How could she not believe me? Then again, she never believes me. She didn't when I told her that Ryan was hitting me. Or when I told her that I was being chased. Or just now when I told her Ryan blackmailed me with that sex tape. And on top of all that, she had sex with Ben. My whole world is spinning, probably with a little help from all that wine. But right now, the wine is going to give me the courage that I need to run after her and tell her how I feel.

I jump up from the couch and out my front door, which she left open when she stormed out. To my surprise, Rowan is laying on the ground, trying to pick herself up. The wine may have given me courage but it gave her something completely different. I rush over to her, grabbing her arm and hoisting her into a standing position. She leans against me, hard, and I can see by the look on her face that she's not okay.

Her forearms and elbows are skinned, small spots of blood pooling at the surface. That clingy outfit didn't offer much protection, but damn, did it look good on her. Even now. I look down at her knees, also skinned. The palms of her hands too. She looks at me, tears welling in her eyes, and I can't help but feel bad. I mean, I know I didn't do anything wrong and she's the one that doesn't believe me but knowing that she's so vulnerable right now; it makes my heart hurt.

I lead her inside, determined to clear her up and get her to bed. This wouldn't be the first time that she's slept over at my apartment so there was no doubt that she would be comfortable. I also don't have a car to drive her home and I probably shouldn't be driving anyway. I would call her a cab but you never know with those weird cab drivers. Anything could happen. So I slowly walk Rowan up the steps of my apartment and sit her down at one of the tables in the kitchen. There's no way I'm letting her get blood on my couch.

The first aid kit is under the kitchen sink, waiting to be used. I've never needed it until now. I remove a few alcohol wipes from their individual packages and wipe the blood clean. I use a cotton swab to rub antibacterial cream on each of the cuts and throw a few bandaids on. Done. Rowan sits almost perfectly still, not having said a word the entire time. I can't tell if she's doing it out of spite or if she's just lost in drunk thought.

She plops down on the couch and I throw my favorite couch blanket on top of her. It's a little small for sleeping but I don't think she'll mind. I feel completely sober now, even after drinking as much as I did. Someone getting hurt is the kind of thing that makes you clear-headed all of a sudden. I take one last look at Rowan before I turn off the lights and head to the bedroom. Just as I climb into bed, I remember that I didn't lock the door on my way back in. I throw the covers to the side and make my way through the living room.

"Harper?"

Her voice scares the shit out of me and even makes me jump. I put my hand over my heart, as if to stop it from beating so hard.

"Yeah?" I reply.

"Thanks."

I think about it for a moment, wondering where this is coming from. She was so angry with me before, that a "thank you" was the last thing that I expected to hear. I wanted to ask her so many questions at that moment, but I decided to reply with, "You're welcome." And I locked the door and went to bed.

.....

When I woke up, she was already gone. She had grabbed her coat from off the kitchen chair. She refolded the blanket and replaced it on the back of the couch. She even cleaned up last night's mess. I wonder if this was her way of thanking me. For cleaning her wounds. I check my phone, wondering if I would have a text from her, maybe some sort of explanation. Nothing. I decide to give Rowan some space. After all, the ball is kinda in her court after last night. So instead of texting her, I text Ben.

"Hey. Call me when you can. I need to talk to you about something."

I hit send and put down my phone, determined not to look at it, at least until I've had some coffee. On a more positive note, it's Sunday, my favorite day of the week. By now, I'm sure this week's issue of the Bugle is sitting on my doorstep, waiting for me to grab it. Reading the newspaper always has a way of transporting me away from everything. Every article, each of a different topic, throws me into the world of the writer. Seeing it from their perspective is my favorite thing about it. Without their point of view, the world would never know what the topic looks like through their eyes.

I retrieve the paper from my front step and place it on the kitchen table, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. In the meantime, it's been a while since I checked the mail. I grab my keys and head down to the cluster of post office boxes close to the center of my neighborhood. As I approach the paved area, I spot another resident looking through their mail, tossing junk letters into a nearby trash can. It's a young man, about 5'7, with sandy blonde hair and a wiry frame. He seems to be in his teens, standing with most of his weight on his left leg. His hip is sticking out, baggy shorts almost falling off his waist. I unlock my box and the door practically busts open, filled to the brim with mail. I guess it's been more than a while since I checked it. Haha. I pull everything out and juggle it into a comfortable position, getting ready to return to my apartment. The boy turns to me, watching in amusement as I struggle to carry it all.

"Need some help?"

I make eye contact with him and try to read his intentions. Is he just being a helpful kid or is there something else? This whole "being chased thing" is making me paranoid. He seems honest, though.

"Haha. Yeah, I guess I do. Would you mind locking my mailbox for me?"

He nods as I hand him the key and I run an alternate scenario in my head. One where he sprints off with my keys and I never see him again. While he locks the box, I make a little squinty face at myself. I shift the mail around again, trying to balance everything as my arms start to get tired. He gives the keys back and I look at him once more.

"Thanks. I really appreciate it."

"Any time."

He walks in the direction of the neighborhood playground and I walk the opposite way, towards my apartment. When I finally get back, I dump the mail onto the table, scattering letters everywhere, a few of them falling onto the floor. I look at the coffee pot, which isn't quite finished brewing, and then return my attention back to the pile of mail. Most of it is junk. I spy offers for car insurance, envelopes with pre-approved credit lines inside and a few notices from my dentist, reminding me to come in for a cleaning. I rip up the junk, place the note from my dentist on my fridge and pick up the few letters that fell on the floor.

The non-junk mail consists of three pieces. First, a bill from Capital One, letting me know that my minimum payment is due by the 1st. Second, a bank statement, also from Capital One, outlining my spending over the last month. And lastly, a letter from someone named Jim Campbell, which I'm still not convinced isn't junk mail. The front of it features jagged, but somehow neat, handwriting. It slightly piques my interest and I make a note to look at it later but I wait six days every week for the newspaper. The letter can wait. I turn my attention back to the paper, lying folded on my cheap, particle board table. Next to it, the Capital One bill and statement are nagging me, begging to be put away. I hate clutter.

I put the Capital One correspondence in a box of documents that I keep hidden in the back of my closet. Right next to my new box of cash. Usually I love being organized, but I didn't have the time or the energy to go through ten years of bills and statements. I head back into the kitchen and just as I'm about to open the mysterious letter, the coffee maker beeps. Finally. I pour myself a cup, add the necessary accoutrements, and sit down. I unfold the black and white tabloid, laying out each of the different pages, which I love to read in sequential order. On the front page sits my article about the mayor. Josh did say that he loved it. I read through my own writing, but not to view it from my own perspective. After all, I'm the one that wrote it. But I'm searching for mistakes, as I always do when I read my own work. Lucky for me, Josh is an amazing editor and I, an amazing writer, so there are no mistakes. Haha.

I read every passage of every article and study every picture, hoping to gain some insight from an inside perspective. I'm almost finished, but I always save the best for last. My favorite writer to read every Sunday. The Raven. They're a silent contributor for the paper. I'm told that there are quite a few. Usually their articles rotate, one week will be one writer and the next week a different one. But the only one that remains a constant is The Raven. I've been reading their work for years, even before I started work at the paper. They have been my inspiration throughout my work as a writer. I have to admit that their writing is almost the sole reason that I am subscribed to the paper. It's absolutely fascinating and wonderfully written. Their submissions are typically related to art, whether it's reviews of local plays or visiting a new art exhibit downtown. No matter what they write about, they always make connections to the world's most well-renowned works of art. Hemingway. Picasso. Thoreau. Michelangelo. Shakespeare. Poe.

I think for a moment about their unique signature, The Raven. Most of the silent contributors have signatures, such as this one, that usually relate to their genre of work. It keeps their identity hidden but gives people something to remember them by. The Raven is definitely fitting for them, as they love to talk about Edgar Allen Poe. It must be one of their favorites. This week's article, though, is a review of a ballet that premiered last week at the local theater. The Black Swan. The way that they compare the play to the book is an incredible display of their knowledge of literature. This wasn't a person that read the book in anticipation of the review, but someone that has read it more than once and knows it on a personal level.

I've imagined on more than one occasion that I would meet The Raven. After reading their articles every Sunday, I feel an almost personal connection to them. Their writing is so complex and descriptive that it's as if I've known them for most of my life. This is someone that you can have an intellectual and challenging conversation with. Someone that I share interests with. Someone that I long to know. I find myself comparing a friendship with this faceless person to the relationships that I currently have in my life. Or should I say, the dwindling relationships. As much as I love talking to Rowan, she doesn't exactly have a passion for the arts. I daydream about debating with someone like The Raven, about the controversies of 19th century literature. I guess I just long to be intellectually challenged.

My phone buzzes from the couch, where I threw it after I texted Ben, and as I jump out of my seat to grab it, the mysterious letter slides off the table and onto the floor. Lost in thought about who could be calling my phone, I disregard it and rush over to the living room. It's a number that I don't recognize but it has a Washington area code so I answer it.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Torres. It's Josh. Did you read the paper yet?"

"Oh, hey Josh. I forgot to program the office number into my contacts so I didn't know it was you. I'm actually reading the paper right now. Is everything okay with my article? I mean, you printed it but do you have some sort of correction or something I should work on for next week?"

"No, your article is perfect, actually. I wanted to let you know that I received a phone call from another paper this morning, asking for your contact information."

"Oh, really? Who?"

"The Post."

"Wait, what?"

"Yeah, I got a call around 8:30 from a rep for The Washington Post."

"Oh my God, I can't believe it! Well, what did they say?"

"They just asked for your phone number. Of course, I gave it to them, but just remember where your loyalties lie, Torres."

I sense the sarcasm in his voice and we share a laugh. I can't believe that The Washington Post called about my article. That's amazing news! I almost can't contain my excitement but I bottle it up. I wouldn't want to make Josh feel bad.

"Well, I just called to congratulate you and let you know that they'll be calling soon. Oh, and I found your laptop. It looks like someone moved it onto one of the supply shelves and some papers got stacked on top of it. But we have it here."

"Thank God. I've been looking for it everywhere. Thank you so much, Josh."

"You're welcome, Torres. And congrats, again."

I hang up the phone and do an actual happy dance. The Post asked for my contact information. That's insane! As amazing as the news is, though, it dawns on me that I have absolutely no one to share it with. I haven't checked my phone since I texted Ben this morning. Nothing yet. I decide to search through my contacts, wanting someone, anyone, to share the good news with. I pass by old friends and coworkers, long-lost cousins and aunts that never call. I see my mom's phone number, the one that she's had since she first got a cell phone. I consider calling her but she never really supported my being a writer anyway. There isn't one person that I actually want to speak to. Except Rowan, that is. But I'm trying to give her space.

I reach the "N"'s and there's his name. Nick. The guy who brought back my debit card. I think, for a while, about calling. I also consider sending him a text. But I'm not the kind of person to ask a guy out. I'm not exactly Ms. Confident or anything. Then again, he doesn't have my number, so if I ever want to see him again, I have to call him.

I spend the next twenty minutes going back and forth before I decide to paint my feelings instead. I make my way over to my easel, a fresh cup of water in my hand. I set it down on a small end table that I use for my supplies. I take down the canvas that boasts Rowan's gorgeous face. I didn't even get to show it to her. I turn the painting to face the wall and let it lean there, taunting me from just a few inches away. I try to block the image out of my brain, try to forget the feeling of passion with which I drew that painting. I grab a fresh canvas and place it on the easel, eager to paint my emotions, for lack of a better option.

Painting has always been a hobby of mine. That and writing. I never intended to make writing my career and, honestly, I kinda hate it. Of course, I love reading my work in the paper every Sunday, but it's not what I truly want to do. My creativity, my writing and my artwork, is more of an emotional outlet. No, ever since I was a little kid, I wanted to be a cop. I would strut around the house, wearing a little plastic badge on my shirt, wielding a pop gun like I was actually going to fight crime. That's probably why my mom was so disappointed when I dropped out of the academy. I still haven't told her why but I'm sure you can imagine how devastated I was when my ex showed up with that sex tape. What was even worse than having to abandon my dream was having to break the news to my mom.

I wanted to join the force to make a difference in the world. I've always idolized policemen and their ability to defend themselves and do what's right. After my relationship with Ryan, I needed the academy more than ever. I needed to feel power and I needed to feel in control. For years he pushed me around, beating me and abusing me. The mental, physical and emotional damage that I suffered is enough to keep me from doing what I love. I never truly got over the trauma of that relationship, considering that there was no one to talk to about it. Rowan doesn't believe me and it's not something that I would want to reveal to my mom.

I stare at the blank canvas, trying to gain inspiration from nothing. I add a coat of primer while I ponder my subject and turn my attention to the many acrylic paints. Maybe the colors will spark some ideas. I pick up my favorite brush and touch paint to canvas. I'm still not sure what I'm going to paint but I feel the creativity coursing through my veins. Stroke after stroke, I feel the stress of the Rowan situation melting away. After over an hour of painting, I step away from my canvas and stare at what I've created. It's a masterpiece.

I've always thought of myself as an impressionist. My work as an artist mostly consists of landscapes and the occasional portrait, like the one of Rowan. But this was something completely different. It is abstract and vibrant and modern. Much more so than what I usually paint. It boasts contrasting colors and images, so complex that it could be compared to a Picasso or an O'Keefe. Then again, I could be tooting my own horn a little too much, but there's something about it that screams "masterpiece".

I take a deep breath and stand up from my chair, heading to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. I definitely feel emotionally drained. I pull out my phone and the time reads 12:22. As if on queue, my stomach grumbles, signifying that it's lunch time. I grab some ham and cheese from the fridge and some Italian bread from the bread basket. I try to ignore the mold on one of the pieces of bread while I spread on some creamy mayonnaise. I neatly place four tangy pickles on the top piece of bread and layer ham and cheese on the bottom piece. It takes me less than five minutes to devour my sandwich and I decide that now is as good a time as any to pick up my laptop from the office.

It takes me a few minutes to choose to walk, instead of calling a cab. I need to be more dedicated to losing weight. I put on appropriate walking attire and grab some money from the shoebox in my closet. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot something that I haven't used in a while. When I was 18, my mother gave me this beautiful crossbody bag, an expensive one that I'd been asking for for years. We weren't exactly poor when I was growing up but this purse was definitely out of my mom's price range. I'd never really worn it because I was afraid to get it dirty or to lose it. But now just seems like the perfect time to wear it. I pull it out of the closet and sling it over my body, letting the strap lay in between my boobs. I have to admit, it looks a little weird, but it makes it pretty damn hard to steal my purse.

I shove the money into my new but old bag and transfer over some of the stuff from my overused clutch. My I.D., my debit card that has no money linked to it, my credit card and a few punch cards from different frozen yogurt places. Satisfied with my outfit and purse, I leave my apartment, locking it behind me. I trot down my front steps, with a newfound bounce in my walk. My whole life seems to be crumbling around me, but I'm in an ecstatic mood. Even though Rowan won't talk to me and Ben still hasn't called me back, The Washington Post asked for my number. It feels like much-needed validation of my talent as a writer.

And now that I think about it, maybe Rowan is a part of my past that I need to leave behind. We've been friends for so long and she knows everything about me, but sometimes it feels like she doesn't truly understand me. I've been in love with her since I met her but I know in my heart that she doesn't feel the same way. And I don't think she ever will. I'm lost in my thoughts about Rowan when someone or something crashes into me. To no one's surprise, I lose my balance and fall face forward, catching myself on my hands. My bag falls off my shoulder and tumbles to the ground nearby. A voice comes from behind me, along with a gentle hand on my shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, miss. I was looking at my phone and I didn't even see you. Are you okay?"

I look up at him, the gawky teenager from this morning, as he grips my shoulder harder. He helps me up and I brush myself off, flecks of gravel falling to the pavement. I instantly feel a stinging sensation coming from my hands and I turn them over to find streaks of blood patterning my palms. The boy sees them as well and he looks as if he wants to jump out of his own skin.

"I can't believe that I did that. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay. Don't worry about it. Accidents happen."

"No, I was being completely careless. Let me make it up to you."

He hands me my bag and I quickly look it over, hoping that it fared the fall better than I did.

"Seriously, it's okay. It's just a scrape."

"Are you sure? I have some peroxide and bandaids at my place. I could -"

"It's really okay. My apartment is right around the corner. I'll be alright."

"Okay. Well, I'm still really sorry. Just - just let me know if there's anything I can do."

"I will. Thanks."

He seems like a sweet kid but there's something about his overwhelming hospitality that annoys me greatly. I return to my apartment and remove the key from my purse, it's cold metal briefly soothing the sting of the cuts. That was extremely awkward and kind of the icing on the cake of a terrible string of events. But whatever. C'est la vie. I'm trying not to let things bother me and this should be the start. Once I'm in my apartment, I make my way to the kitchen and clean my wounds, trying to fend off flashbacks of last night. The burning of the rubbing alcohol brings me back to reality. I always forget how much that shit stings. After I'm all bandaged up, I decide to call a cab. I'd rather not take my chances walking again. Haha.

I leave my apartment, for the second time, and take a seat on the first of three steps, waiting for the yellow cab to pull up. I browse through my phone and check again to see if Ben saw my message. Nope. I decide to call him, instead of waiting for him to call me. I hit the phone icon at the top of the messages window and wait as it rings and rings and rings. His voicemail jumps on the line and a part of me thinks he actually answers.

"This is Ben. Leave a message." Beep.

"Hey, it's Harper. I don't know if you saw my text or not but I really need to talk to you. Please call me back."

I hang up just as the cab pulls in front of me. I climb inside, hoping that it isn't the same cab driver from last time. Thank God it's not. It only takes a few minutes for us to reach my office. After all, it's only five miles away from my apartment. Of course, that doesn't seem like a lot when you're driving but imagine if I'd actually walked? Screw exercise. It's too damn hard.

I exit the car and ask the cabbie to wait as I enter the building. He gives me an agreeable nod and I head inside, excited to retrieve my long lost laptop. Josh is sitting, perched at his desk, as always. He's typing away, seemingly working on something important. He doesn't notice as I come inside and make my way over to him. He must be super into his work because he still has no idea that I'm standing here.

"Josh!"

He jumps out of his office chair, a look of astonishment on his face.

"Holy shit, Torres! You scared the crap out of me!"

"Sorry. I actually just came in to pick up my laptop. I'm so glad you found it. I've been looking for it everywhere."

"Yeah, I think Michelle might've moved it over by the filing cabinets and then someone stacked some papers on top of it. But it looks like it was here the whole time."

"Thanks. I really appreciate it. I was so lost without it. Haha."

"I can imagine. I don't know what I'd do without mine."

There is a short pause before he picks up again.

"Hey, did The Post ever get in contact with you?"

"No, they haven't called yet. I'm hoping they'll call tomorrow."

It feels a bit awkward talking about it with Josh. I've gone over it a few times in my head; you know, what I would do if they offered me a job. I know it's The Washington Post and everything but The Bugle has been my home for years and I don't know if I could do that to Josh. I'm still kind of mulling it over in my head. That is, if they're even interested in employing me.

"Josh, I -"

"Hey, I -"

We stumble for a moment, asking each other to continue. Inevitably, neither of us continues and there's another long pause. I look down at the floor and I can feel his eyes on me. He speaks first.

"I was just preparing the assignments for tomorrow. I was wondering if you wanted yours early."

"Actually, that would be great. It'll give me something to do while I wait for them to call."

I realized after I said it that that was probably a little insensitive. I try to rebound.

"Even if they offer me a job, I don't know if I would take it."

He looks genuinely surprised, like a carpet was pulled out from under him or something. I can read his thoughts, or at least I think I can. Who gets a job offer from The Washington Post and turns it down? He's probably right. Most people would be insane to do something like that. But I like The Bugle and I like working with Rowan and I like routine. If I work for The Post, that means change. And I hate change.

"I know what you're thinking. I would have to be crazy to turn down a job offer from The Washington Post. But I love it here and you guys have been so good to me. It's hard to think about leaving and starting new somewhere else."

Josh doesn't say anything. He just stares at me.

"So, about your assignment..." He pauses. "I think you're going to like this one."

He does some clicking on his computer before he turns it around to show me. He waits for my reaction as my eyes run across the screen. It's an article from The Washington Post that is dated this morning. My cheeks flush and my eyes start to water. My whole body starts to tingle and I feel light-headed. The article reads:

Bellevue Woman Found Dead On Coal Creek Trail