It's as if I've been hit by a bus, all the while reading the article's headline over and over in my head. Bellevue Woman. Coal Creek Trail. Dead. I just can't believe it. I must be showing it on my face because I think Josh is starting to catch on to my disbelief.

"Harper, are you okay?"

It takes me a moment to work up an answer, one that doesn't reveal too much but that explains why I'm so freaked out.

"Yeah, I'm okay. I was just on that trail the other day. So it kinda freaked me out."

"Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

"That's okay. I'm fine."

I stand up straight and compose myself before he begins talking again.

"Are you gonna be okay to do the article?"

Shit. The article. I need to write about it in next week's paper. I think about it for a moment. I weigh my options. On one hand, this might actually be a great opportunity to look more into what's been going on. On the other hand, it scares the shit out of me. Either way, I already start to feel like a detective. The intense feeling that I used to get when I was in the academy starts rushing back. It's a feeling of unquenchable curiosity. A thirst for knowledge, to find out the truth and bring it to light. It's the feeling of serving a purpose.

One of the reasons that I chose to go into journalism after I dropped out was because of the amount of research that goes into each article. That and Rowan pretty much found this job for me. For us. But it's almost as if I'm a P.I., trying to gather evidence for a case. Instead of catching the criminal, I expose them in the paper. It's definitely not the same thing but it helped me cope for a very long time. And now I see this as a chance to get justice for myself and for that poor woman.

"Harper?"

"Oh, yeah, sorry. I'll do it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Well, I'll send you the link to the article and just let me know if you need anything, okay?"

"Sounds good. Thanks."

I grab my laptop off the nearby counter and practically sprint out of the building. My heart races in my chest with equal parts excitement and terror. When I make it out to the parking lot, the cab driver is getting ready to leave. I can see the annoyed look on his face from here. I must've been in there a little longer than I thought I would be. I catch him just in time and hop into the cab, determined to get home and start my research. On the way, I crack open my laptop, eager to take a deeper look at the article on The Post. Unfortunately, my computer is completely dead. I slam it shut, a little too hard, in disappointment that I couldn't do some quick research. I can still feel adrenaline coursing through my veins, almost twenty minutes after reading the headline. I check my phone. Nothing but the time. 1:37. The car comes to an abrupt stop, I hand the cabbie a small wad of cash and I casually tell him to keep the change. There is too much anticipation, too much riding on this, to count the money. His mood instantly changes from disgruntled to utterly pleased and he waves me goodbye as I scale my apartment steps.

I swing the door open and my eyes immediately scan the living room and kitchen for my laptop charger. Of course, it's sitting on the kitchen table, where I normally leave it. I kick the door shut with my foot as I rush over to plug in my computer. A blue light indicates that it's charging and I sit down in front of it, waiting for it to power on. I stare at the blank, black screen, at each intricate letter on the keyboard. I sit in silence for a moment, letting my body catch up to my mind. I feel a tingling sensation all over, starting in my toes and traveling into the tips of my fingers. My body feels warm and my face hot. The adrenaline is gone but the feelings remain. Excitement. Terror. Excitement. Terror.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and check it again. Before I even punch in my pin, I notice the text symbol on the screen. My heart leaps into my throat. Is it Rowan? I doubt it. Is it Ben? Hopefully he heard my voicemail and is checking in. I'm getting kinda worried that he's not answering. I wonder if he's avoiding me. But there's no time to wonder. I get past the lock screen and click on my messages icon. My heart stops racing. It changes pace. It slows down. It's just Josh, texting me the link to the article.

My laptop still isn't on. It must've been super dead. I turn my attention back to my phone. Let's try Ben again. It rings and rings and rings and finally, his voicemail. Again. Time to bring in the big guns. I dial a different number instead. One that I still know by heart, but that I haven't used in a long time. It rings and rings and on the final ring, she answers.

"Hi Mom. It's been a long time."

"Hello Harper. It has been a long time. It's so nice to hear from you. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"What, a daughter can't just check in on her mother?"

"Of course she can. It was just a little...unexpected."

"Well, how have you been?"

"I've been fine."

"And Charles?"

"Charles is fine."

Who is Charles, you ask? Just my asshole stepdad. After my father left, we were alone for a while, just the three of us. Me, Ben and my mom. Those were the years, the golden years, the best years of my life. Then I guess she got lonely. She met some rich hedge fund manager at the country club and they've been together ever since. He's always tried to take on the role of my father, Ben's too. He, just like my mother, never approved of my decision to become a journalist. Hell, he didn't even want me to be a police officer. He told me that a job in an office was more my speed. But that just inspired me more, pushed me more, to do something else, to be someone else than the person that he wanted me to be.

Ben, on the other hand, quickly took to the idea of Charles being his new daddy. He lacked a father figure and Charles was the perfect replacement. After all, he and my mom doted on Ben like he was some kid genius. In fact, he wasn't all that smart when he was a kid but now he's filled those shoes. He is exactly who they wanted him to be. He's successful and well-managed and has his own perfect little version of a family. And I'm living paycheck to paycheck with no friends, no family and no change in the foreseeable future. That's why mom calls Ben a few times a week and me a few times a year. But I squashed my resentment for all this years ago, or so I thought. Ben and I are on great terms, or so I thought. Him not calling me back makes me rethink how close we really are.

I make my way over to the bathroom while engaging in pointless small talk with my mother. I miss her and I miss the way things used to be, before she met Charles. But I don't want her to think that I'm just calling her to check on Ben, and a part of me isn't. Since my decision to leave the police academy, I've seen our relationship take a turn and change. It morphed from a symbiosis of attention and validation to a constant parasitism. She leeched every ounce of energy I have and destroyed my confidence in the process. All of the feelings of my childhood come rushing back and I feel this hatred, this animosity towards her, in this moment. So I turn back to our conversation and I wait for her to stop spewing stories about the girls at the country club or about Charles' job. And finally, she stops.

"So, what's new with you, honey?"

"Why have you never believed in me or supported me?"

She takes a long breath, probably thinking about what I've just said. Or maybe it's a sigh that says that somehow she knew I would bring this up. Maybe that's why she never calls.

"Harper, where is this coming from?" She replies.

"What do you mean: 'where is this coming from'? It's coming from my whole childhood. It's coming from every time you've told me that I'm doing the wrong thing. Every time you've told me that I'm making the wrong decision."

"You're acting crazy, Harper. Why are you bringing up the past so suddenly?"

"Because I never had the balls to tell you how I felt. And now I do. I want to know why you never supported me. When I dropped out of the academy, when I decided to become a journalist, when I moved to Washington. You never supported me in any of it and I want to know why!"

I can feel my blood boiling under the surface of my skin. I can feel the anger rising from the bottom of my feet up to the tip of my head. I just want to scream at her and tell her how she failed me. I want her to know how terrible of a mother she's been, how she neglected me while she was spoiling Ben. But the words just won't come out. I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes. I can feel the snagging in my throat, the words caught. So I wait for her to say something. I wait for an explanation to come out of her mouth. But the phone is silent on the other end. I wait and wait and wait. Nothing.

"Mom?"

I hear something faint on the other end but I can't make out what it is. Is she crying? Is she laughing? Did something happen to her?

"Mom? Are you there?"

Still nothing. Maybe she's waiting for me to apologize. Maybe she's taking it all in. Maybe she just doesn't know what to say.

"I'm sorry. I've just been a little on edge lately and I definitely have some unresolved feelings that I need to talk out. I've been thinking about going to see a therapist. But I'm sorry that I sprang all of this on you. It's just...you were talking about Charles and the girls at the club and it seems like you have this perfect life. And I'm glad you're happy. I'm glad that you and Charles are happy. But I'm still not happy. I mean, when's the last time that you called me first? It's been a long time. And I don't know if it's something I did or if everything I've done has disappointed you. But, after all this time, I'm still just looking for your approval. I just want you to tell me that I'm doing a good job and that you're proud of me. I don't know. I just want...validation."

I pause and wait for her to respond, again.

"Well, shit, Harper. I don't know what you want me to say."

That is probably the last thing that I wanted to hear. There's no validation there, no acceptance. Just more disappointment. So, I ball up my feelings and change the topic.

"Have you heard from Ben? I've been trying to get a hold of him but I haven't heard back."

"Actually, I just talked to him earlier. He's perfectly fine."

Like I said, she calls him all the time, but me? Nope.

"Good. Well, can you tell him to call me?"

"Of course, sweetie."

"Thanks."

Another pause. I guess it's my job to break the silence again.

"Well, it was nice talking to you, mom, but I need to go. I'm writing an important article and I need to get back to it."

"Okay. I'll tell Ben that you asked about him and to give you a call."

So we're just not going to talk about it? I guess not.

"Thanks, bye."

And without waiting for her to say goodbye, I hang up the phone. But instead of doing what I said I was going to do and starting the article that I was so excited about, I decide to search up something else on my computer. I find myself researching therapists in the area and before I know it, there's a name. Dr. Liza Gorran. She has glowing reviews on Google, she's only 0.7 miles away and, most of all, she's a "she". I thought about going with a male therapist but with these daddy issues, there's only so much that he could help me with. Plus, I feel like it would be a little bit awkward. So I dial the number of her office, listed on Google. After a few rings, a male secretary answers the phone.

"Dr. Gorran's office. This is Henry. How may I help you?"

"Hi. I would like to schedule an appointment with Dr. Gorran."

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"Of course. And has she seen you before?"

"No."

"Okay. Well, I need some information before we can get you booked. What is your first and last name?"

"Harper Torres."

"Great. And your date of birth?"

"August 24th, 1995."

"And what insurance do you have?"

"Actually, I don't. It'll be self-pay."

That was sort of a lie. I do have insurance but I definitely don't have a policy that's good enough to cover therapy sessions. Anyway, I would probably have to see my primary doctor first and that just sounds like a lot of work.

"Okay. Well, Dr. Gorran will be seeing you for one hour during every session and usually patients prefer to do one session per week. Each session costs $120, as long as you don't go over your allotted time. Do you have any questions?"

"No, that all sounds great."

"Awesome. How soon are you looking to come in?"

"Preferably, as soon as possible."

"I can get you in on Tuesday at 11:00. How does that work for you?"

"That's perfect. Thank you so much."

"Of course. Now, please be sure to bring a valid, government-issued I.D. and the $120 fee for your session is due at your time of arrival. You'll need to show up about 15 minutes early to complete your paperwork. Is there anything else that I can help you with today?"

"No, I think I'm good. Thanks again."

"Glad to help. Have a great day, Ms. Torres."

"You too."

The other line clicks off before I can hit the big red button on the screen. Tuesday at 11. That's perfect. I only have to wait 2 days and then I'll have someone to talk to. Someone to confide in. I turn my attention to my computer, the screen still black. It must've timed out while I was on the phone with my mom. I move my finger frantically along the mousepad, waiting for my lock screen to appear. I pull up the notes app that I have pinned to the taskbar and I type in all of my appointment information. This app is a life-saver because, without it, I would probably forget my own head.

Now it's time to start doing some research for the article. I begin by bringing up the link that Josh texted me and scouring it for information. The story is eerily similar to what I experienced. The time. The place. The woman. Rachel McCormick. But there's no information on the suspect. It seems that the police have no leads. I grab a sticky note from the clutter of office supplies on the kitchen table and make a to-do list of everything that needs to get done for this article. I know what you're thinking. Why did I use the notes app on my computer to keep track of my appointment but then use a sticky note for my to-do list? Well, the answer is, I have no fucking idea. It's just what works for me.

Call Bellevue P.D., find out what detective is on the case and find out what they know

Go to the scene to take pictures

I think about my own version of this story. There's no way that I could write about it in the article. I wouldn't want to diminish this woman's story. This woman. Who was she? I add to the list:

Find out who Rachel McCormick was

Was. That's so definitive. She was alive. She was a woman. Am I going to be a "was"? Will what's happened to Rachel happen to me? No. I won't let it. I need to track down every bit of information about this guy. This stalker. I know this was him. The same man that was chasing me. And now I'm going to make it my life's work to find him. Another task pops into my head.

Go to the craft store

If I'm going to catch this bastard, I need to see every detail of this article with my own eyes. I need a posterboard and thumbtacks and red string and index cards. I need to print out pictures and articles from news websites. I want this to look like something out of a Sherlock Holmes novel. I need every bit of information to be tangible. I can't miss anything.

.....

The craft store is rather large, almost like a Costco for art supplies. It takes me what feels like forever to find what I need. Posterboard? Check. Red string? Check. Thumbtacks? Not check. Index cards? Also not check. Someone in a blue apron walks casually by me, so casually that I barely even notice. Or maybe it's because I have so much going on in my head? Nevertheless, my social anxiety has a quiet, internal battle with my desire to solve this mystery. Well, both mysteries: who killed Rachel McCormick and where the hell are the thumbtacks?! It takes me a moment to work up the courage to ask for help.

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, ma'am, how may I help you?"

"I'm looking for the thumbtacks. Do you know where they are?"

"Aisle 16."

"Great. Thank you so much."

Without saying a word, without a "you're welcome", she gives me a faint smile and makes her way towards the front of the store. Dammit. I forgot to ask her about the index cards. The intercom plays what I imagine are today's "top hits" before it's interrupted by an extremely loud man's voice.

"Becky to register 9. I repeat, Becky to register 9. Thank you."

The intercom clicks off and the music resumes. I find myself at aisle 16. Both sides are lined with craft supplies, mostly different sized corkboards and whiteboards. Towards the end of the aisle is an entire column of thumbtacks. There are tons of different colors and sizes and shapes. I choose the cheapest ones, the most generic ones, and move on. On my way to find index cards, I pass the acrylic paints. This store is like a wonderland for artists. They have all of the most popular brands as well as some cheaper generic versions. I spot the "Liquitex" paints and strongly debate buying them. The painting supplies that I have at home are terrible and I find myself imagining what I could do with expensive supplies. But now is not the time. I have to focus on the task at hand. Rachel McCormick.

I find myself wandering around the store, once again, until I happen upon an aisle full of binders, dividers, assorted kinds of paper and the like. I think about the shoebox full of old bank statements and I instantly become determined to organize it. I toss a large, black binder into my cart, followed by two sets of neon page dividers. Next to it, is one of those three-hole-punch things, which I definitely need. At the end of the aisle is pack after pack of paper. The choices are absolutely overwhelming. Thank God I'm not here for paper.

I toss a college-ruled notebook into my cart, because who doesn't need another notebook? Across the aisle are the index cards. Hallelujah. I grab three packs of the ones that have all blue lines except for the one red line at the top. I wonder why they're like that. From there, I can spy the fire-proof safes and the lockboxes. A safe might be overkill, so I choose a simple metal lockbox that comes with it's own set of keys. This will be perfect for my cash and my most important documents, like my birth certificate and my social security card.

Satisfied with what's in my cart, I wait in the checkout line, wondering how many people actually work in this store. It's almost like Walmart. You pass dozens of workers while you're shopping, but when you get to the register, there's only one lane open. God, is it frustrating. Customer after customer rings up their cart full of goodies. The cashier stands behind a counter, chewing gum and rolling her eyes. If she would just hurry up, I could get out of here and start my research.

From under my shirt, my stomach grumbles. It must be almost dinner time. I pull my phone from my back pocket. 4:34. It's as if my body forgot that I ate lunch four hours ago. While I wait, I ponder what I'll have for dinner. I had takeout the last two nights. Maybe I should actually go to the grocery store. Lucky for me, it's on my way home.

Finally I'm all checked out and I decide to call a cab to the supermarket. There's no way I can carry all these bags and the ones that I'm about to buy as well. I stare at my phone for the few minutes that it takes for the cab to pull up. I'm still absolutely fascinated by the number of apps that you can download. I know I'm a little late to the game but it's incredible.

I climb in the car and, you guessed it, take out my phone again. I scroll through the hundreds of apps that I've downloaded on a whim and decide to sort them into folders. We have "Games", "Finance", "Social Media" and then a "Random" folder for the apps that don't quite fit any of those categories. Also, I probably deleted about half of what I'd had before. Not sure why I downloaded them in the first place.

I tap on the "Social Media" folder and browse my many options. I'm still not sure if I even want to participate in whatever Facebook and Instagram have to offer. I've always thought of it as a breach of one's privacy. On the other hand, you do control what content is available to the public. I've just never been that person that needs the world to see what my life is like. I don't really go on fancy vacations or do anything interesting enough to post pictures of. The only thing that comes to mind is my art and even so, I'm not sure that it's good enough. But maybe I'm thinking too much into it. Maybe that's not what social media is about.

Before I can make a decision, the cab comes to a halt in front of Safeway. I debate asking him to wait for me but they leave the meter running the whole time, you know. It's kind of a ripoff. So I pay my fare, grab my bags and watch him drive off as I enter the grocery store. I've never done it before but I have to say, it's weird to walk into a store with full bags. Nonetheless, I grab a cart, throw my bags inside and make a beeline for the frozen aisle. I know exactly what I want for dinner and I know exactly where to find it. "Salisbury Steak Hungry Man". It was always my favorite frozen dinner when I was growing up and it still is, to this day.

I grab three out of the chilly cooler and rush to the register, eager to get home. As I'm checking out, I call another cab. Hopefully it'll be there by the time I get out of the store. It takes me less than five minutes to scan my food at the touch screen POS system. Self checkout is always much quicker and I don't have to talk to anyone. Social anxiety 101.

Lucky for me, the cab is waiting and surprisingly, it's the same guy from earlier. Not the one that just dropped me off but the guy that drove me to work this morning. I can see a look of excitement and annoyance on his face. His eyebrows say it all. But I climb in and a few minutes later I'm home. With all of my bags in tow, it takes me longer than usual to unlock my front door. Just before I get the last key in the last lock, one of the bags breaks, scattering push pins all over the stairs and pavement. I stand there for a moment, holding my breath, trying to keep myself from screaming. When will I catch a break? I finally get the door unlocked and I throw everything on the kitchen table.

After almost twenty minutes of picking up multi-colored thumb tacks, I'm in my apartment with the door locked and I can finally take a breath. I stand in my living room, with my eyes closed, and focus on my breathing. That was quite the debacle. I put two of the frozen dinners in the freezer and pop the other one in the microwave. I proceed to unpack everything I bought at the craft store, spreading everything out on my coffee table. The couch is definitely going to be the most comfortable spot to do my research. From the nearby microwave, I can hear the salisbury steak sizzle and pop. The savory aroma makes my mouth water and my stomach growl. I'm starving.

By the time the microwave dings, I have all of my supplies laid out, including the lockbox. Looking at the binder, I feel a sense of excitement. I've always loved being organized and the thought of that cluttered shoebox of papers has bothered me since I moved in. I grab my to-do list and cross off "go to the craft store". I love the sense of accomplishment that comes with completing stuff like this. That's probably the only reason I even make lists. That and if I didn't, I would probably forget everything two minutes later.

I practically sprint into the kitchen, grabbing a fork out of the drawer and my food out of the microwave. With my laptop perched on the kitchen table, I scarf down my food and start researching the article that Josh sent me. Finally. I pull up Google, which is always my best friend when I write. I mean, obviously you need to verify your sources, and never use Wikipedia, but that's just common sense. I begin by typing the victim's name into the search bar. "Rachel McCormick". I can't imagine how many Rachel McCormick's there were in the world. I'm guessing a ton. But I scroll through the Google entry anyway, looking for valuable information, before I narrow down my search. "Rachel McCormick Bellevue, Washington". That definitely refined things a bit. We've got a few news articles, some blogs and countless Facebook profiles. I narrow down my search again. "Rachel McCormick Coal Creek Trail murder".

The first entry is the article that Josh sent me. Of course I'm already familiar with it. And unfortunately, it didn't contain a picture of Rachel. I found that a little weird, considering the article was written by The Post. The next few entries are articles from smaller, local newspapers and I read through them, hoping to find more information than what was written in The Post. But, alas, all of these editorials seem to be dumbed down versions of the one Josh sent me.

So I continue my search. At the bottom of the first page of entries is another news article, but this one is from the nineties. There was another murder on the Coal Creek Trail in January of 1993. Creepy. I click it and read to see if there are any similarities to what happened to Rachel. From what I could tell, it wasn't related but there was something about it that gave me an eerie feeling. Maybe it's because they never found the murderer. Maybe it's because the girl in the picture kinda looks like me. Whatever it is, I feel like this isn't the last time I'll be reading it. I download it onto my computer for safekeeping until I need it again and I print it to add to my Coal Creek Murder board.

Back to Google. The third entry is an obituary. I click on it, hoping that it'll be the Rachel McCormick that I'm looking for. Hopefully it'll contain some information that'll be useful in my article. The page boasts a picture of a beautiful young woman. She looks to be about my age. She has brown hair, about the same length as mine. She's slightly heavy-set, just like me. Her eyes are a greyish blue color, kinda like mine. And then the wheels begin to turn in my head. I quickly pull up the most recent picture that I have of myself on my computer and I put the photos side by side. It takes me a minute to compare the minor details but then it dawns on me.

Rachel McCormick looks almost exactly like me.