Sure, I work out. I jog to keep fit and I smoke a pack of cigarettes every two days. Counterproductive you say? Yeah. I get it, but let me explain. It's like this; I work out because I smoke. I sometimes have to chase and wrestle the bad guys so I can arrest their dumb asses. I can't risk needing to stop and hack my lungs up in the middle of the pursuit like a bona fide jackass. And I smoke so I won't shoot the criminals, bypassing the chase altogether. So see? It works out for everyone involved.

Smoker or not, I love running. It gets me away from the fucks and the freaks I'm forced to battle every day. And I'm referring to my fellow officers here. I'm not even mentioning the criminals, but yeah, jogging gets me away from them, too. For five miles four times a week, nothing can touch me. Not my job, my self- prescribed loneliness, or my past.

Perhaps that's a lie, I muse, as I set my pace. Maybe the past finds a way to seep through the fissures of every barrier, stalk me from every shadow, and latch onto me no matter where I go. It could be that's what pasts do. They slink, like fucking parasites, waiting to suck a person dry, until there's nothing left.

I grit my teeth, upping the run, needing pain to pull me from my darkening thoughts. I'm a shitty dweller. Depression is part of me, I suppose, but I don't like to be a willing participant of it. And remembering those lost years, fuck me up every time. I hate memories, carrying no fondness for yesterday. But yesterday sure as hell has a thing for me because it's always there, always vying for my attention and I'm constantly left struggling to find something to take me away from it.

I turn down the winding path laid out before me. The birds flying from branch to branch captures my attention as do the rows of flowers taking root, their colorful petals lining the dirt road I traverse. There's no real fear here, no reason to look over my shoulder like I'm used to. But I work a job where not paying attention could get you shot, so I glance back, glad I'm alone on the trail.

I gotta admit; the city is pretty in the spring. And the air in Albuquerque, New Mexico is cleaner, fresher, and much different from the smoldering stench of Brooklyn, New York where I hail. The streets are more open here, and the people appear calmer. There was some uncertainty when I arrived last year regarding how much quieter it seemed, but I found there was plenty of crime to keep me a busy woman.

The city's unlawful sinners get me paid, and for every scumbag I bring in for being a douche, the more I get on my Christmas bonus. Thank you, trigger-happy gangsters, and cheating wives with jealous husbands. You guys keep me in business, for I am Detective Cobalt Lindsey — homicide. That's right, you sons of bitches who thought I wouldn't make it.

I achieved my dream, fuck you very much, and I'm living it, even as I run from the nightmares which brought me here.

Controlling my breathing, I jog harder, pumping my legs faster, hearing my sneakers pound the pavement while gritting my teeth against the urge to crumple. I'm hurting, my lungs burn, my muscles screaming 'uncle', but I don't give a shit. I need this. My entire being deserves nothing less than the agony I stoke as I sprint.

The sound of her cry is in pursuit. That lost child still floating around in cyber-land, no longer a name, but a cold case number, looms just behind me. She's coming! Right there, right there, in the back of my mind she dwells, always approaching, following me, reminding me of just how much I failed her, and if I relax even a little, she will be full on facing me in those very memories I scream away every day.

I have to get away from her eyes, lifeless, and her tiny cold body freezing my arms. I have to find my sanity, but sometimes holding my shit together is like catching air with bare hands. I feel the familiar wetness in my eyes and snarl in self-hatred.

"Fuck you," I shout at myself, pushing harder and harder, my body tingling and my eyes burning from sweat, but it doesn't register. Not right now. Not when she's so goddamn close!

"You don't get to mourn, you bitch," I remind myself until the self-punishment outshines the internal grief, taking over, smothering the anguish for a little longer. Inch by inch, hour by hour, the past threatens to come in and break me, but somehow, I make it another day.

But for how long? I tried to end it all when the battle proved too heavy years ago. And after all the help I received, and how much I want to think I got this now, a tiny voice whispers inside me… "Are you really better? Wouldn't dying be easier than living with so much weight?"

Is there such a thing as 'living' for people like me? Or will I always be trapped in some altered state, dangling between life and death? Will I forever be the one who cries alone in bed, afraid to open my eyes, fearful of what shadows I might see shifting across my walls? Will she be there, watching me with sad, angry eyes? Or will my ex-husband's voice ricochet off the night forever, drowning me in his accusations?

When will I be free?

The path before me curves then inclines, giving me a means of last-minute self-torture. Sweat-soaked from the fifty-five-minute run, my muscles scream. But I keep moving, loving the pain, needing to expel the silent rage. Finally reaching the top of the slope I slow, easing up on the punishment. Some of you might get me when I say pain is all I feel. Life has become numb, but pain reminds me I still live. It's the only way I can tell the difference between past and present.

As I slow from a jog to a walk, attempting to bring my pulse down, my cell vibrates. The Darth Vader ring tone echoes from the sweaty waist band of my black spandex joggers. The music causes my 'resting bitch face' to dissipate and my 'fuck you face' takes over. It's work calling me on my one day off. Figures. The Darth Vader song is my partner's ringtone, and because we never make facey-face beyond work, I get immediately that someone's dead.

Murder is my job, after all.

I answer, wishing I could fuck up someone's eardrums for bugging me, while knowing full well that I can't. So, I settle on a breathy, "What?"

Lucky for me, my partner, Jimenez, never takes my lack of phone finesse personally. He doesn't bow under my bitchy disposition, and that is one of the many reasons we work so well together. His soft, northern New Mexican accent washes over me, making my flesh tingle in ways I don't wish to decipher.

"Sorry to cut your day off short, Lindsey, but I need you. I sent a text. It's the vic's residence. Get here now."

Detective Lorenzo Hector Jimenez is the cool and collected side of our team. He's been my partner for the past six months and I find him to be the Yen to my Yang, so-to-speak. He never tries to banter or share life stories, and for that I'm grateful. The six former partners that the department attempted to place me with were distrustful of my lack of aspiration to get personal. Some dicks believe they can't trust someone backing their asses if they aren't open to bonding and other forms of emotional shit.

Stupid philosophy, in my opinion. I would defend anyone to the death. That's my job, but that shouldn't mean I have to snuggle and spit stories over coffee. I want to do my job and go home. End of list.

The good chief placed me with Jimenez on a Monday. He explained to me in his usual direct, stoic tone, I'd make this work, or he was going to send me to the cop shop shrink. But by that Friday I found Lorenzo to be my perfect porridge. I'd die to protect my partner, and I think he knows it. The others, however, I don't trust them to hold my shit, much less watch my ass, but I trust Lorenzo with my life.

I frown at the thickening silence hanging over me like a threat. He cut the call without waiting for me to reply, and I swallow hard, wondering briefly if I'm ready for this one. He's the polite side of us, and for him to be so short and quipped alerts me. A nervous, unidentifiable emotion swells in my throat as I race to my SUV and tap the destination into my GPS. I shove the stick into gear while grabbing my badge from the glove box. I wish I could go home and change, but his tone has me worried. He needs me, so I'll go.

That's how partners work.

***