a smut scene for Bess and Aaron haha! I'll do them justice.😌

reminder

As a fellow writer, I pour an incredible amount of time and effort into each chapter, so please don't forget to vote and comment while you read! Your support means the world to me and gives me so much inspiration! Don't be just another ghost reader, please! <33