Sam’s Journal of Survival

The Investigator

012726. This journal is fiction. The voice you’re reading is a character, not the author.

The Investigator

When I hired the private investigator, we did not meet in his office.

We met at a restaurant.

That mattered to me more than I expected. Neutral ground. Public. Ordinary. It helped my body stay present.

He was kind. Calm. Prepared.

He had already read about my case. He knew the details. I did not have to explain what happened or relive it for him. That alone felt like a relief I had not realized I needed.

He did not dramatize anything. He did not tell me to be afraid. He did not dismiss my fear either.

He made suggestions.

Practical ones.

He talked to me about distance, patterns, and habits. About how safety is not just about defending yourself in a moment, but about reducing opportunity before a moment ever arrives.

He explained things without talking down to me.

One of the first things he recommended was a home alarm system. Not just any alarm, but one with pressure sensors. He explained how they worked. How they detect presence, not just broken doors or windows.

He told me about coded entries. About how there are ways to disarm an alarm that also silently tell the monitoring company something is wrong.

A code that says: I am home, but I am not alone.

That idea stayed with me.

I hired a company and had the system installed. I learned how it worked. I practiced the codes. Knowing there was a way to ask for help without alerting someone else in the house changed something in me.

It did not erase fear.

But it gave me options.

He also encouraged me to take a course offered by the police. It was not a self-defense class in the way people imagine. It was about awareness. Planning. Living smart.

That was the name of it. Living Smart.

It focused on choices. On noticing exits. On routines. On how to move through the world with intention instead of panic.

Those things helped.

Not all at once. Not completely.

But enough.

Enough that my body could breathe a little easier knowing there were layers between me and danger. Enough that I felt less like I was waiting and more like I was preparing.

Hiring the investigator did not make me feel hunted.

It made me feel informed.

It reminded me that safety does not always come from institutions. Sometimes it comes from asking the right questions and listening when someone answers without judgment.

I am still careful.

I am still alert.

But I am no longer doing it blindly.

And that, for now, is a kind of progress.