I have manic depression. I was sent to juvenile detention at twelve. Everyone said I was crazy.
But my dad never gave up on me. He said, "Girl, I'm not scared of your craziness. A girl who's a little wild won't get pushed around."
But then, my dad left me too.
1
My name is Sable. There's something wrong with my mind.
In eighth grade, there was a pimple-faced boy who always mocked me for being a motherless child.
At recess, he'd yank my hair and flip up my skirt.
Until one day, he tore up the photo of my mother that I kept in my pencil case.
That day, something inside my mind just snapped.
I looked at the boy grinning viciously and drove my fist into his nose, bending it sideways.
Then, as he stared at me in terror, I picked up a stool and smashed it at his head.
When he collapsed screaming, I climbed on top of him, grabbed the ballpoint pen from my pencil case, and stabbed his arm over and over—the same arm that had torn apart the photo.
As he howled, I started laughing, louder and louder.
Most of my classmates were crying. A teacher finally burst in and dragged me off.
That year, I had just turned fourteen.
I was hauled from the police station to a nearby juvenile detention center, then two months later sent to a psychiatric hospital after being diagnosed with severe manic disorder.
A year later, I was discharged, required to live under a guardian's supervision.
From then on, wherever my dad's business took him, I followed.
Then I'd shut myself in my tiny bedroom. Studying, watching movies, practicing yoga to calm my mind. Never seeing sunlight.
Everyone who learned about my illness knew how dangerous I was.
Even I was afraid of myself when the madness took over. I resisted leaving the house at all costs.
But my dad wasn't afraid. He never treated me like a burden.
Even though the boy I'd attacked was a politician's son, and his family had redirected every ounce of their vengeance at my dad's business.
In my dad's eyes, I wasn't some unhinged lunatic. I was still his little princess.
Since I wouldn't go out, every time we moved, he'd have the new place fully decorated in the style I loved—even though he couldn't afford it—just so the house wouldn't feel like my cage.
Later, my dad's company went bankrupt.
We escaped to a southern county town. The money we had left could only cover a tiny one-bedroom apartment in a run-down building.
He took the couch; the bedroom went to me. Warm blankets, flea-market books, our only smartphone—the best things in the house were always mine.
Late one night, I pressed my ear against the door and asked him if he'd have been better off without a crazy daughter to protect.
"Silly girl." In the freezing winter night, my dad's soft laughter filtered through.
He said you really are wild. Anybody would be scared of you. Whenever someone tried to force me to drink, I'd just say I'd let you loose to bite them.
He was joking, but I was already crying.
Because I heard him add:
"So really, you're the one protecting Dad."
Those words fundamentally changed my whole trapped existence.
2
Two months later, on my nineteenth birthday.
That evening, I cleaned the apartment until it sparkled, boiled two bowls of noodles, fished out the pickled vegetables from last night, and waited for my dad to come home.
I'd prepared a sentence, a surprise for him.
I wanted to tell my dad I was officially an adult, and I was ready to go out and find work.
I'd decided I wasn't going to trap myself within these four walls anymore. I was going to reenter society with utmost composure.
I hoped he'd believe I wouldn't lose my mind again. That would've been the best birthday present he could give me.
I thought my decision would lift the furrow from my dad's brow and bring a ray of hope to our home.
But my dad never came home that night.
A police officer knocked on our door instead.
He told me my dad had been in a car accident.
Fatal injuries. Hit-and-run driver.
3
I saw my dad one last time at the crematorium.
A young detective named Shaw handed me something.
A secondhand laptop.
Detective Shaw said it was the most valuable thing found on the deceased. When the body was discovered, it was face-down, arms wrapped protectively around the laptop, almost every bone shattered.
Shaw seemed regretful. "We suspected there might be evidence inside, so we opened it. But it was just a brand-new computer."
But I knew. I knew.
A while back, I'd mentioned I wanted to try writing online, maybe earn a little money.
And my dad had told me he'd prepared two birthday presents.
So that laptop was one of them.
That was my nineteenth birthday. After the midnight bell, I collapsed on the steps of the crematorium and cried every tear I'd ever have in my life.
I knew I'd never find out what the second present was.
But that wasn't even the worst of it.
When I'd cried myself nearly empty, I finally registered Detective Shaw's choice of words.
"Evidence."
An ordinary hit-and-run wouldn't leave evidence in a laptop.
Unless... in the police's judgment, this might have been murder.
I snapped my head up. "So how exactly did my dad die?"
4
Detective Shaw hesitated, then handed me an autopsy report.
He confirmed that the hit-and-run driver's behavior was indeed abnormal.
What Detective Shaw said next hit me with the same force as that boy in eighth grade, nearly destroying every ounce of my reason.
According to the report, my dad was struck first and thrown over ten meters.
The autopsy showed he was still breathing after the initial impact.
But based on the skid marks at the scene, the car hadn't slowed down at all after hitting him.
It drove straight over his body.
That could've been explained as drunk or exhausted driving—the driver might not have even realized.
But it didn't end there.
After rolling over my dad, the car stopped. Then reversed. And rolled over him again.
I couldn't even imagine his despair in that moment.
That middle-aged man, clutching his daughter's birthday present, desperate for any chance of survival, just so he could deliver it to her.
5
Hearing that, my whole body trembled.
I used every last ounce of willpower to keep from losing my reason.
When cold sweat drenched me from head to toe, I finally steadied myself and forced the words through clenched teeth: "So when will you catch the killer?"
"We can't be certain yet. But we certainly won't give up," Detective Shaw sighed, offering what comfort he could.
I gave a slow nod.
Then I said calmly: "Then please find the killer as quickly as you can. Otherwise, I'm afraid I won't be able to stop myself from doing something irrational."
Then I turned and walked away.
After just two steps, Detective Shaw called out from behind me: "Sable, when I couldn't reach you earlier, I looked into your records."
I stopped but didn't look back. "And?"
"I saw your record. Attempted murder."
He paused, then said: "You really can't control yourself, can you? It's clinical?"
The square was silent except for the wind.
Several seconds passed before I turned.
It was the first genuine smile I'd worn all day.
"Find the killer quickly. For everyone's sake."
By the time I left the crematorium, it was past midnight.
Under the moonlit sky, only one thought remained in my mind.
I was going to make that killer understand that not turning himself in was the worst mistake of his life.
6
From that point on, I started leaving the house of my own accord.
I visited the crash site, collected tire prints.
But it had rained that day, and the muddy road had erased most of the evidence.
I went door to door near the accident scene, searching for possible witnesses.
I pinned every lead I gathered on my wall, trying to piece together the truth.
I suspected the parents of the boy from eighth grade were behind it.
I told Detective Shaw my theory on the phone. Three days later, he gave me a definitive answer.
He'd contacted the local police in their jurisdiction. Beyond a rock-solid alibi, all that awaited was a stream of profanity from those parents.
I had to admit it—we'd fled to the south, and practically no one knew where we were. They couldn't have been responsible. I'd been blinded by hatred.
But I hated myself for being so useless.
The truth was, despite all the reading I'd done in my bedroom and the mystery novels I'd consumed, real cases—and mundane hit-and-runs in particular—were far harder than I'd imagined.
The most ordinary cases were the hardest.
So I devised a plan.
At the time, a serial murder case was making headlines across the entire province.
Four women had vanished near the county one after another, with no bodies and no survivors.