“What a fantasy,” Brazil said.

“You know what? You’re a total waste of my time.” She meant it.

They walked on, moving away from the campus and cutting through narrow roads where faculty lived in restored homes with cherished lawns and old trees. Brazil used to wander these lanes as a boy, fantasizing about people inside expensive homes, imagining important professors and their nice husbands and wives. Light filled their windows and seemed so warm back then, and sometimes draperies were open and he could see people moving inside, walking across the living room with a drink, sitting in a chair reading or at a desk working.

Brazil’s loneliness was buried out of reach and unnamed. He did not know what to call the hollow hurt that started somewhere in his chest and pressed against his heart like two cold hands. He never cried when the hands pressed, but would tremble violently like a distressed flame when he thought he might lose his tennis match or when he didn’t get an A. Brazil could not watch sad movies, and now and then beauty overwhelmed him, especially live music played by symphonies and string quartets.

West could feel rage building in Brazil as they walked. The mounting silence became oppressive as they passed lighted homes and dark thick trees armored in ivy and kudzu. She did not understand him and was beginning to suspect she’d made a big mistake thinking she could. So what if she’d worked hostage negotiation, homicides, and was experienced in talking people out of killing themselves or someone else? This didn’t mean she was even remotely capable of helping a strange guy like Andy Brazil. In fact, she didn’t have time.

“I want this killer,” Brazil started in, talking louder than was necessary or wise. “Okay? I want him caught.”

He was obsessed, as if what this killer was doing was personal. West had no intention of getting into his space on this. They walked on. Brazil suddenly kicked a rock with a fancy black and purple Nike leather tennis shoe that looked like something Agassi would endorse.

“What he does.” Brazil kicked more rocks. “What do you think it must be like?” His voice got louder. “Driving somewhere in a strange city, tired, away from home, a lot on your mind. Getting lost, stopping to ask directions.” Another rock skittered across blacktop. “Next thing, you’re being led to some Godforsaken place, behind an abandoned building. A warehouse. A vacant lot.”

West stopped walking. She was staring at him as he furiously stomped ahead, wheeled around.

“Hard cold steel against your head as you beg not to die!” he yelled as if the crime had happened to him. “As he blows your brains out anyway!”

West was frozen as she watched something she had never seen before this moment. Porch lights of nearby houses flipped on.

“He pulls your pants down and spray-paints this symbol! How would you like to die that way?”

More lights came on. Dogs barked. West went into her police mode without a conscious thought. She walked over to Brazil and firmly took his arm.