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    Chapter 6

    The tension of my hands loosened as I got up and out of my car and walked to othe door. I walked in, and almost thought as though my wife would jump out and say,

    "You're home late. Where've you been?" I actually waited for about five seconds, and finally remembered she was dead, and trudged upstairs to my room, alone. I plopped down on my bed, and rest my head against my pillow. I glanced to my right and noticed the picture of Elizabeth and I out in the fields with my son. I picked it up, and suddenly, I remembered back at that day. That day was really the reason why I decided to join the detective group.

    We were walking away from the field. I held my son, Jeremy's, hand firmly in mine, but he was six years old, and was only expected to be giddy. And even with my firm grasp, I couldn't prevent him as he pulled and pulled, and eventually tore away from my grasp. My heart sank as we came upon the rode, and I froze still as I pictured the inevitable end of things.

    I watched, unmoving, as a car vroomed I'd say around 60 or so miles per hour past me, and I watched helplessly as Timothy was devoured by the car. He flew back a couple feet, and collapsed onto his back.

    He was still alive after he got hit. I ran over to him, and took him in my arms. He wailed in pain, and my wife and I rushed him over to the hospital.

    He suffered both his legs broken, multiple broken ribs, and minor brain damage, along with other wild medical terms I daren't say. I looked at him, his pitiful body on the bed, and took his hand. I cradled it back and forth, waiting for those closed eyes to open up with exuberance. Then, slowly, he turned to me, and with his eyes slit, said weakly and with a sound of severe pain in his voice,

    "Daddy...I feel really...hurt." With a tear trickling down my cheek and quivering lips, I shook my head, and chanted slowly,

    "No...You can make it. You can make it. You can--" But I stopped, turned my head, and walked away.

    Minutes later, Timothy was dead. And for the next couple months following it, I felt as though I had failed as a father, and beat myself down for it. I lost my job. I almost thought I'd lose my wife, but she told me something then that kept me going.

    "We can't change the past. We can only prevent things like this from happening again." And that's when I found myself taking the job as a detective.

    I shook my head, and put the photo down. I made one last glance at it; our happy little perfect family, smiling as though nothing bad would ever happen, then closed my eyes and slammed the picture face flat on the dresser. First Timothy, now Elizabeth. I looked aimlessly up at the ceiling, and whispered,

    "Look how things turned out...Guess I'm not really preventing those kind of things from happening, huh?"

    Meanwhile, somewhere...else...


    "Hey, is this..."

    "Yeah, it's me."

    "What are you calling about?"

    "I'm not sure about the plan...I mean, it feels--"


    "Well, I mean--"

    "We went over this before. We need someone to take the blame. But of course, if you want to drop out..."

    "No! No, of course not."

    "Then go with it. You'll live. But, if you get caught and they start asking you questions..."

    "Yeah, I know. I'm not going to answer anything. Trust me."

    "Good boy. Remember, even if they figure everything out, if they can't catch me, it's useless."

    "Right. Bye."

    "Bye. Remember, we're in this together. Right?"

    "Of course."