kitchen floor followed by a scream.
Cameron ran into the kitchen, flipped on the lights and found Sarah sitting on the floor crying. Blood trickled from her right leg.
“Dad, I’m sorry.”
“Sarah, you scared me half to death.”
“I was just trying to get some apple juice.”
“Honey, it’s ok. You’ll be fine. Next time, turn the lights on so you can see where you’re going, alright?”
Cameron noticed his daughter’s innocence. He cleaned Sarah’s cut and poured her some juice before sending her to bed.
Laying in dark silenc e , Cameron tossed and turned on the couch, fading in and out of short nightmares. Paranoid thoughts tapped him on the shoulder again. Even though he’d already seen Sarah in the kitchen, his mind continued to play tricks on him.
Only thirty paces to the gun upstairs. If the floorboards creaked again, it still might buy me some time. No, if the glasses clinked twice, they’re two intruders. One for each clink.
The thoughts tumbled around and eventually faded. Cameron glanced at the digital clock on the kitchen oven. The small, green screen showed 4:45AM.
Jen’s meeting with the bank manager was only a few hours away. He had to stop her. Cameron lurched forward and stood. Pacing proved a moderate remedy for his anxiety, but he knew it wouldn’t change anything. The blunt pressure in his forehead was turning into a migraine, and Cameron decided he couldn’t let Jen leave. He thought he’d interrupt her before she left. Then, he’d talk her out of it.
With the pounding migraine, the pacing only made him dizzy, so he turned on a light under the microwave and sat at the kitchen table. He tried to read the newspaper, but the text began to blur.
Sunlight streamed throug h the kitchen window as Cameron jolted awake at 9:25AM.
Jen had already left for work.
In fact, the meeting with the bank manager was half over. Wiping sleep from his eyes, Cameron went back to the living room to pace. The stress led to another hole in his sock.
He’d have to confront her when she got home.
Still sore from sleeping at the kitchen table, he drove to the Fourth Precinct, already knowing he was late.
Amy stared at the evidence board , rocking on the soles of her shoes. Sometimes, this motion helped her to look at the evidence in a three dimensional manor. Instead of focusing on the content of the images, she tried to recreate the visceral feelings she experienced at the scene of the crime.
This way, she was able to clear out cluttered thoughts and narrow her gaze. Amy would often test herself by staring at just one picture at a time, studying the image as if she’d never seen it before. Then, she’d close her eyes and try to see what pieces of the picture stayed, letting the important parts burn beneath her eyelids. Although it sometimes took a few tries, this process forced Amy to digest the images objectively.
There were certain cases she avoided the open-shut method, especially if the entire evidence board was filled with pictures. Amy had to be careful. She knew that these pictures were more powerful than the graphic images shown on the news or in fictional TV. These images were real. They showed real victims and real killers.
To anyone off the street, the photos would be the stuff of nightmares. But Amy had to look further. She didn’t become a detective to allow violence to permeate her life, and she certainly didn’t want it to overpower her own mental health. However, there were still some cases Amy could never leave at work. She never planned for it, but sometimes the evidence would slither into her coat, riding her back as she left for home. And there, in her apartment, the weight of the invisible creature would unlatch itself from her, waiting until she turned out the lights.
It never appeared right away. The evidence might wait for Amy, watching her as she brushed her teeth, watching her as she sat alone in a sleepless stupor. These were
Cameron ran into the kitchen, flipped on the lights and found Sarah sitting on the floor crying. Blood trickled from her right leg.
“Dad, I’m sorry.”
“Sarah, you scared me half to death.”
“I was just trying to get some apple juice.”
“Honey, it’s ok. You’ll be fine. Next time, turn the lights on so you can see where you’re going, alright?”
Cameron noticed his daughter’s innocence. He cleaned Sarah’s cut and poured her some juice before sending her to bed.
Laying in dark silenc e , Cameron tossed and turned on the couch, fading in and out of short nightmares. Paranoid thoughts tapped him on the shoulder again. Even though he’d already seen Sarah in the kitchen, his mind continued to play tricks on him.
Only thirty paces to the gun upstairs. If the floorboards creaked again, it still might buy me some time. No, if the glasses clinked twice, they’re two intruders. One for each clink.
The thoughts tumbled around and eventually faded. Cameron glanced at the digital clock on the kitchen oven. The small, green screen showed 4:45AM.
Jen’s meeting with the bank manager was only a few hours away. He had to stop her. Cameron lurched forward and stood. Pacing proved a moderate remedy for his anxiety, but he knew it wouldn’t change anything. The blunt pressure in his forehead was turning into a migraine, and Cameron decided he couldn’t let Jen leave. He thought he’d interrupt her before she left. Then, he’d talk her out of it.
With the pounding migraine, the pacing only made him dizzy, so he turned on a light under the microwave and sat at the kitchen table. He tried to read the newspaper, but the text began to blur.
Sunlight streamed throug h the kitchen window as Cameron jolted awake at 9:25AM.
Jen had already left for work.
In fact, the meeting with the bank manager was half over. Wiping sleep from his eyes, Cameron went back to the living room to pace. The stress led to another hole in his sock.
He’d have to confront her when she got home.
Still sore from sleeping at the kitchen table, he drove to the Fourth Precinct, already knowing he was late.
Amy stared at the evidence board , rocking on the soles of her shoes. Sometimes, this motion helped her to look at the evidence in a three dimensional manor. Instead of focusing on the content of the images, she tried to recreate the visceral feelings she experienced at the scene of the crime.
This way, she was able to clear out cluttered thoughts and narrow her gaze. Amy would often test herself by staring at just one picture at a time, studying the image as if she’d never seen it before. Then, she’d close her eyes and try to see what pieces of the picture stayed, letting the important parts burn beneath her eyelids. Although it sometimes took a few tries, this process forced Amy to digest the images objectively.
There were certain cases she avoided the open-shut method, especially if the entire evidence board was filled with pictures. Amy had to be careful. She knew that these pictures were more powerful than the graphic images shown on the news or in fictional TV. These images were real. They showed real victims and real killers.
To anyone off the street, the photos would be the stuff of nightmares. But Amy had to look further. She didn’t become a detective to allow violence to permeate her life, and she certainly didn’t want it to overpower her own mental health. However, there were still some cases Amy could never leave at work. She never planned for it, but sometimes the evidence would slither into her coat, riding her back as she left for home. And there, in her apartment, the weight of the invisible creature would unlatch itself from her, waiting until she turned out the lights.
It never appeared right away. The evidence might wait for Amy, watching her as she brushed her teeth, watching her as she sat alone in a sleepless stupor. These were
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