Not everyone has a chance to be a detective , but I got one when I was 13 years old. It happened in 1994. One afternoon, I was walking down the street when I saw my father's new car. I expected  to see my father in the driver's seat. But to my surprise, I saw a young woman driving instead, "She has stolen my father's car," I thought. So I quickly stopped a taxi and got in. I said to the driver, "Follow that new car in front," I told him why. The taxi driver had a car phone, so I asked him to call the police. Soon we heard the sound of a police car. The police told the woman to stop the car using a loudspeaker. The taxi came to a stop, too. I got out right then and said to the woman, "This is not your car. It's my father's car." The woman smiled and said, "Oh. You're Mr. Johnson's son, right? I've seen your photo in your father's office." Before I could say one word, the woman explained that she was my father's new assistant . My father had asked her to take his computer to the shop to have it repaired. He lent her his car. After hearing this, I called my father and he told us what the woman said was right. The police and the taxi driver laughed. I felt very sorry. It was both the first time and the last time I worked as a detective. How did the writer feel when he found out the truth?
He felt good about himself. He felt sorry. He felt very happy. He felt excited.