Final Comprehension

Monday 2:27pm

On my way home, I amstill pissed at Enzo. I can't believe he suggested for me not toget back to my usual job but to a job in the office, among all thesecretaries that I despise and pity at the same time, for their dull,everyday life behind their desks. In some way, I agree with him:maybe one year of recovery isn't enough to return to my old life,but I refuse to believe that the horrors Wyatt Baker put me throughare supposed to mark the end of my career as the best homicidedetective the Chicago Police Force has ever had in their midst.

I will be goingback to catch all the scum on the streets that belong behind bars, nomatter what.

For some reason, the airaround me suddenly feels colder – the wind has increased, blowingup leaves that dance around my feet, and I watch them moving in asheer endless circle on the streets.

All of a sudden, I feelwatched.

It isn't the first timeI feel this way; ever since my perpetrator had snatched me infront ofthe grocery store where I was shopping for a barbecue at my place oneyear ago, I have made a habit of always double-checking around eachcorner. I know it is a post-traumatic stress disorder thing, and Enzohad assured me more than once that one day I'd get over it, butdeep down I just knew I would never walk the streets with the sameconfidence as before.

I turn around, myheartbeat strong and fast in my chest. There, behind a huge oak treejust across the street – hasn't there just been a shadow,disappearing the second I faced it?

Don't beridiculous, I scold myself, but still, as I move on, I quickenmy pace.

You can never be carefulenough.