As I slowly walk toward the bloody and gruesome crime scene, I put on my gloves to examine the body of a girl far too young to be dead. I can't bear to have to tell her parents how she died, a brutal murder stemming from a well-known elusive murder, all because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Looking at her beaten face with a long scar running from her eyebrow to her jaw oozing bright red blood, I can tell she was a beautiful girl with a promising future, making me think of the time when I was so young , I was looking forward to a career in science never thought I would end up dissecting the bodies of murdered men and women. Don't get me wrong, I love my job, but it's hard to examine the body of a ten year old boy who was hung from a tree because of a children's prank gone wrong older people he was trying to impress. Looking around, I find the note from the famous killer, which I don't usually read because I try not to get involved in other areas of crime. I notice something while reading the note that I can't put my finger on. I look at this note thinking there is something strangely familiar about this writing; I look down at my sandal foot where there is a delicate tattoo emblazoned with the words “I love you”. These words, the words my father and I said to each other the last time we saw each other before he died, but the writing on my foot that I had asked the artist to make look exactly like my father on a of my birthday cards, it was exactly the same thing. He even had a short but prominent tail on the “y”. I'm just going to take it back to the lab to have it looked at at the time it was written, maybe he wrote it a long time ago, I have no idea but there is no doubt in my mind that it is indeed my father's writing. ...... middle of paper ...... dad. Connor comes up behind me and kisses my neck as tears fall from my eyes, he knows this is the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. It was his suggestion anyway, he told me to write it for generations to come, as I pour out my discontented heart on these pages, all I can think about is how I am supposed to tell my future children about their grandfather. Connor keeps telling me not to worry but he knows that I constantly fear for our safety and that my relentless killer of a father will eventually come looking for me. I know everything will be okay one day, but there is nothing that can make me forget the look in my father's eyes, the look at what I am doing with my life, the look of utter regret and sorrow. The look in my eyes of anguish and pure rage as my father tries to tell me that he didn't mean to do what he did. The look of a liar.