All things end in death. Life is especially prone to this mortal weakness. Mr. Lytle was by no means a selfish man, or at least he never thought of himself as one. Her “disappearance,” however, only proved to inconvenience him. He did not know nor care about someone like her, but the world apparently did. In all honesty her death was the end to his life: with his reputation built up over a half century gone there was little else he had. He never married, never had children that he would admit to, never saw the people who raised him and never lived the life they would have wanted.
And there he sat, alone and lonely. Two others sat just as alone, beside Mr. Lytle on a bench. The plank stretched as long as the room yet it was no wider than a foot and was painful to sit on. The room was dingy and the grime on the walls could tell a history of petty thieves and serial killers just through their pale and layered colors. I don’t even know how they found me, of all people, or how they expect to convict me. Why I’m a model citizen. With some good lawyering I’ll be out of this in a pinch. I need to get a hold of Sarah; Sarah will know what to do; Sarah always knows what to do. His thoughts were interrupted before he was even able to begin panicking. One of the men, the skinny one with bug eyes, pale skin, and a wife beater that smelled of gin, and a heavy cockney or welsh or whatever the hell accent, began to speak.
“Ey, fancy a smoke?” he asked half drunk and fully disappointed in Lytle’s little interest.
“I have a death wish,” chuckled Mr. Lytle, “but not by means of lung cancer.”
“Ah loik you, sir. Wha’s yer name?”
“Lytle. Frederic Lytle.”
“Oh, oih see. Oih know oih ‘ad seen yer face! I ‘eard ‘bout you on the telly jus’ the other day! The trial o’ the cent’ry, already! I’s only twen’y four’een an’ i’s go’uhnna be the trial o’ the cent’ry. They won’ e’en say wha’ i’ is tha’ you ‘ave dun! Jus’ tha’ you been arress’ed.” Lytle smirked a touch and he looked away.
“Yes, well they don’t even have enough to go to trial yet, so the vultures can calm down and take a rest from circling around me. I’m not dead in the desert just yet! There’s always a way out. Always.” With that, Mr. Lytle scowled and then sat silently for what felt like ages. He wanted to die. He felt like he was already dead. His image was certainly tarnished. And he went to sleep, awaiting the morning when his brother or assistant or someone else who cared for him but for whom he cared little would come bail him out. His empire had already fallen.
