My job is very unusual but my days are very typical. I’m a single mom who, unlike most women in my suburban, upper class town, work as a law enforcement officer for the FBI. I knew from the moment I turned 20, when my parents were unwarrantedly killed, that I wanted to do good in the world. That me, being in the FBI would change the lives of many, and right the wrong doings to provide closure for families that were in similar situations to me.

I turn on the radio, spinning the dial first to the right and then to left, scanning for a song that hasn’t been overplayed and drowned out. Finally, a good song. I start belting out the lyrics ranging my vocals from low to high just as the song goes, except I can’t sing well. It’s a beautiful Thursday night and I finally have swiped out of work after closing a double homicide case; one that I would remember for the rest of my life.

Frantically, I look around. To my right is a steel door, solid enough to block any time of manpower that could try and get in or out. To my left is a white concrete wall, resembling that of a prison cell. Directly in front of me is a mirror, I know they can see me but I can’t see them. Above me is a video camera, watching my every move. Waiting for me to slip up or say something that I am not supposed to. It’s trying to catch me in a lie, studying my facial expressions, my reactions as I respond to the questions they are drilling me with. Where were you? What time did you leave your house? What is your connection to the victim? Can anyone confirm your location at 9:00 pm? I knew how these interrogations worked except, I’m usually the one asking the questions.

The song has just ended, I look down to scan again as I am coming into the first turn on the main road. The glow of the sun is right in the line of my eyesight as I glance up at the road for a split second. I squint, but then my eyes start to burn and subconsciously, the squint transformed into my eyes fully shut, but only for a short while. I really wish I remembered my sunglasses.

“I will ask you one more time, can anyone confirm where you were at 9:00 pm yesterday?” His breath smelled of strong coffee. The kitchen in our office only had black coffee, but I don’t like black coffee. It makes me nauseous. He was still standing there, crouched over and his face is about 12 inches away from mine. His voice was loud and sharp. He wouldn’t break his stare. Why does he think that I did it? Have I not proved myself to coworkers yet? It’s been five years at the headquarters with them. Five long years and now it’s all coming to an end. I knew if I didn’t answer the question they wouldn’t trust me anymore, so with regret, I did.

“No,” I muttered, “No one can confirm where I was.” My co-worker Jim stood there and turned his head, not making eye contact with me. He knew, and the people standing behind the two-way mirror knew that I had did it. 

Within that same second, the turn ended and I felt a bump. Over the curb and onto the sidewalk, a place my jet black BMW shouldn’t be.

“We're going to need to temporarily detain your badge, gun, and ID while you are a suspect in this investigation,” he softly spoke.

With a kick of the door my closest friend and co-worker bursted in. “Did you do it? Did you kill that man?” These words that rolled off his tongue and stung. It hurt him to ask, and it hurt me to hear it.

Moments later second impact came, this one felt different. It wasn’t the same feeling you have running over the edge of a street. It would’ve been much louder if the radio wasn’t on as blaring as it was, but still, something didn’t feel right.

I thought of how my life was so much easier just two months ago. Everyday it was the same thing. I would go to work, come home to my mom who was watched my daughter Katie, made dinner, went to bed and repeated it all the next day. All so simple, but still so nice. My job was going smoothly, I had just been promoted to a higher ranking officer. My mom offered to help take care of Katie since Tom and I got divorced, which we knew was better for us all. Our relationship is still amicable and he is involved when he wants to be, yet I don’t force him to have a relationship with Katie; he never really wanted kids anyway. If I get locked up, Katie will live with my mother. I was at a point in my life where things were finally ending up the way that they should.

Getting out of my car, I touch my cheek. It is soaking wet. I hadn’t even realized I started crying. I ran to the back of the car to grab my phone and dialed 9-1-1. The tremor throughout my hands was so severe, it made dialing those three numbers extremely difficult.

Thinking back I knew It was accident, I swear I didn’t mean to. I tried to revive him, to return the life back into his eyes, but he wouldn’t wake up. I know they won’t believe me if I told them.

One-and-two-and-three-and-four-and-five…my hands compressing and raising his chest, breaking his breastbone and ribs with each push. Checking for any signs of life between interval rounds of CPR.

I know I had done everything I was supposed to, but it all comes down to this: I am the reason he was no longer living, I am responsible for his death at a young age, and I had left him there to die.

As I heard the sirens echoing in the background, I knew I could not long help him and must help myself.

With a slam on the frigid, steel table, Jim showed me pictures of the deceased man’s body. He informed me that he was twenty-eight years old and was a newlywed.

I get into my car and drive away, the image of the man in my rearview mirror growing smaller and smaller, and my cheeks growing more and more wet. I was sitting in a pool of my own tears when I finally arrived at my house. The next day, I carried on with a heaviness in my chest and a lack of life in my face. I dropped Katie off at school and went to work. I walk in to see a picture of a new homicide we are investigating, the picture of the man I had hit was on the board. We were investigating me.

Looking at the picture, I thought of how Katie’s life would change. Will anyone tell her where her mother went? Will I ever see her again? There is a fine line between involuntary manslaughter, simply an unfortunate accident and hit and run in which the person has now committed a crime.

My heart is beating fast. So fast that I can’t even hear my own thoughts. The picture of the man’s mangled body lying on the table stared right back at me. With each minute of silence that goes by, I hear my heartbeat crescendoing inside of me. Can they hear it too? My chest is throbbing furiously until finally I can’t take it anymore. The heaviness and the guilt rupturing inside.

“I did it.”