The thunder rumbled on, and still Jules cried uncontrollably. It was all too much.
"Jules!"
She lifted her head, panting. It was a man's voice calling out to her above the sound of the rain. She listened intently, praying that it wasn't Martin. Maybe it was her dad? She couldn't be sure. She heard her name again, a little closer this time. It definitely wasn't her dad.
"Jules, where are you?"

It was 5:30 in the evening by the time Greta left the hospital with Kevin. Jules took off her sweater and settled into her seat next to the cold, stiff hospital bed. She let her mind wander freely. She was deeply pursuing an idea for her next painting when she blinked, alert and present. "Did somebody say my name?" She looked up and caught Duncan's gaze. "Grandad? Was that you?"
"Jules..." his voice was labored, but it was clearly her name. He managed a weak smile.

Charles tightened his hold on his pistol grip; blood was making his fingers slip.
Sprawled on the rain-soaked floorboards of the now roofless building, water pelted down in apathetic torrents over his defeated figure.
The heat from the burning house around him made the numerous cuts and wounds on his body sting, the blaze illumkinating both him and the tall man standing across the room. "You thought you could go on, have a life?" the menacing voice echoed in Charles' ears.