Charlotte.
His little girl had been called Charlotte. And his wife had been Angela.
Beautiful names, for two beautiful women she supposed. She had read their gravestones one morning while taking a run; she had no idea that she ran right past them every morning. Ran right by Jane's past.
Now, she watched through the open window of the CBI car, parked on the side of the road, and hidden by a tree. She watched Jane and Ruskin approach the two headstones, Ruskin holding flowers. Her eyes stayed on Jane, and the way tension rolled off of him in waves. They both stopped by the two seemingly average gray headstones, but now stood out to her as if they glowed. Ruskin placed the flowers down.
She couldn't make out what they were saying, but she sensed the weight of the world on Jane's shoulder as he sat himself down on another headstone, head slightly bowed. She barely felt her facial expression changing, softening. What she did feel was the pain in Jane's heart. She felt the spike drive through her as it drove through Jane. She welcomed it, hoping that maybe, just maybe, she could lessen his burden.
The rational side of her rather doubted it.
But what else could she do? It was entirely too private a situation, and a delicate one at that. She and Jane had grown closer, but she was hesitant to push the boundaries that were already expanding. His pace was more important than hers when it came to opening up.
Now was not the moment.
And then Ruskin said something to which Jane responded to, and walked away without looking back. Right towards the car. Eyes widening in panic, she felt foolish and childish, but threw herself into the backseat quietly, flattening herself against the seat. Sound of footsteps. Walking right by. Then passing, and fading into the distance, dissolving into dust.
She cursed quietly. If Jane caught her, she would shoot herself.
Silence reigned for a few moments, and cautiously she peeked out of the window. Jane was still sitting there, slouched over. She squinted, and saw his shoulders shake just a fraction.
"Jane."
His name came from her lips as a wave of agony washed over her, spread through her limbs like fire. She screwed her eyes shut.
Channeling his hurt probably wasn't the healthiest thing she could do, but it was the only way she felt like she could help him. Even though it really didn't. But when it came to Jane, she wasn't as logical as she'd like to be. But how could she hate him for that when he already hated himself?
Just as she opened her eyes she saw him get up, and turn around. His face became clearer as he walked towards his car (which made her nervous; one glance at her car and he would know immediately who was in it). His face was closed off, and hollow.
She watched him pause at his car, hand gripping the door handle. The only thing separating their cars was a road and a conveniently placed tree. His head shot up. Instinctively her head shot down, although she felt as though his eyes could see right through the tree.
They could already see through her.
But she heard nothing except the sound of other cars, and the wind.
A car engine started up, and as badly as she wanted to, she didn't dare raise her head to watch him drive away.
After five minutes of nothing, she quietly slipped back into the front seat. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel as she fixed her eyes on the two graves.
Rest in peace, Angela and Charlotte Jane.