I can’t say that it was fun, being a cop’s daughter.
Oh, sure, it had its perks. Like when my father would leave for work. I’d run outside to watch him drive away every day. As soon as he hit the end of the driveway, he’d flash his lights for me, and I’d giggle and scream. Sometimes, he would let me ride along to work in the front seat, and on the quiet stretches of roads he’s let ME play with the lights and intercom system. If he was in a really good mood, he’d let me wear his hat.
But those moments were often overshadowed by the darker reality of what he had to do every day. His job wasn’t as dangerous as it could have been. He wasn’t a city cop. Rather, he was one of the beige boys who gave you tickets for driving a bit too fast – a state trooper. We lived in a rural area, so it wasn’t usually too bad.
Usually.
There were times, though. Seven-car crashes. Chases. Active shooter situations. From a young age, I understood the dangers involved in my father’s job. He worked the night shift, and each afternoon when he left at approximately five, I could be found clinging to his leg and crying, asking him not to go. He wouldn’t come back until around one in the morning – if the night was quiet, that is – so I would have to wait until I woke up to find out if my dad had made it home that night.
I was always waiting for the night he wouldn’t come home.
There were also dangers that I didn’t know about until I got older, ones that involved my mother and I specifically. See, some people didn’t like my dad. Being a cop is a difficult job because, if you do it wrong, people hate you, and if you do it right, people hate you. It’s just a matter of who will hate you. My father certainly pissed people off – people he gave tickets to, people he threw in the drunk tank, or perhaps their families. Angry people begot angry threats: smashed mailboxes, threatening letters and phone calls. Occasionally the unexpected visitor who came to rant and rave in our front yard, though I never personally saw any of those. I had to learn about these situations when I was in my early adolescence so I knew how to protect myself. I imagine it was hard for my mother, explaining to me why I wasn’t allowed to answer the phone until I was in high school, or why they almost never left me home alone.
So, no, being a cop’s daughter wasn’t really much fun. But I was proud of my father. In fact, I still am. He helped people. He cared about people. He went out and tried his damnedest to make the world a safer place, even at the cost of his own personal safety.
But I don’t have a problem admitting that I was relieved beyond belief when he retired just after I graduated college. I didn’t have to worry about my parents anymore, about getting a phone call that would shatter my world. My family was finally safe.
Well. That’s what I thought, anyway.
Things were quiet until about two years after he retired.
By this time, I’d moved four states away. I was living in an apartment in the Great Big City, and I honestly couldn’t be happier. Small town life had never suited me, and I enjoyed the scream and whir of the city.
I saw it at around ten o’clock at night. I was heading back from a rather long day of work – I work as a journalist and I often spend long hours either in the office researching and writing or out in the field doing much the same. I don’t mind, though. I love writing.
But I digress.
Anyway, it was late and I was exhausted. I’d trudged up to the third floor and down to my apartment – 307 – when I noticed a note stuck to my door.
I thought it might be from my landlord and I had a small moment of panic – was I late on my rent? I was pretty sure I’d already paid for this month… I quickly dismissed that idea, as I figured she would have called me on my cellphone if my payment was late. Curiously, I lifted the note from the door and unfolded it.
