However, if forced to pick one over the other I would say the guilt was probably in the lead. Primarily because it wasn’t just the ordinary remorse one feels over being unscathed when someone else is injured. No, this was much worse. It was the sickening sort of transgression that came from being relieved over another’s misfortune.

Special Agent Constance Mandalay was a dear friend, and I certainly had not wished for this to happen. Not to anyone, but especially not to her of all people. What I wanted right now was for my friend to be okay-to come out of this grinning and wondering “why all the fuss.” But, in the same moment, a large part of me was grateful that it was her who was now on the verge of death, and that was the source of my guilt. I didn’t want Constance to die, but if someone had to I was relieved that it was she-because the most likely alternative candidate was patently unthinkable for me.

The reason it was so inconceivable in my mind was because my wife had been the intended target. Moreover, had Felicity in all her stubbornness been allowed the choice, she actually would have been in the line of fire rather than safely distant from the scene. But, to my relief, real life bears little resemblance to melodramatic television, and the FBI wasn’t about to purposely place a civilian in harm’s way. Instead, Constance had taken her place. Risky as even that was, it seemed the only chance at stopping a serial killer who had escalated, was quickly decompensating, and had now set her sights on my wife and me.

Of course, before everything was over, Felicity made that step across the boundary of good sense anyway, but I couldn’t really blame her. She wasn’t exactly herself when it happened.