That night she’d gotten home, late from an unexpected and charming online date, and her entire place had been ripped to shreds and disassembled: pillows knifed open, fridge door pulled apart, baseboards wrenched away from the walls. It was absurd. The police came and went, offering to give her a ride to a friend or family member's house out of professional courtesy but not offering assistance. She came away with a police report number for her renter’s insurance and a sense of defilement.

There was something wrong with the scene, and not just because it was her apartment. Someone had systematically searched this place, down to cutting open her frozen peas. They hadn’t taken anything. The cops could not make heads or tails of the scene and she knew why some crime victims came to the precinct in a rage; the police didn’t have easy answers and she could watch them giving up. This cold feeling kept creeping up her neck, so she decided to bike back to work.

“Where is safer than a police station?” She thought.

There was a feeling but not evidence she was being followed. It was a cool and clear night, she’d passed the occasional car or drunk on the street but nothing jumped out. She looked behind her, a black sedan was up the road and pulled over as she also stopped. She rode on, the car didn’t follow. The precinct had a comforting brightness, busy with patrol cars and the all-night work that is crime detection. Usually, she used her badge to go to the side, closer to her office. Tonight, the side of the building seemed dark and imposing. Shaking her head and chastising herself on her paranoia, she walked through the public entrance.

As soon as she flipped the lights on in her office, she knew something was wrong. The work go-bag she always carried dropped to the floor with a thud. She was almost obsessively organized, you had to be in this line of work. Everything would look tidy to an outsider, but it was out of place. Although nothing was destroyed, this office had been as thoroughly searched as her home.

Nothing had been taken, but something had been added. There was a sheet of white printer paper poking from the bottom of her keyboard. She approached it as cautiously as one would approach a live bomb. On instinct, she reached into her pocket and pulled out gloves before she touched it. The note read:

‘WE KNOW YOU HAVE IT. HAND IT OVER OR ELSE.’

The air left the room. They were after her, and they included the police, her colleagues. She wasn’t safe here and she had to get out. She had to get away, and she had no experience hiding from anyone, much less the cops.

Her mind focused, the panic subsided to a laser calm. This was an active crime scene and the crime was ongoing. She knew what bugs looked like and she patted herself down. Nothing on her person, so she went to the go bag and dumped the contents on the ground. She thought that was clean too until she heard a suspicious clink in one of her jars of powder.

Her phone went into her top desk drawer, she left it powered on.

She made a checklist in her head, she had to do this piece by piece, just like processing a scene. She unlocked the bike before she realized she couldn’t take it, it had been locked up outside for the date and if they could bug fingerprint powder they could certainly trace a bicycle.

First, to the all-night bodega a few blocks away, passing an atm on the way. She picked up a sweatshirt a few sizes too big, a beanie to shove her hair in, and a bandaid. Her mind was still reeling a thousand miles an hour, she wondered if she was having a psychotic episode or this was really happening to her. As she was applying a large bandaid over her cheek to distract from her face, she contemplated taking herself to the hospital.

Instead, she thought her way through taking the early subway to a bus stop and riding with the early morning factory workers deep into the industrial district, just as the sun was rising. She walked a few stops over and took a different line back to a motel she’d been to a few times, for work. From the violent crimes investigations she assisted with she knew they’d accept cash over card and put any name you told them onto the register.

Even with her unusual appearance and the sweat stains on the new bodega sweatshirt, she got a room without showing her ID. The chain slid into place with a click and she twisted the lock on the handle, breathing heavily as it spun round and round, evidently broken. The plate glass window with a twisted crack down the corner also didn’t promise much actual security. The tiny bathroom felt more private, she slid to the cool tile floor.

She passed her memory back to the crime scene she’d been at yesterday. It was a suspected murder, a pool of blood but no body. A neighbor had called in a welfare check after hearing a heated argument but by the time police arrived no one was home. Forensics were on the scene earlier than usual due to the lack of body but the amount of blood. She processed the scene, but it was a small place, like hers. She started with the computer equipment first, so tech could take it. Nothing seemed unusual, she didn’t recall anyone sticking around too long, detectives poking their nose in and officers. Then just a patrol officer by the door as she finished. She’d bagged and tagged, photographed, and sent the interesting bits to various labs. It was an ordinary day, in a string of ordinary days.

She stripped down to her underwear and pulled the clothes she had traded out from the bag. As she pulled off her black combat boots she found her socks fully wet with sweat and the stink quickly filled up the small space. The clothes were assembled like an autopsy, She started at the top and worked down to the hems of the dark work pants. Feeling vulnerable as soon as that section of her investigation was finished, she pulled her clothes back on.

Half way through thoroughly disassembling her go-bag, the frustration and fear set it. People were destroying her life and she’d uncovered a conspiracy in law enforcement and she didn’t know what she was supposed to have. Tears welled in the corner of of eyes. She’d had all of this on her or right next to her the entire day. She hadn’t processed any other scenes in the past week.

She pulled her spare shoes, what she thought of as the “crime scene slippers” out of the side pocket, gave them a once over, and was throwing them in the tub when another thought hit her. She’d had everything on her since this morning, except the boots. They’d been on a crime scene plastic liner outside the front door after she’d changed shoes.

There must be something hiding in those boots and she knew where. She had bought them from a chic goth boutique, a splurge from one of her first paychecks. Behind the silver bars on each heel was a reinforced hollow area. “For sneaking candy into the movies.” the salesperson had told her with a wink.

She grabbed both shoes and stuck her nails under one of those silver bars. After carefully wiggling it out the stopper, she thunked the heel on the ground and out slid a thumb drive, wrapped in toilet paper. With shaky hands and quivering breath she did the same to the other shoe. A second drive appeared, and the two drives sat before her on the tile like two ominous little gravestones.

This, too, had to be processed. She gloved up, and popped open the kit.

Outside there was a group walking outside, past all the doors. Were they going to their rooms or were they coming to her room? She focused on her next room and wondered if she could get through the small rippled window above the toilet.

In that half-moment of relief as the group passed by her door and continued on their way, she thought: “Now what?”