Old Flames, New Wounds

The crime scene was quiet, but the air was heavy. Blood didn’t scream—it whispered. It clung to the walls, painted in patterns the unsub didn’t even try to hide. The victim was young. Black. Beautiful. Just like the last two.

And that’s what worried Derek Morgan the most.

He stood back from the body, jaw tight, arms crossed. Hotch, Prentiss, and Reid were already combing through the details, but something about this one gnawed at his gut.

“This is the third woman with the same physical profile,” Reid murmured, flipping through his notes. “African-American, mid-to-late thirties, college educated, all survivors of past trauma.”

Hotch’s gaze was sharp. “He’s not just hunting. He’s targeting a type. Someone specific.”

Derek glanced down at the woman's face—what was left of it. Her eyes were wide open, frozen in terror. He clenched his fists.

“Whoever he’s after,” he said, “he hasn’t found her yet.”

---

An hour later, they were back at the local precinct. Garcia’s bubbly face lit up the video screen, but there was a tension behind her eyes that Derek didn’t miss.

“Baby boy,” she said, unusually somber. “I dug into victim backgrounds. And... I think I found a link. All three women attended the same trauma recovery group in D.C. a few years back. One of the facilitators stood out to me—Makayla Brooks.”

The name hit Derek like a punch to the chest.

Hotch raised a brow. “You know her?”

Derek’s mind raced. Flashbacks of sun-soaked childhood days. Makayla laughing with two braids and scraped knees. The girl next door who became the woman he let walk away.

“She’s... someone I used to know,” he said carefully. “We grew up together in Chicago.”

“She’s still in D.C.,” Garcia continued. “Runs her own private trauma counseling practice. She’s got no criminal record, no red flags... but she’s the one thing that connects all three victims. If the unsub is working through the group’s history, she could be next.”

Hotch nodded. “Then we need to bring her in—immediately. Morgan, I want you to handle protection detail.”

Derek froze. The last time he saw Makayla was at his father’s funeral. They’d barely spoken. Too much history. Too much left unsaid.

“I’m on it,” he said after a beat, masking the storm behind his eyes.

---

Makayla Brooks didn’t look afraid when she opened the door. She looked tired. Like someone who knew the past could find you no matter how fast you ran.

She stared at Derek like she was seeing a ghost—and maybe she was.

“You,” she whispered. “Of course it’s you.”

He tried to smile. “Hey, Makayla.”

She crossed her arms, chin high, voice cool. “What’s the FBI doing on my doorstep?”

“There’s someone out there,” he said gently. “He’s killing women who used to be part of your group. You could be next.”

She didn’t flinch, but he saw it—the flicker in her eyes. The fear. The memory.

Makayla stepped aside. “Come in.”

Derek followed her in, the scent of lavender and old books grounding him. Everything about her was familiar, yet distant. She wore strength like armor, but there was something raw just beneath the surface.

“I don't need protection,” she said, settling onto her couch. “I know how to take care of myself.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Derek said softly. “But I’m not here just because of the case.”

She looked up sharply.

“I asked to be the one watching your back.”

A long silence stretched between them, electric with unspoken memories.

Makayla shook her head with a dry laugh. “You always did try to play hero.”

He stepped closer. “And you always tried to do everything alone.”

Their eyes locked.

The past was back. The danger was real. And the clock was ticking.