“What can I help you with Wilson?  I hope it’s not about my car, it will be in when it’s good and ready,” Tom mumbled.

            I was pretty sure this Wilson character was the man who owned the car shop and had wanted Tom’s car for some time now.

            Wilson chuckled, “No, no, it’s not about that, there’s some other business we need to discuss,” he responded.

            I heard footsteps moving towards the kitchen and the two men sat down.  The butler brought them drinks, which I heard being poured, and the business began.

            “It’s about Myrtle, Tom,” Wilson said.  “I was wondering if you could help me out with a problem I am having with her death.”

            Tom squirmed nervously in his chair at the sound of Myrtle, but then answered with an unconfident tone, “Sure, um yeah, what’s the problem?”

            “All the evidence says that a yellow car killed Myrtle,” Wilson said, then paused.  “The yellow car was the one I saw you driving in earlier that day.  Unless you have a reason for that car not being yours, I’m assuming you were the one driving that car when it struck Myrtle.”

            I was stunned.  What would Tom say?  What did Tom know?  I began to feel hot and uncomfortable.  I hoped Tom didn’t know it was me, but I also hoped he wouldn't tell on Jay.

            “I’m not completely sure if I can help you, Wilson,” Tom said cautiously.

            “Why wouldn’t you be able to?  Were you the one driving that car?  That’s all I want to know Tom.  If it wasn’t you, you need to tell me who it was.”

            I jerked.  No, Tom, no!  If any time in your life you would want to show how you loved and cared for me, let it be now!  Don’t tell on me, Tom, don’t!

            “Well Wilson, you are correct.  I was the one driving that car earlier that day.  I also know whose car it was and who was driving it when it struck Myrtle.”  He stopped, pondering his next move.  “It was the old bootlegger, you know, the one that lives in West Egg.  He’s the one who always throws those huge, self-absorbed parties where everyone and anyone comes.  It was his car; he was the one driving when Myrtle was struck.  It was Jay Gatsby.”

            There was silence and I couldn’t breathe.  Tom did it.  He told on Gatsby.  The poor, love of my life was in trouble.  I was so afraid for what was to come of him.  Wilson would do horrible thing to him, make his life miserable.

            My mind stopped.  The only man I had ever loved would be in trouble and it would be all my fault.  I will probably never see him again or never talk to him again.  This was all my fault.  If I just had told Tom and everyone the truth about who was driving the car Jay would be safe.

            I felt so bad for what I had done, but then something dawned on me.  What would happen to me if I had told everyone the truth?  Would all the hate turn to me, knowing I had committed this brutal crime?  I thought for a while about the consequences of telling my secret or letting it go on as it is.  Suddenly, I heard the chairs from the table move and the men stand up.

            “Thank you Tom, you’re a good man,” he said with a grateful tone in his voice.  “Now all I need is your car,” he said jokingly.

            Tom didn’t respond to this compliment.  He walked towards the door, said good bye to Wilson and came back to the table.  I walked down the stairs to see how Tom was holding up, pretending I knew nothing.  He was sitting at the table sipping his beverage.  His hulky body rose up and walked to the window.  As he looked out, I thought I saw a smirk on his face and decided to keep my secret quiet.

Teresa