The crack of splintering wood rang sharp in JJ’s ears, followed by the familiar chorus of “FBI!” as the team burst through the entryway. She moved quickly, footsteps measured and quiet as her eyes swept the hall. Gun drawn. Jaw tight.

They’d been hunting this unsub for over a month. Patterns mapped, habits logged—Garcia had eyes on everything from his grocery list to his 3 a.m. browsing history. They were sure he was here.

Voices echoed through the house as the team cleared rooms—“Clear!” “Nothing!” “Basement’s empty!”—but JJ pressed forward, moving up the stairs with steady control.

Second door on the left. Closed. Her hand wrapped around the knob, slow and precise. She nudged the door open, gun raised, ready for anything.

Except this. JJ’s breath caught. It wasn’t the unsub. Not even close.

A child.

Her heart dropped into her stomach. No one had said anything about a kid. There hadn’t been any sign of one. Not on the surveillance. Not in the files. Not in the twenty-four-hour surveillance loop Garcia had sent that very morning.

For just a second, Jennifer froze. Her eyes softened. Mouth parted, breath shallow, brain already flipping through every worst-case scenario and how the hell they’d missed this.