Lincoln Burroughs paced the dimly lit room, daring not to look at the table where the parcel sat quietly; ominously. His mind raced with thoughts, kalidescoping, tumbling thoughts that hauted his heart:

I can't believe what I just saw. I can't believe this is happening. Our trip to Panama was supposed to be our ticket to freedom. Lincoln wiped the sweat from his face with the front of his shirt. Sweat mixed with tears.

I should've known when Sara didn't show up on the boat that something was wrong. But I kept it to myself, because Michael was sure that she had a reason. And, at the time it was probably a good one. Stopping his relentless pacing, Lincoln stared out the window at nothing in particular.

But we shouldn't have gotten separated. He thought, clenching his fist.
If we'd have stuck together, Sara might be alive. Instead, her head's in a box, and I've got to break it to Michael. Lincoln sighed, his breath catching on a sob in his throat.

I don't know how I'm going to tell him. Michael loves her and tried to do everything he could to ensure that they wouldn't have to be apart again. But now, he'll never see her again.

This morning, I went to visit him at that stinking hell-hole of a prison. He looks good, and he doesn't seem to be letting it get to him. He knew I was upset, asked me what was wrong. That was Michael, Lincoln thought, always looking out for him.

But how in the hell do I look my brother in the face and tell him his girlfriend's dead?Lincon ran his hands over his head in despair.

If I could, I'd kill the people who did this to her. I'd show them what it looked like when I really do commit murder. He thought bitterly.

She'd been hurt before, and she got away. But not now. This time- this time- she won't be waiting for Michael on the other side. A sad, small voice reminded him in his head.

I've always been afraid Michael would get himself killed, and I'd be burying him like we did Dad, but now we've lost Sara, and Michael won't be able to say goodbye.
He'll never forgive himself. Lincoln knew that if anything, his brother would make damned sure the people responsible for killing Sara paid for their actions.

Lincoln's head hurt. His heart hurt. Hell, his whole body hurt as if someone had beat him with a tire iron.
I know I won't forgive myself for letting it happen. People will say it's not my fault, but I know it is. Lincoln knew Michael would tell him he was being irrational. Maybe he was, maybe not.

If I'd have never let him get involved; he thought, just took the fall for murder, even if I didn't do it, she'd be alive. But I can't keep my brother from doing something once he's made up his mind. He's a better man than I am. I can't even face him and tell him Sara's dead. I will have to though. I owe it to him to tell him the truth.

Lincoln looked at the box on the table, picturing again the grim contents. His knees felt weak, and he desparately wanted a stiff drink. But first, he had to bury the box. And, he had to tell Michael. Dispiritedly, Lincoln carried the box carefully outside, wishing to God he had better news for Michael tomorrow.