3. Confrontation

"Miss Philips, this is most irregular."

"I know. Just keep driving."

"You do know that your father will hear about this."

Pause.

"Yes."

She glanced out of the window, watching the final rays of sunset strike the green-gold horizon. It was always so quiet in the country, she reflects. The silence was a welcome relief from the endless din that defined inner-city nights. She crossed her legs slowly, and rested her chin softly on her hands. That posture always brought tears to her eyes. One came slowly rolling down, tracing a delicate line down the curves of her face.

It will be set right, she thought to herself. It will be just as you wanted it. It will be just as it should be. Her cupped fingers trembled with hidden passion, as she silently willed away the tears that came involuntarily to her eyes.

"Miss Philips, we have arrived."

Eyes closed, she mustered her inner strength, and with flick of a finger, whisped the tear off her cheek. She gazed ahead at the arching doors of the cemetary.

And at the solitary figure standing alone, as if a knight holding silent vigil, over a very familiar gravestone.

"How dare he..." she muttered, as she pushed the car door open. "Of all the places......" She slammed the door. Indignantly walking over, she approached the still silent figure. Grabbing the wet shoulder of the trenchcoat, she whirled him around.

"How dare you..." The words died in her throat.