Epilogue:
Thirty-Five Years Later…
The old man sat on the swiveling leather chair in the office of his large, suburban home. Outside, a group of neighborhood children had gathered, riding their bikes speedily up and down the old street. The man straightened his spectacles and leaned back in his chair, letting out a lengthy sigh.
Down the street, Abigail Bursvery worked in her garden, watering her roses with great tender loving care. In the front yard of the house beside Abigail's, young Jessica and Alicia Sampson played hopscotch as their father washed the car on the driveway nearby. As the old Tabitha Crisky walked leisurely by the man's front window, she smiled at him warmly and waved. The man waved back.
Then, he swiveled the office chair towards the wall behind him. It was littered with old photographs of his family—of his children when they were young, of his children getting married, of his grandchildren, and of his late wife, Shaina. He had four children—two sets of twins. They were all adults now; the older two were both married and each had one child. One of the younger two had twins herself—the other was engaged to a woman named Claire.
Below the photographs of his family were three rather small ones, paper, faded with age. They had been clipped out of a newspaper long ago, but the man had never gotten rid of them. It was almost as if the pictures were a tribute to those dead—to Anna Reyes, to Cassandra Kendall and her family, and to Ella Devrynhall and hers. Afterall, although it was long ago, the now elderly man was the reason they were dead.
Running a leathery finger over the picture of the Kendall family, the man arose from the office chair and walked slowly into the living room adjacent to the front office. He then settled down onto the burgundy, oversized arm-chair he had owned for too many years to count, and flicked on the old-fashioned television.
Behind the static was a woman with short blonde hair and bright red lipstick.
"I'm Kara Winters," she said, "and this is SVR News at 2'pm. Our top story today is the thirty-fifth anniversary of the murders of the Devrynhall family…"
Kara Winters then went on to explain to those who hadn't been alive when the murders took place of what had happened. The man frowned as he watched. Some of the details were so wrong—the woman acted as if she knew everything about the killings, but she did know anything. Nothing.
The man bit his lip and turned the television off. He sat back in his chair, his hands rested on his lap. He remembered the murders all too well. He had not thought much of them at the time…
Feeling slightly dizzy, the man stood up from the chair and paced to the front door. He unlocked it and opened it and then stood out in the warm winter afternoon. The neighborhood children still raced their bikes, and Abigail Bursvery was plucking a weed from her beloved garden.
The man walked down the brick path leading away from his home and stood behind the white picket fence surrounding his property. Abigail Bursvery looked up and waved at him, and the man waved back, smiling softly.
"Nice day, isn't it?" he called.
Abigail Bursvery nodded and then went back to her gardening. The man sighed and placed an aged hand on the fence, letting a warm gust of air overcome him.
Then, the man walked back inside his house and closed the door. He climbed up the stairs with great effort, and then settled down onto his king-sized bed. Closing his eyes, he yawned, and drifted off into a deep slumber.
It was just another day in the life of Reginald Anderson. Long ago, he had been called Reggie—he hadn't been a very good man, much to the contrary actually. He had done illegal things, and, for a few weeks during his life, he had committed a great amount of murders. Among them were the murders of Cassandra Eloise Kendall and Ella Michaela Devrynhall.
Now, however, he was a different man, a new man. But that still didn't erase his dark past. Thirty-five years had passed now, but he was still the same person inside—he breathed the same breaths, pumped the same blood. Time could never pay for the lives he ruined, the lives he took.
Why do great people die and terrible people live?
A/N – Well… Taken Anna is complete. I hope y'all enjoyed reading it. Now I'm going to be working on Many Years Ago, and a little on Sincerely, Larissa. Anyway, reviews on the entire thing, or this chapter, or whatever, are greatly appreciated, and thanks a bunch for reading my story!