A sedan with dark tinted windows stop behind the news truck. Marcus steps out with three other agents while the cop clutches my arms. Neighbors come out onto porches to stare and gawk as the cuffs dig into my skin.

Marcus says something I can't hear to the policeman, who proceeds to release me from my restraints. 

"But, she can't go into the house until I get word from the station," he says before storming off in anger. These local vs fed pissing contests do not amuse me.

I shrug and turn away from the house, facing the graveyard. If I can't go into the house, I will know who is buried in this cemetery. Taking the last few steps to cross the street, I lift the latch on the fence and enter.  

The name Holden adorns each of six identical headstones in two rows of three. I do not recognize the names in the first row, so I move to the second. Placing my hand on the first headstone, I stop.

I can't wait to leave Uxbridge. I hate it here and wonder how I suffered through the six months of forced exile after the incident at the party.

there is so much more to tell you about the last few days and I promise - I won't skip any of it. 

but, i have to get out of here. where am I going? Directly back to #Vegas?