I wasn't expecting to go back to work so early, which means I am forced to book a few days off. Just the first Friday, and the team gets called out on a case anyway. Ironically in Canada.

Hotch says for now they aren't going to move me to a different team. I'm only going to be in the field if someone else is not available, and I'm never allowed to attend a scene with Spencer, even in an emergency or if we are all called out together. Which is fine with me. I don't want to go to Canada anyway, and one of the first times I really and truly fought with Spencer was when I pulled a gun a perp anyway.

So, while everyone else investigating away in Canada, I'm away too. It feels wrong, leaving the office so empty. I've got work to do, which I always do, but especially now since Rachel robbed me of the job. This can't wait.

Bastien loans me his car and I drive to Maine, leaving far too early in the morning. The sun is up when I am, thought it's always so bright in the summer. My grip is looser on the steering wheel. Rain pelts down onto the hood of my car at some points, and so I have to slow down. I want to drive faster. I want to smell rubber, to look at the speedometer and my heart to spike. Every second away from Washington is a second too long.

I've booked a hotel, staying on the one night. I barely make it even though I've chosen a late check-in time. Once I arrive, I collapse on the bed. The springs poke into my back. It's inadvisable to call Spencer when he's out on a case, and even though he hates texting, I type out a message for him anyway.

Don't get exposed to any foreign chemicals unless you'd like to feel my wrath

He doesn't answer. I let the phone rest on my chest. The glass is warm. I can feel the heat of it, of him, even though we are in different countries.

Finally, when it's close to seven, I head to the restaurant.

It's not raining anymore. It hasn't rained since I passed Pennsylvania, and so I guess it rained in Maine at some point earlier in the day. Despite the sun, the ground has puddles, a dampness like it only rained seconds ago even though I've been here for two hours now. The earth is waterlogged. Maybe it poured. When I pulled into the parking lot, I open the car door and stare out at a puddle on the ground. It's too filthy to make out my own expression. I don't try to stare at myself in the rearview mirror. I don't care. Maybe I should.

When I get to the restaurant, Luc Levesque is already there. He stands up at his table when he sees me and brushes the wrinkles from his trousers. My smile is tight-lipped.

He looks no different than when I last saw him, I suppose, and I probably look the same too. It feels weird, given what the last few years have brought. Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and pull at the sides of my face to check for crow's feet. I'm getting too old to be putting up with the bulk of this.

Once I'm close enough to Luc, he holds out his arms as if going for a hug, and I've already stuck my hand out for a handshake, and then we begin the uncomfortable dance of switching between them until we both settle on a handshake. He sits down first and I follow suit.

"How are you?" he asks in French.

"Better," the language is still gritty against my tongue.

I reach into my purse, pull out the red letter and press it against the table. It's not all I brought. Digging through the rest of my purse, past the book and my compact and wallet, and all the hoarder things I carry to check myself in bathroom mirrors, my fingers finally clasp it. I grab the bag with Rachel's hairbrush. I'm lucky I snagged it before Estelle tossed out everything of Rachel's altogether. All her clothes are in donation bags shoved into her old closet. I don't think we technically were allowed to throw out everything since I haven't served her with an eviction notice but what's she going to do, sue us? She's a wanted fugitive.

"You think it was your roommate who was harassing you?" he asks.

I nod, "almost certainly. I didn't open the letter to preserve any fingerprints that she might have left behind. I'm sure she was clever enough to wear gloves, but it was worth testing anyway."

He takes them both and puts them in his bag. We probably could have done this futile little exchange in the post, but I needed to see his face when I did it. So much communication is lost over the phone, so Spencer tells me. I'm still not a profiler, but I'm getting better at explaining myself to others, and at seeing what is on their face.

Right now, I'm looking at Luc and I expect to see the boy who testified. Tight face, teary eyed, at my brother's side even though after I started dating Luc their relationship was strained. I expect to see someone who looks at me like I'm glass. Of course, I don't. He has a hard jawline now. All of the baby fat he had was gone, not that I thought it was baby fat at the time. Now, we are the grown-ups. My little sister is married, for God's sake.

"I'll run it," he says. "Discreetly, of course And I'll let you know the results as soon as I have them."

"Thanks."

I don't know what else to say. The last time I spoke to him we were interrupted by Spencer, my then house guest and barely amicable coworker. He wasn't at my sister's wedding, even though Mylène was. I mean, I've spoken to him over the phone, but this is different. Spencer was right. A lot is lost over the phone. I don't think I really wanted to find those missing pieces though.

"You don't speak French a lot, do you?" he doesn't switch to English when he says it, thankfully, since that would be even more patronizing than his comment. You can tell he's from Québec, certainly.

"We speak in English, my siblings and me," I say. "It's not something we really kept up with outside of school."

"Well, you are an American," he huffs and then diverts his eyes. His accent is unmistakably thick. He says it like an insult.

All this considered, I'm happy to be American. Right here is the place I belong, and I'm more than happy to keep myself here. I'm not really from Québec anymore. Even while living there, I wasn't really. Most of my life up to that point I'd lived in New Hampshire, and there were nine months I lived in Québec. Nine.

"You know," he looks down at his bag. "If I run these, and the FBI asks the Canadian government for any information on her-"

"I'll deal with it," I huff.

He's not committing a crime. Really. He's using a lab to do me a favour, and anyway, he'll run a match domestically on any fingerprints inside the letter. So, we'll know if they are His before we know if Rachel is at all responsible.

Luc raises an eyebrow but says nothing more.

"How've you been, otherwise?" he asks. "Did you end up telling Stéphane about any of this?"

I force myself to hold back a snort, "no. No one even knows I'm here. The only other person who knows about the letters is Bastien, but he's got enough on his plate now."

"Bastien?" Luc asks. "How old is he now? I can only picture him as a kid."

"He's almost twenty-four."

Luc's eyes are wide. Bastien is only five years younger than us, but when I was young the distance felt so large. That sort of thing happens when you have a twin, and I also guess when you have my mother for a parent. Which is to say, you don't really have a parent at all.

"Caro's married too."

"I know," Luc says. "Small towns, information travels."

Don't I know it.

We chitchat a bit more about other small town things, and then I head off to bed. The rest of the night I spend prepping for my PhD interviews. I haven't had a proper interview since the one which got me into the BAU. I should have asked Hotch for feedback on how I did, but the bulk of the interview was a vetting process anyway, and profilers would give terrible tips. They notice more than anyone, even small-town dwellers.

I just hope that when I come back, Spencer doesn't notice this.

~~~~~

Luc Levesque appearance! Also, after the next update I might speed up chapters if I'm far enough ahead. How do people feel about biweekly updates? I only want to do them if I can commit to it fully so idk. Also, next chapter is going to be a bit of a doozy. Whoops.