Daisy's voice sung out to me as she fanned herself on our balcony, lazing in her dress of spun sugar shining brilliantly white in the afternoon sun. Her crystalline voice shone with promises and quiet seduction. My wife is a new woman, since arriving here. I moved us far away from that damned city with its damned people to a place where the breeze smells of new paint and green lawns.

News of Gatsby's death and Wilson's suicide arrived over morning tea a few months ago. I smiled over my tea laced with gin, Daisy's eyes flashing in my direction. For a moment I could have sworn I saw despair in her face but when I looked again she was doting on her 'precious'.

Gatsby has it coming and better it be by Wilson's hands than my own. The world had its own justice and I merely nudged it along. People like Wilson are inevitably spiralling to their own pitiful demise, destined to become a ten word obituary in some cheap newspaper. There was nothing wrong with what I did, of course. I was simply avenging Myrtle's death, in my own fashion. It was about time that Wilson did something purposeful, about time he acted like a man instead of spending the rest of his life impersonating one. My concerns now lay on Daisy. She witnessed a brutal act of violence on Gatsby's part and I couldn't stand to see her tainted.

I do love my wife, in a way. For she is mine. Never to be Gatsby's and always to be mine. Just me and Daisy...and Pammie, of course. "Tom, my precious?" Daisy trilled out again, her voice like honey, beckoning me to join her in the bright, white sun. Blinded by the reflection of her light off her body, she seems to be a glorious angel, magnificent yet dreadful. I follow her voice into the light.