The conference room was silent except for the soft hum of the projector and the turning of report pages.

Hotch watched the corkboard intently. Photographs, clippings, patterns. It all seemed scattered at first glance, but he was already looking for the thread that connected it all.

“The signature is not elaborate. It's not attention seeking” he muttered without raising his voice, more to himself than to the rest of the team. “But he repeats the same postmortem check on every victim. That's personal.”

Chairs creaked as the agents began to nod, each processing the information with equal intensity. Prentiss was organizing his notes. Reid was mumbling something about neurological patterns. Morgan was twirling a pen between his fingers, fidgeting.

Hotch didn't sit down. He walked over to the map pinned to the side of the room. Three dots marked in red. None random.

“The next attack will be soon. It's accelerating. And it won't stop on its own,” he said, turning to the team. “Let's split up. Prentiss, Morgan, look for traffic footage at the highway exits. JJ, get in touch with the local press. Nothing sensational. We just want collaboration.”

Everyone got moving without a single objection. Hotch picked up his phone and checked the messages that kept piling up. No one would say, but they knew he hadn't slept well since the case started. He wouldn't until it was over either.

Before leaving, he paused for a moment in front of the sketchy suspect profile.

“There's something we haven't seen yet” he muttered, even lower.