Confession
Sly woke up. He had another nightmare. He dreamt that he was in an apartment. He heard loud noises and went to investigate. Suddenly, he was knocked to the ground, which was followed by a gunshot and pain. He then found himself being cradled in Carmelita's arms, she was crying.
That was when he woke up. It was strange to him. He got dressed in his normal clothes and turned on the stereo. There was a knock on the door and Bentley wheeled in.
"Sly, I should tell you," Bentley said, he had a shame filled look on his face. "About what happened last night on the rooftop…"
There was a long pause.
"…Everyone in Paris thinks that your dead, the gang set up to fake your death so that the cops would leave us alone for a while. You grew tired of thieving and took a vacation, but when you came back, you fell down a flight of stairs and banged your head. Nobody gave you this selective amnesia."
"It's okay Bentley, though I never would have thought that faking my own death would be my style," Sly said, lying back down on his bed.
'It isn't' Bentley thought. "Well, I hope you're fine."
Carmelita certainly wasn't. She had a hard time trying to sleep and had to call in sick. The first time she ever lied her way out of going to work. For about an hour of trying to force herself to stomach her breakfast, she gave up, got in her car, and drove off.
About a half-hour later, Carmelita parked her car and went through the gates of a cemetery. She seemed to know her way around and finally reached a grave marker. The epithet read:
Sly Cooper1980-2006
'The way you live may not matter at all,
But you never know-it might'
Love from Carmelita Montoya Fox
"If it's not you who's in there," Carmelita muttered to herself. "then who is?"