+18 - eps 6-11 - A unique city. A unique police team led by a unique woman. And an uptight fed set on a collision course.
On the second installment of the Blackbird Series, new cases push Brock and Gillian to work closer together, even in order t...
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Brock brought his late tea to the table and sat down with a heartfelt sigh. It'd been almost a ten-hour drive from DC to Boston in the snowfall. But the forecast had warned it was only the prologue of an incoming nor'easter that would last two or three days. So flights had been cancelled at least until Monday, and by then he had to be back and reporting to the office again. So he had left DC anyway, promising a worried Andrea to be careful and call her as soon as he got home.
Odd, that choice of words. But the oddest thing about it was that it was exactly how he felt, walking back into his apartment in South Boston: in a way he was back home.
He took a long hot shower to relax his stiff neck and shoulders from the long drive, and fixed himself a quick dinner. He sat face to the window, open curtains to the thick veil of snow falling on the city, an herbs tea at hand and four old notebooks he'd found in his boxes and brought with him from DC. They held his notes from cases he'd worked as a BAU profiler, and they were labeled by year and city. These were from 1998, 2001, 2004 and 2007, and they had one thing in common: they held the notes of the four cases he'd worked in Boston before Georgia's death.
He'd come across them while sorting his old papers, and thought that maybe in his old notes he'd find a clue as to when and how he'd met Gillian in the past. It was sort of frustrating, having no recollection of her before that noon in Boloco, six months earlier. He still wondered what could've made him bend the rules so far as to send her those manuals she still seemed to hold so dear. Especially when it was plain to see that they were the reason why she thought so high of him, and behaved with him like she did with nobody else.
Not that he was interested in her, but he could still hear the echo of those words she'd said right before leaving the blasted building, 'Oh, captain, my captain.' They'd fed his curiosity, like the final piece to that sort of puzzle she was for him. One that stubbornly resisted his attempts to figure it—her—out, while she always seemed to see right through him. And that really annoyed the profiler in him.
He read about the cases from 2007 and 2004, and then felt too tired to keep going. Before going to bed in his favorite black pajamas, he pulled the bedroom curtains open, and only a couple of minutes later he fell asleep to the snowfall.
