My Life with Death

Rest stop off Route 45, Northern Maryland, 6:02 p.m.

When I arrived at the place, I looked around. I remained sitting in the car. I didn't get out. I stopped under one of the lamps. Street lights illuminated the car, and its shadow was reflected on the asphalt ground. I waited for Samantha to arrive despite the constant doubts about whether it would come. I didn't know who I could trust, but meeting her felt strange, especially in such a place and at such a time.

Suddenly, lights flashed like a symbol in the darkness, about ten meters before me. It must have been Samantha, but I wasn't sure because I didn't know her car. I got out. I was suspicious and wary. I held the gun in my hand. I kept my finger close to the trigger. I discreetly watched the car in front of me. A figure got out of the car and walked towards me. She was smaller, and I could see her face and long hair when she stepped into the light. It was Agent Finlay. I was a little relieved, but I still didn't understand what he was doing here. Especially how she could know where I was since this rest stop wasn't too far from Riverside; she probably figured it out just like the men shooting at me in the woods.

I slowly progressed step by step. I dropped the hand with the weapon along my body. She came within a few steps of me. She spotted the gun and started backing away. She also instinctively reached for her gun.

"Careful," nervously.

She held out her other hand and, with a specific gesture, as if trying to calm me down. She didn't want to get me in trouble or herself. By setting off a shooting panic, she would call the police and the FBI, which would be my end for good. I would be arrested and never be able to return to the case for the rest of my life.

"Agent Stepman, it's me. Put the gun away," she repeated. She tried to speak to me calmly, but judging by how her hands shook, she wasn't reticent.

"How did you know where I was?" I asked, still pointing the gun in her direction.

My hands were shaking. I couldn't even aim properly. My joints hurt. I felt like I was going to pass out. The wounds on his hands were still bleeding. I lost a lot of blood.

"Try not to have your phone and car with GPS with you. Then someone won't just find you," she replied sarcastically.

I smiled. "That's a fact," I concluded.

I couldn't finish the sentence anymore. Suddenly, I dropped the gun on the ground and began swaying. Samantha noticed and ran over to me. If it hadn't happened, I would have fallen to the ground. I passed out in my arms.

6:21 p.m.

"Agent Stepman," she shouted as she tried to wake me.

I came to myself for a moment. I was still determining where I was. I didn't remember anything.

"What happened?"

"You passed out," she replied.

I looked around me. We were sitting in my car. I was in the driver's seat, and she was next to me. I had my jacket off. Samantha treated the wounds on my hands with bandages from the first aid kit.

"What happened to you?" she asked in a worried voice.

"I scratched," I lied to her. She raised her eyebrows in disbelief but didn't ask any more questions.

"You should go to the hospital."

"It will be fine. I need to lie down. I haven't slept in a long time." She didn't respond.

"Will you tell me what you're doing here? What did you mean it couldn't be resolved over the phone?" I asked her.

"We've profiled the offender," she said. "It fits you," she added.