Who Shot the Bitch Troll?
Note to readers: Many of you have been guessing at killers all along. A couple of you got it right! That had no impact on the outcome of the story. This was my plan all along.
Chapter 14
Flynn
I hang the phone after speaking with Taylor and my head is still in a whirl. I have spoken with each of the major players. It has not been easy, but I believe that I have finally orchestrated the necessary outcome for ending this wretched mess once and for all. It was carelessness that caused this. I should have known better. There are just some people who are incurable.
Who would have thought that so much trouble could be caused by one crazy, mixed up woman? When I think back to that phone call from Carrick that I got in the middle of the night back in December, I wish that I had never picked up the phone. I still can't believe that Leila Williams was able to get out of the state of Connecticut, let alone all the way across the continent, without anyone realizing it until she showed up at Elena Lincoln's home.
It was obvious to me from the recent reports that I was getting from her therapist that she had never really given up her obsession with Christian. She had developed much cannier ways of hiding it, but it was still there. And the most dangerous aspect of that woman was that she was so bloody intelligent and manipulative.
I am not sure that we will ever discover how managed to get the information that she got about Elena and her role in the Chris Price situation. In fact, Chris and his team of investigators had only made a grand supposition.
We knew that Elena was due to arrive home on that Sunday night. She had made no secret of it to her employees at Esclava, all that it would have taken is a phone call. All Leila would have had to do was call the salon for an appointment with the grande dame herself.
And for someone who had managed to slip in and out of both Christian and Ana's apartments undetected, getting into Elena's house would have been just as easy. Christian's place is locked down like Fort Knox. Elena had a fairly straightforward alarm system with no security guards or CCTV to bypass.
And the gun? That was the easy part. All she would have needed to do was go to a gun show with its usual same day service. Her false identification was very well -forged. I guess that being such a talented artist has its advantages in the criminal world. If she had only put all of that genius and talent into her art, she might have been another Da Vinci. Instead, she focused her laser sights on Christian.
It was ironic that both Chris Price and Carrick Grey had decided independently to go to Elena's house the night she got back to confront her. When they met out front, they decided that they would face her together. They would prove to her that her scheme to destroy Christian's relationship with his adoptive family was ruined by the fact that his birth father loved him with the kind of unconditional devotion that only a parent, biological or adoptive, can give.
Elena Lincoln knew nothing of this kind of love. Whatever rock she had slithered out from under in order to wreak havoc on the lives of those around her had been dry of any feeling or love. What had she told Christian as she was trying to break up him and Ana? "Love is for fools."
Chris and Carrick had decided that they would face her down with her schemes and lies. Chris had already decided that he would buy her out of the salon business, providing her with a huge windfall, so that she would leave Seattle forever. Carrick had discovered a way to take legal action against her for the physical abuse that she had delivered on Christian, that would be her other incentive to leave town.
I suspect that she would have taken them up on their offer. Prison would not be a very comfortable place for one such as her. And she would not have been able to resist the filthy lucre being offered to her. If only they had gotten to her first, it might have been the end of the "reign of the bitch troll" without any unnecessary flourish.
If I were a God-fearing man, then I might believe that someone up there thought that such an outcome would be too good for her. Of course this outcome was not nearly as painful for her as it has been for everyone else. The shooter blew her away before she even knew what hit her.
But they were too late. No confrontation was necessary. Leila had managed the situation for them. Carrick had the good sense to call Taylor, who had all the skills necessary to clean up the crime scene. In his previous life he had been well trained in making undesirables disappear without a trace.
He also knew the full ramifications of allowing Leila to be arrested and charged. Once talking, who knew what she would say? So Taylor, following the previous protocol established when she had been found in Ana's apartment, told him to call me.
When I arrived they told me the whole story. Price and Grey had walked in and apparently found her standing over the body, gun in hand, and looking very self-satisfied. Naturally, neither one knew who she was or what she might do with the gun. Of course even though she looks like a little wisp of a thing, having already shot Elena, who knew who she would shoot next? Nonetheless, there was a terrible stillness about her. And she wouldn't say much. She listened impassively as Carrick called Taylor.
"The fathers come," she then announced. "Too late, too late. I have already saved him. The bitch troll is dead."
Price and Grey looked at each other.
"You must tell him that I saved him," she continued. "Then he will have to see me."
"Who are you talking about, miss?" asked Price carefully.
"Him, the Master, my Master," she replied. "You know. Your son, the son that you never knew that you had. He . . . he won't see me."
"Why won't he see you?" he asked more gently.
"Angry . . . so angry," she said wistfully. "Stay on the other side of the continent. Don't cross west of the Mississippi. Don't come near my wife, Ana. Ana, always Ana. What does she have that I don't have?"
"If he told you to stay away," he probed. "Why have you returned?"
She looked at them with her sly, crafty smile.
"I did not come to Ana," she answered with a secretive look. "I came to Elena, the one she calls the Bitch Troll. He hates her. I know. I heard him yell at her. Stay away from her! Do you hear me? Do I have to put it in triplicate? Look!"
She pointed to the corpse as Elena bled out.
"She will never go near Ana again," she said proudly. "Tell him. I have obeyed my Master. He will have to see me now."
At this point, her tone became more intent, more insistent. i think that that they were afraid of what would happen if they didn't take her to Christian. Fortunately for them, at that critical moment, Taylor walked in.
"Miss Williams," he said sternly. "Put down the gun."
"No, no," she replied, gripping the gun tightly. "I did this for him. I know what she did to him. But it's over. The bitch troll is dead."
"Who is this, Taylor?" asked Carrick.
"Someone very dangerous," he replied, staring directly at Leila. "Call Flynn now."
He held her in his powerful gaze until I arrived.
Leila recognized me the minute that I walked in. She immediately focused her eyes on me. I saw the gun, but also that manipulative gleam that she had in her eye whenever she thought that she had entrapped Christian into seeing her again. Her facial features are very subtle, just barely perceptible and only if you have observed her for a while.
"Look, John," she said, indicating to the body. "I have killed the bitch troll. You must tell Christian. Now he has to see me."
"No, Leila," I replied carefully, uncertain of what she might do next. "I have told you before, if you want to contact him, you must go through me. And he does not want to see you."
"I have been asking you and he still says no," she replied. "I went to see Ana, and he came to protect her. I knew that I could not go near her again. He would not like it. I thought that if I did something that he would like, he would see me. I thought that if I got rid of her greatest enemy that he would be grateful. I want to see him. I need to see him."
"No, Leila," I answered. "You will never see him again."
Taylor had left the room once I had captured Leila's attention. In her present state she becomes highly focused on one thing. It is a part of her obsessive nature. She can only concentrate on one thing this intensively at a time. When I entered, he had slipped out of sight so that he could get behind her.
And the one thing that we could be sure about her was that whenever she was speaking about Christian, she would become intensely focused. Nothing else in her life mattered to her. And at this moment in time, she truly believed that she had made herself worthy of gaining access to his presence. Seeing his opportunity, Taylor easily disarmed her. With a sigh, she sat down on the floor and looked at Elena's body.
"Now she will hurt him no more," she sighed.
Oh, the irony of that statement. She could just as easily have been talking about herself. It was imperative that we taken control of her and make sure that she never has the chance to come anywhere near Christian again.
"What the hell do we do with her now?" he asked.
"Who the hell is she?" asked Carrick.
"He knows," said Price briefly. "He knows the full story about Elena. But I don't think that he knows about this one, or any of the others."
"What the hell is . . . Oh, fuck! Don't tell me that this is a . . ."
"Sub, or Submissive," I filled in. "Yes, this is one of the women with whom Christian contracted a Dominant/Submissive relationship."
"I don't think that I want to know about this," he said, looking ill.
"Too late," commented Price. "We've walked in on a murder scene. I know that you have a responsibility as an officer of the court. I am sick about this because I believe that all life is sacred, even that of the scum of the earth. But this is about our son and protecting him from a salacious scandal of magnificent proportions. Flynn, is this woman even sane enough to stand trial."
"To be perfectly honest," I replied. "I doubt it. But in the process of determining that, she would reveal many things about Christian that would destroy his reputation and quite possibly every step of the recovery that he's made so far."
Leila began looking at us, as if trying to follow our discussion.
"Are you talking about Master, Mr. Grey?" she asked. "Last time I saw him, he told me that if I took one step west of the Mississippi that it would all go away. But now he will change his mind."
"Jesus Christ!" said Carrick. "She calls him Master?"
"Yes, sir," answered Taylor, who had been quiet. "I believe that she is quite mad. I believe that she should be locked up, but not in jail."
"Do you have a plan?" I asked him.
"Yes," he nodded dispassionately. "We have to get her out of here. Then, I will make sure that this is the perfect crime scene. All shred of evidence will go away, as if none of us had ever been here."
"How?" asked Carrick. "Are you going to wipe the place clean?"
"No prints, no hairs, no fibers, no gun," he replied. "No physical evidence whatsoever. It is made easier by the fact that the housekeeper did her excellent, thorough cleaning job earlier today. But we will have to do something about Miss Williams."
"I will not allow any 'accident' to take place," said Price. "The loss of one life is one life too many."
Taylor scowled. As ex-special forces, he did not have such a fastidious conscience. He had a job to do, unpleasant though it may be, and he planned to do it.
"What do you suggest?" I asked interested.
"I am leaving tomorrow on my private plane for San Jose," he said. "Taylor, I am sure that you can figure out a way to get her on my plane surreptitiously. Flynn, find a secure facility for her where she can be cared for. I'll pay whatever the cost is. We just need to make sure that she never leaves. What are the chances that she might be cured?"
"Minimal," I replied. "Very minimal. We will need to get her into a treatment facility where she won't be able to talk her way out again. Her doctors and therapists will have to understand that she knows how to game the system and that she is a pathological liar."
"I can get her on the plane," nodded Taylor. "You are going to need to have a nurse waiting to care for her. I can get you a security guard. I know a good woman who will do it for the right price."
"I can get a nurse," said Flynn.
"Cost is no objective," answered Price. "The only thing that matters is that we get this woman safely out of Christian's life. I don't know a lot about psychology, but I am willing to bet that sooner or later she will be a danger to him."
"She's already pulled a gun on Mrs. Grey," added Taylor. "Before they were married. The last time Mr. Grey spoke with her, he told her no more benefit of the doubt."
"The degree to which this obsession has progressed is frightening," I commented. "But more frightening is her ability to vanish and resurface anywhere she wants. Wherever she goes, she will have to be closely guarded twenty-four hours a day. Twice now we have tried therapy to help her and twice she has gotten away from us and shown up here before we knew it. And her ability to get information is unbelievable. How the hell does she know that Ana called her the Botch Troll?"
"How will we report Elena's death?" asked Price.
"We won't," said Taylor. "Someone will find her. She presently has both a housekeeper and a sub who are in and out regularly."
We all look at him.
"Part of my job," he says briefly. "Mr. Grey wanted for me to keep close tabs on her. He didn't trust her. He was afraid that she might hurt Ana in some way."
"What do you want us to do?" asked Price.
"You and Mr. Grey should leave," he said. "The fewer people here the better. Flynn, you are going to need to get Leila out of here and keep her calm and quiet until I am done. I don't care if you have to drug or if we need to bind her up, but she must be immobilized."
Leila had been following the discussion by turning from one speaker to the other.
"Im-mo-bi-lzed," she sounded out and grinned weirdly. "I like being tied up. Do you have handcuffs?"
Carrick and Price looked sick, while Taylor shook his head in disgust.
"You two leave," I said quickly. "Let Taylor and I deal with this."
We needed to get busy, and these two fine gentlemen were looking squeamish. As a psychiatrist, I had seen it all. And Taylor, during his military service, had seen even more. In a case like this, you have to be able to close your eyes, do what you need to do, and get it over with.
"I'll make the arrangements on my end," said Price. "Taylor, call me when you're ready."
"Yes, sir," he nodded.
When those two had left, Taylor bound up Leila as tightly as he could, gagged her, and got her out to his car. He lay her down on the backseat, completely unable to move. I sat in the front to stand guard. Leila was incredibly docile throughout the whole process. I decided not to drug her.
Looking at her I realized that wherever place her mind had taken off to, it was no longer grounded in anything resembling reality. The only thing that could be done is put her in a place where she could no longer hurt anyone else, or herself for that matter. The last thing for it was to put her in the hands of the penal system. I didn't trust them to be able to hold onto her any better than we had.
The last that I saw of Leila, she had fallen asleep in the back of Taylor's car. He returned, having done his job, and took off with her. The next day he told me that he had been able to get her onto Price's plane with no problem. That was the last that he saw or knew of her.
The only one of us, who presently knows where she is, is Price. There are only four of us who know the whole story and naturally, we won't be saying anything. Christian has not asked me about Leila in months. That last visit that she made to Ana finished her with him. She had probably sensed that to make such a desperate move.
However, the unsolved nature of the crime is creating complications for us. None of us could have calculated the tenacity of Detective Clark and his determination to the find the killer. We need to shut down Lincoln once and for all and to do that we need to get Clark off his back.
More importantly, I need to convince the Greys not to confront Christian with their newly discovered knowledge.
Price
I'm afraid that it's shit or bust time. This situation needs to be resolved. But, there is no way that I can allow the police anywhere near Leila to question her. There is no such thing as a confidential police report. Any sleazy rag would be able to get their hands on it via PI. And Leila has not improved one iota since we caught her.
Once I safely brought her to San Jose, I kept her in a secure sanatorium for a few days. That was clearly not going to work. The doctor there is one of the best and he tried putting her on one of the best anti-psychotics out there. But all it gave us was a more lucid crazy woman. She also scared the shit out of the other patients with all of her talk about the Master and bondage and shooting the Bitch Troll. Luckily, she was so incoherent that no one could make any sense out of what she was saying.
The alternative was to put her in a solitary confinement of sorts, but I didn't want that. If she was going to be staying here for the rest of her life, I wanted her to at least have a semblance of a life. So I decided to create her own haven of sorts, a place where she would be allowed to pursue her artwork in peace and live with her ghosts
It wasn't as difficult as you might think. Knowing that there were all kinds of artists' colonies in place like New Mexico and Arizona, I bought a lovely little piece of property in the desert. There was already a comfortable house there that we spruced up and set up tight fences and gates around the perimeter. There was a small barn on the property that was easily converted to a studio. I laid in all manner of art supplies so that she could occupy her days doing something she loved.
Then, taking a page out of my son's book, I hired a middle-aged couple as her caretakers. For the first time in my life, I hired illegal immigrants, knowing that if I made their lives comfortable, they would keep their mouths shut about the crazy woman in their care. They also knew that we could turn them over to immigration any time we wanted. These same kind of illegals were hired to do the work on the place. They were highly paid and had no complaints.
Lastly, I hired a female psychiatrist to look after her medical needs. She was also a middle-aged woman, burned out from years of work in the psyche ward of a huge hospital in Los Angeles. She was grateful for the opportunity to practice what she loved doing in the peace and quiet of the little haven that I was creating for this poor, sick woman.
Because she was so busy with her career, she never had developed much of a life outside work. Tending to Leila would give her a way to continue to work in her job as well as the time to write about her experiences. I essentially put all of my skills as an entrepreneur into use, selecting the best people and making it worth their while to be loyal.
Since we established the set up three, almost four, weeks ago, I have been receiving regular reports on Leila's progress. But so far there is none. She only talks about the Master or Sir. She wants to see him. And she writes letters to him every day that she gives to her doctor to be mailed. Of course they never are. They are read and filed, but the theme is constant. I will love you until the day I die and I miss you. Please see me. I know that we were meant to be together always. it is chilling.
The doctor also includes information about her days. Leila believes that it is Christian who is her benefactor and we have decided to leave it that way, even though it reinforces the delusion that he still cares for her. There is no need for her to know the truth. Christian believes that she is still living in Connecticut, living a somewhat normal life. He no longer asks Flynn about her. He assumes that he is safe from her. And he is. I will make sure of that.
Arguably, she has gotten away with murder. However, with her present mental state, she would be declared unfit to stand trial anyway. In that case, she would be committed to a psychiatric facility and periodically checked on to see if she has improved enough to face the court. It would be a highly expensive process for the state of Washington. I figure that the money they save on Leila's treatment and incarceration is better spent on schools and hospitals.
Now I must convince Clark to somehow give up his witch-hunt for Lincoln. Carrick is only reluctantly offering to defend him. I understand that reluctance. No doubt, it would be a real blow to Christian to find out that his father was doing anything to help him. But if Linc never is arrested, then such a scenario would never come to pass.
One of the things pushing Clark towards an arrest of anyone is the fear that a cold-blooded killer is out there who could strike again. Well, the killer is gone and no longer a threat to anyone, except for me, and my very deep pockets. However, I don't give a shit about the money. I have more than I can spend in several lifetimes. And it is a small price to pay to protect my son and his family. The doctor is very clear about one thing. Leila remains as obsessed as ever and still a danger to both Christian and those he loves.
The other problem that Clark has is the media. They are positive that there is some juicy story behind the Elena killing. They are right of course, but there is no way that I am going to let all of that shit hit the fan. However, I have had my own people begin circulating the rumor that the murder may never be solved. My PR woman is convinced that the only thing the media likes better than a sexy, salacious story, is a mystery.
Sexy and salacious sells papers for days, maybe weeks. Murder mysteries sell papers for years. I am hoping that if we can get the tabloids interested enough in that angle that it will take the pressure off Clark and the department. They know in the long run that they have shit on Lincoln. Why would they want to waste money and resources continuing to pursue both an innocent man and a trail that has gone cold.
But most importantly, I have to figure out a way of getting Carrick and the others to back off the whole Dom/sub thing with Christian. It's old news and ripping open old wounds at this point is completely counter-productive. They should be looking forward to their new grandchild, the hope of the future, rather than dwelling on the mistakes of the past.
I am looking forward to the future. The past cannot be undone and I need to move on as well. My son will never relate to me as such, but I know hat I now have a good friend in him. Periodically, we will share family vacations and visits together. I will get to meet my first grandchild and he will get to know his new younger brother or sister. Perhaps those children will be friends as well. At least that is what I hope.
To my readers: I know that there are still a few loose ends. Over the weekend, I will be tying them up in the Epilogue and introducing a new story.
Sneak peek:
Fifty Shades of Post-Partum
Prologue
I stand above her and look at her sweet, little face, with its rosebud mouth and long lashes on her cheeks. Her little chest rises and falls as she breathes. The bassinet is simple in furnishings. Of course, Christian read about the dangers of pillows and quilts suffocating infants. She sleeps beside my bed so that I can reach out when she cries. So tiny, so fragile, she is just so different than her older brother.
However, I don't always get to her at the first little squawk, like I did with Teddy. He was easier. Because she is smaller, she needs to nurse more often. She sucks contentedly, but not greedily as Teddy did. He always wanted to eat as much as he could hold as quickly as he could get it. He still eats that way, like a horse, like his father.
"Fee-bee," he calls his baby sister, elongating the syllables of her name in his two-year old baby voice. "Teddy love Fee-bee, Mommy. Teddy love Mommy. Teddy love Daddy."
Each night I listen to his simple prayers.
"God bless Fee-bee. God bless Mommy. God bless Daddy. God bless Soeee. God bless Tay-yer . . ."
He can't say "Taylor" properly yet, or "Sophie." The litany goes on. He is so proud that he remembers all the people that he wants God to bless. But Fee-bee is always first. When she was born, I was afraid that he would be jealous, but no, not my boy. His Daddy told him that sisters are a special gift from God to big brothers. It is the job of big brothers to watch over little sisters.
Teddy looked back at Christian solemnly and nodded. He absorbs every word out of his beloved Daddy's mouth like a little sponge. Take care of Mommy. Take care of Fee-bee. That's what good daddies and good sons and "brudders" do.
"Mommy, may I please have a brudder next?" he asked me as if I had a choice.
"Why do you want a brother, Teddy?"
"Need help with all this taking care of," he explains earnestly.
"But what if it were a sister?" I ask.
He wrinkles his face like his father. Oh, little Teddy, you're so much like your father! He shakes his head intently.
"Too hard," he replies. "Teddy need help."
Breathe, Anastasia, breathe. I hear those words in my head as I return to now from my reverie. When I first met Christian, he would say that when I was overwhelmed in his presence. Then, he spoke the words as we practiced for childbirth, and then as I was in labor for hours with Teddy. But no matter how much, I breathed, I couldn't push him out. I failed. Dr. Greene insisted on a Caesarian. We almost lost him, my little Blip, now my little son.
Then Phoebe's birth. No breathing involved. It was a scheduled Caesarian. She was smaller, more delicate. I could have pushed her out, but Dr. Greene told me that the Caesarian was less traumatic. Teddy was sturdy, a big baby. It is only now, three months later that Phoebe has just caught up to his birth weight.
"Don't worry, Ana," Christian soothed me. "Little girls are supposed to be smaller. Don't you remember? She screamed bloody murder when I cut the cord. It's the lungs that matter. That's what Dr. Greene told us."
But I still fret and worry. I spend almost all my time with my little girl, watching her, holding her, feeding her. Grace gave me a baby sling so that I could more easily hold her wherever I go. Phoebe likes the sling. Very often, she will fall asleep as I walk around. Not that I get much sleep. At night, I would rather watch her than sleep myself. In fact, these days, Christian is getting more sleep than me.
I have lost almost all interest in my job, my career. I can't even look at a manuscript. Finally, my PA Hannah stopped sending them home. In the past three months, I have completely lost track of what is happening at Grey Publishing, and worse than that, I don't care. Christian and I have hired a solid team to run it. They don't need me.
I gaze at my little angel, my sweet little angel. She does not deserve a mother like me. She deserves a happy mother, a mother who picks her up at the first cry. I find it more difficult to. It takes me a while to shake myself out of my ennui. I am not asleep, but now I just can't move sometimes. I feel tired and listless. At night, sometimes Christian gets to her first. He sleeps lightly.
He thinks that my exhaustion is because of the two children. He worries because my libido seems to have taken off for Antarctica and never returned. I know that he has needs and appetites, but I feel inadequate to fulfill them. My son is bursting with energy and wants me to chase after him when he runs in the meadow like I used to. But running takes too much effort. I prefer sit, with little Phoebe in my arms while he runs around.
He will turn and frown back at me.
"Fee-bee run too?"
But I shake my head. Phoebe and I don't run. These days we can barely walk. Phoebe doesn't know the difference anyway. She is contented just to snuggle in close. So Teddy runs and leaps without us. Joyful, as he relishes this perfect, little haven that we have created here. Everyone, it seems, is happy but me.
One day, Christian was so worried that he took me to see Flynn. His diagnosis was classic baby blues. He suggested a better diet, more exercise, talk therapy. I don't eat much. I mostly eat because Gail is always at my side, encouraging me for Phoebe's sake. Phoebe refuses both the bottle and cereal. She only wants to nurse, to have "mommy milk," as Teddy calls it. I refuse to see Bastille. Christian doesn't force the issue. I don't want to talk.
I prefer to huddle alone and have conversations in my head all the time. Everyone else is busy with their lives. My life is my children, but I am failing even at that. Gail is helping me all the time. I don't know how she gets her own work done. But the house is immaculate, meals are on time, and all of our needs are met. She should have been a mother herself. She mothers me. She frets over me. But I can't even stand that any more. It only adds to my feelings of inadequacy.
Sleep, little angel, sleep. I brush my daughter's cheek lightly with my fingers tips. She is really a very beautiful child. She has the same blue eyes and copper-colored hair as her brother.
I look over at Christian sleeping on his side of the bed. He has the same colored hair, but grey eyes, intense grey eyes. It used to be that if I got out of bed, he would be looking for me. But I have been getting out of bed so frequently with the kids that he no longer notices.
I walk into the nursery where Teddy is sleeping in his crib. He's two and a half now, but he's so large he's almost ready for a big boy bed. He's a solid sleeper, he always has been. He's terribly secure, no blankie or teddy bear or other security object for him. I brush his cheek and then I walk out.
I walk down the hall and down the steps to the living room where I can look out the glass wall at the Sound. It's an exquisite view. Tonight there is a full moon. It creates a path on the water, a silver white path. It is enticing. It seems to lead me from my living room towards Olympic National Park.
Unconsciously, I open the door and silently slip out onto the terrace. It is cold out and I am only dressed in my nightgown, nothing on my feet. The stones of the terrace are cold, but I hardly notice. The grass is soft and a little damp and I walk towards the water's edge. It's a long walk, towards the beautiful silver path.
Then I think that I hear someone calling my name, but I don't turn around, I run. I run towards the beautiful silver path made by the moonlight. I feel as if I could only reach the path it would lead me to the moon, the lovely glowing moon. Goodnight, Moon is Teddy's favorite book. We read it every night. He would have me read it two or three times.
I feel the cold water on my feet as I step into the silver path. And then it is up to my knees and my waist. I can no longer run, but I push ahead, deeper and deeper. I am now a part of the path. I hear voices calling my name from behind me, but behind me is no longer relevant. There is only what is before me. Don't dwell on the past, Flynn always says, look towards the future. So I look and move forward.
I find myself at greater peace than I been in months. As I look around me, I can see that I am directly in the silver moonlight, the peaceful, peaceful silver moonlight. I am free and they are free of me. They deserve more, better from their wife and mother. I have never been good enough.
Suddenly, I sink and the water surrounds me and fills my mouth, nose, and eyes. Yes, this is good. I belong to the moonlight. Goodnight, Mommy. Goodnight, moon.