Except no one checked to find out what happened to the story she held in her hands when she died.  No one bothered to notice that after it was reviewed, though not read, that it seemed to have disappeared from the evidence files.  Sure, his partner asked what he was doing when he decided to take it with him as he left the station, but no one seemed to care that her novel had now been gone for over a week. 

"I just want to check and see if there is anything useful in here." That is what the detective told everyone.  But now he finds himself reading and rereading her words every night, unable to sleep.  There is a saddness in her words, a mystery that seems to haunt him, and the thing that seems to haunt him the most is that is seems to speak to him in a way that no words have ever spoken to him before.

Sept. 30th, 2007

Crazy as this may sound I have found myself wishing that I could be a drug addict.  Not so much in those terms but in the want that comes with wanting to be able to be so carefree. Growing up I was the daughter who followed the rules, who never strayed from the path, who sturuggled to make her parents proud.  They never knew, no one knew, that inside I wished to have the carefree additude of my brtoher, the addict, the delinquent, and the one who couldnt put one foot on the right path if his life depended on it.  He listened to no one, followed no ones rules.  He was as unafraid to take on the world as I was to test the freedom of doing something I had always longed to do.  The only problem that seemd to be similar for both of us is that we were trapped.  He was trapped by his love for a substance that didnt let him do much except sit around laughing at jokes that made no sense.  Me, I was trapped by my need to please my parents and by my own inhabitions of getting out here and exploring a world that seemed to just be waiting for me, calling to me, beckoning me to join it.