There was nothing congenial about the man-his spirit disgruntled by the anguish he had been put through. He had taken it all for granted; he didn't enjoy the exuberance of her presence while it was readily within his grasp. Now, with no one left to right his moral wrongs, to give him a hand in his time of need, he was desolate.

Before his loss, his happiness had been blithe. It had been all in his head-the driving force for his each and every day. Such an air of satisfaction only served to disillusion him further when she was gone. At first, his stubborn attitude defied what everyone around him was trying to tell him. There was no way she had allowed herself to be killed; she was too strong, too proud. Refusing to think of her as never returning, thinking that soon she would walk back into his life as if nothing had happened, gave him a sense of gratification. He was doing what everyone else wasn't-holding out hope for the woman he loved.

Director Leonard Church rarely thought about his time of mourning; the memories were too painful. However, sitting on the hard bed of his cell, there seemed there was nothing else he could think of. All he could do was close his eyes and feel the despondence wash over him in a tidal wave of emotion, and his heart ached in longing of a joy nearly forgotten.