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First off, thank you to everyone that commented with useful ideas on how to resolve my little dilemma.

I'm touched by the willingness of strangers to help someone who may someday murder their grandpa.

Secondly, I took some of your advice and proceeded to make the situation far, far worse.

No, I did not jumpstart the zombie apocalypse. We're still good in that respect.

If you're curious, I made my fortune through interest. Small investments stack up over 139 years

and perhaps I could have made even more money if I'd been aggressive. But I didn't want to attract

attention. There's a level at which additional wealth simply becomes obscenity. I think mistakes

accrue interest as well. And after a lifetime of careful, deliberate caution, I'm

reaping my misfortune and full. To begin with, I found myself an accomplice. He's dead now,

not by my hand. I think he half expected that I would be the one to kill him. I did too.

Honestly though, there near the end I was reconsidering and thinking that perhaps this would all work out.

He could go his way with what he wanted and I can go my way and we'd both bury this chapter of our

life to pretend like we never met. Sadly, he took my secrets to his grave and I'm left with the

image of his face when I found him dead. Burnted on my memories. A sorrowful accepting gaze.

Permitting. His cloudy eyes widen only slightly with the pain of betrayal and that last flicker

of injustice from life being taken. He allowed himself to die. I think that is what I find most

infuriating about this. He should have known that something had gone wrong and fought for his life,

but he didn't. Perhaps that's why I had lived for so long and others hadn't. I know when to fight,

...