I had tossed and turned, listening to the sweet and steady sound of rain, not enough to overshadow the horror of images that overtook my brain once I tried to sleep through the night. I wasn't sure if being in a new environment was exacerbating my nightmares, or if it would have even made a difference being home. 3am, Tuesday morning, I'd had a few hours sleep since my surrender at 9pm, but upon the first nightmare, every hour they began to follow in tow like a train that had derailed. I would wake with sweaty palms and shaking fingers, my breathing fast and my heart-rate unnaturally speeding like a robbery getaway car. I would grab at my chest, frantically searching for the wound, the bleeding that I would feel and see within the dreams. Gradually they became more vivid, more realistic and more personal.

By 6am, I could no longer put my mind and body through the torture. I was grateful for even a few hours uninterrupted sleep, and settled on the fact I would not be granted anymore.

I threw on an oversized cardigan, covering the entirety of my shorts as I made my way downstairs in search of coffee. Rubbing my eyes, yawning, I reached the kitchen where I would spend the next twenty minutes in search of a coffee mug and then working out how to use the coffee machine perched on top of the kitchen counter in the corner of the room.

Satisfied I had succeeded without breaking anything, I sighed against the hot steam drifting upwards from my plain white coffee cup. The smell alone was already working it's magic, strong and energizing.

At some point in the early hours of the morning, the rain had finally stopped. Swarms of Cicada's had found their places among the trees surrounding the property, singing their songs aloud for all to hear. Moving to the long window sliding doors, I pushed aside the blind, peering outside where the sun had risen not too far above the horizon across the lake. Clear skies and warm tones of yellow and orange settled on the surface of the water. Quietly, I pulled opened the blinds, allowing the calming light into the living room and kitchen. Unlocking the door, I snuck outside onto the patio, finding my place on the wicker set lounge.

Holding my coffee between both palms, I lifted it to my lips, soaking in the warmth, my eyes adjusting to the colors of the morning.

I had always been a city girl, enjoying the busy streets and the quirky people that I would pass each day as I went for a walk. Even though I hadn't ever made many friends, it was comforting to feel as though I was still swimming in a fish tank full of fish than an empty one.

But as I sat on the porch, staring at the still water, listening to nothing but the sound of the insects reveling in the new moisture, I couldn't help but picture myself waking up this way every morning. Reading without the sounds of neighbors shouting to disrupt me, walking along the water's edge without fear of a small misbehaved child accidentally knocking me down - I'd seen it happen. I could just imagine the opportunities I'd have to stargaze in a place like this, satisfying my passions when the skies allowed me to, no streetlights, no car headlights.

I was daydreaming, tallying up the pros and cons between the two very different lifestyles when Dawson had emerged from the house, informal, surprising me in more ways than one. My head snapped towards him, my coffee lightly splashing over onto my bare legs. I shifted uncomfortably, glad that by now the liquid was warm, not seething hot.

"Sorry, again" He grumbled, stepping onto the patio "I forgot to tell you, when you open a door once I've set the alarm, I'm notified through my remote with a very loud and unpleasant noise"

I had forgotten about the alarm "Oh"

"I should have walked you through it before we went to sleep, it's fine, at least I know it still works the way it should" He gave a sigh, standing towards the edge of the porch, looking out to the morning. It was with his back turned to me, I noticed him more in detail. He wore a dark tank and loose grey slacks. He was without his weapon, his badge, the authority. It had altered my perspective, he looked like just another person, because he was. Without the uniform, the stigma, it was often I forgot that there was a genuine person beneath it. But as I found myself searching him in a more personal state, I noticed that Dawson James was not without reminder of his profession. Between his right shoulder and shoulder blade etched into his tanned skin was a thin circular scar. It was small, but it was noticeable, even from a distance. I thought of all the ways he could have acquired the mark, my mind running over different scenarios when he turned around, his hands on his hips.

My head snapped back down, pushing my coffee mug onto the table, folding my cardigan sleeves over my hands to wipe the drying coffee splashes from my legs.

"How did you sleep?" He asked, sitting opposite me

I shrugged "Okay"

"Nightmares?" He asked, watching me as I kept my head down

I wanted to lie, tell him that it was something else that had kept me awake half the night. But what would be the point? He already knew I'd been having them, this was part of my post trauma process.

I nodded "Yeah, a few"

"You have probably developed PTSD, it's common with what you've been through, I'd be surprised if you haven't been having nightmares" He leaned back, stretching his arms above his head

"I'll be fine, I'm sure it'll ease once these people are put away and I can stop stressing about them coming back to finish the job" I pulled my legs up underneath me, tucking my hands between my calves and thighs.

Dawson didn't respond, but I could sense that he was watching me

"So what did you do here, when you were younger, to pass the time?" I asked, breaking the silence before it settled between us

I felt his eyes release from me, turning to the lake with a shrug "The things I found of interest here when I was younger are no longer the same as they are now"

"In what way?" I urged

"Hunting for Bigfoot in the woods with my cousins" A small smile escaped his lips "Having contests in the lake as to who could hold their breath for the longest, creating forts in the living room with every blanket we could find in the house.." He remembered "Not really things I find myself doing now"

I gave him a smile "Sounds like it was a lot of fun back then though"

"It was, definitely"

"So this must really suck for you then, bringing work here with you, having to babysit like this where you should be the most relaxed and off-duty" I suddenly felt guilt for the idea

He shook his head as he looked to me "No, I don't see it that way"

"Even with the possibility of us, or you, getting hurt, or worse in the process?"

"I feel safer here than I do out there, even with the target, besides, I've always preferred this view over the city view, it's a nice little reminder" He smiled as he stood, exiting into the kitchen

I leaned back with my coffee and drank the remainder of now cold caffeine in one go. A slight breeze had picked up, cool and refreshing as it lifted off of the lake towards my skin. I breathed a sigh of relief, finding some sort of comfort in knowing Dawson wasn't as afraid as I was. He was confident we were safe, and that made me feel better.

I wasn't sure how long I'd been sitting outside, but the weather and the silence made me feel less stressed, less bothered about the situation I was in. Having Dawson also helped. He had at some point redressed, sporting his usual dress shirt and pants, his gun holstered but his badge missing. He had made him and I breakfast, eggs and toast, the pair of us sitting on the deck to eat while we spoke of normalized things, the lake, the town, his holiday home.

Dragging myself up when I felt I'd been lazy enough, I passed Dawson at his place at the dining table, sifting through forms. Heading upstairs, I dressed in jeans and a plain light blouse. Brushing the knots through, I loosely tied my hair into a low ponytail, brushing my teeth and checking the notifications on my phone - 0.

"Are these case files?" I spoke towards Dawson as I stood opposite his position at the table

He nodded, his eyes down on a pile of typed papers

I pulled a chair out, sitting, unsure of how to proceed. With the heavy silence surrounding us, suffocating us, Dawson's eyes lifted to me off his work "You okay?"

I nodded, folding my arms over on the table, careful of his setup "Yep"

Straightening his posture, he allowed a heavy sigh "These are all unsolved cases, the folders labelled with black are homicides, the red are attempted murder and the yellow are assault" I followed his hand as he wavered over each pile

"Wow, from what time period?" I became curious

"Dating back some ten years to last week"

I was reading over the many of texts on the colored labels, names, dates, numbers, it was overwhelming that a person's most traumatic experience now sat in a folder in front of one cop at a desk. Was he expected to solve them all on his own? Where was the manpower?

These victims needed closure, justice, just as I did, just as Tony did, and here it sat, wasting time away. What if that had become my case, Tony's case? I swallowed hard when Dawson's voice broke through my stare

"I can trust you, right?" His hazel eyes met mine, firm

My life depended on him, for my safety, for my survival. He had already saved me once before, did he feel that he couldn't trust me? What had I done to cause him to question it?

"Of course"

Shuffling his folders, he removed the black and red from my reach, stacking them beside his current study "How long have you lived in the City for?"

"My whole life"

"So you'd like to think you know it pretty well, the people?" He quizzed

I shrugged "I don't.. I don't really socialize a whole lot with work and school.. but with the work my dad and I did before he.." I paused, avoiding the word "It was an observant job, it naturally turned me into an observer"

His eyes were sympathetic for a moment, and then he looked back down to his papers "If you were to have a look inside those folders, the yellow, I wouldn't notice, maybe there is something in there you'll understand from a non-cop perspective"

I hesitated, shocked. He was allowing me access to confidential files of crimes that had happened within our city. This was a big deal, this was a big problem for him had anyone of found out. I was paused, unsure if it was something I really wanted to do. Did I want to know the horrific details of what went on in my hometown? How much worse could it be from what I had already experienced?

Naturally, I was also a very curious person. How could I not? How could I walk away from the opportunity? My interests had always been focused on the real world, what was out there, what went on. This was a part of that, this was the dark reality of our community that most were oblivious to.

Reaching for the first, thickest folder, I became nervous, worried Dawson would watch me, wait for me to throw up my breakfast at the harsh reality, but he didn't, he was focused entirely on his own work. The moment I began reading, I had become engrossed. It was like reading a crime novel, only this had actually happened in my neighborhood. It was scary just how close to home it was.

4 assaults on women, women who had all been knocked to the ground, beaten and had their belongings stolen. There was no reports of sexual assault, which was usually what I had known many assaults to be about. This person had no interest, he was after money, the cruel way, much like my attackers had been. It was cowardice.

I continued to read of the details, the reports, the timeline. I recognized many of the street names, and then, something had caught me off guard. 2 of the women had made small mentions in their statements of having earlier been at the same Bar Camille and I had been to on numerous occasions. The other two women had also been to local bars, this couldn't have been a coincidence, this was where the man would hunt. I had watched plenty of Law & Order in my time, I liked to think that I had a small inkling of how their minds worked.

I focused on the two women that had been at the same Bar as Camille and I. Their stories were eerily confronting, and as I turned the page to read on, a photo sketch met my gaze.

One of the women, Annette, had seen the perpetrator during the attack, his mask having fallen off, the streetlights giving her access to his features before she was knocked unconscious. It was as I held the photo between my fingers, that a sudden image hit me. I knew this person.