"Give it a rest," Henri told me today. "You'll kill yourself if you keep at it like this." He was referring to my relentless search for the killer. But I can't rest now. I have to keep searching, even without my badge. If I can get a good lead, catch a break, maybe I can get my badge back.
Truth is, I don't know how to rest, never have. That's what the streets of Paris did to me. On the street, rest equals death, and restlessness is in my DNA. I don't sleep more than a few hours at a time; never sit still for long. Even when I am sitting still, my mind is working; my eyes are watching. It's how the streets formed me: wiry and ready.
"Sit. Relax," Henri said, pouring me a whisky. Relax? Just the sound of the word makes me angry. How can I relax when there is so much to do? Is the killer relaxing? The families of his victims?
The police shrink says my restlessness is related to my inability to make peace with my past. She says I haven’t forgiven myself, or some such crap. I dunno, maybe she’s right. I did do some pretty bad things, I suppose, in the name of survival. I have to live with that, but I don’t know if I’ll ever really be at peace with it, or even deserve to be.
Like the killer. He shouldn’t be allowed to rest, either. Even if I have to run myself into the ground. No rest for the wicked.
