The last part of this story, this is told in the first person from Lavinia's perspective.


Epilogue:

So, I went back to New York City with my mom that fateful summer in 1984. I still kept in touch with Brooke and Chet, because they got married four years later. Xavier, on the other hand, I saw him on the front of TV Guide in 1986, so I guess he was doing well for the time. After what happened at Camp Redwood and then the night I had to put that big dog down, we did not keep in touch as much. No-brainer for Rita, or should I say Donna Chambers; no contact at all, but I know she is alive. I'll get to that in a bit.

My mom was actually okay to me for the remainder of my teenage years – she was more well-off than my dad, even though he was a specialist and made about as much. Now, I understood her more, knowing she fled in order to survive and that it had nothing to do with me. I was sent to an all-girl's school, Brearly, which I was okay with. I hated being forced into a skirt, but at least I could say my education was top of the line. I was really good at languages, I did Latin and Russian at the same time. I also did lacrosse. Heck, before my great-uncles Vlad and Peter retired from owning their delicatessen, I was able to practice with them. People thought I was a bit nuts because I chose Russian, I even got a bit of light teasing like being called a "Russian spy", but I laughed it off. I was at a point in my life where none of that shit would bother me anymore.

I also was at a point in my life where I could explore who I was. Men always repulsed me, and I did not know why until I met Amelia Schuman. If you've seen Brooke Shields, she kind of looked like her – long, soft brown hair, always wore a fluffy hairbow tied at the top of her bangs, her hair sprayed so much that it made her tresses stand up. It was the only form of self-expression for us at Brearly. I didn't follow suit. I just wore a ponytail; my hair had gotten long enough. I had this attraction to Amelia, I guess. It was mutual, I'd say.

She was one of three friends I made there. I met them all in the bathroom the third day of school, where they were passing out cigarettes to each other and decided to include me. That was one habit I picked up. The other girls were Leticia Coolidge, one of the only three black girls in the entire school, and Lydia Atkins, a girl with a subtle gothic style who idolized Souxsie from the Banshees. I guess I fit in well with them, but sometimes I felt like Amelia saw herself as "too good" for our little posse. She was a goody-two-shoes, her father happened to work under my mom in the same place, so we saw each other the most outside of school. I saw so much in her that I'd rather keep to myself, but it is too good to not share – she was closeted, I could tell. I had been, too, but I didn't really know much about what being a lesbian meant. We are still in touch every so often. She confided in me one afternoon junior year when we decided to meet in the girl's bathroom for a cigarette during fourth period.

"Don't hate me, okay?" I remember her asking me.

"What could I possibly hate you for?" I asked, dragging on my cigarette. We were sitting up against the wall in the handicap stall at the end of the row.

"You know… how… uh…" She was stuttering, and she fluffed her brown hair slightly, "we get boyfriends, and we get, other things?"

"I don't follow." I was playing dumb.

"You know… like… you know how Leticia has a crush on…" She stopped herself. "Uh, forget I said that. Point is… I don't think I want that."

I was a bit speechless in that moment – that was when it was confirmed to me that Amelia was like me in that sense. She shuffled to sit on her knees, to make sitting in her school uniform skirt less awkward. I was sitting with my knees drawn up as though I were wearing pants. I would have rather worn pants.

"Me neither," I said, tapping out the cigarette ashes into the toilet after another drag, "doesn't mean we're broken."

"No, I meant…" She sighed with frustration, turning to face me, "I don't think I want that… with a guy."

I raised my eyebrows, taking a long, slow drag: "uh… okay then."

"I feel like I can tell you. Y-You said that… men repulse you, right?" Amelia asked.

I nodded: "yup. One of the perks of being here is that I'm not surrounded by them."

That was when she leaned in and gave me a kiss on my cheek. I turned red as a strawberry. Amelia was so pretty and feminine, and I was so dull. I looked over at her and put my palm to where she kissed. She looked down sadly and that was when I sat on my knees, too, with the hopes of seeing what was wrong and showing her I cared.

"Hey… why the long face?"

No answer.

I just gave in and said: "you shouldn't kiss someone just on the cheek if you like them."

I did not realize what was coming out of my mouth until I felt her soft lips on mine. That was my first kiss, and the first time I felt fondness toward another person. I was sixteen or so by this point, I had to explore it sooner or later. I didn't worry about being caught; we were in a stall. I could feel her holding me, and I did the same to her. She felt so gentle, so soft, and she tasted like sugar. I felt my heart racing, and my face turned even redder as I blushed. When we broke the kiss, she looked into my eyes and I smiled.

"Let's not let this ruin our friendship," I giggled.


Deep down, I was hoping something else didn't. Remember the claw strike my dad left for me? Well, I learned that can turn a human if they survive the blow. Well, turn them into Lycans. That's what happened to me a month after turning sixteen. I realized I was not born with the mutation my dad had, because he himself told me he never once got sick in his life. That's one of the perks of being a Lycan is a strengthened immune system, to the point where 99.9% of human diseases and illness cannot affect you. I also can smell things from a long distance away, and when I turn, I have the strength of ten Arnold Schwarzeneggers. Oh, and I have an advanced healing factor; that is why I don't have the scar from where Margaret stabbed me. The scar from the wound that turned me is a different story. That healed just enough to form a faint scar.

I can remember it being the full moon, and this pain struck me out of nowhere from my core, spreading throughout my body as my bones broke and reformed for the very first time. The most painful part of metamorphosis is usually my head and face; it twists and forms into a snout, and my ears change position and shape entirely. My skin peeled over my bones, and fur emerged. If I have to describe it, it is a light tan color. My father was a literal monster when he turned; at least, when I saw him like that, hulking at twelve-foot-five. My first time turning, and for most of my teen years, I was maybe six-foot-something, pretty small for what a Lycan is supposed to be. I always thought a Lycan doubles in height after they change. After I was turned, I kissed all of that goodbye.

With age, I did get taller. By the time I graduated from Brearly, I had a gradual growth spurt. I was short until seventeen, when I reached five-foot-eight; as I Lycan, I am less than double that. Both my parents were tall, but I was taller than my mom. The women in my dad's side of the family were pretty tall, too. I went to Washington state for university, but only went for one year. That is because my life changed… yet again.


It was '89, I had just finished freshman year at Central Washington University, so it was summer. I majored in Law and Justice, and had even started to dye my hair black – in a weird way, I was paying tribute to my father's memory, not the beast he became every month. By the end of the decade, I looked like that singer Martika. I had given up on religion especially since I came to terms with being a lesbian, plus everything I went through at Redwood and killing my own dad made realize that God is probably a joke. I was living in an apartment with a roommate and working part time at a grocery store, and it was hard. The apartment got broken into, and long story short, I shot the fucker. He was dead upon arrival at the hospital, I had to go to court with my roommate as a witness, and I got off because in Washington state, you have every right to defend yourself. Plus, I was licensed to carry a pistol.

Lee moved out after the incident. I was alone, and still working at the grocery store. It was the next month during the second night of the full moon, I transformed and did my usual. I was glad to live near the woods, and I do not remember killing a human that way…at first. Remember when I mentioned that my apartment was near the Yakama reservation? Well, I met two Lycans from there that very night. The werewolves in North America look quite different from those of European lineage – they're a bit shorter, thinner, and black fur is the most common color. Black or brown eyes also are common, but they glow like mine do. The interaction was brief, but it felt like a chase the entire night. That is all I remember.

The following morning, I woke up in a clearing and not even five feet away from me was the unconscious body of a woman with tan skin, long black hair and a round face. She was naked, like I was, laying there in the grass. I had gotten up and looked over at her, only to see her eyes opening. About two feet away from her was a naked man with the same complexion and distinctive cheekbones with a disheveled long, black ponytail. We were all some degree of filthy, but I think I was the dirtiest. I was used to it. The man then woke up, and stood and his two feet, trying to get oriented. That was when I knew these two were like me, albeit very different.

"Uh… hello," the man said, looking down at the woman. "Kiya? Are you awake? It's morning."

There was a groan: "already?"

I tried so hard not to stare at her as she stood up, and even though men repulsed me, there was something about this one that drew me, not just because he was a Lycan. He spoke and the woman, named Kiya, was standing next to him with her black hair cascading enough to hide her chest. He looked at me with beady, dark eyes, just like I had seen them the night before in his Lycan form, and smirked.

"You… are like us," he said. "I am Jon. Your name is?"

"Lavinia, but… you can call me Luba," I answered. My hair was too short to hide any private part of my body, but even then, every time I transformed, I got used to the idea that I was naked even with fur.

"I'm Kiya," the girl said.

"She is my sister," Jon added.

"Where do you guys live?" I questioned.

"We live on the reservation," he answered. "Not the best place but… that's where we've been for over a century." He paused. "You… are different from the ones we see around here."

I felt my eyes widen: "uh, are there more?"

"Yes."

I was in shock – I never in a million years thought I'd meet werewolves, but then again, I was so against being one just years before. I was nineteen by this point, so it meant a lot that I found friends that resonated on a deeper level with me. We became fast friends, and I accepted their invitation to the reservation for breakfast and new clothing. I was given a knitted, button-up sleeveless sweater and a pair of baggy black pants to wear, and I was served oatmeal and black coffee. I devoured it like I devoured small game the night before. Kiya took a seat right in front of me, in the dim light of the shaded lamp hanging above the small round dining table where our food sat. Jon was there, taking massive bite sizes like I remember my father doing. I also was hearing about their background in the meantime, sharing mine in between in bits and pieces.

"I am a shaman. People like Kiya and I are very respected here," Jon revealed; he was so soft-spoken. "We both inherited this from our mother. What about you?"

"My father," I said. He turned me, I thought to myself.

"Where does your line originate from?"

"Russia."

Kiya sighed and looked down into her coffee cup before sipping and placing it back down: "European Lycans are the most deadly, not to mention the largest. That explains so much. Plus, your fur is… white?"

"Tan."

"Here they are mostly black," Jon said. "Is… what we've learned true, though?"

"What?"

"That your kind of Lycan are the worst?"

"My father was an absolute monster," I replied with confidence. "I am not my father. I'm me. That is all that matters. I've never taken a life, except in self-defense as a human."

They both nodded at me and looked at each other. I just zoned out and stared at the center of the table, where fresh daisies were sitting in a vase of water. We continued to share our experiences, but it was also not long after this meeting that I was asked to join their pack. I did not pass up the chance. Apparently, there was an entire pack of twelve Lycans established in the area, and I figured it would be good for me. They were far from the same culture as me, but all that mattered was that I had people who had my back regardless… well, maybe not "regardless", per se. Most packs recognize you as part of it if you are loyal and have the backs of everyone else in the group. I kept this up until 1993, when I got a very conspicuous job offer.


It all started with me being stalked. I'm not kidding. I had moved to a new place by this point, too, and managed to finish college. At first it was the odd letter every two weeks, but as months went by it was more frequent. I would also get odd phone calls in the middle of the night. When I picked up the first few times, it sounded like some sort of radio code used by the military. I'd hang up and go back to sleep. As the letters grew frequent, so didn't the calls. Oh, I forgot the weird part about the letters: some were blank, some had cryptic messages, but they all had one thing in common aside from being weird. They had no return addresses. One of the perks of being a Lycan is having an acute sense of smell, and I would smell the letters trying to get a clue, but to no avail. It continued, and finally, by November of that year, I got a visitation by two men in black suits. By this point in my life, I did not scare easily at all, but seeing these men scared me. They introduced themselves as government officials, and I let them in. I let them sit in my living room area and I sat with them.

"So, what brings you here?"

"You're Lavinia Volkov, one of the survivors of the 1984 massacre at Camp Redwood," one of the men said, peering at me through thick, black sunglasses.

I just looked at them and nodded: "we've…established my name, but…uh… yes, I'm here, aren't I?"

"You sure are. You also were tried for killing a man in your own home, but it was ruled self-defense and you were let off the hook. True?"

"Excuse me, but… why are you asking me? What happens if I refuse to answer and request a lawyer present?" I questioned. I felt a bit odd telling these strange men anything about my past, but I had to keep my cool.

The men looked at each other and I rolled my eyes. One of them said: "you are a cold-blooded killer, Miss Volkov."

"Excuse me?!" I exclaimed.

"Your father… uh…" They pulled out two pieces of paper, one of them a glossy photograph of my smiling father in a lab coat, "Doctor…Ralph Vadim Volkov?"

That did it for me – how the fuck did they know I killed my father? Did something happen to his Lycan form upon death that revealed it was him? Otherwise, I knew for a fact there wasn't any way to tell it was him in that form because he was not even human, but a beast. Did they catch onto the fact he was missing for so long? All of these questions raced through my head as I felt tears filling my eyes, seeing my father, a human man, devoted to God with the sole purpose of cleansing him of the horrific acts he committed when not himself, a fertility doctor… my father above all. I took the photo and looked down at it gravely, feeling my heart turn to stone and my veins turn to ice.

"Alright…" I gave in, "what the hell do you guys want? Is this why I've gotten letters and calls the past month?"

"We realized a direct approach was better. You see, we have had your father's body in custody for the past nine years for the purpose of research. When the morgue took him in, an autopsy was performed the next day. What came in as this creature turned back into a human, who we identified as your father. The, uh, creature's head was in shambles, but your father's body? No sign of any trauma to the head or body at all. The cause of death is on there, we gave a copy of the coroner's report."

I took a look at the document and sniffled, seeing that my gunshots did not matter: acute poisoning, aconitum napellus. It was the wolfsbane that was in the bullets that killed my father. This was so confusing. Why the hell were they doing this after all this time?

"Why now?" I asked. "Why now after nine years? Did you even get consent to take my father's body?"

"He donated it to science. He had legal documentation of it, and we uncovered it. We did not break any laws, Miss Volkov," one of the men said to me. "We did find bullets at the scene, and you were crying manically at the scene when you were found by paramedics, blood spewing from your mouth, a deep wound in your chest."

"What do you want?!" I spat. "I do not have all day!"

"Miss Volkov, please keep your-"

"Tell me!" I said louder, "tell me what you want, and why you are here! You can cut the shit with the blackmail!"

The men sighed and stood up, looking down at me: "you want your father to be laid to rest?"

"He should have been to begin with. He suffered immensely!" I exclaimed with a growl. "I cannot believe you would just do that! He may have consented to research when he died, but NOT being refused a proper burial for nine straight fucking years!"

My voice shook the entire place, I was livid. I was so angry that my father had been refused a proper burial all of that time. Anybody would be angry. One of the men raised his voice slightly, but had a calm vibe to it.

"Miss Volkov, we have a way to settle this. Do you know a Benjamin Richter?"

"Mr. Jingles, or should I even say that? He didn't kill all those people! The real killer was Margaret Booth, and she nearly killed me and another one of my friends," I replied, still coming off short-fused. "He was released by some shrink who wanted to do research."

"Donna Chambers."

"That bitch, yeah," I agreed.

"Miss Volkov, you have the skills needed for this task."

"What task? Get to the point!" I had lost my patience the minute they told me my father's body was kept in custody. They were pushing it now.

"You need to travel to Alaska to kill him," one of the men said. "We know he lives in Fairbanks, address and all."

"WHAT?" I was dumbfounded. "What the…are you kidding me?!"

"If you do this for us, we will set your father's body free for a proper burial, as he would likely want."

I was flabbergasted. I took the offer, but only for my father. I tried to reason with them on how Benjamin Richter wasn't the killer, but apparently, he had been on a watch list for years since despite keeping a very low profile. My other incentive was $10 million, which I accepted. A chunk of change doesn't hurt, and maybe I could move somewhere better after the fact. I had let Jon, Kiya, and the rest of the pack know I was leaving, and they met it with uncertainty, but I assured them I would be back.


The trip up north to Alaska was not terrible. My lodging and flight were travel were taken care of, and I had to sign my soul over to the Devil… just kidding. Heck, I even transformed up there because it happened to be a full moon, and it was in December. I froze my ass off after turning back into a human, but I was able to be around real wolves, not Lycans, which was refreshing. I found out quite a bit when I was in Fairbanks, tracking down Richter. It shocked me, to say the least – this man had a family. A family, of all things. I spent a good two hours one afternoon peering into their home from a tree with binoculars. His son could not have been any older than six, and he had a wife who was maybe five years younger. Richter worked at a Blockbuster, and how he got a job is beyond me, especially with his name dragged through some pretty thick mud. Was he under a new name? I remember wearing a thick coat and a light gray lace tying headband that went as a bow on the top of my head with some makeup heavier than I have ever worn in my entire life. I pretended to browse films while some jackass was returning films to where Richter was standing behind a counter. Side note, he looked very different. Cleaner, with balding and his eye was not so crooked like I remembered it to be.

"I came here last night to rent horror, dude!" The customer sounded so rude, I even felt a bit bad for him. "Three movies! That's it! I wanted Halloween, Friday the 13th and American Werewolf in London! Is this some joke?"

"I just…"

"This is what you gave me!" I watched the customer shuffle through the tapes "Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles, Weird Science… there is not one kill in these movies!"

"You really shouldn't watch horror," Richter said with a cool, calm, collected demeanor. I just peered over, observing the scene.

"Why's that?"

"There's too much violence in this world already."

That is what made me have a change of heart about putting a bullet in his head after quietly breaking into his house. That night I had planned to carry it out. I had been watching him enough to know his patterns, aside from anything else I already knew. Granted, it was likely I'd never see my father's funeral or possibly worse, but…I saw firsthand how he turned his life around. That night, I had taken off the gross makeup and took out the hair tie and approached the small house on 184 Clay Street, bundled up in the dark of night, and knocked on the door. It took five minutes to get an answer, but when I saw Richter opening the door, he looked at me strangely. My blood nearly froze – I was face to face with the same man who was accused of something so heinous by a truly evil woman.

"Uh, hello? How can I help you?"

"A-Are you…uh…" I stammered and sighed, "Benjamin Richter?"

"Yes. And you are?"

I paused: "the youngest counselor ever at Camp Redwood."

His eyes widened and his jaw dropped: "I…uh… I…"

"I'll tell you why I'm here, if you just let me in," I mentioned, persuading him to do so. "I…do not mean you any harm, at all."

He let me in, and his wife came out to see what the matter was with me being there. She looked at me strangely, and then to Richter. She was in her late thirties with blonde hair and green-blue eyes. Fairly attractive.

"Who is this?" she asked, tying her bathrobe just a bit tighter.

"Just someone I know from what happened," he mentioned. "I'll be in there in a bit, Lorraine." My heart raced, but I was relieved when Lorraine, his wife, left the room. I sat down and removed my coat, looking at him as he sat down in the chaise across from me. The inside of the house was cozy and quaint, and I could barely start the conversation. I just stuttered like an idiot."

"I…I…"

"You were… the girl I chased…" he recalled.

"Yup. I'm older and my hair is black now," I chuckled, "but all that aside, I need to come clean with you."

"Yes?"

"Well, I know you did not kill all those people in 1970. The one who did suffered dearly, and I am glad for that…but a few distinct government officials with ties to intelligence sent me here to kill you. I am not doing that. I have been watching you very closely for a bit now, I've been in Alaska for less than a week, and from what I have seen, you do not deserve to die."

He froze and sighed: "I have done all I could to leave my past behind. I can't believe they want me dead."

"I can't either," I said. "You have a son, a wife… a life. I refuse to take that away from you, and a child always needs their father."

Richter nodded: "yes, my son is everything to me." He paused. "I named him after my brother." He looked down, and I was attentive.

"Your brother?"

"Yes, Bobby," he said, his lips agape with a slight smile. "He… was in an accident."

I saw tears forming in his eyes, the first display of true emotion from this guy. I leaned forward to show him I was listening: "I'm…so sorry."

"He was my younger brother, and we were actually at that camp as kids before it was Redwood. It was called Camp Golden Star in the forties, and it was this blooming flower in the wake of a war that killed millions, including my old man. My mother, her name was Lavinia, too."

"Really?" I raised my eyebrows.

"Yes, and it is because of her that Camp Redwood is cursed ground. You see, when she lost my dad, she was desperate for work, so she took a job as a cook at the camp. The pay was horrible, and the work was hard, but free childcare was something a widowed mother could not pass up at the time. She hated it. She was always so angry. When you look into your mother's eyes, you're supposed to see love and encouragement. Not with her. All I saw was hatred. It was worse when Bobby died. He was eight, I was twelve…I was supposed to watch him as he swam in the lake, but I got distracted by the bodyguard and his girlfriend making out in the woods. I was a typical, dumb kid… I went back to watch him, and some other campers thought it was smart to start the engine on a small boat… with my brother in the water. I tried to make them stop the engine, but it… killed Bobby. My mother was in hysterics when she found out… I can still remember crying as she hit me and screamed in my face."

I shook my head, but the story only got darker.

"I wanted to go home…" He said, looking to his side briefly before returning his eyes to me, "but my mother would not leave. I didn't understand why, until one night, I was woken up by blood-curdling screams, and I saw my mother was not in her bed. I left the cabin, only to see a bloodbath in the staff cabin. I walked in, and the lifeguard reached for my ankle. He was covered in blood, and his throat looked dark, like it had been cut. He was hanging on for dear life. I saw everyone else, dead and slaughtered. I see my mother coming out of hiding with her white nightgown, covered in blood, saying it had to be done for what they did."

"I…I have no words… that is horrible," I said, shaking in my seat from fear rather than the cold. Imagine being twelve and seeing shit like this that will only stick with you for the rest of your life. Oh, that's right. I wasn't much older on that night in 1984.

"She wanted to hug me, but she had a knife. I didn't trust her. I ran, she stabbed my leg. She chased me out of the cabin, where she tripped, and the knife fell out of her hand. When she reached to lunge, I…I stabbed her. I had to kill her. She was going to kill me, and I…I had never felt such remorse in my life." He paused, shaking his head and sniffling. "Camp Golden Star was shut down right after that incident, but ten years later, Camp Redwood opened. Yeah, it was a new name, but they could not erase the evil. Her blood poured into that ground with all her pain and rage. I know she still haunts the grounds."

I knew why I had a change of heart, well one more reason if anything. Richter and I both had to kill a parent to prevent any more harm from being done to ourselves or to others. My father was dangerous because he was a beast; his mother was dangerous because of her rage and spite.

"I…feel your pain," I stammered lightly, tears rolling down my face slowly.

"After we saw you attacking Margaret, I fled. I fled to the abandoned cabin where those people were killed in 1948. My mother's spirit was there. Do you believe in ghosts?"

"Yup, I saw one while at Redwood. Jonas," I recalled.

"He is just one of many, but… my mother is still there. She has never moved on. I asked her if Bobby was, too, and she screamed like a banshee to not mention his name, and that she missed him. She is stuck, tortured, trying to find him. At least, when I was there last. She told me she had watched me when I was the janitor at Redwood, hoping it was Bobby, but instead it was me. My mother… also claimed to influence Margaret back in 1970 through her dreams to kill all those counselors, and then frame me, where I spent fourteen years pumped with drugs, restrained, cut off from the outside world, treated like a monster. She said I deserved it, that I was a parasite from the time I was a baby, and that she wanted to make sure I burn for eternity… with excruciating agony…"

I shook my head, feeling pain in my chest. I was not the most empathetic person, but this? Pulled at my heartstrings.

"Even more of a reason for you to live," I said. "To make your life good, without her interfering with anything. It's been years, and it seems you have done very well for yourself up here."

"I count my blessings," Richter said. "Thank you for listening to me, and for sparing my life."

"I had this feeling to just come to your door and… talk," I said. "I know it sounds weird, but… it's true. I'm glad I did."

"I wonder if that… big, hairy animal still stalks that ground," he speculated.

I bit my lip and sighed, inhaling deeply through my nose. I looked down and shook my head: "he isn't."

"He?"

"Yeah. I know for a fact he isn't," I clarified.

"How?"

"Because that animal was my father," I revealed. "He came back to LA with me, fully human…" I sniffled, "where I had to kill him."

His eyes widened and he adjusted his glasses: "you… what?"

"It isn't something the government is blind to. They blackmailed me with that info when assigning me with the task to kill you. I'm not a killer, but life made me that way. This was by his request. In fact, I was going to call the police because it was insane… a fourteen-year-old asked by her own father to kill him. He was very religious, forbid me from going out on full moons, and stuff like that. He was a Lycan, or… werewolf. His body count was probably higher than Gacy, Dahmer, Bundy and Ridgway combined. When you have the mindset of a feral creature, all reason and morality you were taught as a human goes out the window…"

"I hate to have that common ground with you," Richter said sadly.

"I just hope that…" I sniffled, wiping my eyes, "that his soul is in a much better place."

"As do I…"

I left around midnight, we ended up talking for about two hours, and when I left, I wished him only the very best of luck. Obviously, we could not keep in touch. If the government found out he was alive, I'd be in deep shit.


I'm actually dressed up for my father's funeral. I had to fly back to New York for it so he can be buried with the family. Finally, he is being laid to rest. All I hope for are two things: that my father is in Heaven or some peaceful afterlife, and that the government officials don't catch on to the fact that I killed someone else in Richter's place. I know I will look back on my act of courage and strength for the rest of my life.


A/N:

That's all she wrote...literally! I hope you enjoyed this story! If so, feel free to look at my other works, add this to your Favorites, and leave a Review!