text: [Themes: modern, anti-hero, psychological]
  
  You continue banging on the keyboard, losing yourself into the story. Some days you can get into it, others not so much. This morning falls in the former category, so you take full advantage, wishing there is more coffee. Writing oil to prime the pump. Booze works as well, but the tank's on empty for that, too.
  
  The clock eventually hits 8:30. You save your progress. The love story between Tirak the Jester and the Duke's daughter will continue tomorrow morning. Now, you've got to rush to the Herald. Joe Max will no doubt be wanting your finished article on Rachel Hartman. Weird interview. There's definitely a reason why Nancy usually conducts them. Besides, the gaps in your mind have been increasing of late. First the gentlemen's club, and now at the Hartman residence. Two times in the same week...not good. They haven't been more than once a month since your childhood.
  
  You shake the thought from your head. Better to forget the past. It holds only phantoms, seeking return from their dormant state.
  
  From the overflow of clothes, you pick through for an unrumpled shirt. Smell you can handle. Nothing a few sprays of deodorant can't fix. Wrinkles are a little harder to manage. They require more effort to fix. That very reason is why your toolbox is filled with duct tape rather than conventional tools. Don't fix what ain't broke. Wrap that shit up tighter than a jimmy at a whorehouse.
  
  You find a dark navy button-up, almost black, and throw it on. Dark colors hide wrinkles better. Sipping into a pair of jeans to match, you casually turn on background noise to keep you occupied—and your mind from thinking of the past. You settle on the news. Helps to tune in, especially in your line of work.
  
  After listening to a little jingle about waking up with something in your cup, a male voice rings through, speaking with the steady cadence of a news anchor, the teleprompter being his metronome.
  
  AND ONCE AGAIN WE'RE BACK TO THE BREAKING STORY OF THE MORNING. JIM HARTMAN, 82, IS FOUND DEAD IN HIS RESIDENCE. MANY KNOW MR. HARTMAN AS THE MAN WHO REVOLUTIONIZED THE TOWN, HIS HAND AIDING MANY SMALL BUSINESSES IN THE AREA.
  
  You freeze in terror. A sudden rush of adrenaline fires through your body, like when a cat runs face-to-face with a pit bull. Fight or flight.
  
  Shit.
  
  The gaps in memory, in reality, whatever, don't really occur twice a week, do they? Does that mean the events at the Hartman residence actually happened? If that's the case, Jim Hartman's picture may be the number one posting, but sure as hell you're bound to be a close second. You're a danger to yourself and others. If the gaps are getting worse... Listen for foul play. THERE CAN'T BE FOUL PLAY.
  
  MR. HARTMAN WAS FOUND IN HIS HOME AT 6:44 AM THIS MORNING BY HIS DAUGHTER, RACHEL HARTMAN, 32. MR. HARTMAN WAS MOVED TO HIS COUNTRY ESTATE FIVE MONTHS AGO WHEN THE DOCTORS DECIDED FRESH AIR MIGHT DO HIM GOOD. HE'D BEEN DIAGNOSED WITH LUNG CANCER IN THE BEGINNING OF LAST YEAR. HIS DEATH, THOUGH PREMATURE, WAS NOT UNEXPECTED BY THE FAMILY. MORE ON THAT LATER.
  
  Premature. Since when is dying at 82 premature, unless... No, it can't be. You've been in the business a few years. That's what you always say. Joe Blow Died At A Tender Age Of A Hundred And Ten. He Was Taken Too Soon. Premature. That's what they always say. But you've also been in the business long enough to know signs of foul play wouldn't be disclosed at this time, despite your momentary hopefulness. The fuzz won't allow it until they've had time to investigate.
  
  Revealing too much, too early, is a sure way to cause a few persons of interests to be a few persons in the wind. Premature. God damn it. Premature, premature, pre-fucking-mature. If the news story was of your own causing, there's only one chance to run, and that chance is right fucking now. Pack up the Challenger, and let's take her for a lil spin.
  
  > go to work as normal
  Relax. You're overreacting. Besides, only guilty people have cause for skipping town. What's happening here is simply another one of your "episodes." It's not the medical term, but it sure as hell is the politically correct one. You shouldn't have been surprised which the ol' head Doc diagnosed you with years back.
  
  Jim Hartman had been knocking on death's door for a while now. Though it's a coincidence death found him the day after visiting the Hartman estate, not to mention the "episode," it's no fault of yours. The old bag of bones finally got taken out. You finish dressing, pack up your laptop, and head for the door. The roar of the Challenger slightly calms your nerves, but still, there's the feeling of a man heading towards his doom. You silence a few more thoughts along the way telling you to step on the gas and leave the city in your rear-view mirror.
  
  You park and enter the building to the Herald. No sirens go off. No cops, led by K-9s rush to pound your ass into the ground.
  
  "Good morning. Pleasure to have you here," Earnie calls out from behind the front desk, not-so-subtly glancing at his wristwatch. The clock behind him reads nine on the dot. Like most companies, the Herald expects its employees to be ready to work, not simply be rolling in when your shift starts. You ignore the jab, and the man, heading straight for your desk.
  
  There's hardly time between sitting at your cubicle and plugging your laptop into the stationary monitor before Nancy walks up.
  
  "There you are!" she exclaims. Nancy's hair is a fake blonde. She's not fat, but not exactly in shape either. You're not connected on any social media accounts, but you imagine she's the type to share body positivity posts, telling women it's ok not to be a thin model. It is, in fact, ok, but so is a little exercise and moderation with the wine bottle.
  
  "I've been dying to hear your story," she continues. "Well, poor choice of words there... But you were at the Hartman estate! I can't believe Mr. Max made you go. How was it?"
  
  (Besides imagining fucking Rachel Hartman over her father's deathbed, just dandy.) "It was normal enough," you answer. "They have a real up-tight butler. Makes Earnie look like a boy on take your kid to work day. Asian, too."
  
  "You know what I mean. Was there any sign?"
  
  "Of Mr. Hartman's death?" After speaking the D-word, a passing coworker gives you a funny look. "Passing, I mean," you quickly correct, despite the fact that Nancy had spoken it seconds earlier. "No, everything was normal enough. I'm almost done with the write-up."
  
  "Toss it." Joseph Max aka Joe Max aka Mr. Max aka the Herald's Editor walks up. "It's no longer topical. The real story is Jim Hartman. We need an angle to separate ourselves from the typical suck-up article. And you're going to find it for us." That last bit was directed at you.
  
  "We'll come up with something, Mr. Max," you answer, not really sure what that will be. Nancy flashes a smile in agreement.
  
  "Not good enough," he replies. "I need boots on the ground. Apparently your meeting with Rachel Hartman went better than expected." At this, Nancy's smile slightly fades, a little jealousy taking its place. "Miss Hartman called in and thanked us for sending such a 'refreshing body.' Of course this was before the news of her father. I don't know what you did (stick it in him, then stick it in me), but you seem to have made an impression."
  
  "Isn't it a little disrespectful to show up this soon after her father...?" You let your sentence trail off at the end. No matter how you sugarcoat it, dead is dead. Passed, moved on, in a better place, kicked the fucking bucket—dead is dead.
  
  Joe Max answers without skipping a beat. "If it is, then we'll be no worse off than the others. AND we have the angle. You. Well, what are you still doing here?"
  
  Any remnant of smile is fully gone from Nancy's face with Mr. Max's final words. She liked being the "go getter" out of your little twosome. Stay in the backdrop so Nancy can have the spotlight. You get the feeling that you've wandered into territory of a hibernating bear. Oh she's content to let you do your thing as long as you stay far, far away, and Joe Max is the one who prodded you there.
  
  You head back to the scene of the crime, so to speak. At least you hope that's the case. Otherwise, you might as well be clasping the cuffs around your own wrists, securely fastening them to the chair. Hey, why is this seat plugged into an electrical outlet?
  
  Nancy and you take separate cars. The pudgy reporter would cramp your style. You chuckle at the thought. What style? A good-for-nothing columnist at a dead-end paper who hits the bottle while others are still polishing off their coffee pot? It has a nice ring to it. People tend to have sympathy for the poor, broke writer types.
  
  In your younger days, it was the catalyst for more than a few—now-regretful—young ladies coming home with you from the bar. It's a fine line to ride, however. Sympathy has a way of bordering with disdain. You can be downtrodden, just not overly so. Just a dash of self pity is enough spice. Don't sprinkle in too much or you'll ruin the meal.
  
  Back in the Challenger, you're granted a moment's respite. It roars on towards the Hartman estate.
  
  > The Hartman estate II
  The first thing you notice is the crowd. Many reporters from various stations gather outside the Hartman estate gate, their white vans listing a random four letters shoved together quickly followed by a number. KDHI 4 reporting in at the Hartman Estate... C-U-N-T are more suitable letters strung together.
  
  As far as you can tell, no one has actually approached the intercom. At least there's some sense of privacy that they're giving Rachel Hartman, heavily stretching use of the word. They're simply recounting the story of the day, getting the Hartman residence in the background. As pushy as most reporters are, they at least have the decency to not knock on the front door of a woman who just lost her father; they're content to stand on the front porch, however.
  
  You walk right up to the intercom.
  
  All eyes turn on you, some reporters stopping mid-sentence. It's the attention you'd get if you walked down Main street with nothing but a tube sock on your pecker. Yeah! Give 'em the helicopter! As your finger presses on the button, a mechanical screech rings in the air. You clear your throat and speak the same words as the day before.
  
  "Anyone home?"
  
  The strangeness of the greeting causes the others to glance at one another, smiling at your apparent mishandling of the situation. If you only have one shot, they assume the bullet just slipped through your fingers and fell into a sewer grate.
  
  After a few moments, Warren's perfectly articulate voice returns. "I was wondering when you would show."
  
  "I came to check up on Miss Hartman."
  
  "Sure you did," Warren answers, breaking character for a moment. Then he regathers himself. "Apologies. It's a stressful day for us all. Miss Rachel is willing to see you..."
  
  Next to you, finally arrived, Nancy flashes a triumphant smile at the others, the kind of smile a dictator gives towards the masses forced into cheering praise.
  
  "...and you alone."
  
  Nancy's smile drips from her face like wet paint on a hot day. You shrug and give your agreement to Warren. "Well open up, then."
  
  The gate rumbles, an annoyed sound at its wakening, before slowly sliding open. After promising Nancy you'll backbrief her, not even close to a consolation prize, you slide back in the Challenger and roll it forward, giving the crowd of reporters a two-finger salute, one that quickly abandons your pointer finger.
  
  If you had waited a moment longer, you're sure they would have changed their fixation on you. Glancing in your rearview mirror, you see that Nancy has taken that role, the sacrificial lamb left behind. Gotta get out while the going's good.
  
  You park where you did before, far away from the house as not to offend them. A shaky hand grabs for the pack of Marlboros resting silently on the Challenger's dashboard. You were able to block out the situation, for the most part, with Joe Max playing the role as hardass boss.
  
  Now, facing the Hartman home, the feelings return. Cold hands, kitchen knives, and a white blouse. If there's any consolation, Rachel Hartman would be wearing black today. Still, you don't think you could handle another episode. The smoke helps, as it always does, before burning itself through, leaving you back where you started, an ashy aftertaste the only remnant of the previous moment of solace.
  
  Warren appears at the front door. He doesn't wave. He doesn't motion. He doesn't need to. You leave your work bag on the passenger seat. Somehow it doesn't feel right to bring it with you. Mr. Max can take up his complaints with the manager that rests between your pointer and ring finger. Read between the lines! Warren holds the door open for you as you walk inside.
  
  Bringing eerie flashbacks to the day before, a voice calls out. "In here!" It's not a cheery tone, but it's not full of grief either. Rachel's voice is somewhere in-between. For the second time, you enter the Hartman study and find Rachel on the floor, papers scattered out around her. If she wasn't wearing different clothes, you'd have sworn she never left. She's wearing black, alright. Businesswoman black, a black blazer to match her black pants. Commanding. Domineering. There are bad bitches, and then there are bad bitches.
  
  "How's that article of yours going?" she asks.
  
  You ignore her question, taking a seat opposite of her on the floor, removing the Challenger keys from your back pocket for comfort. After placing them on the floor next to you, you return fire with your own question. "How're you doing?"
  
  Rachel Hartman laughs, a genuine thing. Something you assume rarely comes out. Fake laughs, sure. The genuine thing lies a bit deeper. "First pour yourself a drink. I'd feel much safer speaking to an non-credible witness."
  
  "Miss Hartman, you don't have to tell me twice," you answer, knowing the exact bottle you are going to try this time around. Jumping up and around a few documents, playing adult hopscotch, you drop the hop and stick with the scotch. Hefty pour. One must always be generous with oneself.
  
  After taking a slow sip, you continue. "Now, I was going to say 'let's get down to business,' but it looks like you're already down in your business." A quick motion to her physical seat around the scattered documents destroys any subtlety. "So I'll keep it personal—and off the record. How're you doing?"
  
  She sighs. "If I said annoyed, would that make me a bad person? There is so much to do, and all of it is put on hold for my father. Now even that is put on hold to speak with you."
  
  "Truthfully I'm surprised to be here," you say. "Send a bottle home with me and I'd be willing to get out of your way. Have any unopened Macallans?"
  
  "Oh is my presence that painful?"
  
  "I've learned, unfortunately, that the longer I'm around a beau...woman, things tend not to go well." A few sips in and you're already speaking more directly, bordering inappropriate. Definitely across the line for being on the clock, although that line was crossed in a full sprint with the drink. Down the stretch he goes, my-oh-my that speed!
  
  "Now don't get any ideas in that inebriated head of yours," Rachel says. "Warren is ex special forces. He could toss you out of the door as easily as an old man tossing bread to pigeons. Wouldn't be the first time either. I bet that's something you newspaper types would love to write about."
  
  "My boss would get half erect if he caught wind of that scoop."
  
  Rachel tries to stifle her laugh, but it ends up pouring out through white teeth. "Ha! Then he'd match the company who Warren kindly let out."
  
  "Gross," you flatly comment. "No luck on that front then?"
  
  "Which front? Relationships?" Rachel again sighs. She motions for you to finish your glass before continuing, which you happily oblige. "My position and family name shrinks down the sample size. Instead of having plenty of fish in the sea, it's more like I'm stuck in a small aquarium with exotic, and expensive, fish."
  
  Your mind draws to Mr. Ling's Chinese House and the fish tank inside. There are some weird mother fuckers swimming in there. Non traditional, bright colored. Their shapes and faces look like someone sewed a bunch of fish pieces together. You have no doubt they cost a pretty penny as well.
  
  "Clown fish," is what spills out of your mouth.
  
  "I couldn't have said it better myself," Rachel answers. Changing the subject, she asks, "What is it like writing for the Herald? Is it the life you dreamt of as a kid?'
  
  Difficult questions. You noticed before that Rachel often speaks in questions. It's a good way to avoid answering ones asked her way. In the business you call that deflecting, something aptly demonstrated in politics. Mr. President, how will you solve the immigrant crisis? Let me answer that question with ANOTHER question.
  
  You pause a moment to think. "First of all, I didn't dream of becoming this. It just sort of...happened. You know how some kids fantasize about becoming a doctor or baseball player or something like that?" Rachel nods. "It wasn't like that for me. My early years are a blank slate. Honestly, I don't really remember before fourteen."
  
  Rachel studies you for a moment, gauging the truth in your words. She finds no deceit. "And what do your parents say about that?"
  
  Your head shakes. "They aren't around."
  
  "Siblings?"
  
  "A younger sister. Emma. Also not around."
  
  "Leave it to you writer types to have a tragic existence and a magnetic-like pull to the bottle," Rachel comments. "So you know what it's like to lose a father. Have any advice for me?"
  
  "Just a piece," you answer. "Do as I don't and say what I won't."
  
  She offers a pity laugh, thinking the line is a joke, but stops when she notices you aren't smiling. "Oh, you're serious."
  
  "Miss Hartman. With respect, I'm the last person you should be asking advice from. You think this drink is my first today? It's too early for brunch, even. I live in a shithole, and I'm going nowhere. What could I offer that you don't have tenfold?"
  
  Rachel sits quietly for a moment before softly speaking a single word.
  
  "Life."
  
  > Life
  "Life?" you question. "You seem to have plenty of that. Hell, you're in much better shape than me too. I'd say you have more of it than me."
  
  "Have you ever wondered where your next meal was coming from?"
  
  Instantly, you answer. "Yes."
  
  "Same question. About where you'd live."
  
  "Same answer."
  
  "And what about throwing yourself out there? Let's say in a bar, the lights are dimmed and you're just drunk enough to entertain introducing yourself to the cute girl that hasn't escaped your eye all night. Have you talked to her?"
  
  "Unfortunately for her, yes," you say with a smile. Rachel Hartman does not return it. So you add on. "As you can see now it paid off in the long run." You raise a naked ring finger for emphasis.
  
  "Well, did she come home with you?"
  
  "About long enough to turn around and leave. Listen, Miss Hartman. I think you're romancing what it's like to..."
  
  Rachel cuts you off. "Don't patronize me. Everyone patronizes me."
  
  "You have to realize the situation I'm in..."
  
  "Living in a shithole going nowhere?" Rachel turns your words against you. "Yeah, you better be real careful. You'd hate to see all you built go up in flames." It's silent for a moment. You can think of nothing to say, at least nothing that wouldn't get your ass tossed outside in the blink of an eye. You bite your tongue. Rachel breaks the hanging silence. "Sorry."
  
  "It's alright," you say, not really sure what else to.
  
  It's quiet again. Rachel Hartman's eyes scan the pile of documents in front of her. Something in particular catches her eye. "Hand me that letter opener, will you?"
  
  It rests on the desk, as silent as it just was between you and Rachel. Shiny gold. You're willing to guess it's not the fake stuff. It's as real as they come. Against the mostly "dark wood" design, it glows bright, like a lone jewel in a large treasure chest. As you pick it up, you pull the blade from the sheathe. It reminds you of something from a movie, a precious artifact long sought after by powerful men, radiant power lying within. Deadly sharp. It's rare an item as intricate as this is similarly functional. Usually it's one or the other. Not for the Hartmans. It's both, and take one for the road why dontcha?
  
  "I hope I'm not keeping you too long," Rachel Hartman absent-mindedly comments, her attention mostly focused on the unopened letter she picked up from the ground. In contrast to the words you just shared, it comes across as distant, insincere.
  
  "It's nothing," you politely answer.
  
  "Uh, can I
  (stick it in me)
  have it?" Rachel Hartman says, motioning her fingers into a gimme gesture, like something you'd see a child flash to a friend in order to have a turn with a toy.
  
  "Yeah, sorry," you mumble, realizing you're just standing in place looking at the letter opener. You step back over a few documents to her seat on the floor.
  
  (Stick it in him, then you can stick it in me.)
  
  Slash's guitar wails in the background. The room is dimly-lit. Your wallet is twenty bucks lighter. She leads you by the hand, before forcefully shoving you into a seat, her hips swing on top of yours almost simultaneously. Grace—no, not Grace. Rachel Hartman grinds her body against yours, dressed in a black bra and thong fitting for a day of mourning. Two hands grasp your wrists, bringing them to feel bare sections of her body that men dream of.
  
  "This is what I was talking about earlier. The work never stops, even in my father's passing. Things will die down for a couple of days, just enough time for me to catch up, before the onslaught begins again," Rachel Hartman explains.
  
  Senses assaulted by loud music and drink, her breath surprises you. Warmth tickles your ear. Her voice is soft and sensual, the kind that makes a man unconsciously agree without question. As she speaks, one hand finds the button of your jeans, popping it open as easily as snapping a finger. An unfamiliar hand wraps around your erection, overloading your mind with possibility. A thousand thoughts appear at once, all of them sending you straight to hell.
  
  Rachel Hartman continues.
  
  "I feel it building up. Silence is never good. It's just the steady building of a wave, ready to crash
  
  down on me. You know you want to taste it." Rachel Hartman grabs ahold of your wrist and guides your hand down the front of her thong. "Wet, huh? Lick my pussy. Let me feel you inside me. You know you
  
  tend to zone out sometimes. That's ok. I bet people tend to assume you're a good listener. Perks of not having the impulse to interject every
  
  second. Then you can tear my bra off and titty fuck me till you blow your load over my chest and face." Your hand feels Rachel Hartman's state of arousal. Warm. Inviting. She feels the same, soft skin gently feeling up and down the length of your manhood.
  
  "Well? Are you
  
  going to give it
  
  to
  
  me?
  
  > give it to her
  There's no choice in the matter. You're completely lost into passion, pulled into the episode, drawn by your desire. Well are you going to give it to me? Yes. A thousand times fucking yes. Your mind is trained on a single point, tunnel-like, black around the edges. Lost in the moment, your actions are not your own; they belong to your primal self, subconscious—whatever you want to call it, you're just along for the ride.
  
  You've got what she wants, and you're
  (sink it in, baby)
  sure as hell going to give it to her. Your eyes meet Rachel's. An incoherent sound, somewhere between a gasp and a moan, escapes her lips. Her head rolls back in pleasure, body suddenly going limp. She becomes dead weight in your arms, the moment of passion quickly fading.
  
  (Dead)
  
  Rachel's body hangs heavy in your arms, her torso propped upright, legs still seated on the ground. Her hazel eyes stare at something on the ceiling, glazed, unable to focus. You give her a gentle shake.
  
  "Miss Hartman, are you alright?"
  
  She does not respond, her eyes still fixed towards the ceiling. That's when you notice the letter opener. It's firmly planted in her chest, golden handle shining magnificently in the morning light, begging you to pull it out so that its blade can do the same. In horror, you drop her body, reacting as if a burning coal was placed in your hand.
  
  Her back hits the floor, taking the impact hard as she doesn't have the strength to brace the fall. Dark pools appear at the front of her shirt, blood splattered on Rachel's
  (chest and face)
  pile of work, spread beneath her like a floral arrangement at a funeral. She lies still. Again you try, unable to finish speaking your words.
  
  "Miss Hartman...?"
  
  Realization sets in. The death of Mr. Jim Hartman may have been a coincidence after your episode yesterday, but this is something completely different. Completely fucking different. The blood on your hands won't simply disappear as the vision fades. No, this is real. Some nightmares follow you into reality. This is worse than any dream. This is reality.
  
  Every instinct is telling you to bolt, to run for the hills, to put this all in the rear-view and pump the gas. You almost follow it. There's only a matter of time until a certain ex special forces butler checks in on the two of you, and Warren doesn't seem the type to wait for the police to arrive. No, he's the type to take matter—you—into his own hands, most likely finding a comfortable spot around your throat.
  
  It passes.
  
  A calmness settles in like the reassuring hand of a father on your shoulder. Clarity, in the current situation. It's only a matter of minutes until Warren checks in. Your eyes find the scattered papers on the floor, and those stained by Rachel's blood. You drop to all fours, rearranging them, putting the fresh, unbloodied papers on top.
  
  You're far past the point of covering your tracks completely—now you can only do your best to mask the scent for the bloodhound. As you work, your eyes avoid landing on Rachel's body. She's just a minor inconvenience as you shuffle her papers around, threatening to ruin the nice white pages with red dye.
  
  It's then that you realize covering up the bloody documents does no good, not when the recently deceased Rachel Hartman is lying on top of them. There's no way to move, hide, and cover up the trail from her body. The Hartman butler will be on you. Your life ends here. How fitting would it be for Warren to take the letter opener from Rachel's body and slit your throat with it? Maybe you should save him the trouble. There's no getting out of this one. There's only one way to describe the present situation, and it goes well on a ham sandwich! Then an idea arrives. Subtle. Small. Just a piece, but it gathers potential fast. It could work. It could fucking work.
  
  Your hand reaches in your pocket for your cell phone. Expecting it to be shaky, unstable given the murdered woman three feet in front of you, it's surprisingly steady, which may be even more concerning in the long run, but that's a problem for another time assuming there's still room to run. No, the present problem takes precedence.
  
  Unlock. Contacts. Call Nancy.
  
  She answers with a heavy breath. "Hello? Tell me you got a story. It's a madhouse out here." You can imagine her waving off the crowd of fellow reporters in order to take the call, pointing up a pompous finger telling them to wait.
  
  Your eyes finally land on Rachel, the letter opener still firmly planted in her chest. Her unfocused eyes stare endlessly at the ceiling, limbs sprawled out in a way that any living being would need to readjust for comfort. "Trust me. This will be on the front page tomorrow morning," you answer.
  
  You can almost hear her smile. "Yes! I knew it. We're a great team. Why are you calling anyway?" Just like Nancy to claim credit for someone else's actions. Too bad that stops with her involvement of a dead woman. You've witnessed first-hand how quickly she jumps ship, joining the sharks in the water encircling to devour the helmsman that brought the vessel off-course.
  
  "I could use your help," you admit. Truer words have never escaped your lips. "You remember the intercom I spoke in?" You imagine Nancy nodding. "Press the middle button and explain to whoever answers that you're needed in here. They'll open the gate and let you in. Miss Hartman would give you better instructions, but she's in an unfit state."
  
  "Oh the poor thing! It's not an easy thing losing a family member. Hope she's ready for a real interview. Ha-ha, just kidding there. See you soon, partner."
  
  Plan slowly taking form, you creep to the study door and wait. Any second now, Warren will be detained by a pushy journalist at the intercom. On the job, Nancy never takes a no. She's as tenacious as they come, often not afraid to highlight the fact that she's a woman to any male roadblocks. Nothing like flashing a potential discrimination lawsuit to get what you want.
  
  A few moments later, you hear a mechanized beep, and the butler's footsteps echoing down the hall, his wing-tipped shoes upon the wood floors sounding like the steady click of a revolver's chamber. After a moment, Warren's perfectly-articulate voice fills the air. It's pleasant at first. All business. All manners. You don't take another second to listen. Well, you do take another second to toss back a sizable drink from the bottle you picked out earlier. Now's not a bad time for a little liquid courage. Then again, is there ever really a bad time?
  
  You slip the shoes from your feet, learning from Warren's steps just earlier. On the intercom line with Nancy, he'd likely still hear your footsteps. In socks, however—in socks your steps will be as quiet as a parent tucking their child in at night. You leave the study, walking on the balls of your feet, breath in a slow deliberate manner as if exhaling too loudly would result in alerting the butler of your presence.
  
  Your socks slide on the wood floor like ice skates, which you embrace, gliding each foot forward without having to lift a foot. Out the study, through the hallway, and to the front door you arrive. No alarms sound. Flashing lights don't trigger on your attempted escape. Almost there. In a small amount of time you can put the Hartman estate and this whole damn town in your rear-view mirror.
  
  The front door creaks slightly, like a floorboard in the dead of night, as you slowly and methodically turn the knob. Outside! You never were a fan of the outdoors, and for the first time you realize why many seek it. Freedom. There are no boundaries, no rules. Just the open air and your two legs to run on. Unable to contain, a small chuckle starts deep in your chest. It rises to your throat in a tickle, desperate to escape. You let a little pour through your lips. Freedom is fucking yours.
  
  Slipping your shoes back on, you break into a jog, not too frantic while still attempting not to make much noise. The Challenger rests calmly, ready to awaken. Turn the key, pump the gas, and it'll roar to life. It can outrun any vehicle the fuzz are slapping their logos onto nowadays.
  
  Ford Explorers and Interceptors are no match for the good old fashioned American muscle car. See ya later, honey. Miss Hartman, it's been a pleasure. But this chapter's over. A new one is beginning in a new town, far from here, and under a new alias. You'll head north, maybe stopping in Sterling City until things die down. If there's a place to escape the law, Sterling is it.
  
  You've made it. Your hand grasps the familiar metal handle on the door. Black, cold to the touch. Nothing but the open road in front of you. The episodes will be another issue to solve, but this one's behind you. The door handle snaps back into position, the driver door remaining closed.
  
  Locked.
  
  Your fingers reach for keys in your back pocket, and then realization hits you like a wife figuring out that her husband doesn't bowl, and in fact "Tuesday Bowling Night" really means "Stick it in your sister, Kathy, night." Jesus fucking Christ. Your keys are still in the Hartman study.
  
  Movement at the front door.
  
  Warren appears at the front door, both hands posted on the door frame, arms stretched out like Samson tied to two pillars. His usual stoic demeanor is fixed in rage, his eyebrows firmly stuck in a diagonal position, furled. Your eyes meet. Without a doubt you know he happened to check the study. The small chuckle from earlier transitions into a wide-toothed grin. Of fucking course you forgot your keys. So close, yet so far, as the old saying goes.
  
  He starts to walk toward you. For a split second, you think about bolting, taking off down the road on nothing but your two feet. The thought passes quickly. Warren would catch you in a matter of seconds, and plus, fleeing on foot never did anyone any good. Not when those in pursuit have access to cars, 'copters, and canines. No fork lies ahead in your future; it's but a single path leading towards a four-walled cage. Now that you think about it, the "choices" that brought you here weren't really choices. Your life was destined to lead to this. Might as well enjoy your last precious seconds as a free man. That's one thing you have control over.
  
  Your hand moves from your back pocket to your breast, where the pack of Marlboros comfortably sits. One hand on the smoke, the other lights a match. Still, surprisingly, although becoming less at this point, your hands are steady. This could be the last smoke for a while.
  
  Finality sure puts things in damn perspective, something that isn't always apparent in the busyness of everyday life. Each smoke, each drink, each fuck, each laugh brings you one closer to the eventual end. At a certain point in your life, you realize that you've crossed the threshold, becoming closer to the end than the beginning. You've reached the end. Goddamn, if you only learned to enjoy the moments along the way.
  
  Your pursuer draws closer. You breathe in the smoke. The end is here.