My Life with Death

K Street, Downtown Washington, D.C.

January 12, 2019, 9:42 a.m.

I spent the whole day and the next night in my house, but I felt less at home than when I slept in a motel. I didn't feel there anymore, like before. I was afraid. Which I never had back. Home was the only safe place, but that wasn't true anymore. I wasn't even in our bed. I could not. I would feel dirty. I practically slept sitting up on the floor in the kitchen.

I woke up in the morning with the worst pain in the world, pain and nausea worse than a hangover. Usually, I would have taken the meds, but they stayed in Maryland. I forgot them there when I hurried to D.C.

Even so, I knew I had to move on. I spent the whole night trying to figure out what to do. I tried to come up with a plan. How will I continue my investigation and life after all that has happened?

January 12, 2019, 11:10 a.m.

But how could I go on when I had nothing? Kent took my guns, phone, laptop with all my case notes - including Samantha's file - and even my car. He drove away, taking Christine with him. I was afraid. I had no idea what else he could be capable of. I've never been so scared in my life. This time, it wasn't about me. It was about my daughter. I've gotten used to my suffering, but if something happened to her. I would never forgive myself. I was mad at Kent. I was downright furious at his actions. I wanted to scream and cry at the same time. I sat in the kitchen and thought. But all I could think of was Kent and Christine. I was sad. I was honestly suffering inside. It broke my heart not knowing where he was. I didn't mind not being with her. I resented neglecting her because of work, but always knew she was safe. But now I don't know where she is and if she's okay. I decided not to waste any more time. I ran out of the house and looked around. Right next door, next door, there was a car in the driveway. I knew how to start the car without the keys. Such things are also taught at the academy, picking locks on doors and other practical activities bordering on illegality. It took me twenty seconds to drive away. But I needed more than just a stolen car. I needed a phone, money, and access to the case. I needed to get in touch with Samantha.

January 15, 2019, 12:40 a.m.

Silence. There was silence, but not only in my head. There was silence everywhere on the streets, in the center of a big city, in high-rise buildings, where, under normal circumstances, there were crowded offices with noisy workaholics. The clattering of keyboards, honking of car horns, and the endless conversations of passers-by—about work, the broken car, the incompetent repairman, and the children—suddenly disappeared. There was only silence everywhere. I kept driving past the same place, around the same house. But I had to stop. I was becoming conspicuous. I had to hide in the darkness again. It was so dark among the narrow streets that not even a glimmer of hope could be seen emanating from the warm shelters of alcoholic fortresses in the back corners of the city. Once every hour, a group of socially weary college students from one of the local universities would appear, returning to their dormitory beds after a night spent at the bar to at least lie down for a moment to sleep and remember that in a few hours, they would be tormented by one of the many endless lectures. I remember that, too. Those were fantastic college years in Las Vegas.

I sat there for a long time. I didn't have my shoes on anymore. They were lying around on the ground. My knees were pressed to my chin, and my wrapped shins around my hands with intertwined fingers. Exceptionally, one of the songs that I liked very much came on the radio. But otherwise, it was muted. I needed to watch what was happening around me. I needed nothing to disturb me.

I just needed to sit in the car in an abandoned place and watch everything around me all night, a force of habit. It's like an occupational disease. It helped me clear my head and calm down. Forget about troubles.