"What do you think your father would feel right now if he could hear you?" Dr. Andrews asked.

"He would be hurt."

"And this person who is targeting your father, what is his goal?"

"To hurt him," she replied, then bowed her head as she saw his point.

Dr. Andrews gave her his lecturer's stare. "If this is war, Miss Quincy, which side is currently winning?"

"My mother hated his job."

"Law enforcement has a disproportionately high rate of divorce."

"No, she hated his job. The violence. The grit. The way he seemed to belong more to it than to us. She created a beautiful home. She produced two beautiful daughters. And still he'd rather live in the shadows."

"It's a calling. You understand that."

"But that's my whole point. My mother is dead and I'm sad and I'm furious but I'm also… motivated. For the first time in months, I feel awake. One moment I was existing in some sort of fugue state, and now… I want to find the bastard. I want to read the crime-scene reports. I want to trace this monster's steps, I want to tear apart every little facet of his personality and unmask him. And I am thinking about him more than I'm grieving for my mother. Dr. Andrews, what is wrong with us?"

Dr. Andrews finally smiled, an unheard-of softening of his hard-lined face. "Ah, Miss Quincy. Haven't you ever noticed that criminologists never do a study on criminologists?"

"We're sick, aren't we?"

"We're intellectualists. Our desire to understand why things happen outweighs our rage at the events."

"Rage is purer," she said bitterly.

"Rage lacks constructiveness. Think of it this way: Cops are doers. They get angry at what they encounter. They make arrests. In that way, they help control crime, but their intervention is always after the fact. Criminologists, sociologists, criminal behaviorists, are thinkers. We get curious. We do studies. We come up with things like profiling, which enables law enforcement to prevent future atrocities."

"When I was growing up," Kimberly said, "I used to think of my father as a general, off fighting in some foreign land. It made me proud. Even when my feelings were hurt, even when I was mad because he missed my soccer game or my birthday, I was proud."

Dr. Andrews leaned forward. He said gently, "You say you're proud of your father, Miss Quincy, and I believe that you are. But lately, you've also been distancing yourself from him. Why is that?"

She stiffened. "I don't know what you mean."

"The anxiety attacks. You've mentioned them to me, but I get the impression you haven't mentioned them to him."

Kimberly bowed her head again. Her fingers fidgeted in her lap. "I didn't… I don't know. I tell myself I don't want to worry him. But I don't think that's it. I think… I don't want to seem high-strung. You know – like Mandy."

Dr. Andrews winced. He sat back, and for the first time, Kimberly noticed how troubled he appeared. The lines were deeper in his face, his eyes didn't have that stern stare she'd grown accustomed to. For a moment, he almost appeared human. "I have a confession to make, Miss Quincy. I think I might have led you astray."

"What do you mean?" She sat up straighten Her heart began to pound again.

No, she thought. No mistakes from you. No mere mortality from NYU's most-feared professor. Her world was falling apart and even if it was immature of her, she needed the gods in her life to remain gods.

"I'm the one who originally attributed your anxiety attacks to stress," Dr. Andrews said.

"My sister had died, it made sense."

"But now we have additional data points. Think of what your father said. Someone has targeted your family. That someone has been at this for at least two years."

"Yes." She looked at him quizzically, then it suddenly clicked. The blood drained out of her face. Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. "My feeling of being watched. You think… you think it's him."

"We can't rule it out," Dr. Andrews said quietly. He added with the most kindness she'd ever heard from him, "I am truly sorry, Miss Quincy. I rushed to the most obvious conclusion. Perhaps it's time to listen to my own lectures."

"He's stalking me." She couldn't get over that idea. The concept was a curious one. It made her feel at once violated, yet relieved. Violated because some unknown predator had invaded her life and hunted her down like cattle. Relieved because the violation was real, not just in her head. All those times. The goose bumps, the cold chills creeping up her spine. She hadn't gone mental. Strong, logical Kimberly was still strong, logical Kimberly. Oh thank God…

"It fits his MO," Dr. Andrews was saying.

"Goddammit, he's been stalking me!" She was mad now. The rage brought desperately needed color to her cheeks, and stiffened her spine for the first time in weeks. Hunted? She would not be hunted.

Dr. Andrews was studying her. He must have liked what he saw, because he nodded encouragingly. "Remember what we were saying. Get curious. Put yourself in the predator's shoes. What makes him tick?"

She took a deep breath. "Games," she said after a moment. "He likes playing games."

"That is consistent with what we know. What else?"

"He doesn't want a quick kill. It's not about the murder, it's about the process. Personal. He wants it to be personal. Intimate."

"He won't be a stranger to you."

"But I might not have met him yet," Kimberly said slowly. "That feeling of being watched… If I had already met him, he wouldn't have to monitor me from a distance; he'd already be part of my life."

"Reconnaissance," Dr. Andrews theorized. "When did the sensation begin?"

"A few months ago. So he's been doing his homework. Looking for an opening."

"New boyfriend," Dr. Andrews offered.

"Too obvious. He's done that ploy, first with Mandy, and then with my mother. Though he upped the ante with my mother – we think he also posed as someone who received one of Mandys organs."

Dr. Andrews blinked. "Brilliant."

"I'm supposedly the smart one," Kimberly murmured softly, still thinking out loud. "That's what Mandy and my mom would have told him. I'm the serious one, the one who's always wanted to join law enforcement. The one who started taking martial arts at the age of eight, who likes tackle football and guns…" Her voice trailed off, her mind already forming a connection with one new person in her life. A charming gun pro who just happened to join her rifle association six months earlier. Doug James.

"You have an idea?"

"I don't want to jump to conclusions."

"Better to be safe than sorry, Miss Quincy."

She smiled. "That's the first platitude I've ever heard from you. I didn't know that you knew any. Then again, duly noted."

Dr. Andrews smiled. "You're leaving, yes? I assume that is what you're here to tell me. Strategic retreat is a perfectly valid option."

"I don't know how long I'll be gone."

"Understandable."

"I can't tell you where I'm going."

"Did you hear me asking?"

"You… you should probably find another intern. I mean, I would understand…"

"At this late date? Bah. I can read my own notes for a change. Might do me a world of good. Jumping to obvious conclusions. Next thing you know I'll be dreaming of the Washington Monument and blaming everything on my toilet training."

"Dr. Andrews… Thank you."

"Miss Quincy, it has been a pleasure."

There was nothing left to say. Kimberly rose. Held out her hand. Across the desk. Dr. Andrews also stood and extended his hand. Kimberly was touched by how grave he appeared.

"One last piece of advice?" he asked solemnly.

"Of course."

"Law enforcement, Miss Quincy. This man, he seems to specialize in identifying his victim's vulnerability, the thing she thinks she needs or admires most. For you, it's law enforcement. You have an inherent trust and respect for anyone wearing a badge."