"What are you talking about?" my father snapped as he came towards me through the dark. "Have you lost your mind?"

"It's not me who has lost their fucking mind. It's you!" I screeched at him.

"Sydney," he said, his voice seeming to soften now.

"Keep away from me!" I warned him, holding up the flat of my hand. "Don't come near me." I glanced around in the dark again for Vincent, but still couldn't see him. Where was he? Was he listening to this? I was in danger here.

"What's this all about?" my father tried to reason with me. "Does it have something to do with those people you killed?"

"It has to do with who you killed," I hissed at him. "Who you murdered!"

"What are you talking about?" he said, staring at me, rain dripping from his police cap and raincoat.

"You murdered a police officer..." I stammered. Even I couldn't believe that I was accusing my father of murdering a police officer. "You killed Constable Lee."

My father's eyes grew wide, and now it was him who looked like he had taken a blow to the guts. "You don't know what you're talking about, you silly bitch," he growled.

"Don't I?" I screamed at him, curling my fingers around the bottle which was still hidden in my pocket. "I know all about what you did that night ten years ago. I know what you and your buddies, Mac and Woody, did to that girl...what you did to Constable Lee."

"You don't know what you're talking..."

"You changed your statements!" I screamed at him, making my hands into fists. "I thought you changed them to protect the person Molly Smith was coming to meet that night. But you changed them to protect yourselves...to cover up what you did to her."

"We didn't do anything to that filthy little..." he started to bark.

"You found her distraught and crying on the road that night," I started to remind him. "But instead of helping her...taking her home...you and your buddies dragged her into the back of your police van and touched her..." I could hardly bring myself to say the words. "You tried to hurt her, but Constable Lee stopped you, he helped her escape. Like animals, you went after her. Because she meant nothing to you."

"Sydney..." my father started, and even in the darkness, I could see his face had turned as white as paper, and his eyes wide with rage. I wouldn't let him talk. I didn't want to listen to his lies  -  to his bullshit.

"Jesus, Dad," I glared. "Molly Smith was not a lot younger than me. She was somebody's daughter. She was Jonathan Smith's daughter. That's why you did what you did. That's why you didn't help her, because she didn't deserve your help. Just because her family chose to live their lives differently from everyone else  -  just because they looked and dressed differently, you hounded her through the woods like a pack of wild animals, fearing that she would be able to tell others about what you had done."

"Stop this!" my father roared, his voice sounding high-pitched and a little scared.

Ignoring him, I said, "But by the time you had found her, she was in the bottom of the well. I bet you couldn't believe your luck! You were going to leave her there  -  to be found sometime later. Constable Lee had the courage to stand up to you! He had the guts to say 'No'! He wanted to help her. You and your buddies refused. So he decided to climb down into the well to save her. You couldn't have that  -  he was a cop who just wanted to do the right thing. So when he was standing on the wall of that well, you pushed him in. You murdered him!"

My father stood motionless in the dark, the brim of his cap covering his eyes in darkness now. The only thing I could clearly see was his thick, black moustache covering his top lip.

Clapping his hands slowly together, he said in a cold, emotionless voice, "So how do you intend on proving this, Sydney? You have no evidence."

Slowly, I took the bottle from my pocket and said, "I have the dying declaration of that police officer. The police officer who you pushed into the well."

My father glanced at the bottle and didn't say anything.

"As he lay dying at the bottom of the well, he took a sheet of paper from his pocket notebook and scribbled down what really happened that night. He tucked the note into a bottle, hoping and praying that one day, it would be discovered.

"Is that all you have?" my father mocked with a chuckle. "That could have been written by anyone. It could have been written by you, Sydney."

I looked at the bottle, then back at him. I knew my father was right. He slowly came towards me, his hand outstretched, ready to snatch the bottle from me. I stood in the rain, rigid, unable to move.

"Give the bottle to me, Sydney," he whispered.

Suddenly someone spoke from the shadows of the nearby trees. "Don't give him the bottle, Sydney."

Both my father and I snapped our heads around in the direction of the voice.

A figure stepped slowly from beneath the trees, and looking at my father, the voice said, "Sydney has a witness. I saw you push the police officer into the well that night."

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