✓ | sick of losing soulmates [SPENCER REID]

6.1

6.1
( back to work. )

☆ ★ ☆

iris

"He comes into my bedroom and lays with me. He says it's God's will," a voice whispers. "I'm only fifteen — and I'm not the only one . . . Please help me!"

The voice is strangled, helpless, panicked, quiet — and it comes through a recording on Nancy Lund's phone, which is connected to the radio in her police car. Wearing sunglasses but still having to squint against the sun as she gazes across farmland and woodland, Iris Remington sits at the front of the vehicle beside Nancy herself, who drives, while Spencer is seated in the back listening while he flips through case files, reading at his normally rapid speed.

"Tell us about the 911 call," Spencer says from the backseat.

"Um, I believe the 'he' that they refer to is the church's leader, Benjamin Cyrus," Nancy answers.

The case Hotch had sent them on was a peculiar one that stood out from Iris' previous cases, both with the BAU and Major Crimes Unit. Well, not peculiar, because this was something she'd heard about thousands of times on the news . . . But it had never been her case, never been her problem. But now it is.

The whole thing makes her feel sick to her stomach. She's seen intestines torn inside out, read about cases of stockholm syndrome, met people so emotionally manipulated it's lingered in her nightmares, but this case, this type of case, is something she already can't stand. It's nothing short of an abomination, and it's the first case in a long time that's reminded her of the terrible things her species is capable of.

"Benjamin Cyrus," Spencer says, his head popping up next to Iris' shoulder as he leans forward. A file lies across his lap. "No criminal record at all, really. What else do you know about him?"

"It's rumoured that he's practicing forced marriages."

"Any idea who the caller is?" Iris asks.

"Uh, Jessica Evanson is the one who the age fits, but we can't be sure, so I negotiated interviews with all the children," Nancy explains. She looks at Iris briefly, lips pursed. "It wasn't easy."

"Well, considering their view on outsiders, it would be best if you didn't identify us as FBI," Iris says. "Just use our real names, and introduce us as Child Victim Interview Experts."

They pull up moments later at the end of a dirt road, sending clouds of ashy grey dust billowing into the air around their tyres. Ahead of them is several buildings: a farm and barns, and a chapel, and a small school. Almost like an entire village. There are women in old fashioned clothes — like peasant clothing. The buildings are made of white brick and appear almost like Ancient Greek buildings, with white steps leading up to the archway doorways, where one man sits, watching them. The only piece of technology are the solar panels along the ground on the right, protruding from the long grass.