"Gatsby, I'll kill you, you son of a―!"

The slamming of the door cut Myrtle Knightley off before she could get out the last word. Then the black Rolls-Royce peeled off eastward, leaving her alone in the chilly night air. She stood on the middle of Williamsburg Bridge.

It was currently the longest suspension bridge in the world, joining Manhattan to Long Island. It was also nearly 150 feet above the East River; a fact that made Myrtle's stomach churn when she looked south over the side. She immediately turned back around and closed her eyes, gripping the cold metal behind her. The breeze picked up, forcing her to let go and fold her bare arms to keep herself warm. The coat Tom Wilson had given her before he died about an hour ago was still lying on the back seat of Gatsby's gilded getaway vehicle. She cursed aloud, for it had been a good coat.

Out on the Manhattan side, two motorcycles and a dark roofless automobile sped onto the bridge. At the sound of the engines approaching, Myrtle let out a sigh. The distinct vehicles would be the New York Police Department, hunting down Gatsby. Myrtle was impressed they had managed to follow them this far on their crisscrossing chase through the streets, but she strongly doubted they would actually catch him.

No, she knew they wouldn't catch him. Catching Gatsby was like grasping air – he will always slip through your fingers, no matter what, as Myrtle was just learning. The police's desire to end his reign of the New York underground would never be fulfilled. Gatsby would never be captured; especially with the big six in that car of his. The Motorcycle Squad and the Automobile Squad would simply never be able to keep pace with him. And neither would Myrtle, it seemed.

As the irons ripped past her without even one sideways glance, Gatsby was probably already well into Long Island, having a spirited discussion with George Buchanan, his right-hand man, about which one of his many hideaways they should spend the night at.

The breezer actually pulled over beside her, and the man in the passenger seat asked her if she would come with them. They either recognized her from the showdown at the Keystone and were giving her a chance to come on her own accord, or they were kindly concerned about a woman who appeared abandoned on a bridge. Myrtle had a feeling it was the former. She obliged, and sat in the back.

That Gatsby, damn him! He'd left her to the bulls. Not only was he double-crossing her by giving her to the authorities like some parting gift, but he was taunting them because he knew no matter what she told them about him, they still wouldn't be able to bring him in. For every hideaway of his or juice joint he ran that Myrtle knew of, he probably had three more that he'd kept secret from her.

The officer who ushered her into the car said his name was Baker and started asking her questions on the ride to the police station. She absently gave truthful answers, while making sure to portray herself as an innocent who had been at the wrong place at the wrong time that day when Gatsby took her in. She'd say he had been gloating to her about his nefarious achievements, and that that was how she'd come to know these things about him. When she had soon realized this was not a man she wanted to cross, she forgot any attempts to get away from him. It was a story of mixed truths and lies which would hopefully get her interrogation over with quickly and smoothly. She'd give them some of what they wanted without incriminating herself.

As they reentered the maze of Manhattan roads, Myrtle made two vows to herself.

The first was easy: Never again would she let herself get stuck on another man. The second was a bit trickier to accomplish.

"I may not be able to ever capture you, or your heart, David," Myrtle whispered silently to herself, "but by God, I swear, I will find you. And when I do, I'll stop your heart altogether."