Except for this afternoon, when she merely wanted her pulse to slow and her breathing to ease and the bright spots in front of her eyes to disappear. Dr. Andrews had suggested trying biofeedback. She did that now, focusing on her hands and imagining them getting warm, warmer, hot.

The world slowly opened up. The sky became blue again, the grass green, the streets bustling. The hair was no longer standing up at the nape of her neck. The sweat cooled on her brow.

Kimberly finally relaxed her grip on her book bag. She let herself conduct a slow, sweeping circle of everything around her.

"See now," she murmured to herself. "Everyone's just going about their business, having a perfectly usual day. There's no one watching, there's nothing to fear. It's all in your head, Kimmy. It's all in your head."

She resumed walking, but at the intersection she hesitated again. She paused. She turned. She felt that chill. And even though it was a hot July day. Even though she was smart and rational and the strong member of the Quincy family, she started running and she didn't stop for a long, long time.

Quantico, Virginia

Driving through Quantico, Quincy approached the FBI Academy 's guard post, located behind the Marines' facilities, and finally slowed his car. He waited for the young security officer to spot his identifying window sticker, then nodded when the officer signaled for him to proceed. Quincy waved his thanks, but didn't take it personally when the security officer remained grim. It was the guard's job to appear intimidating at all times, he knew. On the other hand, it made an interesting start of work each day.

Not much of a sleeper, Quincy had risen at three A.M. to drive to Seattle and catch a direct flight to DC. He'd spent so many years flying all over the country that layovers had become unbearable to him and he'd do just about anything to hasten the trip. Cars, he liked and his new thing was to avoid planes altogether and drive. He'd thought that might change after Mandy's accident. It hadn't.

Reaching the outdoor lot next to the firing ranges, Quincy parked his car, then walked across the street to the back entrance of the building. He waved his ID card in front of the security scanner. It graciously let him in.

Taking the stairs down two flights to the BSU offices, he passed a fellow agent. Quincy nodded in greeting. Special Agent Deacon nodded back while judiciously avoiding his gaze. It had been like that for the last four weeks; Quincy barely noticed anymore. His daughter had died tragically, which was awkward in the best of circumstances, let alone when you worked with people who made their living trying to thwart, and thus control, untimely death. Quincy now stood as a reminder that bad things could happen close to home, that crime-scene photos weren't always of some stranger's daughter. How rude of him to show his face in the office and rock their carefully compartmentalized worlds. Quincy had even heard rumblings that he was wrong to have gone from Mandy's funeral straight to work. What kind of father could be so cold?

He didn't bother addressing those comments. When their own children died, they could figure it out for themselves.

Quincy opened the metal fire door and walked into the BSU offices.

Contrary to Hollywood images, the offices at the FBI Academy were purely functional, and the BSU offices even more so than most. Located in the second sublevel below the facility's indoor firing range, the walls were comprised of cinder blocks painted an appropriate bone-white. As the offices were carved deep into the earth, there were no windows.

The office of the Special Agent in Charge sat in the middle; the remaining offices formed a square perimeter around it. The floor plan reminded Quincy of most major prisons – central control office surrounded by maximum-security cells. Maybe the powers-that-be figured the ambience would help them enter the criminal mind.

The BSU boasted one impressive feature. Its state-of-the-art technology room, closely resembling a TV studio, enabled the agents to do teleconferencing as well as make major presentations with as many bells and whistles as the individual agent could dream up. It always amused Quincy that his working space could be so dull, and his speaking space so sleek. The Bureau did have its priorities.

Quincy hadn't always worked with the BSU. He was one of the rare agents who'd crossed an unspoken line by going from the Child Abduction/Serial Killer Unit (CASKU) to the BSU years ago. It made him something of a novelty in both worlds. An academic who'd entered the glamorous world of profiling, to a glamorous profiler who'd entered the academic world of behavioral science. Both sides used his work. Neither side knew what to make of him.

He hadn't told anyone yet, not even Rainie, but he was considering rocking the boat once more. A month ago, he'd been approached about switching again. He would join what was now called the National Center for Analysis of Violent Crime (NCAVC) as a profiler. At nearly the age of fifty, he would resume working active cases and return to the field.

Honestly, he'd missed it.

When Quincy had first joined the Bureau, he'd told himself he was doing it for the greater good. He'd spent two years as a private-practice psychologist, and while the money was good (Bethie's concern) and the work was interesting (his concern), it left him feeling restless. He'd quit policing to pursue an advanced degree because he felt it was psychology that held his primary interest. Now, he discovered that he genuinely missed detecting. The thrill of the chase, the camaraderie of fellow police officers, the comforting weight of his gun. When a friend in the Bureau approached him later that year, it wasn't a hard sale.

The next thing Quincy knew, he was working one hundred and twenty cases a year. He routinely traveled to four cities in five days. He carried a briefcase filled with photographs of the most savage crimes imaginable. He gave advice that saved lives, and sometimes, he missed clues that cost lives.

While his girls grew up. And his marriage fell apart. And the man who'd once testified in custody hearings was so knee-deep in dead bodies he was the last one to see it coming.

By the time Jim Beckett broke out of a Massachusetts prison by slaughtering two prison guards, Quincy was already a walking advertisement for burnout. By the end of that case, when he was done burying the bodies of various law enforcement officers he'd known and respected, he knew it was time for a change.

He'd transferred to the BSU where he could scale back his travel schedule and make more time for his daughters. He'd missed their childhood. Now, he belatedly tried to catch their high school years.

He designed and taught classes at Quantico while watching soccer games and school plays. He took up researching past cases, including the notorious child killer Russell Lee Holmes, for entry into the FBI's database. He attended Mandy's graduation from high school. He revisited the cold case files, examining records of serial killers who had never been caught. He helped Kimberly select the right college. He created a checklist for identifying potential mass murderers. He got a call to come to a hospital in Virginia, where he watched his older daughter die.

Time had given Quincy regrets. It had also taught him honesty. He understood now that he no longer did what he did to save the world. He worked as an agent for the same reason people worked as accountants and lawyers and corporate clerks. Because he was good at it. Because he liked the challenge. Because when the job was done right, he felt good about himself.

He had not been the husband he had wanted to be. He had not been the father he had hoped to be. Last year, however, he'd connected three mass murders that local officials had thought were one-off crimes.