September 1922

Tom and I decided to leave our house in light of recent events in and around the area. A good friend of mine, Jay Gatsby, died the other day after being shot by a man who accused him of killing his wife with a car. For unexplainable reasons, I feel like it was my fault that he was killed. I could not stand to attend the funeral the other day because of my feeling of unexplainable guilt. He tried to make me feel happy and comfortable. No one else has ever tried as hard as him to impress me. I will miss him!