__________
His lone, lanky figure occupied the vacant clocktower where we'd agreed to meet, his silhouette shrouded by the misty drizzle of rain in the twilight of the evening sky.
As I gazed up past my umbrella at his still frame dozens of feet atop the monument in the town's square, a part of me refused to believe that I had successfully convinced him to return, that he'd actually held his promise to say goodbye.
He was good at that...
And it was him; after all of these years together, I could detect him in a crowd of thousands from his figure and posture alone.
I sighed softly, my fingers tightening around the umbrella's handle while I leaned back against the passenger door of father's black Sedan. Unbeknownst to him, the pretenses weren't at all what I had fervently promised over the phone.
I wasn't here to say goodbye or reciprocate his affections. I had convinced my father to allow me my own visual confirmation as he and his colleagues left their stake-out at the adjacent building and began circling to the back door entrance.
Arch Teller's journal had revealed the depths of his depravity and eradicated the remaining shreds of doubt that once kept me rooted at his side, and I shuddered at the memory of my initial discovery, at my shattered perception of someone I'd always known, someone I'd always trusted.
It had been long, sleepless weeks of processing, of cooperating with father and the station and mustering the courage to convince my closest friend, not that I could ever grant him that association now, to return. One last time.
For me.
I opened the passenger door and closed the umbrella as I sat down, locking myself within the quiet except for the steady drum of rain and rapid beating within my chest. This was really happening...
The Hatchet Killer would finally be captured tonight.
Because of me.