She Penned my Dreams

Finally

Spencer

"What do you mean, he doesn't exist?" I bit out, glaring at Garcia's pixilated face. She must've known my anger wasn't directed at her, but that didn't mean she wasn't suffering from the brunt of it.

"I mean that as far as I can tell from his employment records, Paul Robinson is a fake identity."

Frustration built in my throat, bursting out in a less than professional curse as my fist met the table. Anger was leaking form my pores, tainting the air all around me.

"He was employed by that company for years now, there's got to be something in his records that corresponds with a real person," Prentiss offered, looking at the copy of the incident report we'd taken from the manager.

"Oh, it's all connected to a real person, a real Paul Robinson, with this social security number. Unfortunately that Mr. Robison has been dead for thirty-some years," Garcia explained, fingers moving rapidly over the keys.

"First rule of making up a fake identity, make sure it's not fake," Rossi commented, nodding sagely.

"So we've got nothing?" I asked exasperated, head hanging heavy on my shoulders. My nails were bitten to a quick, bloody and ragged where they pressed into the tabletop.

"I mean, I'm going through and I'm going to check every single, little, tiny, scrape of information he gave that company, maybe something will be genuine," Garcia promised. "But right now. Nothing."

"Fuck," I groaned, again, tuning out Hotch telling Garcia to get back to them if she finds anything, choosing instead to slump down into a chair and grind the heels of my hands into my eyes. I wracked my brain, search, begging for something, anything that I might have overlooked. But I'd turned every stone over twice. This had been our big break. Our only break.

The room barely had time to go silent before Garcia's face was lighting up the screen again, filling the room with volume.

"Okay, this time I've really got something," she said, talking as loud as her fingers were typing fast. "A couple months ago, the company had a hacking issue. Their computers were down just in time for payday, so instead of paying all the employees electronically like they would've done, they had to do things the old fashioned way and mail them out. Robinson must've made up some kind of excuse for why the mailing address he asked for was not the one on his records, but I've got the address the check was sent to. That's gotta be his real house."

"Good work, Garcia," Hotch said as the room let out a collective sigh of relief. "Can you check the address for last known ownership?"

"Just did that, it looks like our guy is actually a Mr. Gene Mayhews. Picture is the same, this is your guy."

I was on my feet before Garcia even told us the address was sent to our phones. I was halfway to the SUV's by the time Morgan caught up, a big hand covering my shoulder and he shook me, eyes searching for my attention.

"We're gonna get her back," he said, dark eyes serious. "But we're gonna do it together. You're not taking point on this. We don't know what this guy will do when he's cornered."

"I'm getting my girlfriend back," I said, shaking off his hand. "It doesn't matter what he does. I'm getting Katie back."

"You go in behind me and Hotch," Morgan ordered, pointing a stern finger at him. "Don't do anything stupid."

"Let's go," I said, instead of responding. I wasn't going to promise anything.

Katie

I woke up to a pounding head and a pain in my ankle. Which is not to say that my whole body was not aching, just that the head and ankle were definitely occupying the forefront of my mind. Cracking my eyes open might've been the hardest thing I'd ever done. But when I considered why my head was hurting so badly, fear offered me plentiful motivation.