It didn't seem make any sense to me. How? How? My father was right. James was killed by a mad man.

No—a mad woman.

A woman, who I just met, already gained my ire and hatred. I could never look at her the same. The scent truly did expose her true nature: a monster hiding under that floral beauty. My hands clenched into fists. Red only filled my vision. It was ghastly...disgusting...but somewhat thrilling.

But I shook my head. It wasn't right. But so were the ones who wronged my brother.

It's been fourteen years, and the people still look down on Jay Gatsby for being something he was not: a murderer and a Communist. He had his faults, but no one could even look at their own. How foolish.

"Della?" Mr. Carraway's voice cut me from my thoughts. My eyes flew to his face, which was warped with pain and concern. "You alright?"

Could I even be? He was right, but I wanted to hear it. I'm his sister. Father didn't even tell us the rest of the details of his death, and I understand why now. All I knew, was that I was numb and cold all over.

"My father…never once complained about my brother," I start out. "Not even when he left or got involved in that billionaire scandal."

I wring my skirt, probably ruining the dress with more wrinkles but I didn't care. "He believed in the good. Always spoke proudly of him, even when the neighbors would tease us."

Those times when my younger siblings would be shoved over, called names, there was a reason for it all. Why our crops would be stolen and burnt to the ground. Why the military sneered and abused my brothers. There was a reason.

"I couldn't do anything for him. I'm sorry, Della." Mr. Carraway bows his head down to me in shame. "I wanted to make up for what I couldn't do for him, by helping you and your family. But I think in the end, it was selfishness and shame. I am not an honorable man."

I shake my head. No, he did the best he could. This man helped my family, giving us provisions and money, even when he himself had so little to keep going. He may have been from that crowd, but he was brighter than the rest. And I trusted the man my brother trusted.

"You did everything you could," I softly responded. "And you did your best, even if that meant you suffered. You're a good person, Mr. Carraway."

He still didn't seem assuaged by this, greatly disturbed as I calmly responded. The poor man didn't ever seem to catch a break with himself. He was plagued with PTSD, always still in shock from what happened those years ago and the sights he had seen in the war. Mr. Carraway had lost so much, yet he still held on to what he had left, struggling to survive.

And I admired that of him, I wanted to free him from all that guilt, if I could.

"Mr. Carraway—is there a way, that I could bring up the case again?"

His eyes grew alarmed. "What?"

"The case with the Wilsons. How come they didn't investigate it further?"

Understanding seemed to seep in. The man's face hardened. "Because anyone will focus on the bad parts of humans. They don't bother to see how even the noble rich had their own faults." Mr. Carraway leans closer to me. "But I didn't tell you this just to stir the same trouble again. I only told you to only explain the parts that you didn't know about your brother."

I was discouraged. He could be living a different life if it weren't for the Buchanan's and society. "Alright, Mr. Carraway," I reassure him. "I understand, I'm not going to do anything about it. I'll hide my identity."

Right, I should let it die. What good would it do, stirring up trouble, and after all these years?


Della did heed my words carefully, going to school as the country orphan Dahlia. She would go off to school for a couple of hours and then come straight home, work on her homework, practice the organ, and sleep.

Even though she seemed like the model student, I could tell there was something amiss with the child. Perhaps…it was wrong, to tell her about Gatsby.

I still was haunted by the events, even if the bite wore off. I swore I still saw him stalking around the marble floor, giving me that snarky smile and calling me, "Old Sport." Maybe because I decided to live here, though I still don't understand why I chose to live in this big mansion rather than my cottage. It still puzzles me to this day.

Feeling uneasy, I wipe my glasses, a memento from Owl Eyes himself before he passed away. The man was the only man I still kept in contact when I left that long ago, sharing a love for books and reminiscing about Gatsby.

It felt strange…to find one person among those people who could be honest. Honest people were hard to come by.

But, God gave me Della. She was truly like a gift that Gatsby sent for me. She was my comfort, the light of innocence that reigned the darkness of this world.

And I would do everything to make sure she would live a better, fulfilling life than her brother led.

The phone rang next to me, interrupting my train of thought. How strange of it to finally make such a commotion. After all, there was no one to call or anyone to call me.

The last person I expected, answered, "Mr. Carraway."

"Yes?" Dread filled my heart as I heard the next words uttered. "I understand. I'll be there."

I put down the hone back in its place, reeling in the shock. What am I going to do?