Oscar Wilde wrote, "To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness."

Emily Prentiss passed through Quantico's security gate with habitual inattention. Same agents, same procedure, same rote greetings. Maybe we'll get some sun today. Can't believe it's raining again. Have a good day. She kept the polite smile on her face, but she barely noticed the men she was talking to. Instead, she was looking around for any of her teammates.

None in the lobby. She glanced at her watch. On a normal day, Reid and Gideon would already be upstairs by this time. Maybe Hotchner. Morgan would wander in later, looking like he'd shaved in his car – which he frequently did. JJ and Garcia were a little less predictable, usually arriving about the same time she did. It was the rhythm of the team, she had learned. Predictable, habitual. The routine. And yesterday, the whole routine had been turned on its ear.

Yesterday Gideon had called in sick.

In the months she'd been with the BAU, Gideon had never missed a day of work. He never even took his scheduled days off. But yesterday he was off, and the rest of the team might as well have been. All of them had been alternatively sullen and snappish, angst-filled and angry. No one seemed to want to talk about it. When she'd asked Morgan what was going on with Gideon, he'd just glared at her before he walked away. It was Garcia who had finally, mercifully, whispered the secret word in her ear.

Boston.

It had been the third anniversary of Boston.

Everybody in the Bureau knew about Boston. Serial bomber Adrian Bale had been cornered in Boston. He threatened to blow up himself and his hostage; Gideon persuaded him into surrender. With Bale in custody, Gideon had sent six agents – one from the BAU, five from the local office – into the building to recover the bomb and free the hostage. The moment they were inside, Bale used a hidden remote to blow the bomb, bringing down the building and killing all seven people inside. Jason Gideon had suffered a complete mental breakdown and been off the team for six months.

Three years ago yesterday.

Gideon had stayed home, and the rest of the team should have.

Prentiss shook her head as she walked toward the elevator. Hopefully today they'd all be less twitchy. Twitchy, she thought wryly. There was a fine psychological term for it. In my professional assessment, the BAU was twitchy yesterday. But it was accurate, too.

"Special Agent Prentiss?"

Prentiss turned towards the reception desk. The agent there – tall, blond, nose too big, Marcinek was his name – waved her over. "Agent Prentiss, this young lady is asking to see Special Agent Gideon. Can you sign her in?"

Prentiss walked over, examining the visitor in question. Young lady, indeed – maybe twenty, maybe three years either direction. A little shorter than Emily, a little heavier, curvier. Medium brown hair in a thick single braid that reached below her waist. Light complexion, smallish features that probably made her look younger than she was. Huge green eyes. Token make-up which did nothing to cover her obvious exhaustion. Jeans, leather loafers, scarlet polo shirt, tan jacket. Damp; the rain had slackened to a drizzle, but no umbrella in evidence.

She was trying hard to cover it, but it showed in her posture, her eyes, her curled hands, her tightly closed lips: The girl was scared to death.

Prentiss smiled with careful neutrality. "Of course. Is Agent Gideon in?"

Marcinek nodded. "He came in a few minutes ago, but no one's answering up in the office yet."

"Probably getting coffee." Prentiss took the clipboard and signed her name quickly next to the young woman's. Constance Grail. Who named their daughter Constance? "Thank you," she said, handing the clipboard back. "This way, Miss Grail."

The girl followed her onto the elevator without speaking. "Is Gideon expecting you?" Prentiss asked casually.

Grail shook her head. "No. I'm sure he's not." Her voice was very soft. She stared intently at nothing on the carpet.

There was a moment of silence. Prentiss swore inwardly. If she had Hotchner's talent, she'd have had the whole story out of the girl before they reached their floor. She didn't even know where to start. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm Emily Prentiss." She stuck her hand out.

The young woman eyed her, then swallowed visibly. "C-constance," she said uncertainly. "Constance Grail." After another awkward pause, she shook her hand very briefly.

"Your hands are freezing," Prentiss observed.

"Si." The girl went back to staring at the floor.

A chill crept up Prentiss' spine. What in the world was this girl so afraid of? What did it have to do with Gideon? And would Gideon be in any shape to deal with this, after yesterday? What did he do to commemorate the anniversary? Drink himself stupid? Prentiss would have.

And she hated the small, quiet voice inside that said, good, give us a case, having something to do will get my team back to normal.

As they left the elevator, Gideon walked across the communal office, an open file in his hands and his head down over the contents. He still had his jacket on; evidently he'd detoured to pick something up on his way in. "Gideon!" Prentiss called, relieved. "Gideon, this is …"

She stopped, because Jason Gideon had turned to face them – no, to face her, the girl, he didn't even know Prentiss was there – and the color had drained from his face. Shit, Prentiss thought. She scanned the girl quickly. Constance would have had to come through the metal detector; she wasn't armed. She hadn't even moved.

But Prentiss knew that look on Gideon's face, too. It was the look he got right before the unsub pulled the trigger. I know she's not armed, she thought frantically. She's smaller than me, smaller than him. What's he afraid of? She'd been sure Gideon would know what to do with this troubled young woman. It was alarming to think she was still the calmest person in the room.

Gideon walked to them slowly, dropping the file folder onto a desk on his way. It slithered to the floor, scattering papers. He didn't notice. He stopped three feet from them – from her – and simply stared.

The girl still didn't move.

"Uh, Gideon," Prentiss said nervously, "this is, uh, this is Constance Gr…"

"I know," Gideon said faintly. He swallowed visibly. His face was as white as his shirt. Then he shifted, and suddenly he was almost himself again. "What's wrong, Zee-Zee?" he asked in his very best calm-the-hysterical witness voice.

The girl flinched. She knows that voice, Prentiss thought. She resents it. She's not hysterical. Not yet.

Grail took a deep breath. Then she took another one and said, quickly, "Momdidn'tcomehomelastnightIcan'tfindherthepolicewon'thelpmeIdon'tknowwhereelsetogo."

It came out as one long word, a blur, but Gideon got it before Prentiss did. He seemed, oddly enough, relieved. "We'll find her," he answered firmly.

The girl trembled. "I know you can't …"

Gideon moved closer and touched her arm gently. "You're my girl now, remember? We'll find her."

The girl licked her lips, and for the first time there were tears in her eyes. "Thank you." Her voice quivered.

He smiled, the tight, warm, hurt smile. "C'mon, Peanut. Start at the beginning, tell me what happened." He moved closer still, put his arm around her shoulder. Constance leaned easily into his embrace as he steered her back towards the elevator.

"Ahhh …." Prentiss began. A case, and a million questions to start with. How long had the mother been missing? Where had she disappeared from? Why wouldn't the police help? And come to think of it, it didn't really sound like a BAU case at all, unless there were some extenuating circumstances, but she didn't care, a case was a case …

"Prentiss," Gideon said, "tell Hotch I'm taking the day off."

Two in a row? Prentiss thought, startled. "Uh, but aren't we …"

"This is a personal matter," Gideon replied, quietly but very firmly. "Tell him I'll call him later. Tell him … if a case comes in to call me, but if I don't answer go without me. I'll be back when I can."

"Ah … okay. But Gideon …"

"It'll be okay."

Whether this last was to her or to Constance, Prentiss couldn't tell. They were already walking away from her.

Prentiss floundered in their wake. "But … but … Gideon, come on …"

She was talking to the elevator's closing doors.

"How long has she been missing?" Gideon asked as the doors closed. He released Constance's shoulder, took her hand in his. Her fingers were cold, but they curled around his familiarly, as they had when she was a little girl. Trusting. In her touch, in her remarkable eyes, the same childlike trust she'd always had in him.

Even after he had betrayed that trust, hurt her so deeply, so unimaginably, even after what he had cost her …

He drove it back into a corner of his mind. That was then. This was now, and she needed him, needed to trust him. First the living, then the dead. "Zee?"

Constance took a deep breath. "She was flying in from London yesterday afternoon. She was going to meet me for dinner. Bremmers. She never showed up."

He nodded. "The flight was late. The weather."

She shook her head. "No. I mean, yes. She was supposed to fly in yesterday morning, we were going to spend the day …." She faltered. The day. Then she squared her shoulders and went on. "That flight got cancelled. We were on the phone all day back and forth. She got a later flight and I was going to pick her up, but then the flight got delayed again. And then they lost one of her bags. With her laptop in it. They just sorta shrugged and had her fill out a claim form. She was furious. So she called me from the airport and she was starving, so she was taking a cab to Bremmers and she'd meet me there. It's like, halfway between the airport and the house. She told me to order for her as soon as I got there."

Gideon nodded. The elevator opened, and he walked her through the main lobby. People stared,

him holding hands with this pretty young woman, and some of them probably recognized her, but he didn't have time to care. "So you went to the restaurant and waited. You thought maybe traffic, she couldn't get a cab, whatever."

Constance nodded. "I ordered, I waited. The food came, she didn't … I called her cell and it was shut off. She never shuts off her phone, Uncle Jason. Never." She gestured vaguely with her free hand. "I called the house, the neighbors. The airline. Everybody I could think of. Even our 9/11 contacts." She shook her head. "I went back to the house, back to the restaurant, out to the airport. And I keep trying her cell and she's not, she's not …"

They went out into the parking garage. It was early spring; a handful of sparrows were sheltering from the rain, already fighting over prime nesting spots. The sound stopped Constance dead. She stared in their direction, her face puzzled, listening intently.

Gideon knew that look, knew what she was listening for. "Zee," he said gently.

She snapped around, focused again, ashamed. "Sorry."

"Don't be, Peanut." He squeezed her hand. "You bring your car?"

"Yeah." She gestured to the visitor parking, but it wasn't necessary. Gideon had already spotted the car. The car. The 1990 Jaguar XJS convertible, gold. Two seats, standard transmission, nothing but speed and elegance. It had been Tony's pride and joy.

His other pride and joy.

Gideon looked at the car, and then at the girl. She flinched, suddenly aware of his pain. "I'm sorry, I didn't think … I should have brought Mom's car, but I thought maybe I shouldn't touch it …"

He shook his head gently. "It's okay, Zee. It's okay." She looked miserably unconvinced. "Can I drive?"

She paused. They both heard her father, as if he'd been there with them, saying 'Oh, hell, no.' But she wasn't Tony, and she understood. With the first twinkle of life he'd seen in her, Constance handed the keys to him. "Don't tell anybody."

"I won't."

They got into the car, and Constance made a point of buckling her seatbelt. "Most of the clutch is in the top two inches," she said.

"Uh-huh." Gideon was busy adjusting the seats, the mirrors, his own seatbelt. Busy doing anything but starting the car. It's just a car, he told himself. But it wasn't. It was a car that Tony Ford had cherished and fawned over, the third woman in his life. He had been Jason's friend, and Jason had killed him, and his beloved car was still here.

And the other two women, as well. One missing, one anxious beside him.

He started the car, stalled it twice backing out. It did not have the soft forgiveness of modern clutches. But he got it going forward with only a small jolt. By the time they reached the main road, he was fairly comfortable. The rain stopped, and for a moment he wished he could put the top down. Silly, really – too cold, too much spray. But the car wanted to run topless.

"Why not the local police?" he asked.

"Hmm?" Constance looked startled. She'd been listening to something else again. Probably, Gideon guessed, the throaty growl of the car's engine.

"You said the local police wouldn't help you, but you didn't mention calling them."

She chewed her bottom lip. "Wir haben eine kleine Vorgeschichte."

Gideon glanced sharply at her. It had been a long time since he'd heard her do that. He kept his voice very calm. "In English, Peanut."

Constance took a sharp breath, nothing more, and corrected herself. "We have a little history."

"Uh-huh." He threaded the sports car onto the freeway. Going the right direction, for once; the traffic was all on the other side. Lots of room to let her run. Tony's car liked to run. "I need to know, Zee."

She still hesitated. Then, business-like, she reported. "I got arrested for drunk and disorderly. And the arresting officer offered to not arrest me if I'd … ah …perform a certain sexual favor for him."

Gideon growled, kept his eyes on the road. "And you refused."

"Yes. In the booking room he repeated the offer. I declined. He groped me. I bit him."

"You bit him?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you punch him?"

"I was handcuffed."

Gideon's knuckles were white on the wheel, his eyes narrowed to slits. So some muscle-bound cop had arrested a drunken young girl, offered her a free pass for a blow job, and then felt her up while she was handcuffed in custody. He couldn't wait to meet him. "Go on," he said, as calmly as he could.

"I bit him," Constance repeated. "And he kinda freaked out and hosed me with pepper spray."

"In a closed interrogation room."

"Yes."

"How hard did you bite him?"

She shrugged. "I was scared and I was drunk and I was angry. I think when he heard the bones crunch was when he freaked."

Gideon paused. Bones crunching. Nice. That's your girl, Tony. That's my girl now. He knew he shouldn't approve, but he did. Completely. "So he maced the two of you in a small room."

"And then my mom showed up and … things got out of hand."

Oh yes, Gideon thought. Oh, yes, have you met my mother, the international lawyer? And my … "Why didn't you call me?"

She hesitated for a long moment. "We called Aaron. He took care of it."

"Why didn't you call me?" Gideon said again.

"You weren't taking calls at the time."

The tightness in his fists had crept all the way up to Gideon's shoulders. There had only been one time in her whole life when he hadn't been there for Constance. The one time she'd needed him most. "I'm sorry, Zee."

Constance shook her head. "It's okay. Really. Hotch was great. In that suit, with that haircut … he brought out all the big scary words, federal investigation, civil rights violations, abuse of power … they fired the cop and all the charges went away. End of story."

"Except now you need them."

She looked out her window, suddenly very small and very young. "I'm sorry," she said softly.

Jason glanced at her, then took his hand off the stick shift and patted hers. "Zee-Zee, it's okay. It's okay. I just need to know what I'm walking into."

"We're going there?"

He nodded. "We're going there."