He blinked repeatedly trying desperately to stay awake, it was too soon, there were things he still had to do. He staggered sideways losing balance and toppling over, the bottle dropping from his grasp and rolling away spilling its amber contents over the grass. He lay for a moment winded looking up at the sky, cold clear blue and bright. He remembered her eyes being the same colour, twinkling at him from across crowded classrooms, making him blush and bury his head in his textbook. He rolled onto his side then crawled onto his knees before attempting to stand. Once upright he looked around for the bottle, it had come to rest against a headstone and was almost empty. Never mind he thought, it had played its part, he didn't need any more. He could see her hissing at him that New Year's Eve, disgusted with him drunk. This time there was a purpose and she would see that it was partly necessary. He brushed grass and dirt from his suit, wobbling in the attempt but this time managing to stay upright. He felt in his pocket for the items and relieved, closed his hand around them tightly, then looked around for his destination. It wasn't hard to find, the earth still newly turned, the flowers fresh. He stood and looked down at them for a few moments then sat, cross legged, at the end gazing at the marker awaiting a more permanent memorial. He read its inscription over and over in the belief if he repeated it often enough he would believe it to be true, Rebecca M Dean 1982-2007. Even now he couldn't grasp it, she was gone and she had gone believing him to be her enemy, when all he had ever wanted to do was love her. He toppled back and closed his eyes, the drowsiness now more compelling. He fought against it one last time, reaching into his pocket and bringing out the things he wanted to give her. A page inscribed, torn from a book; a photograph, two faces smiling to camera that fateful weekend; a ring, twinkling in the winter sunshine. He placed them carefully on the grave and weighted them down with a wreath. He sighed and lay back down again eyes finally closing, drifting to black…
Calvin looked at the grave for clues while they loaded the body into the ambulance. What kind of luck did he have? Called to two fatal incidents in six months, what were the odds both victims being known to him? He blocked out the thought and continued poking around in the dirt, the ambulance door slammed making him turn. He waved to the paramedics and they returned the gesture then climbed into the cab and drove away. As he walked back to the patrol car, he pulled an envelope from his pocket. The paramedics had pulled it from the suit pocket in a vain attempt to identify the victim, it was addressed simply 'Becca'. He stood by the car turning it over in his hand, it could explain everything or it could raise a great deal of grief. His radio cackled and the decision was made, "Nah Sarge" he responded "Nothing on the body, paramedics pronounced at the scene. It's gone to the morgue, it's looking like an overdose, we'll have to leave it to forensics" He climbed into the car, and looked at the envelope. With deliberation he tore it in two, then four, then smaller scattering the pieces like confetti out of the window. They blew towards the grave, settling on it like snow flakes. Without looking back, he started the car and pulled away. It was finished.