“I don’t know what we would’ve done without you, Detective Cheneigh,” Aunt Jones said, tears filling her eyes. Austyn had only a cast on her arm and some stitches on her back, but that was it.
“All that matters is that things turned out just fine,” Pete said, smiling weakly. Austyn looked down the entire time,
silent. “Austyn,” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Feel better, alright?” Austyn nodded only a centimeter.
“Thank you!” Aunt Jones cried as Pete went back into his Crossfire and drove off.
The Mark Twain Cemetery was empty. There was a slight chill in the wind that made Austyn feel more alone than ever and the
orange leaves on the ground spread around wildly. She stared at Richard’s tombstone, only blinking every few minutes or so, playing with the grass under her fingers. Thinking over things, she
remember her aunt reminding her to take her anti-depressants. She pulled out a capsule of tiny pills labeled “Cymbalta”, opened it, pulled out one pill and swallowed it reluctantly.
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