The house smells like dirty diapers, weak air fresheners, and something burnt. It’s all I can do from using my scarf to cover my nose. But I don’t think that would help sell the image I’m supposed to be giving off. A retired social worker turned private investigator who could handle her shit, not to mention her gag reflex.
Not that there was anyone watching me but the old landlord standing outside waiting to close the room back up. But damn, there were some smells that just got me. Dirty diapers were one of them. There was a reason I told my ex-girlfriend, that kids were not for me. Diapers and endless time to dedicate to their well being. When I honestly didn’t do a bang up job of taking care of myself.
I poured myself into work from an already empty cup…fuck, my therapist’s metaphors were starting to work it’s way into my daily thoughts. Fucking great….and I know I didn’t have much left to give anyone else. I was working on it, but it was going to take some time. Twenty five years of playing savior doesn’t just disappear over night.
And if my therapist was to be believed, being a PI wasn’t going to help matters. But when there’s a kid missing, well, she knows better than to argue with me now.