Nick: I was lucky enough to meet Gatsby again after Myrtle's fatal accident. His ever-so-perfectly slicked hair and the gleam of his pink suit in the moonlight made it difficult to believe that he was a potential killer. Not counting his time in the war and his encounters with gang members, of course. 

Gatsby: Good evening. 

Nick: What are you doing here?

Gatsby: Just standing, old sport. Did you encounter any trouble on the road?

Nick: Yes. 

Gatsby: Was she killed?

Nick: Yes.

Gatsby: I figured, so I told Daisy that the worst had happened. She took it much better than expected, like it wasn't the first time she'd seen such a thing happen. Then, I drove back to West Egg through a side road and left my car in the garage. I don't think anyone saw us, but you can never be too sure in my line of work.

Nick: I don't think there's anything to worry about. You were fast, weren't you?

Gatsby: Indeed, I was. Who was the woman, by the way?

Nick: Myrtle Wilson. Her husband owns a garage. How on earth did you even get her?

Gatsby: Well, I tried to swing the wheel...

Nick: Was Daisy driving?

Gatsby: I suppose she was. But it could have been me as well. We took turns at the wheel because she kept getting nervous. All I know is that Myrtle must have been killed instantly. She didn't even twitch while lying on the road.

Nick: The police said she was literally ripped open, you know.

Gatsby: Don't tell me, old sport. She'll be all right tomorrow. 

Nick: All right?

Gatsby: Daisy, I mean. I plan to wait around in case Tom tries to do anything brutal to her. 

Nick: He won't. I doubt she's on his mind right now. 

Gatsby: I still don't trust him, old sport. I'll wait all night if necessary. Anything to protect my innocent little flower. 

Nick: Fine, you stay here. I'll see if there's any trouble nearby. 

Gatsby: Thank you. 

Nick makes his way around the lawn, and towards the veranda of Daisy and Tom's house. He looks through a window to see them sitting at the kitchen table with a plate of fried chicken and two bottles of ale between them. They speak inaudibly but intently as if they are conspiring about something. Nick hurries away to report to Gatsby. 

Gatsby: Is it all quiet up there?

Nick: Technically, yes. You'd better go home and get some sleep. 

Gatsby: No. I'll wait here until Daisy goes to bed. Good night, old sport. 

Nick shrugs and walks away, leaving Gatsby in the moonlight to face an uncertain fate. The next morning, Nick regrets his attempt to be apathetic and rushes to warn Gatsby about what might come. He finds his neighbor leaning against a table dejectedly. 

Gatsby: Nothing happened. I waited for hours, and all I saw was Daisy coming to the window for a few seconds. 

Nick: You should go away. They're bound to trace your car. 

Gatsby: No way, old sport. I've made too much progress to chicken out now. 

Nick: It doesn't have to be forever. You can just go up to Atlantic City for a week. Or even Montreal. 

Gatsby: No. I never want to leave Daisy again. She said it herself that she still loves me. 

Nick: You can't be serious...

Gatsby: But I am, old sport. I thought she would forget about me when I left for the frontlines, but she didn't. That's all the proof I need. 

Nick: I suppose it can't be helped anymore. I'll give you some time alone to think. 

Gatsby: Sure thing. I'm about to have breakfast, and I plan to have a swim in my pool afterwards. I haven't used it all summer, so maybe the cold water will bring me to my senses. 

Nick: That's more like it. I have to leave for work soon, so I'll call you later. Is noon all right?

Gatsby: Yes. I hope Daisy'll call too. 

Nick: Whatever makes you feel better. Well, this is goodbye. 

They shake hands before Nick walks away. He stops halfway across the lawn to shout one last thing to Gatsby.

Nick: They're a rotten crowd! You're worth the whole damn bunch put together!

Gatsby: Goodbye, old sport! I know we'll stay friends for years to come!

Nick: I called Gatsby at noon as promised, but the line was busy all four times, so I gave up and resigned myself to waiting until work was over. Little did I realize that I was already too late. Don't ask me how I know, but Gatsby chose to go swimming at exactly two o'clock, which was also when George Wilson managed to sneak in and load his gun from behind a bush. 

The shot was an easy one, and Gatsby must have sunk beneath the water, clouds of blood trailing from his wound, as he looked up and saw Daisy and all of his dreams fading out of reach. 

By the time I got there, George was dead too. It seemed like he had turned the gun on himself, either to avoid arrest or be reunited with Myrtle. The whole scene was like something out of a Greek or Shakespearean tragedy, and I knew then and there that it would stick with me for the rest of my life.