"We've got to get you out of here!" Cal heaved Emily's suitcase onto the bed and rifled through her drawers, throwing in articles of clothing quite indiscriminately.

"No, no. Can't leave." Emily paced and shook her head quietly.

"Yes, Emily. You killed that man."

"Didn't kill him…wanted to. Didn't kill him." Emily continued mindlessly pacing. Cal tried to pack, but Emily's incessant pacing and head-shaking was driving him mad.

"Stop!" He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her once, hard. She did not look at him. "Perhaps…you were not wrong to hurt that man. But you have compromised yourself. His people, his fellow criminals will come looking for you. The police will come looking for you. He died in the street, bleeding from the groin; people want to know where you are."

"Always here. Killed that man?" Emily broke free and continued pacing.

The front door to the apartment burst open and Cal rushed out of the room, expecting that someone would be coming for his beloved. His heart raced like it had not in years.

"Dawson!" shouted the voice of George Calvert.

"You cannot arrest her. I will not allow it!" Cal growled.

"Oh, shut up!" George rolled his eyes. Good to know not even this could alter brash Calvert's usual demeanor, thought Cal. "Is the kid alright?"

"Alright? Alright! How can you say 'alright'? Golly, is she enjoying herself today? Did she get a boo-boo when she fell and cut her wittle knee? Is she out dancing? Of course she isn't alright! She's half-mad is what she is!"

"Impressive, Hockley. That was almost funny. I take it her physical person is intact." George folded his arms.

"Everything but her peace of mind, yes." Cal consented. The two men could hear the clicking of Emily Dawson's across the next room, like a clock. Click. Clock. Click. Clock.

"Good. Then we're getting her out of the city. Wherever we can stick her, where she'll be safe. You should high-tail it too."

"I'm not high-tailing it anywhere without my fiancée."

"Post-pone the festivities, Hackneyed. You're an accessory." George brushed off Cal and marched into Emily's bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

"Look at me," Calvert said calmly. No response but manic pacing. "You look at me!" He demanded and locked the door. Emily stared upon order, but without emotion. "I will not punish you or blame you or condemn, but you will listen to everything I say if you want to be safe." Emily nodded.

Emily had her bags packed, bound for a safe house somewhere in Westchester that George had picked out. Cal had stayed in the city and waited. The apartment seemed so lifeless to Emily. Nothing she built ever lasted and even for love, she questioned whether it was ever worth it. First she left Wisconsin, lost her family, lost her friends, broken hearts…now she'd killed a man. She would leave New York, Joe's, and everything she had left. Cal vowed to stay with her, but Emily knew how easy it was to change alliances in troubled times. She still loved him but would hold him to nothing.

Before she left she walked into my room. Perhaps because she believed she would never see me again or perhaps she was curious to see if I left anything she wanted. All and all, it does not matter why she looked through my room, it happened and I could not stop it. She found my secret box: the box with the necklace. And the letter.

She read the letter while fiddling with the Heart of the Ocean in her hand. The letter was long, but Emily was patient. When she finally finished she got herself a glass of whiskey and walked around the apartment.

Every question that went unanswered, all that was hidden from her…she now knew. Every truth was a lie. Where she once saw trust, she only knew betrayal.

She wrote a hasty note to tell me what she thought.

Nice story.

The door closed behind Emily as she made her way calmly downstairs.

It was lunchtime on Wall Street and Cal Hockley was not hungry. He sat outside, after exiting a meeting at JP Morgan, contemplating. What to do, what to do? So tranquil looked he, sitting like that on the steps. A passerby might have believed Cal was thinking of nothing but numbers, foremen, accountants, who to hire and who to fire—the casual thoughts of an important man.

Nearby, a man on a donkey cart passed him by, stopping a little ways up. Cal followed it lazily up the street. After that, he saw the figure of Emily Dawson, the woman he loved, coming up the street. Her hair was down around her shoulders and she was wearing the clothes she had been in the day before.

She handed him a photograph. On her way to the financial district (she had been walking since morning) she had freed it from its frame and discarded said frame somewhere on the street.

"Do you know this woman?" she gave her lover the picture, standing over him. Cal obediently took the photo from her and his jaw dropped. There I was outside of Joe's, much older than seventeen.

"My God…" he whispered.

"You know her."

"I know her."

"She's alive."

"She alive…" The words sank in as they formed in Cal's mouth. "Clever girl…woman…"

"Everything is in this letter that she no longer intended to give me, it seems. She's a liar," Emily laughed coldly. "And so are you." Her eyes were wild, but she barely moved. "You're liars!" she hissed, still laughing. She threw the Heart of the Ocean onto his lap. Cal could only gape in wide-eyed silence.

"Emily, please…I can tell you everything."

"How well did you know Jack Dawson?" Emily asked calmly, as if he was nothing to her. Cal remained silent, but now stood up to meet her. He was shaking from head to toe. "Say his name, you filth! I dare you to say it!" she screeched. A few passersby turned around.

"I knew Jack Dawson. Whatever…" It was so strange to speak these old names now. "Whatever…Rose put in that letter…about my actions…is very likely true." He shook his head, "Rose."

"He's dead because of you. And her. He died so that she could live to lie! And you killed him. He might have lived if not for you! He would be with me if he had never touched the likes of you people! My blood, my family, my love! Jack!" She clutched her breast, still wild-eyed and dangerous. "I have no one! I even lost George for the love of you!"

Emily paced, lightly stroking her stomach as she went to and fro.

"Emily, I love you!" He grabbed by the shoulders, trying to embrace, but she struggled and hit his arms with her little fists.

"I hate…" she could not finish her sentence, but then she realized it was the perfect truth. "I hate!" she screamed. "I HATE!" She hugged in her middle in horror.

"I will do anything. I love you, Emily, you're my life! Anything, please!"

She looked him clearly in the eyes and said, with great emotion but without a single tear:

"I want my cousin back, you son of a bitch."

He still had her by the shoulders when the donkey cart exploded, tearing through the block and ripping them apart.

I had just heard from George. Emily left for Wall Street that morning, in search of her boyfriend: Cal Hockley. And unrelated to the first trouble, a bomb had gone off in the area, whether it was anywhere near the horrendous couple, he did not know.

I did not vomit upon hearing this news. I screamed in the lobby of my building and ran outside, leaving the earpiece of the telephone swinging.

I knew Emily had the necklace and my letter. She also took my picture off my bureau. I knew she went to see Cal.

Grabbing a ride from cop that I knew who had commandeered someone's Model-T, I headed toward the scene of the disaster. The city continued on as normal on each passing street. My stomach churned with each corner we turned. We were going fast, but not fast enough.

Oh, God. Cal and Emily. Cal and Emily. Cal Hockley and Emily Dawson. Why? Why, God, of all perversions? How did I let this happen? I could have told her years ago while her parents were still alive. Perhaps I never let go of my own vanity and cowardice. I lived in a world where Emily Dawson and Cal Hockley could fall in love. I could not believe it.

But it was true.

They might even be dead now, the horrid thought crossed my mind. Blown in half. Blown to bits. Flesh burned, limbs askew. Oh, I failed. I failed you, Jack. I failed everything I had ever loved.

It was a beautiful day, truly, and the sun shone brilliantly in the early afternoon. I said nothing to the other cop; he drove furiously, nearly overturning us at a few corners, but I did not protest. I just had to get there. I had to get there. I had to.

When we arrived the street was full of smoke, two bodies passed my way in a stretcher as I jumped out of the car. They day had changed. Fires burned here and there as the Fire Department attempted to put them out. The blue sky barely peeked through the gray clouds on the ground. I coughed violently, covering my face with my hands. My chest tightened like it never had before. I lowered my hands. They were covered in blood.

"Oh, great God…" I closed my eyes. Lifting my head I moved further into the abyss of smoke without thinking, eventually lowering myself to my knees and shutting my eyes again. They were burning from the smoke. I knew they were all here; I could feel it. On my hands and knees, I cried out: "George! George! Emily! Hear me!" I wrenched myself up on my knees with my arms in the air, eyes still shut. "Caledon Hockley!"

I coughed again, this time for a long time; I could not stop. Warm blood ran along my hands. My friends could be dead and I what I thought was a bad cold—what I ignored in stupidity—was taking hold of me in the middle of a disaster. I tried to call for George, but I could not speak. Slipping from consciousness, I fell to the ground.

Cal, regaining from a blow on the head, eventually found Emily lying on the ground as though dead, with her arms and legs twisted in ridiculous fashion. Touching her from head to toe, he could feel something warm and wet between her legs.

"Emily!" he cried into her shoulder. She did not move. "No, no, no! Emily, please, wake up!" He lifted her weakly into his arms. He raised his head and cried: "Help! Somebody please help! For the love of God!"

After what seemed like hours, as the smoke began to clear, Cal saw a large, shadowy figure amidst the ruin come down and gently touch his shoulder.

"Come, Hockley. Let me help you," said the voice of George Calvert. Cal looked up, squinting through the clearing dust, to see this man's face. Calvert lowered himself to Cal's level and tightened his grip—not in threat—but in comfort. He looked at Cal again, slowly lifting his hand from his shoulder and crouched by Emily, hanging his head. After a moment, he raised Emily Dawson's tiny wrist and pressed his fingers to her little neck.

I felt a large, comforting form lift me from the ground. Waking, my head drifted into a strong male chest. I heard whimpering and voices and trucks all around, but they seemed distant now. "George…" I whispered. "George, oh, George…" I held him tighter and his arms enveloped me. They were firm, warm, and strong. For a moment I felt safe. I coughed again and then weakly lifted my hand to touch his face. I opened my eyes.

This man was not George.