When I came to, I was in a bed in a different room. The infirmary was eerily quiet, aside from the sound of a man crying. I called out to a nurse who was passing by. "Excuse me?"

She walked into my room, smiling gently. "Constable Crane, it's wonderful to have you back with us. You have been unconscious for quite some time."

"I see." Again, I heard the man. "Has something happened?"

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Is he awake, Abagail?" I recognized the voice as that of Dr. Kindell.

"Yes, doctor."

I watched as the man rounded the corner, remorse in his eyes. "Constable, I regret to have to tell you this…" He wiped at his brow. "…Victoria has taken her life."

I rose from the bed, ignoring the pain that was torturing my body. "How?"

"She took something from the shelf, we cannot be sure of what it was. The bottle was unmarked. She was found in the lavatory by her husband."

"May I…may I see her?" My voice cracked, as it always seemed to do when my nerves got the best of me.

"I'm sorry, Constable. I understand that you are usually the one to deem a cause of death and the like, however, under these unfortunate circumstances, her father has already had her body sent to the undertaker. She has been cremated."

"Oh, I…" I said nothing else. I fought the intense wave of nausea that overtook my body. I did not think that the situation was possible; therefore, I left my room in search of anything that was sensible. What I found was Mr. Dearborne, sobbing into his hands.

He looked up at me. "He was too much for her to bear," he said through his tears. "I cannot tell you how sorry I am, Ichabod. I know that you would have made her happy." His face returned to his hands and I fell to my knees, paralyzed. Hector pushed Victoria to a desperate edge right in front of me and all I was able to do was get myself knocked unconscious. I felt tears leave my eyes, but made no effort to wipe them away.

Everything had gone wrong.

If you have not yet deduced what was to take place, it follows as thus: Victoria was only to have appeared to have died. I had thought all of it out. I knew of a chemical that, when ingested, simulated death. Her breathing and heart rate would slow to an almost undetectable rate for only a few minutes – long enough for Hector to find her "dead." Being constable, I would have declared her so, and our life together would have resumed in Philadelphia. I suppose that her mind changed. I suppose that I was not the life she truly wanted. Death was a more welcome entity than I…

"Ichabod?" Jonathon's voice cut through my pained thoughts. His eyes, too, were saddened. "Are you…all right?" He asked the question, but by the sound of his voice, regretted it.

"It…it is safe to say, I am not." It physically hurt me to speak. "I will not be able to bear staying in this city any longer. Go and pack, Jonathon. We will leave for Philadelphia at dawn."

"Yes, sir." He left without another word.

"Constable," Dr. Kindell's voice reemerged into the air. He had followed me from my room. "I do not recommend traveling in your condition."

"Travel is the only thins that may, eventually, cure my ailment, doctor." Dr. Kindell was, of course, referring to the blow to my head…I, however, was referring to my shattered heart.