"So, who is this guy?" Troy Hartley tapped the picture he held in his hand that showed a man and a blond woman walking down the street hand in hand.

The man behind the desk didn't respond, but simply handed the senator a file. "Supervisory Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid," Hartley recited as he read the dossier: "IQ – 187, doctorates in mathematics, chemistry and engineering, Ba's in psychology, sociology and philosophy; awarded the Robertson grant, the Chester grant and the Kessler Prize; guest lecturer at both Georgetown and GWU; expert in handwriting analysis; an agent with the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI." He raised his head from his reading and looked at the other man in the room. "Is this guy for real?"

"Apparently so," the man responded.

Hartley looked at the picture once again. "He looks like a strong wind would blow him over." He snickered.

"Apparently not, look at page two."

Hartley read quietly and his face, at first grim, morphed to a deep scowl and his hands clenched into fists as he read how Agent Reid had killed three times in the line of duty, two serial killers and one an Irish terrorist; had gone unarmed onto a train with a deranged psychotic who was wielding two guns to save the passengers; had been shot once in the leg in the line of duty.

"Guy's got balls," the man rose and walked over to the window.

"Thanks for pointing that out Frank," Hartley snapped. "You're dismissed."

The man moved to leave the room. At the door he turned back, "Available if you need me." Before he closed the door he added, "You might be especially interested in page three."

Hartley looked into the mirror above the fireplace as he watched his face grow red with anger. As he turned to the third page of the file, his lips curved into a satisfied grin. He looked at the picture once more before ripping it to pieces and throwing it, along with the file, into the fire.

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"Are you safe?" Melanie asked the woman on the phone.

"Yes, yes I think … I don't know," was the weepy response.

"I can call an ambulance for you."

"No! No, I don't need an ambulance. It's just…"

"You need to get to a hospital and have a rape kit done." Melanie said calmly and firmly, asking herself for the hundredth time why she hadn't called someone the night it had happened to her.

"No… I don't know if I want to…"

"I know, and that's okay. You don't have to report it. But if you choose to later and the evidence has been washed away, there's less chance any charges will stick. You also need to get a morning after pill." There was silence on the line. "Did you hear me?"

"I never thought of that," the voice on the line almost whispered. "It's just that I feel so… stupid… and ashamed."

She sat in her apartment, sure that her eyes would eventually run out of tears. How could she have let this happen? How could she ever face anyone again? She was an educated woman. She'd known the things to be careful of and yet she'd let Troy Hartley get the advantage over her. I didn't let him. I wasn't given a choice.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of," she told the caller. "You didn't do anything wrong. You said no. That was your choice and you made it. The rest was out of your hands. The shame isn't yours, it's his."

"Okay," the caller responded. "I'll go. Is it okay if I call you back… after?"

"Certainly… please, ask for Melanie."

"Thank you Melanie." The phone went dead.

"You okay?" Yamka asked as she placed a cup of coffee on Melanie's desk at the rape crisis center.

"Yeah, thanks," Melanie replied with a slight grin at the fortyish woman who now leaned on her desk her hands around a mug with a Garfield like cat on the lap of a cartoon woman who yelled, "I've got a cat on my lap and I can't get up." They all joked about Yamka and her devotion to her cat, Tigger.

Melanie had been intrigued by Yamka's name when they'd first met and the woman, who'd become her friend, had explained she'd gotten it from her mother, who was a Hopi. It meant Blossom. Yamka's father was an African American archeologist who had met her mother on a visit to a Native American burial ground that had been unearthed by Mother Nature at her most destructive. He'd been a professor at Georgetown until he retired. Yamka got most of her features from her mother as well, Melanie had concluded as she considered her friend's broad face with its high cheekbones, flatter nose and square jaw, common to many Native Americans. Her long black hair looked almost blue when the light hit it a certain way. Her slightly darker skin seemed to be the only nod to her father.

"Really," Yamka raised an eyebrow.

Melanie shook her head. "I should know better than to try and keep anything from you."

"That's right, so spill," Yamka took a sip of her coffee and pulled up a chair.

Melanie sighed. "I just had a bit of a flashback when I was talking to the girl on the phone just now. I was telling her she shouldn't feel ashamed in any way when I felt… still feel the same way sometimes."

A hand reached across the desk to clasp hers. "We all do. I still do now and it's been almost twenty years. A man robbed each of us of a part of ourselves and we can 'what if' ourselves to our graves and it'll only add to our heartache. When you have those moments you tell me or one of the others and we'll kick your ass and maybe knock some sense into you."

Melanie squeezed the hand that held hers. "I'll do the same for you," she added as the strains of the theme from Star Wars emanated from her purse.

As Melanie dug for the phone, Yamka smiled and stood, adding as she walked away, "Not a moment too soon, the theme for there are still good men in the world."

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Melanie closed the door, locking it behind her and headed toward her bus stop. "Are you Melanie?" a timid voice asked.

Melanie turned to the sound of the voice, a small woman in jeans, a blue tee shirt and a black denim jacket. Her brown hair was combed back and appeared wet, like she'd just come from the shower. She noted a bruise on the woman's left eye that still bore the indentations of where she'd been savagely punched. The woman shifted from one foot to another and clasped her arms around herself. "Oh dear, is there something I can do for you," Melanie asked with concern, not wanting to touch her or invade her space.

"I…uh…I talked to you earlier and you told me to go to the hospital. I just came from there. I… uh… did like you said and got the rape kit done." She wiped her hand across her eye. "That's something I never want to do again."

"Yes, it's the most unpl…" Melanie began when the woman gasped and she felt pressure at the small of her back.

"Move and you're both dead."