Bell stands in the parking lot, moonlight giving him gravitas and a thin shadow. “Did you leave something?”

“Yes. But I left it on purpose.” She hunts through the open trunk by feel. “Okay. Got it.” She lifts up her prize.

“Tequila?” Now Bell sounds interested.

“Hey, we drink tequila in Ohio, too.”

Emma’s not sure where to go, because alcohol is forbidden in the federal buildings and specifically in the dorms. Bell vetoes drinking in the parking lot, but shows how they can cut across the lawn to reach the grove. There’s something about the springy texture of the grass underfoot that Emma finds deeply restorative.

The grove is the paved area where agents and staff can take their cafeteria food to eat outside. At this time of night it’s lit only by shadow; the café tables all have their blue umbrellas folded.

Emma pulls out a plastic chair and plonks herself down. “Smoke ’em if you got ’em.”

“No glasses.” Bell, still standing, grimaces and pats down his front as if he’ll somehow find them there.

“Oh no, whatever will we do.” Emma unscrews the cap from the bottle and takes a sip. Holds it out.

Bell seems to realize he’s being ridiculous because he’s tired. He takes the bottle, regards it. “You know this is terrible tequila.”

“Thousands of college students can’t be wrong.”

It’s the first snort she’s gotten out of him for hours. He parks himself in a chair, knocks back a mouthful, and makes a face. “Jesus.”

“Lightweight.”

“How can you drink this shit?”

“Like this.” She retrieves the bottle and takes another slug. “Talk to me, Travis.”

He sighs. “It’s nearly two in the morning. Too late to talk.”

“Are you okay?”

He accepts the bottle, drinks. “No.”

“No.” She takes the bottle off him, drinks, sets it on the table to stare at. “I won’t tell you that you’ll get used to it, or it’ll get easier. I’m used to it, and it doesn’t get easier.”

“So you just suck it up.”

“Pretty much. It’s like every other kind of grief. Give it time, et cetera.”

“Yeah.” He takes a shot, presses his lips as he swallows. “I know the routine.”

She retrieves the bottle for another sip. “My therapist told me it’s better to feel it than to be blunted, so… I guess that’s good advice?”

“Hard to feel and keep working.”

“Yeah. But when your work involves doing what’s needed to catch this guy…”

“Then you stay strong.” He nods. “This killer’s had no outline for me, y’know. I haven’t been able to picture him, since this whole thing started. But today I finally felt like I could see an outline. And more than just an edge—a whole silhouette.”

“Yeah. Today we got something.” But at what cost? She can’t think like that. She takes a long pull from the bottle.

“Easy, tiger.” Bell takes the bottle gently, sets it down.

She looks at her fingers. “I worry about it sometimes.”