If I indulged my fantasy, helped catch the killer and found justice—if not for Amy, for others like her—would I emerge renewed? Would I be just like everyone else, reading about horrible crimes and thinking “what is the world coming to?” but feeling no compulsion to act on that horror, that outrage? Did I want to be like that?

Twigs crackled and I froze. My first thought was “Jack” and hope zinged through me. I could talk to Jack. Get more details, work this out—

“Nadia?” a voice whispered. “It’s Mitch.”

I hesitated, then said. “Over here.”

“I didn’t want to spook you,” he said as he approached. The moon lit his wry smile. “Never a smart move with someone who knows aikido.”

I tried to smile back. Probably succeeded.

“You okay?” he asked. “I heard you leave the house.”

“Just getting some air. Couldn’t sleep. Lagged from the drive, I think.”

He moved closer. “You seemed a little off today. Is it what that kid said?”

“Kid?” It took a moment to realize he meant the rookie’s comments. “No, no. Just the trip.” I managed a smile. “I’ll be fine tomorrow, just in time for the shooting range. Gonna kick your ass again.”

“Nothing new there.” Now he was the one struggling to return the smile. “I know it must be hard for you, still hearing stuff like that, after all these years, but—” He tilted his head, looking away, as if trying to decide whether to continue. “I just—For five years, I’ve kept my mouth shut, Nadia, not wanting to upset you, but I saw how you were today after that kid’s dumb crack, so I’m going to say it. What happened to you could have happened to me or a dozen guys I know. Circumstances pile up and…” He waved his hand. “Things happen. Maybe you snap. Maybe you slip. Point is, it could happen, and we all see how it could happen.”

I nodded. Struggled to look grateful. I knew what he was trying to do, but he saw only that single event. It hadn’t been a slip, but an escalation, culminating in one explosive, career-ending move.

I said a few words. Can’t remember what. Just token sentiments, meant to reassure him that he’d succeeded in reassuring me. He moved closer, on pretext of blocking the cold night air—so close I could feel his breath, warm on my cheek. I knew he was struggling to put words to something else, something more personal, but I pretended not to notice. It was easier that way. Easier for me. Easier on him.

Maybe five years ago, he would have been the answer to my prayers. Today, I knew myself better, and knew there was nothing I could ever really share with a guy like Mitch Dylan.