3 [Spencer Reid x Reader]

Prologue

They say bad luck comes in threes. Which is really funny, considering three is a holy number. The holy trinity. 333 is a protective set of numbers; if you see three threes together it means that angels are looking out for you and the people you love. But where was God in all of this?

God had to be a man. At least the Christian God, anyways. There's no way a woman would let you suffer like this. No way that she would let your fellow sisters and women be left to drown in a world so cruel and hateful.

The first time you killed someone, it was in self-defense. You didn't mean to do it. He had been trying to rob and rape you, gut you like a fucking fish and then leave you to die on your doorstep. But you had different plans.

You had fought him off long enough to be able to wrestle the knife from him, and you stabbed him with it. One, two, three. Then he was dead, blood covering the concrete. He was obviously guilty; the police had known he was violent, had known he was targeting women. And yet they did nothing. They had public records stating where he lived, they knew who his friends were and how to find him. Apparently, finding and apprehending someone who was terrorizing people wasn't on their to-do list.

Disgusting.

You felt sick the following days after that. Not because you felt bad, but because you enjoyed the way it felt to stab someone. Killing was wrong... Right? And yet you couldn't get the feeling out of your head that you had done the world a favor. Getting rid of somebody who deserved to be wiped off the face of the planet. Were you developing a god complex? Maybe.

The power trip was undeniable though. You felt strong, like nobody could touch you. Going to work felt irrelevant now. Why work a boring desk job and make no change in this world when you could set the world right? How many people were out there, hurting others and getting away with it because of incompetent and corrupt police?

You scoffed at yourself. As if dropping your stable job to be a vigilante was an option for you. Had you daydreamed about it more than you'd like to admit? Maybe. But you knew it was wrong, and more importantly, unsustainable. You'd be caught for sure. Unless, of course, you read up on forensics with books from the local library and learned how to cover your tracks. TV shows had plenty of tips on how to get away with murder.

Daydreaming like that was dangerous. You knew it was. But the brave part of you longed for some adventure, something new. That is, until the second (or really third) shoe dropped.

When it rains, it pours.

-

"Let's start at the beginning."

You looked up at the handsome man from across the metal table. Aaron Hotchner. They really sent in the big guns on this one. Getting an audience with the head honcho the second they plopped you down in the interrogation room? Very nice. You thought they'd send in Derek, maybe even Emily, but apparently your deceitful nature over the past few days had made Aaron nervous. You clasped your hands together, the tinkling of your handcuffs being the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

"Which one?" you asked. It was an honest question; there were a lot of beginnings for you.

"Your mother."

You fought back the urge to wince. You hadn't expected him to go so far back, but you also knew it really was inevitable. They would have found something eventually. They were the FBI after all.

"What about her?"

You already knew, but you wanted to see how much they had already put together in such a short time. Aaron leafed through the files on the table.

"She died a few years ago. A domestic violence dispute. I'm sure you remember."

You almost rolled your eyes at him. Did he think you had somehow magically forgotten? You could play it that way, if you wanted to. But no, you decided to just act as innocent as you had been over the last few days. The same little stupid girl they knew and loved. But you weren't stupid, and you surely wouldn't admit to anything. Not like you needed to; if they had you here, locked tight in chains, they already had you pinned down. If you had covered your tracks well enough, anything they found would be circumstantial at best.

"Yes, I remember," you replied coolly.

"She was stabbed by her boyfriend at the time. Robert Macken. Did you ever suspect that he was capable of that kind of violence?"

He pulled out a photo of your mother; her memorial photo. He was trying to get a rise out of you.

"If I had known, she wouldn't be dead," you pointed out. He dug into his files, pulling out a photo of your best friend.

"Your roommate in college. Beth Cahill. Beaten, raped, and killed in the back alley of a bar. Her attackers were apprehended, but charged with only six months of jail time. Does that sound fair to you?"

You resisted the urge grit your teeth in annoyance, keeping your face as placid as possible. You were sure that he knew damn well how you felt about it. You kept your mouth shut. He threw out one last photo.

"Your sister. Victim of a random carjacking. Stabbed multiple times in the chest."

You didn't even bother looking down at the pictures, because you knew them all too well. You tried to keep a level head, speaking as calmly and as nonchalantly as you could.

"We had to have a closed casket funeral because she was shot in the head like a dog in the middle of a parking lot. I know you're just trying to get at me, which is fine. I get it. You've got nothing better to do. But I would appreciate it if you didn't diminish the deaths of the people I loved by lying about how they died. It's disrespectful."

Aaron leaned forward, his brows furrowed.

"I really don't think you have the right to tell anyone what is or isn't respectful."

He was right on that one.

"Alright then, Aaron. Want to tell me why I'm here?"

"It's Agent Hotchner. And you know why."

He stood up, grabbing his files and tucking the chair in behind himself as he walked out. You caught sight of yourself in the mirrored glass of the interrogation room. You took a moment to wipe at the fake tears in your eyes, not even bothering to glance at the photos he left on the table in front of you.

It was going to be a long day.