Spencer is sitting in his car, engine idling, mentally rehearsing the grocery list he will absolutely forget, when the back door opens.
Someone slides in.
“Uber for—” she starts, breathless.
Spencer turns halfway in his seat. “Oh—um—no. Sorry. This isn’t an Uber. This is just—this is my car.”
She looks up from her phone.
“No,” she says. “This is right.”
“…That’s not how that works,” Spencer says, frowning. “I don’t have the app, and this is literally just a Prius.”
She checks her watch. “You’re parked outside a bank.”
“Yes,” he says. “Which is coincidental and not—”
“Spencer Reid.”
The use of his name makes him flinch.
She sounds bored. Almost tired.
“I have just robbed the bank behind us.”
Silence.
“…I’m sorry, you what?”
“Digitally,” she adds, like it helps.
“That somehow seems worse,” he says, because he is not built for this.
“No one inside has noticed yet,” she continues. “They won’t for another—”
She checks her watch.
“—three minutes.”
The air in the car goes thick and still.
“I’m FBI,” Spencer says finally.
“I know.”
He catches her in the rearview mirror — calm, observant — and it almost makes her laugh.
His hand twitches toward his phone.
“Wait,” she says. Not sharp. Not urgent. Just… precise.
She reaches into her messenger bag and pulls out something small and forgettable — until every screen in the car flickers. The dash stutters. His phone glitches in his hand.
Spencer freezes, not scared — focused.
“That device,” he says slowly, “isn’t transmitting long-range.”
“No,” she agrees. “Short burst. Isolated. It’ll stop in about ten seconds.”
“…You timed it.”
“Yes.”
The screens go dark. His phone returns to normal.
She doesn’t rush him.
“I’m not trapping you,” she says. “I just needed you to finish listening.”
Spencer studies her in the mirror now. Really looks.
“You could’ve used a weapon,” he says.
“I don’t work with fear,” she replies. “It’s unreliable.”
That lands.
He doesn’t reach for the phone again.
“The money’s gone?” he asks instead.
“Rerouted.”
“To where?”
“Medical debt relief. Student loan clearinghouses. Nonprofits with audited outcomes and transparent reporting.”
He exhales through his nose. “You kept records.”
“Yes.”
“Metrics?”
“Yes.”
“…Impact assessments?”
She smiles. Just a little. “You’d like them.”
That’s the moment.
Because she’s right.
“You understand,” he says carefully, “that what you’re doing is still illegal.”
“Yes.”
“But you’re minimizing harm.”
“Yes.”
“And you chose a time when the bank was least staffed.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t take anything for yourself.”
“No.”
Spencer looks down at the steering wheel.
Then back up.
“You didn’t pick me because I’m armed,” he says.
“No.”
“You picked me because I won’t escalate.”
“And because,” she adds gently, “you’d want to see the data before you made a judgment.”
Silence.
That’s when he puts the car in drive.
Slow. Controlled. Deliberate.
Signals.
Of course.
“I’m not agreeing to anything,” he says.
“I know.”
“You’re going to explain everything.”
“I planned to.”
“…And if I decide to stop the car?”
She nods. “Then you’ll do it with all the information.”
A siren wails somewhere in the distance. Spencer tenses — then steadies.
The car keeps moving.