Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
I stand, making it into the house and as far as the couch. I let my eyes lock on the pictures lining the narrow hallway. I’m not sitting in a way that gives me the best viewpoint, but I don’t have to see the pictures to know every detail. This house was left as a shrine for my sister and my family’s loss. My parents grieved every day of their lives until their own deaths, becoming shells of the people they once were. I know without the help of therapy that the way they got lost in grief affected my childhood. I was protected, led to believe leaving the house or interacting with people I didn’t know not only could lead to danger but that it would.
My parents’ hypervigilance should’ve really messed me up as I transitioned from childhood to adulthood, but it left me wanting to be different. I didn’t want to be the person that was afraid. It’s why I chose law enforcement. In my young mind, the gun and the badge protected me. Detective Roth’s suicide told me that the only person who could hurt me was myself. It was naive, the underdeveloped thoughts of a child who didn’t have real-world experience because those avenues were blocked by my parents’ need to keep terrible things from happening to me.
Elle has been gone from my life longer than she was ever in it, and I hate all involved for her being taken from me, but it was my parents’ acceptance of Niers’ confession that angers me the most. Had they argued, had they challenged what they were presented with fifteen years ago instead of turning into shadows of their former selves, I wouldn’t be forced to spend every waking hour trying to get her justice.
The longer I sit idly, the more frustrated I grow. As much as I’d like to throw shit and break a few things, I know it only leads to making a mess no one will clean up but me.
I climb off the sofa and head to my bedroom, the same one I had as a child because I’ve just never had the energy to change to the master bedroom. It was always my parents’ room, and I doubt I’d be in the bigger bedroom if my parents hadn’t moved me into the one I’m in now after Elle moved out for college. I own the house, but there are rooms in it I haven’t been in for years.
I grab a change of clothes and head into the hall bathroom. I don’t bother keeping it pristine for guests because I don’t have guests. I don’t date and sure as hell don’t bring men back to my house. I don’t have time for friends other than the few acquaintances I have from work, and even those people I meet at the bar for a quick drink instead of them coming here.
The way I live my life never felt lonely. There was always something to keep me busy, but as I strip down, laying my gun on the bathroom sink, making it easily accessible, I feel isolated, like I’ve been missing something.
The feeling doesn’t go away despite wanting to wash it all down the drain. I dress quickly, knowing that my inability to just put on lounge clothes is something else leftover from my post-Elle childhood and my need to always be prepared for the unexpected.
The near-empty fridge reveals my desperate need to go shopping. My aversion to other people touching my food has me pulling the spot of mold from the bread rather than calling in an order to be delivered.
The peanut butter and orange marmalade jam sandwich is practically tasteless, but I’ve never been one to focus on food. It’s a means to an end rather than something I ever look forward to. This is one of those things that has helped with my ability to maintain my weight because I’m more likely to forget to eat altogether than overeat.
The television is on, a national news station I know better than to trust on silent as I eat because I want to hear what’s going on around my house even though nothing ever comes close.
It’s why the sound of the engine being turned off confuses me at first, the sound of feet on the porch meeting my ears before I move.
My gun is drawn, held down but ready when the knocking occurs. My parents had always told me that killers are sly and slink around in the shadows. They never draw attention to themselves until they want their presence known, but as a cop, I know of countless cases where perps have knocked on the door of a home and smiled when the door was opened with a lie on their lips before making their move.