Now, all of it was on the floor of my car.

I drove through the empty streets, the windshield wipers slapping a frantic rhythm.

I pulled into the gravel lot of the municipal police station.

The blue and red lights of a parked cruiser cast long, pulsing shadows across the wet brick building.

I shut off the engine but kept the doors locked for a long minute.

I reached down and gathered the loose papers back into the folder.

My hands were wet with sweat.

I tucked the folder tightly under my arm, gripped my phone, and stepped out into the rain.

The air was cold and smelled of wet asphalt and pine needles.

I pushed through the heavy glass doors of the station.

The lobby was bright, lit by buzzing fluorescent tubes that made my eyes ache.

An officer sat behind a high desk encased in bulletproof glass.

His name tag read Deputy Vance.

He looked up from a computer screen, his expression neutral and exhausted.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked.

“I need to report a crime,” I said, my voice steadier than I expected.