Loves Me Not

TWENTY ONE

AFTER
DETECTIVE BRETT PORTER

Sunday, 1:30 p.m. I sit in my office with the door open, eating microwave noodles out of the container. A few of the guys came by earlier to see if I wanted lunch, but I have more important things on my plate right now. Like this journal.

January 15, 2019

I despise the human race, which is quite ironic for someone who loves everybody. Don't get me wrong – I'm not some pessimistic sociopath who segregates herself from society and relishes in her solitude. Some people I don't mind, but it's mankind as a whole that I have a problem with.

Everyone is flawed, and that's not necessarily their fault, rather, it's the fault of society as well as how people have been conditioned to live. Do you ever question why we do the things that we do? Probably not. Nobody does. We grow up and simply do them because it's what we're taught to do. Nobody stops and questions anything. We just willingly move through life like sheep headed to slaughter. Well, I no longer wish to be a sheep living in this blissful state of ignorance. I'd like to wake up and take control of my life. I no longer wish to conform to societal standards and do what everyone else does – that lifestyle has never appealed to me. I'd rather wake up each morning and live my life how I'd like to without worrying what other people think. My husband, my boss, my peers, my neighbors – they all can think whatever they want. But the Catalaina that I strive to be is not the one that I am right now. I have drifted far from who I used to be and have become somewhat of an idealized version of myself. I've always done whatever people have asked of me, became whatever they wanted me to be. My parents, my teachers, Ben... they all have these expectations of what I should be like, and I guess, subconsciously, I became what they wanted. I bent myself until I fit the mold. And here I am. This is who I've become.

I fucking hate the world I am surrounded by. I can no longer sit there and feign small talk with strangers when it's the last thing I want to do. I long for so much more than that. I crave in-depth discussions about topics that matter. I want to delve into lifestyle choices and morals. I want to know everything there is to know about a person, not about the fucking weather or gas prices.

You know what else I can't stand? Being around the willing sheep. Everyone else I am surrounded by hasn't yet awoken. They're still trapped in this blissful ignorance, thinking that the world around them is everything they want. They have yet to open their eyes and realize that they, too, are headed to slaughter. And I can't stand it. Why can't they just wake up? Why can't they realize what I've realized? I look at these people living their everyday lives, going to the grocery store, buying organic produce to maintain their healthy lifestyles, driving their expensive cars, needing materialistic things, giving into capitalism and consumerism by abiding to societies rules and standards that have been carefully laid out for them, blindly. They have no idea. But I do.

And I'm sick of it. It's time to make a change.

______

It's almost three o'clock when I get the call for a potential lead. Well, not a lead, per se, but something of interest.

I drive down to the train station and meet with Zoey, who has just spoken with the head of security at the train station. They lead me into the back room where all of the monitors are displayed with live feeds from the security cameras. Zoey tells me that one of the security guys was going over last month's tapes when he noticed something – or someone – of interest. He pulls it up for me and the three of us watch as the footage plays out before us.

It's dated from the sixteenth of April, 10:20 a.m. She enters the train station and I immediately know it's her from the long brown hair and slender body. I've never seen her in person before, but now it feels like I have. I study the way she walks, how she carries herself.

She walks through the main entrance where the ticket booths and machines are. But she doesn't even stop or look in that direction. She just keeps walking.

She walks around for a while, going through the tunnel that leads to the other side, then she comes back. She stops at one point and looks up at the television screens. She must look at them for a good couple of minutes, just staring at them. I wonder what thoughts were crossing her mind. And then just as quickly as she entered the station, she's leaving again, disappearing through the doors and out into God only knows where.

"What do you take from that?" Zoey says, looking to me.
I suck in a breath and turn to face her. "I'm not sure. It's definitely strange. I mean, why come to a train station, only to walk around for a bit and then leave again?"
"She was watching the screens for a bit there," the security guy says. "Maybe contemplating where to go?"
I nod. "But she didn't buy a ticket. She didn't go anywhere."
"As far as we know," Zoey says. "She could have went elsewhere. Maybe she got a taxi or an Uber."
"Or maybe," I say, thinking it through. "She was plotting a course of action. Planning for when she came back another time." I pause. "Her car is still in the driveway. Which means that, wherever she might have gone, she could have found other modes of transportation."

_____

We get tips off and on throughout the day, a result of the press conference from the night before. One woman calls and swears she saw Catalaina at the grocery store near her house. Another calls and says she saw Catalaina walking with a man on the street. I don't have time to chase down every false lead and explore hundreds of avenues, but I do what I can. I watch security footage from the CCTV cameras. I go into grocery stores and nails salons and ask if they've seen her. I drive around, eyes peeled, simply looking for clues, something – anything – that might explain where Catalaina Kittridge has vanished to.

The one good thing I have is her laptop. I scan over the journal every once and a while in my free time. Sometimes I find something useful and jot it down. Other times, I turn up with nothing.

It's difficult trying to pick apart the brain of a missing woman. And it makes it even more difficult when that missing woman had the pieces of her life so scattered that not even I can seem to find them and put them back together.