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Agatha Larrabee sat in the front seat of the Rolls Royce. Her precious, much revered, grandfather Fairchild was driving.
He watched as little Aggie placed her little hands on the dashboard and peered up as she looked around at everything flying right by her. Her hair was askew, pigtails lopsided, and she had a gap where a tooth had been knocked out far too early.
When they arrived at their destination, he looked into the rear view as Linus Larrabee hung up his call. He'd refused to stop working as a chauffeur when his daughter married the son of his employer, but he knew better than to step out of the car and open the door, having been chastised one time too many, and frankly, he wasn't as young as he once was.
He watched as his son-in-law opened his passenger door. He dipped his head in acknowledgement when Linus wordlessly nodded his thanks, before scooping his youngest daughter up into his arms.
The last sight he had was of little Agatha waving merrily at him from over her father's shoulder. He smiled gently in memory. Dear Aggie looked so much like his Sabrina.
A flash of pain ripped across his chest and he gasped. Falling forward, his hand clutched uselessly at his jacket. Unable to say any words, cry out of help, the pain became unbearable. His vision faded to black...
... and a honk sounded non-stop down the block.