Garcia only uses that tone when something dramatic is about to happen.
We’re halfway through the briefing and stuck. Completely stuck.
The unsub wiped his digital footprint so clean it’s almost impressive. No credit cards. No phones. No social media activity. Whoever this guy is, he knew exactly how to disappear.
Even Reid’s quiet.
Garcia exhales loudly from across the room, leaning back in her chair.
“Okay,” she says, fingers lifting off the keyboard. “I need a minute.”
Hotch looks up. “Garcia.”
“I’m working, sir. Promise.” She waves one hand vaguely at the screens. “But this guy? He’s slippery. Whoever scrubbed his trail knew what they were doing.”
Rossi folds his arms. “You saying you can’t find him?”
Garcia turns slowly in her chair.
“I’m saying,” she says carefully, “that I know one person who might be able to do it faster.”
That gets my attention.
I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms.
“Didn’t know that person existed,” I say.
Garcia grins.
“Oh, she exists.”
Hotch nods once. “Bring her in.”
Garcia pops out of her chair immediately, disappearing down the hallway.
The room settles again. Papers shift. Reid flips through the file. The board glows quietly with timelines and victim photos.
I glance toward the door.
Garcia doesn’t bring people in lightly.
About a minute later I hear footsteps returning.
Two sets.
Garcia comes through the doorway first, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
“And here we are,” she announces.
Someone steps in behind her.
I sit up a little without meaning to.
The girl behind Garcia looks like she belongs in a university library, not an FBI bullpen.
She’s wearing an oversized sweater that hangs loose around her frame, the collar of a dress shirt peeking out neatly from underneath. A headset rests around her neck like she pulled it off moments ago. Her hair immediately stands out—patches of orange, black, and blonde mixed together in a strange calico pattern that somehow works.
Big glasses—really big—frame her face.
She looks nervous.
Garcia gestures toward her proudly.
“Everyone,” Garcia says, “this is Agent Celeste Marlowe.”
The girl lifts one hand slightly in a small, hesitant wave.
That’s it.
No introduction. No speech.
Just a quiet wave and a quick glance around the room before her eyes drop toward the floor again.
Garcia continues without missing a beat.
“Cyber division. Digital reconstruction specialist. Behavioral pattern analysis in online environments.”
Reid straightens immediately, interested.
Garcia beams.
“And the only person I know who is better than me at finding people on the internet.”
That’s a bold claim.
Hotch steps forward slightly.
“Agent Marlowe,” he says.
She straightens a little at the sound of his voice but still doesn’t speak.
Hotch gestures toward the board.
“We’re looking for a suspect who erased his digital footprint three days ago.”
Her gaze lifts toward the screen.
Something changes.
The nervous posture fades just a little as she studies the board.
She steps closer.
One hand pushes her large glasses slightly higher on her nose as her eyes move across the timeline. Victim photos. Dates. Known digital activity.
She studies it quietly.
Focused.
Completely silent.
Garcia watches her expectantly like a proud older sister.
The rest of us just wait.
I lean forward slightly in my chair, watching her.
Oversized sweater.
Headset around her neck.
Looks like a sleep-deprived grad student who wandered into the wrong building.
And Garcia just said she’s better than her.
Agent Marlowe tilts her head slightly as she studies the board, eyes moving quickly from detail to detail.
Then she steps closer to Garcia’s workstation.
No words.
Just quiet focus.
Her fingers hover briefly over the keyboard.
Garcia slides the chair toward her with a grin.
I watch the exchange, the corner of my mouth pulling into a small smile.
Well.
This should be interesting.