I didn't know you, Rebecca. You lived in my apartment building but had recently moved out, trying to elude your stalker. I met him on Sunday; I could tell he was creepy. He said he just wanted to "leave a note" for you, but I knew there was something more. After all, people don't move without giving their friends their new address. I suspected he was not your friend. He got so agitated when I couldn't help him that I ended up putting my smoke out before he was done, retreating into the safety of the building, pulling the door shut and making sure I heard the click of the lock so he couldn't follow me. Inside, I said to my wife, "Somebody has a stalker." It was a tasteless, thoughtless joke. Most of all, I am mad that shame is brought upon domestic-violence victims, that you couldn't give his picture to us in the building so that we could help look out for you. Maybe if I had known, I could have called you, warned you. Maybe you wouldn't have gone to work the next day. Maybe you would still be alive today.