Chapter 28- Microscope

I got a soda from the vending machine around nine thirty and then powered through all of the case files I hadn't finished yesterday, and after the lunch I didn't eat, I had already made a significant dent in the files that had piled up today.

I was on my way back from the copy room, warm inky-smelling papers in my hands, when I passed the partially open door to Garcia's tech room.  And stopped when I overheard what she was talking about.

"Morgan, I am telling you, there is something going on between those two!" I heard her exclaim.

"Yeah?  What proof do you have, Baby Girl?" I heard Morgan answer.  She must have been calling him about information on the case and had it on speaker.

"This morning, I was walking past the bullpen, and McDowell had his bag and said he'd left it at her place!" I heard her say.  Even though I couldn't see her, I could imagine the look on her face that always accompanied her telling what she considered a juicy secret.

"Well did you ask them about it?" Morgan's voice replied.  I was surprised, he sounded significantly more skeptical than when he'd hinted there was something going on between us yesterday morning before they'd gotten on the plane.

"McDowell said something about how she had taken home some case files for Reid to pick up, but he left his bag.  You don't leave your bag at someone's apartment unless you're there for more than a few hours," she said, and though I could hear her trying to whisper conspiratorially, it was more like whisper-yelling.

"Hey, Baby Girl."

"What?" she questioned.

"You ever think that maybe they didn't tell you the truth cause they don't want you to know about it?  Technically workplace romances aren't allowed at the FBI," Morgan pointed out.

"Well yeah, but--"

"No buts, sweetness. Leave it alone," Morgan commanded.

I was surprised, I had expected him to tell her how he'd seen me at Reid's apartment, but kind of pleased that he hadn't.

"Morgan," she started, but I heard what could only be him sighing in exasperation before he repeated firmly, "No."

I walked away right as they hung up.  I didn't want to say this place was like a drama-filled high school hallway, but sometimes this place was like a drama-filled high school hallway.

Since I was too worried about what gossip Garcia would come up with next, I only got two more case files done before the end of the day, but then I decided I might as well stay and finish writing up the last two cases we had been on.  It's not like there was anything more than another long sleepless night of worry waiting for me at home, but around eight o'clock at night I finally left and went home.

I was climbing the stairs to my apartment when I finally decided to turn my phone back on.  After obsessively checking it for the first hour of work, I shut it off.  If my stalker called me again, I didn't really want to know, and besides, the more invested I was in writing up case files, the less time I had to let my train of thought derail into a sinking pit of worry.

My train of thought quickly derailed, however, when I saw that I had one voicemail message from the unknown number that had been haunting me for weeks.  I defeatedly dropped my hand at my side, barely clutching the phone enough to keep it from slipping from my fingers.  I fumbled for the keys and opened the door, flicking the lights on and wearily tossing the keys on the counter.  They chinked against the ceramic container where I normally kept them. 

I was just so tired of all this.

I was in the process of dropping my bag at my feet when I glanced up and then froze.

The throw pillow and blanket I kept on the couch were on the floor.  The TV screen wasn't parallel with the couch, instead it was turned askew slightly to the right, and of the two remotes and set of four coasters I kept on the coffee table, all of it but one of the corkboard coasters was on the floor.  When I had left the house this morning, I had not left it like that.

The tremor that had sunk below the surface for most of the day erupted again and I scrambled to unlock my phone, hitting speed dial for Reid's cell.  As it rang, I pulled my gun and swept the open living room and kitchen area with it's aim, creeping a few steps forwards away from the door.

"Hello?" Reid answered.

"Reid, someone was in my apartment," I exclaimed, the words coming out so quickly you could hardly distinguish one from the next.

"What?  What about that security system you put in?" he asked.

I glanced over my shoulder at the control panel on the wall by the door.  The light was red.

"I forgot to set it this morning," I admitted ashamedly.  But that meant that my stalker could still be in my apartment, with me.

"Don't touch anything and get out of there, now," he commanded.

I heard him, but I didn't listen.  I was frozen in place as my eyes scanned the main room over and over again.  I noticed a few books half-pulled from the shelves, and one of the cupboard doors was ajar.  That definitely wasn't me, I had a tendency to hit my head on those if I didn't close them.

"What if he's still in here?" I asked.  My voice sounded flat, and the whispered words seemed to hang still in the air.

"McDowell, I said get out," he commanded from the other end of the phone.

The blinking lights of my desktop computer, the neat rows of book spines, every polished metal handle on the drawers and cupboards in the kitchen seemed to be watching me.

"Charlie, did you hear me?  I said get out, I'm on my way to pick you up."  His voice rung hollow in my ear.

The only comprehensible thought I could enunciate was, "I need to get a dog.  Will you take me to get a dog?"

I felt like a dumb child, but at least that was better than feeling like the walls were zeroing in around me, focusing my limbs, my clothes, my thoughts, my face, the fear writhing in my stomach, under a million different microscopes to peer at me with their shiny eyes.

"Yeah.  Fine.  I'll take you to get a dog,  just wait for me downstairs in the lobby, all right?" I heard Reid say.  He sounded...impatient?  Maybe it was anxious.

"Okay," I forced the word through my lips, walking backwards towards the door, grabbing my keys off the counter before stepping out and closing the door securely in front of me.  The solid wood held back all but the strongest microscope, and that could only eye me through the little peephole.

"Go wait for me in the lobby," Reid repeated.

I nodded, and then realized he couldn't hear me nod.

"Charlie?"

I pushed another empty, "Okay," out, walking down the hall and then down the stairs, past the P.O. boxes and into the small entranceway to my apartment building.

Reid kept talking to me, but I only answered with an automatic, "yeah" until I heard him say, "I'm here." 

The dial tone sounded, and I snapped out of my daze, seeing him coming through the door.  He caught my eyes and then the fear sank inside of me enough that I could think clearly again.

"Let's go," he said, grabbing my arm and steering me towards the door.  "I'll call the police to come check out your apartment--" he started.

I jerked my arm away and snapped, "No!"

"What do you mean 'no'?" he asked, shocked.

"We work for the FBI.  I don't want a police investigation into the only part of my life that's not controlled by the government," I insisted.  Privacy was the least of my worries, but telling the cops meant telling Reid the whole truth, and it wouldn't be long before the rest of the team found out.  I didn't want that, and my stalker didn't either if all of the threatening messages I'd received were any evidence.

"McDowell, you can't--" he started again, and I could almost hear in his voice the pleading that I could see in his eyes.

"Yes, I can.  We're going to get a guard dog, that'll make me feel a lot safer than a police investigation," I commanded stubbornly, pushing past him on my way outside and climbing in the passenger seat of his vintage car.

I slammed the door closed, hard.  As he got in, I stared straight through the windshield.

The lights of the city seemed to be staring at me under a giant microscope, too.