Agent Reynolds delivered the news in Hotch's office with the careful neutrality of someone who'd done this a hundred times before.
"Self-defense. The investigation concluded that William Lee posed an imminent threat to Agent Greenaway's life. He was armed with a knife and advanced on her in a threatening manner. Agent Greenaway responded with appropriate force within acceptable parameters."
Elle sat in the chair across from Hotch's desk, her face showing nothing. Hands folded in her lap. Posture perfect. Every muscle controlled.
I stood by the door, watching.
"The case is officially closed," Reynolds continued. "Agent Greenaway is cleared for active duty. No disciplinary action, no additional review." He closed his folder. "Any questions?"
"No, sir," Elle said. "Thank you."
Reynolds left. The door clicked shut behind him.
Hotch studied Elle for a long moment.
"How are you doing? Really?"
"I'm fine, sir."
"Elle."
"I said I'm fine." She stood, smoothing her jacket. "Am I free to return to work?"
Hotch's expression flickered—something between concern and resignation.
"Yes. Take the rest of the day to process. We'll see you tomorrow."
Elle nodded and walked out.
I followed.
The bullpen erupted when word spread. Morgan appeared with champagne he'd apparently been hiding in his desk. Garcia rushed from her lair to wrap Elle in a hug that she endured without returning. Reid quoted statistics about justified shootings and survival rates that no one needed to hear but were his way of showing he cared.
Elle performed gratitude.
She smiled when she was supposed to smile. Laughed at Morgan's jokes. Accepted Garcia's tearful congratulations. Said all the right words in all the right tones.
And I watched the mask grow tighter with every passing minute.
[BEHAVIORAL ANALYSIS: ELLE GREENAWAY]
[PERFORMANCE INDICATORS: ELEVATED]
[AUTHENTIC EMOTIONAL STATE: SUPPRESSED]
[FOCUS: -4]
After twenty minutes of celebration, Elle excused herself to the bathroom. I waited thirty seconds, then followed.
She stood at the sink, splashing water on her face. When she looked up and saw me in the mirror, something cracked in her expression.
"I got away with it."
Her voice was raw, stripped of the control she'd been maintaining.
"That's supposed to feel like winning, right? The investigation is closed. My career is intact. Everyone's celebrating." She gripped the edge of the sink. "So why does it feel like drowning?"
"Because you know the truth."
"The truth." She laughed—bitter, hollow. "The truth is I murdered a man. The truth is I wanted to murder him. The truth is the lie they're celebrating out there." She turned to face me. "How am I supposed to put on that badge tomorrow and pretend I deserve it?"
I didn't have an answer.
"I don't know," I admitted. "But you don't have to figure it out today."
"Don't I?" She pushed past me toward the door. "The longer I wait, the harder it gets."
She returned to the bullpen, resumed the performance, and lasted another hour before claiming exhaustion and leaving early.
I stayed.
Watched her walk to her desk. Watched her open her laptop. Watched her pull up a document—resignation letter template—and begin to type.
She wrote. Deleted. Wrote again. The cursor blinked against white space, waiting for words that wouldn't come easily.
Finally, she saved the document without printing. Closed her laptop. Gathered her things.
The decision wasn't made yet.
But it was forming.
The drive back to her apartment was silent. Neither of us spoke—sometimes words made things worse, and this was one of those times.
Elle held my hand on the gear shift. Connection without conversation. Presence without pressure.
Her apartment felt different now. The same furniture, the same layout, but haunted by everything that had happened here—Garner's attack, her recovery, the confession that still hung in the air between us.
We sat on the couch. Not touching. Just existing in the same space.
"I can't keep putting on the badge and pretending I deserve it," Elle said finally.
I didn't argue.
"Some choices have to be owned," she continued. "I can live with what I did. I think. Eventually. But I can't live with pretending I didn't do it. Every day, walking into that office, accepting congratulations for something that was really..." She trailed off.
"Murder."
"Yeah." She looked at me. "You're not going to try to talk me out of it?"
"Would it help?"
"No."
"Then no."
Elle was quiet for a long time.
"Thank you," she said finally. "For not lying to me about this. Everyone else would tell me I'm being too hard on myself. That I did what I had to do. That Lee deserved it."
"Maybe he did deserve it. That doesn't change what you did."
"No. It doesn't."
She leaned against me—the first physical contact she'd initiated in days. I wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
"What happens now?" I asked.
"I don't know. But tomorrow, I start writing my resignation letter for real."
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