Just like after I lost Paul.
Familiar grief surfaces, and I beat it back down. “Maybe. I have a lot of things that need catching up on. But coming home sounds nice.” I can already feel the cold sand against my toes and feel the coastal breeze in my hair.
“You just let me know. I always have a room for you.”
“I know you do, Mom. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, my Babygirl. I love you so much.”
“Love you, too. Talk soon.”
After ending the call, I close my eyes and tilt my face to the sky. “Thank You, Lord, for this day. For being with me and all of those innocent people I was defending. In Jesus’ name, I pray, amen.” When I open my eyes again, I take a deep breath and smile into the dark despite the heaviness in my chest.
The weight of all I’ve lost over the last decade comes crashing down all over again, and the hollow emptiness consumes me.
There was a short time after Paul died that I struggled to believe in much of anything. I didn’t understand why God would rob me of the future Paul and I had promised to each other.
Why He would want me to suffer.
But in that grief, I found my way back to the pages of my Bible, and I’ve come to the understanding that I may not see it, but He always has a plan. Praising Him through my pain was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and yet, knowing I wasn’t going through it alone is the only thing that helped me survive it.
Maybe someday I’ll find someone to spend the rest of my life with.
Someone to hold me when I’m lonely.
To love me until we’re old and gray.
Or…maybe I won’t.
Only God knows. And there’s a simple peace in that. In relinquishing that control and not seeking what I know only He can bring me.
Turning away, I head back inside and close the door, then leave my glass of water on the counter beside the photo of me and Paul. And after one final look at his smiling face, I head down the hall to wash the day off of me.
2.Shawn
My boots thud against the pavement as I sprint through a trash-littered back alley. Ahead, the perp darts toward a fire escape. I pump my arms faster, the badge around my neck swinging on its chain as I run.
I leap up, wrapping both arms around his legs as he climbs, then rip him down to the ground. I hit the asphalt with a pained grunt, but don’t hesitate even a moment before I’m flipping him over onto his stomach and resting my knee on his back. “Marcus Henderson, you’re under arrest for the murder of Anne Martinez.”
“I didn’t do anything!” he insists.
“Yeah, that’s what they all say,” I growl as I cuff him, then straighten and rip him to his feet.
My partner, Anderson Redmond, a new detective to our precinct, runs over, weapon drawn, breathing ragged. “You’re fast,” he comments.
“It’s that, or you die,” I counter. “Come on,” I growl as I tug Marcus toward the way we came. Ahead, a uniform pulls his car into the entrance of the alleyway.
Good. I won’t have to walk this guy far.
My body aches from the fall, but it was more than worth it to catch this guy. We’ve been after him for two days, ever since the body of his girlfriend was found dumped like trash in an alley similar to this one.
“Man, you got the wrong guy,” he insists.
“We’ve got DNA evidence that proves otherwise. You good to take him in?” I ask the uniform as he waits near the alley.
“Yeah, I got him.”
“Good. Get him in the box.”
