Rushing inside the building, I quickly pass by the secretary who gives me a stern look, and with a wink, I knock on the door.

After a second, I hear a loud, “Come in.” I enter Dean Holt’s office, who sips her morning coffee.

“Ella, lateness certainly becomes you,” she says, and I wince, hating the fact that whenever she calls me to her office, I end up late.

In my defense, she always wants to hold our meetings in the morning, and after a nightshift, it’s impossible to drag myself away from bed. I always manage to oversleep for five minutes, but those five minutes are crucial as my freaking roommate always hogs the bathroom. Last night, I had only enough strength to crash on the bed, and no way did I want the dean to smell alcohol on me, even though I didn't drink it.

“My signature mark.”

She shakes her head at my humor, but I notice how the fine wrinkles at the corner of her eyes deepen, and she motions for me to take a seat.

Dean Holt is one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known, but she rules the psychology faculty with an iron fist. She will forever help you if you need any help, but fuck with her or her program, and you are screwed.

She usually has meetings with me once a month to discuss my progress on certain projects and evaluate my grades for the scholarship, because I’m also getting a minor in journalism. I love reading, writing, and researching, so I figured, why not? The scholarship doesn't cover minors though, but thanks to my dean, she has managed to snag a deal for me. As long as I tutor new kids in English, the university will grant me my minor.

So, overall, Dean Holt is one of my favorite people.

“What’s up, Dean? You never call me more than once a month.” We saw each other two weeks ago, so why am I here now?

All humor leaves her as she opens her drawer and takes out a manila envelope. I recognize my transition papers, and my mood lightens. “You approved my specialty?” I finally have the chance to elect my specialty in criminal psychology, although I’ve already read all the books on the subject, having a friend in the fourth year. I had to apply for cognitive psychology, because they didn't have enough places in the program when I switched my majors.

She locks her hands on the folder, playing with her thumbs, then shifts her attention to me. The excitement dies inside me. “I can’t do that, Ella.”

“Why?” So it’s not a coincidence everyone has tried to get me to change my mind? All the professors are against my decision, claiming I will have greater success in cognitive psychology.

Except that’s not the reason I joined the major to begin with.

She pauses again, her face darkens, and realization hits me. “Because of my family.” She flinches, but I have no reaction.

In four years, I’ve learned to live with the truth. To be that special girl who managed to escape the killer, who lived in the same house with him, who was best friends with his daughter.

It’s not hard anymore; it’s just an annoyance that will always be there, especially with the internet supplying all the information for curious psychology students.

“You don't have to sacrifice your life for this,” she says, and I frown while she elaborates. “You were given a gift when you were allowed to live. It doesn't mean you have to spend your whole life catching serial killers just because you didn't know Chloe’s father was one.” Her words are like cold water thrown on me; they freeze me, and for a second, I can't breathe.

“That has nothing to do with it. I want it.”

A humorless chuckle escapes her as she takes out a paper.

“When you applied to this university, you dreamed of being an international journalist who would travel all over the world, snapping beautiful pictures along with writing exciting articles.” She shifted in her seat, leaning closer. “Then, after the tragedy struck, you decided being a prosecutor was more interesting. Because you suddenly wanted to catch criminals.” I open my mouth to defend my decisions, while she fires more information at me. “And then when Benjamin was caught, you changed to psychology. Ella, you are on your third year of studies. Don’t tell me you don't see the psychological pattern here.”

Denial rises inside me, and I shout, “No!”

“Yes! The guilt for surviving the attack and for living with him makes you feel responsible for everyone else. Ella, nothing that happened was your fault.”

I can't listen to this anymore, can't let this world-famous psychologist analyze me and my behavior. Because acknowledging her words will mean opening myself up to the emotions and memories and pain, and there is no place in my life for that.

I stand up swiftly, the chair crashing against the floor from my push as I adjust my backpack on my shoulder. “I don’t have to listen to this.” I don’t threaten to switch universities, since I’m stuck here with my scholarship. I will get my degree in a master’s program then; it will take a little longer, and I’ll have to struggle a bit more, but at the end of the day, I’ll still get it.

And help those in need.

No one can stop me.

I’m almost out of the office, when Dean Holt speaks one last time to me, and her words stab my heart with an imaginary razor-sharp knife. “No matter how many lives you save, you will never bring them back.”

But it’s one more truth I don’t want to look at, so I silently leave her office while blocking all the thoughts swirling through my brain.

What everyone fails to realize is that I have no choice.

It was taken away from me four years ago.

Ella

The girl is sitting on the couch in the office. The captain of football team is pacing back and forth while running his fingers through his hair nervously, glancing at his mother in another office, a door away from them.

His sister, the cheerleader, scrolls on her phone. Probably without realizing it, she bites her nails, a gesture that suggests nervousness or that something bothers the person, but she cannot speak about it.

I don’t have to speak to them to figure out that “perfect family” is not a term suitable for this one.

They both halt their movements and straighten as they notice me entering the space. “Hi, I’m Agent Gadot. I’m so sorry for your loss.” They nod, but I don’t see an ounce of sorrow on their faces.

Just like I didn’t see on Mary Parker’s.

“Thanks. So Dad is really dead?” Dylan asks abruptly, and Kira elbows him lightly, fear crossing her features when she glances at me.

“Yes.”

He exhales in relief, but quickly clears his throat. “Do you know who did it?”

I shake my head, proceeding gently. “We will do our best to find him. But for that, we’d need your help.” He frowns, while his sister yet again stays quiet.

“We don’t know anything.” Defensiveness laces his tone, which will probably make it almost impossible to get him to listen to me.

“Have you seen anything strange lately in your father’s behavior? Like he was absent, quiet, or had flashes of violence?” Basically anything that can indicate if the unsub was communicating with him, threatening his peace.

They shift uncomfortably. “He was his usual self,” Dylan replies, focusing his attention over my shoulder. “Nothing special. We were in rigorous training due to the championships, but that’s about it. You can ask Mom for more.” He rises. “If you don’t mind, can we leave now? You’ll have much more luck investigating the case without wasting your time with us.” He grabs his sister’s elbow so she’ll get moving. “Come on, Kira.”

She doesn’t listen; instead, she fires a question at me. “Was his death painful?”

“Kira—”

“I want to know, Dylan,” she hisses and looks back at me, waiting.

“Yes, I can’t get into the details right now, but it was painful. And he suffered.”

“Thank you.” She exhales heavily. “For the last few weeks, there has been this guy. He sits on the benches, wearing glasses and a hoodie. He watched us during practice.” She bites on her nail. “He always comes at the same time. Never failed to show up.”

The unsub.

Methodical about his timing and hunting. So we weren’t wrong when we assumed he hunts them down after knowing certain things about them.

But weeks? It’s showing great restraint, too great.

“I appreciate this information.” They nod, and I hold the door open for them as they rush toward their mom who just left Andrea.

The woman hugs them close, and murmurs, “It’s all right.” And then I blink in surprise as I see several bruises on her neck.

“How did you get those?”

She has a deer caught in headlights look, but she just shrugs. “The other day, I fell down on the stairs. I-I-I haven’t been sleeping well since my husband didn’t come home. Nothing serious. We’d like to go if you don’t mind. We are really tired.” Avoiding my gaze; fumbling with her fingers; stammering.

She is lying to me and thinks she can hide it; unfortunately for her though, I’ve seen such cases on a daily basis.

All abused women magically become clumsy on the stairs.

They go to the elevator, when Andrea joins me, and murmurs, “Nothing. Perfect marriage.”

“And no tears, right?”

“Yep. It’s like she is glad he is gone.”

“So are the kids.”

Our unsub is starting to look more and more like a Robin Hood, at least in his mind.

But to check my theory, I have to dig for more information, but I know one fact for sure.

He saves them all from the perfect family image, giving them freedom.

Freedom he was denied as a child.

Psychopath

It’s always interesting for me to see the families of my victims, especially those with grown-up kids.

I search for relief on their faces, or happiness, but all I mostly find is confusion. Especially on the wives’ faces. It’s like they don’t know what to do anymore once the monster is gone.

It’s different with kids though.

As I watch them pressing on the elevator button, anger comes from the boy in waves as he snaps at his sister, who continues to bite on her nails. She exhales heavily, but hangs her head low while her mother just shakes her head.

He is probably mad he wasn’t the one to kill him or that he got off lightly. He won’t ever feel what it’s like to have the fucker at his complete mercy and be the one in control of the situation.

It’s for the best though.

Rubbing my chin, I put the fucking mask back on and turn to my colleagues to solve this case.

Ella

A pile of folders lands on my desk, and I raise my eyes to meet Preston’s, who exhales in exhaustion. “Man, those were heavy.” He wipes his forehead and then explains. “Noah wants you to check those out.”

“What are those?” Isn’t it easier to check everything through a computer?

“Messages from victim’s phones. Maybe something will catch your attention, some similarities. I ran a quick check; no related numbers show up, but based on messages, we might find some clues.”

I’m not sure how this can help the investigation, and it looks more like a waste of time, considering nothing connects them, but I nod anyway.

Can’t argue with the boss!

“Sure. Do we have only one case until it’s solved?” I’m familiar with protocol, but aren’t there other things to get to? According to Kierian, we aren’t even sure if we can catch the guy.

Preston blinks and then nods. “We move on once we are done with a profile or semi profile. Otherwise, it’s too hectic juggling all information at once. Although, if a critical case comes in, we do switch our attention there and pull all our resources.”

“How long does it usually take to create one?”

“Depends on the case. It can take months for some cases, as the serial killers don’t show up and we have no clues. And then you know how it is with kids. We have to act within twenty-four hours. But we are BAU-2, so we deal with serial killers. We only work with the child department when they need help.” Yeah, the golden rule. Most children didn’t survive if they were kept for longer.

Like Sarah.

The memory of my little sister singing as she colored in her book, lying on her stomach in my room, enters my mind and I can practically smell her orange juice.

“Ella, look! It’s a bird!” She flashes me her gap-toothed smile as I sit next to her and study the drawing.

She used so many vibrant colors it’s hard to understand what kind of bird she was aiming for, but since she watches me expectantly and awaits my reaction, I hug her close, and say, “It’s beautiful.”

“Yay!” And that’s when Mom calls us downstairs for dinner.

“Ella?” It takes me a second to realize Preston has been calling my name for some time now and I shake my head, plastering on a smile, because I hate his concerned stare. “You all right?”

“Sorry. Yes. Don’t pay me attention.”

He drills me with his stare for a moment, but then lets it go. “Kierian should help you out.” He clears his throat. “I’m gonna go now.” Then he strolls to his office that I’ve discovered is located in the far corner, down the hall.

This job sure brings up hurtful memories unexpectedly. The case doesn’t even remind me of my situation. What will happen if a child is kidnapped or the whole family murdered? Kierian is right; I need to learn to distance myself from the job.

I can’t get attached to the case.

My phone vibrates on the desk, and seeing the caller ID, I wonder why she would call me when I’m at work.

I walk to the far corner of the office, not wanting anyone to accidentally hear Chloe on the other end of the line. “Yes?”

“Hello, birthday girl!” she screams into my ear, and it dawns on me.

Today is my freaking birthday; no wonder the nightmares are back. They usually become the strongest around my birthday, when I miss my family the most. With all the excitement over the job and this difficult case, I haven’t paid attention to the date.

I roll my eyes, even though a smile pulls on my lips. “As always, I wish you all the greatest things in the word. Except new friends.” She pauses. “You already have that covered.”

“Well I’m glad to at least be succeeding somewhere,” I say while she laughs.

“Seriously, girl. Appreciate what you have. How are you?”

“Good. At work.” I hear David, her husband, muttering something to her in the background as baby Travis whimpers, and glancing at the clock, I suspect it’s the food.

“Already?”

“We have a difficult case.” And tons of folders to read through, so I say, “If that’s it—”

Another voice joins us and cuts me off. “You won’t get rid of us so easily. We’re going to party tonight.” Simone greets me; she’s probably already e-mailed me a birthday message. For some reason, the girl always does it through e-mail.

“Correct. We are going to the best club in the fucking city. Simone got us in. Peter was kind enough.”

Peter and Simone met on a cruise two years ago, and it was love at first sight, or at least that’s what they both claim. They married shortly after in a beach ceremony, and only then did she find out that he was heir to an apartment dynasty. Long story short, he was rich as hell and spoiled her all the time. Not that she quit teaching school though; she loved her students to pieces.

“I’ve been up since three o’clock and still have tons of work to do. And it’s Wednesday. Can we reschedule it for the weekend?” The wine already stood in my fridge so I could celebrate with my family’s picture on the table; everything else was just for my friends.

Collective groans and moans erupt, and I sigh in exasperation. “I gather that’s a no.” Amusement laces my voice, because they are such dorks. Both of them get so bored with all the family stuff; they want to go out, and my birthday gives them the perfect excuse to leave their kids with their husbands.

“We bought dresses. And already promised great sex to the guys. We have to go,” Chloe pleads.

Simone adds, “And you will unwind a little bit.”

Crooking my neck to the side, I wince at the stiffness. Maybe it’s not a bad idea to go out tonight.

Dancing always helps me relax, and God knows, after all the images, I need that.

“Okay. So do we meet there or—”

I pull the phone away as they squeal loudly, and then Simone says, “We’ll pick you up. Be ready by nine.” They hang up, and I just shake my head.

Crazy girls, but the best kind. I wouldn’t have survived in this world without them.

I sit back at my desk and open the first file, when a shadow looms over me. “You on reading duty too?” Kierian’s voice sends shivers down my spine, and I want to smack myself.

I’m acting like a hormonal teenager around this guy!

“Yeah.”

His brow lifts at this curt reply, but he shrugs and grabs a nearby chair. “Let’s divide them,” he offers, and I nod.

“Just half and half or by victims?”

“Half and half is better, because then both of us can study different messages. Get the feel of both victims.”

Yeah, it does sound good.

I expect him to talk about yesterday or give another innuendo, but he doesn’t. Instead, he is completely engrossed in the process, and in a while, I relax and concentrate fully on the work.

Nothing much comes up beyond the usual stuff.

Meetings, sales notifications, some random texts.

I pick up the red marker and circle a few words that seem to repeat whenever both of them messaged their wives. Leaning back, I quickly scan other files and, sure enough, I have the same picture greeting me.

“No affection,” Kierian says. He must have come to the same conclusion as I did.

Before we can brainstorm on it, Noah and Preston join us. “Anything?” our boss asks grimly, and Kierian looks at me.

Okay then.

“As much as those guys claimed to have perfect marriages, nothing in their texts indicates that. All messages are short, to the point, and usually include an order. Cook this. Clean that. Pick up the kids. You can’t go outside.” I give him the file with a few marked words and he scans it. “So far, that’s the only thing that connects them. The coach is the same way with his kids.”

“Maybe the victims weren’t into texting,” Noah points out, and while that might be the case, I’m not convinced.

“Still though. Not one kind word? It’s unusual.”

“I agree with Ella. These men seem like assholes.” Kierian sips his drink. “But being an asshole doesn’t mean they deserved to die, and it doesn’t give us any more clues.” He then addresses Preston. “Did you check on dog breeds?”

Preston nods and places a piece of paper in front of us. “I called everyone in the city who could have sold that breed of dog. I’m running the names they’ve given me through the system, but so far, everyone turns out legit. So for now, it’s a dead end.”

“He could have bought it in another city.” Drumming my fingers, I add, “Or it’s another breed similar to a Tamaskan?”

Noah stays silent, just frowning, and then exhales. “Preston, continue the search for names. It’s our only clue. If he doesn’t strike again, the case will be unsolved. The police have nothing as well. The unsub either knows our system or is extremely smart. No DNA, no traces on the victims’ bodies to indicate where he might have held them.” He gives us a curt nod and leaves.

“I hope we find him,” I mutter, and that’s when Kierian laughs.

My brows furrow in confusion. What is so funny?

“This is not a TV show, Ella. We work with local law enforcement and help them to see the traits or give them clues to who it might be. But we don’t go catch them per se. We don’t do field work and surely do not barge inside houses with guns. Most of the time, our job is studying victimology.”

“I’m aware of what our job is, thank you very much.” Annoyance laces my tone, but he ignores it.

“I don’t think you are. We create profiles, and then it’s the police’s job to get them. So you are not here to catch serial killers.” He makes air quotes in a mocking gesture when he says catch. “But you are here to create a profile that might help catch him. Remember the difference.”

What am I? A fifth grader who he explains the logistics of BAU work to?

“I really appreciate the explanation, Kierian. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I reply, sarcasm coating my every word. “BAU needs more people like you.”

He winks at me, cocky jerk!

“Good.” Then he grabs my arm, bringing me closer, and I look around to make sure no one sees us.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He ignores my hiss; instead, he leans to me, and whispers, “Happy Birthday, Ella.” I blink, surprised. “I’d have gotten you a gift, but I suspect you don’t like them.”

That’s true. They hold very little meaning to me, and the only gifts I do accept are from my best friends, because they don’t know any other way.

“The kiss last night—”

“Was out-of-this-fucking-world good?” he supplies. I punch him in the stomach, but he merely grunts softly. “Too light? Should have gone in stronger?”

“Should have never done it!”

“You didn’t say no.”

“Really low.”

He chuckles, removing the lock of my hair that fell to my forehead, and I immediately look around, afraid someone might have seen him. “Just the truth. Outside work, we date. Here though? Focus on the work, Ella.” He winks at me and gets up, heading toward the conference room while I sit dumbfounded.

Date?

Psychopath

She gathers her stuff into her bag, rushing outside to escape Kierian.

She doesn’t appreciate his advance the way the guy would have probably liked.

That pleases me, but it doesn’t change the fact that I want to choke her and kill him for their kiss last night.

I heard her phone call with her friends; they want to celebrate her birthday somewhere fancy and think it will help her to heal and chill.

Only one broken soul can recognize the other.

But for her to stroll into the bar unaccompanied?

No fucking way.

Spinning around to face the guys who give me questioning glances, I say, “How about a drink?”

Surprise crosses their faces as they share a look but nod anyway.

Perfect.

I wish I could grab her and drag her to my basement, but the time isn’t right yet.

I’m tempted to break my rules for her, very tempted.

But where would be the fun in that?