Bree blinked, a strange, sudden panic in her gut when she realized the green-eyed man knew her name - and not really her name, but the nickname only her little remnant of family, her few friends and closest work colleagues knew her by. But the blink was all the reaction he'd get from the instantly wary woman, her grey eyes narrowing with sudden suspicion.

"How does killing a man strike you as an FBI conversation starter, Ethan?" she snapped, the edge in her voice a little sharper and harder than she intended. But once the words were in the wind between them, it wasn't as if she could simply snatch them back. Bree knew full well what he was asking of course - what had he done to earn her attention from the very first? Why in the world would she take note of a simple waiter named Walter, and she honestly didn't have any answer that made the least bit of sense. A hunch? A touch of intuition? A 'gut feeling' about the guy who was too calm, too patient, and serene as the eye of the storm enveloping everyone around him but him?

Yeah, she'd probably chew a little broken glass before letting those words out of her mouth, though even she could hear the unintended stridency creeping into her speech. Bree really couldn't help it, her mouth gone dry with the fear, heart pounding faster and faster in her chest.

She hated heights. Oh God how she hated heights, and the way Ethan swayed there on the edge turned her knees to icy liquid. Bree wanted nothing more than to snatch the green-eyed man from the edge, his precarious perch racheting up her anxiety several notches and breeding doubt about her original assessment of his suicidal tendencies.

Bree edged slowly toward the green-eyed man, one hand moving from the gun's grip and held out to him, palm up. "Come away from the edge there Ethan. Really, we can talk... I'm... I'm sure you have your reasons, and it was wrong of me to judge before you'd had your say. Really. [i]Please.[/i]"