I listened in horror, pulling the rag away and realizing my nose bleed had finally ceased. The rag landed on the side table as I tossed it aside.

“You couldn’t have known,” I said.

“But I did. I knew from the start what the risk was. I knew the statistics of waiting for back up. The statistics of agents killed and assaulted in the field are much higher for those who do not wait.”

“Stone,” I tried, squeezing his hand even tighter. “What happened is not your fault.”

“The chance of fatality is two times higher when an agent does not wait. Two times! I never should have been okay with that number. I never should have let her go into that building. And now, I live with the consequences every single day.”

“It’s not your fault,” I repeated.

“I found her still alive,” he said. “When I arrived, it was too late. The unsub had stabbed her. I shot them, but it was far too late. She’d just fallen to the ground, limp. I’ll live with the picture of that for the rest of my life. If I had gotten there seconds earlier, maybe it would be different. The little girl lived, but Blythe didn’t. Those first few months after were brutal. I tortured myself, thinking about what I could have done differently. I drank myself into oblivion and took a leave of absence from the FBI. It wasn’t until Agent Grey found me and dragged me back to Quantico that I got sober. I knew Blythe would hate what I became, and somehow, that was far worse than hiding from the memory of what happened.”

I had no words. Nothing I could say would make this better. I wanted to pull him close, for Stone to know someone cared. I was there and listening, and I would never run from this. There may not be anyone in the world who understood this type of pain better than me.

I tortured myself with the thought of what if I never ran from the hospital. What if I had stayed and helped the police? Maybe they would have already found the killer by now.

“I’m here,” I said, the one thing I could think of that might bring him some comfort.