Just got off the phone with DCI. Duncan. The son of a bitch doesn't believe me. He has explaination after explaination as to why what's in those photos isn't real. I'm paranoid. I'm seeing things. I photoshopped them to get attention. I'm suffering from Survivor's Guilt. PTSD. He accepts that Halderman can't be the only one behind Daddy's crimes, but he's not paying attention to what, as far as I'm concerned, is pretty persuasive proof that he wasn't even involved - two tall, thin, bald men, working together? Do they have a union or something? He just wants to believe that he solved the case - with my help, he is quick to remind me. It's hard to tell whether it's his ego refusing to take a dent, or denial of the idea that Daddy is still walking around, free as a pretty bird in the spring.
So I'm alone. No police protection for me or Simon, even though this fucker was right outside his house, looking in. I haven't been to Simon's since Thursday. Haven't left my room in days. Drawing deeper and deeper inside myself. Sleeping with the lights on. Sleeping less. Not sleeping, sometimes. Jumping every time the house settles or the wind blows. every time I close my eyes, I'm scared, because i don't know what'll be there when I open them. Maybe I am paranoid, but that doesn't mean that there isn't someone after me. I have photographic proof. I've got a friend, Laura, coming back down from University to stay with me. She arrives later today. I'll try and keep my...issues under wraps until then. I still have no reason to believe Daddy knows where I live. No headaches in a while though.