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went to the next article and the next several after it. They mentioned Drew Larson’s top honors at the science fair, first place ribbon at a state math competition, and winning season as the quarterback of his high school football team. However, whenever a photo accompanied the story, the same odd expression stared back at me.
    I was shocked to note that the crude, apathetic man I’d just left had an overachieving past that rivaled my own.
    “Why was he trying so hard?”
    “Hmm?” The librarian had stopped on the stairs, a cardboard box in her hands. “Did you say something?”
    “Oh, no…yes,” I replied. “I was talking to myself.”
    “I do that all the time,” she said as she continued up the steps.
    “I don’t.”
    Once I heard the door shut at the top of the stairs, I copied each of Drew’s pictures, and placed them into a file in my briefcase, as I wondered why in the world I was doing it. Then, I went back to the pile of unread articles.
    I was soon faced with the one I’d dreaded from the minute I sat down.
    It said Drew Larson was accused of raping a young woman at a high school graduation party. This story was followed by a deluge of others about the trial.
    There were no witnesses other than the victim, and no mention of a confession, but after reading several stories, I got the impression Drew didn’t participate in his own defense. It was understandable that he made no statements to the press before or during the trial, but he also didn’t testify or even speak at his sentencing.
    The pictures that appeared with these stories made me sick to my stomach. Drew, so young, being led away in handcuffs. Drew on his way into the courthouse. Photo after photo held the same unreadable expression.
    Apparently, getting arrested inspired the same emotion in this young man as winning a track meet, with one exception.
    One photograph—one moment in time—seemed to capture the boy inside. He looked as though he was surprised by the camera as he stepped out of a police car, and it was there in his eyes, a desperate, pleading look, much like the one I thought I’d seen earlier when he asked if I was afraid of him.
    I pressed the “copy” button and placed it in the file with the childhood pictures.
    I spent the night in my hotel room in fitful sleep, dreaming of the boy in the photos, but instead of reflecting the expression most of them held, every picture was pleading with me.
    Gradually, the boy’s face morphed into that of a man’s, close enough to touch, but when I reached up toward him, I realized a glass separated us.
    He smiled and his eyes grew kind as I stared into them. He opened his mouth—I was certain, to whisper my name. But instead, I heard “Medina” spoken in a sharp, sarcastic tone and awakened, only to fall back to sleep and repeat the same disturbing dream.

Chapter Four
     
    The next morning, I wondered how early I should be at work, but didn’t call for fear Drew would tell me not to come at all, so I knocked on his door at a respectable nine o’clock. A few seconds later, the door opened.
    “Are you in the habit of harassing all your clients so early in the morning?” he asked without a hint of humor. It appeared he’d been up for hours, freshly showered and clean-shaven in his black suit with a white dress shirt, open at the top. In fact, he looked exactly as he had the day before. I wondered if he had an entire closet full of nothing but black and white.
    Despite the statement, he stood back so I could walk in. He closed the door and turned toward me.
    “Did you go to the library?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you read the clippings?”
    “I did.”
    “And you came.”
    It sounded like more of a statement than a question, so I didn’t say anything. His gaze went to the window on the other side of the room.
    A moment later, he turned back toward me, looked directly into my eyes and asked, “Are you nuts, too?”
    “It’s not an impossibility,” I replied. “Would I