The Richmond Police Department briefing room smelled like burnt coffee and desperation.
Four victims. Six weeks. One predator who'd managed to evade every investigative effort the local detectives had thrown at him. The case photos spread across the table told a story of methodical violence—professional women in their thirties, attacked in their homes, all surviving but all carrying wounds that wouldn't show on any physical exam.
Elle sat across from me, studying the files with an intensity that made my stomach tighten.
"He's patient," she said. "Watches them for weeks before striking. Learns their routines, their vulnerabilities, their schedules."
"Building manager," I added, pulling up the common thread Garcia had found. "All four victims lived in properties managed by the same company. Someone with access, keys, knowledge of who comes and goes."
Detective Warren, a tired woman in her fifties who'd been working this case since victim one, nodded grimly.
"We looked at the management company. Fourteen employees with access to all four buildings. We've interviewed them all twice."
"Interview them again," Elle said. Her voice was sharp, certain. "Rapists like this get comfortable. They make mistakes when they think they're safe."
[BEHAVIORAL ANALYSIS: ELLE GREENAWAY]
[AGGRESSION MARKERS: ELEVATED]
[CONTROL STATUS: STABLE BUT STRAINED]
[FOCUS: -3]
I watched her throughout the briefing—the set of her jaw, the way her hands gripped the case files, the particular stillness that meant she was holding something back. This case was hitting close. Professional women attacked in their homes. The violation of their safe spaces.
Just like what happened to her.
"Victim interviews," Hotch assigned. "Elle, Mercer—take the latest victim. Sarah Chen, thirty-four, attacked three days ago. She's still in the hospital but cleared to speak."
Elle was on her feet before he finished the sentence.
Sarah Chen occupied a private room on the fourth floor of Richmond General. She was small, dark-haired, with the particular fragility of someone still processing that the world had become a different place.
Elle sat beside her bed while I took a chair near the door—close enough to observe, far enough to give them space.
"Ms. Chen, I'm Agent Greenaway. This is Agent Mercer. We're with the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit. We're here to help catch the man who attacked you."
Sarah's eyes flickered between us.
"I already told the police everything."
"I know. And I'm sorry to make you go through it again." Elle's voice softened slightly, but there was steel underneath. "But sometimes, when we talk about trauma, new details emerge. Things our minds protected us from seeing the first time."
The interview unfolded with a precision that reminded me why Elle was one of the best profilers in the unit. She asked questions that seemed tangential but circled toward crucial details. She pushed when Sarah hesitated and backed off when the pressure became too much.
But there was something else underneath—an intensity that bordered on aggression. Elle leaned forward too far, held eye contact too long, pressed harder than necessary when Sarah's answers didn't satisfy.
"The way he moved," Elle said. "You mentioned he seemed comfortable in your apartment. Like he'd been there before."
"I don't know. Maybe. It was dark, and I was—"
"Think, Sarah. This is important. Did he know where things were? Did he go straight to your bedroom, or did he hesitate?"
"I—I think he knew. He didn't turn on any lights, but he didn't bump into anything either."
"Because he'd been there before. Studying you. Learning your space. Making it his."
Sarah's face crumpled.
"I can't—I need a minute—"
Elle didn't move.
I stood.
"Agent Greenaway, can I speak with you in the hallway?"
Elle's eyes found mine—sharp, resistant, not wanting to leave. But she recognized the professional necessity.
"Of course."
In the corridor, I kept my voice low.
"You're pushing too hard."
"I'm getting results."
"You're re-traumatizing a victim who's already given us what she knows." I met her eyes. "I understand why this case matters to you. But Sarah Chen isn't the enemy."
Elle's jaw tightened.
"Don't tell me how to do my job."
"I'm not. I'm telling you that you're too close to see clearly." I softened my tone. "Let me finish the interview. Take a walk. Reset."
For a long moment, I thought she'd refuse. The fire in her eyes burned hot enough to scorch.
Then something shifted.
"Fine." She turned toward the elevator. "But I want full notes when you're done."
"You'll get them."
The rest of the interview was gentler. Sarah provided a few more details—the scent of industrial soap, the particular way the attacker had positioned her before attacking. Small things that might help narrow the suspect pool.
By the time I finished, Elle was waiting in the hospital lobby. Her posture was calmer, but her eyes still burned.
"Building manager named David Reston," she said. "Thirty-eight, single, access to all four victims' apartments. He fits the profile, and Garcia found his previous employer terminated him for 'inappropriate behavior with female tenants.'"
"That was fast."
"I work fast when I'm motivated."
We brought Reston in for questioning that afternoon.
The interrogation room at Richmond PD was standard—small, fluorescent-lit, designed to make people uncomfortable. Reston sat across from Elle with the casual confidence of someone who'd been questioned before and walked away clean.
I watched through the one-way glass with Morgan.
"She's intense today," Morgan observed.
"She's Elle."
"More than usual."
Elle's questions started professionally enough—establishing timeline, alibis, relationship to the victims. But as Reston's denials accumulated, something shifted in her approach.
She leaned forward into his space.
"You watched them, didn't you? Went into their apartments when they weren't home. Learned their schedules, their habits, their vulnerabilities."
"I'm a building manager. I have legitimate reasons—"
"You have excuses. That's different." Elle's voice dropped. "I know men like you, David. You think you're entitled. You think being invisible means being safe. But you're not invisible to me."
[BEHAVIORAL ANALYSIS: SUBJECT GREENAWAY]
[CONTROL: COMPROMISED]
[AGGRESSION: ESCALATING]
[INTERVENTION: RECOMMENDED]
Morgan shifted beside me.
"She's getting too close."
"I know."
"Should we—"
"Yes."
I entered the interrogation room.
"Agent Greenaway, can I see you outside?"
Elle's head turned slowly. The look she gave me would have frozen water.
"I'm in the middle of something."
"It's important."
For three heartbeats, nothing happened. Elle's attention split between me and Reston, her body language screaming resistance.
Then she stood.
"Don't move," she told Reston.
In the hallway, she turned on me.
"What the hell was that?"
"You were about to cross a line. He was going to lawyer up, and we'd lose him."
"I was about to break him."
"No. You were about to break yourself." I kept my voice steady. "Let Morgan finish. He's good at this. Reston will confess to him because Morgan doesn't scare him the way you do."
"Scare him? That's the point!"
"The point is a conviction. Not a performance."
Elle's hands clenched at her sides. The anger radiated off her in waves—anger at Reston, at the case, at me for pulling her out.
"Fine," she said finally. "Fine. Morgan can have him."
Reston confessed forty minutes later.
The drive back to Quantico was silent for the first thirty miles.
Then Elle spoke.
"I wanted to hurt him."
I didn't respond immediately.
"In that room," she continued. "Looking at his face. Knowing what he did to those women. I wanted to make him feel what they felt. Not get a confession. Not close the case. Just... hurt him."
"I know."
"Is that why you pulled me out?"
"Yes."
Elle stared out the window at the darkening Virginia landscape.
"What's happening to me, Ethan?"
The question hung between us—raw, honest, terrifying.
"You're angry," I said. "You have every right to be. But anger has to go somewhere. If you don't control it, it controls you."
"And you can control it? The things you carry?"
I thought about the system, the abilities, the constant monitoring of my own darkness.
"I try. Every day."
Elle was quiet for a long time.
"I don't know if I can."
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