Annabel Lee ─ emily prentiss

six

THE team was between cases, and all of her assigned paperwork on their most recent case—Morgan's near-prison experience—was complete, so Emily was at home reading at a little after 9 PM. She sat on her couch with her knees to her chest, flipping to the next page of The Crying of Lot 49. A librarian recommended Pynchon because Emily liked Vonnegut. She couldn't decide whether she didn't mind it or hated it, but she was pretty sure she hated it.

On the coffee table, her phone started ringing. Out of force of habit, Emily picked up immediately, thinking it might be a new case.

"Agent Prentiss?" a small, feminine voice that definitely did not belong to Hotch said. Emily thought she recognized it.

"Bel?" she asked.

"Yeah." Bel sniffled. She sat in the back corner of her bedroom, the corner farthest from the Howells' room. If she could, she would have frozen herself outside to make the call, but she was locked into this room for the night. "I—I'm so sorry to bother you. You're the only person I could think of that wouldn't be scared away, and..."

Tonight was the worst it had ever gotten at the Howells', and she was panicking. She couldn't call her newer friends. She'd only known them for a few months. This would send them packing. None of her friendships that she made during her previous placements had lasted, or progressed enough for them to be at this level of closeness even when they still saw each other daily. The only person she could think of who wouldn't be easily freaked out was the woman who found her dirty and bloody in a serial killer's basement.

"What happened?" Emily put her book down.

"I just don't understand these people." A few more tears dripped down Bel's cheeks. "I work after school a few days a week, at a restaurant. Tonight someone on the next shift called out, and my manager asked me to stay a couple extra hours. I called the Howells' house to ask if it was okay, and no one picked up, so I left a message saying I was staying late. I knew it was a mistake, but I couldn't pass up the extra money." She was the only one paying her phone bills. If she had no money, she had no cell. "When I got back to the house, they lost it. They believe in old-fashioned discipline. Belts, spatulas. Usually over something ridiculous, like not drying plates off enough after I wash them. I expect that. But I mean lost it. I had just shut the front door when I got hit by a glass."

"Oh God." Emily untucked her legs and planted her feet on the floor, leaning forward. She propped her elbow up on her knee and rested her chin on her closed hand.

Bel wasn't done. "Fred was still holding the whiskey bottle when I came inside. Before I had a chance to say anything, he started yelling about how disrespectful and ungrateful I was, how I was a liar for when I told them this morning that I would be back before seven, how I'm lucky I'm not sleeping on the streets right now. Which I expect from him. But he came over to me and smashed the bottle over my bare arm. Then he pushed me onto the ground, and I landed on the glass." She squeezed her eyes shut. "He made me clean it all up. When I was done, Carrie grabbed my arm, dragged me upstairs, and locked me in my room."

Emily sat there helpless, trying not to picture this story and failing. She spent so much time looking into the minds of twisted people, but she still couldn't wrap her head around what made a grown adult want to hurt a kid this way.

"I do everything I can to stay in line," Bel whispered, crying again softly. "I do everything they tell me to do exactly as they say it. I'm never late. I never break any rules. I never complain. I never bother them, because I'm either out of the house or in my room. But it's never enough."

"I knew I hated them," Emily said. Bel let out a small laugh. "I don't understand how people like that are allowed to become foster parents. Are you hurt?"

That was a stupid question, she realized once the words came out of her mouth.

"Not too bad." None of Bel's wounds went too deep. She picked all the glass out already, and the bleeding stopped. Before throwing her in her room, Carrie threw a few paper towels at her and told her not to get blood anywhere. "I'll be fine. I'm just so tired of it all." She crumpled the paper towels with her free hand. "I'm sorry for bothering you. You're probably busy."

"Don't be sorry." Emily shook her head, even though Bel couldn't see her. "And I'm not busy. We're not on a case right now."

"It's crazy that you work for the FBI." Bel still couldn't believe she met a real live FBI agent. "What do you do there? If it's not top secret."

"I work in the Behavioral Analysis Unit," Emily explained. She smiled at the childlike wonder in Bel's voice. It made her feel a little better, knowing that all the shitty things Bel had gone through hadn't taken away all her joy. "The short answer is that we help solve cases by profiling criminals. Maybe not as cool as doing something top secret, but..."

"Sounds pretty cool to me. You probably get to help a lot of people."

"Yeah." She thought about all of the people they couldn't save. And she thought about how Bel went right back into an abusive home after being rescued from Fuller's basement. "But sometimes it's not enough. Bel, I...you know I have to—"

"I know." Bel figured that was how this would end. She figured she couldn't talk to an FBI agent about something like this without it ending in a CPS call. "You can call CPS, a social worker, whoever. The state won't do anything. They'll probably take a look around and say the Howells aren't breaking any laws. Or I get placed somewhere that's just as bad or worse."

If CPS showed up, the Howells would flip their shit, but it couldn't get much worse than this.

"Or you get placed somewhere better," Emily countered.

"I appreciate your optimism," Bel said, and she meant it. She hoped that if she got uprooted again, she would end up somewhere better. Those homes did exist. She'd lived in a few that weren't too bad. Unfortunately, there were also a lot of homes that were just as bad as the Howells', or worse. Really, the Howells weren't even close to the worst out there, and that was why she doubted the state would move her. "Well. Um. Thank you, Agent Prentiss. For listening. And for caring."

"No problem. And please, call me Emily."

"Thank you, Emily," Bel corrected herself. "Stay safe."

"You too."

Bel hung up. Emily just sat there for a couple minutes, processing what just happened. She would never understand what drove people to treat a kid like that. She would never understand why people like the Howells became foster parents, or how the state let them do it. Bel didn't deserve this. Nobody did. She'd been through so much already. Could the world not give the poor kid a break?

Emily got up to find her computer and look up the CPS hotline number.

In her room, Bel slipped her phone into her backpack. She traded her greasy work clothes—she worked at a burger joint—for pajamas and climbed into bed after turning off the light. Curled up on her side, she pulled the blankets up to her chin. The conversation took a little weight off her chest, but not much. A few more tears dribbled onto her pillow.

★★★

Me contemplating what I'd do with this character in season six as if this story doesn't take place in season two.

Also, I feel like I should create an update schedule for this story so I'm not just posting at random whenever I feel like it.