Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

October 1907  

Racetrack hung up his hard hat like it weighed more than it should. He let it clatter onto the hook in the locker room and leaned against the cold metal, rubbing at the back of his neck with hands that hadn't stopped shaking since the last shift ended. The mines left dust in his lungs and noise in his head — the kind that echoed long after you were back above ground.  

“Hey, Higgins,” Dawson muttered as he passed, “you forget to tag out again?”  

“Nah,” Race said without looking up. “Just in no hurry to do this again tomorrow.”  

“You and me both, man. These timbers ain’t gonna hold forever. They’re gonna crack like my knees do eventually.”  

Race gave a tired chuckle. “You’re only on your first year, Dawson. Wait ‘til you’ve spent 6 years in hard rock the way I have. Then you can come talk to me about your knees.”  

Dawson gave a low whistle as he put his hard hat on the hook and took off his shirt to change. “6 years is too damn long underground if you ask me. I ain’t gonna be here that long if I can help it,” he said, tugging a fresh shirt down over his head. “I got big dreams, ya know. Me and the wife wanna move out west. Start our own store.”  

Racetrack didn’t really care. He didn’t care to know anything about the guys lives at all. It made things easier if there was an accident. No attachments, no details, no mourning. He’d had enough of that to last him a lifetime.  

He didn’t say anything in response as he pulled his coat on and fixed the collar, laying it flush against his shoulders.   

Dawson slung his bag over his shoulder and gave Race a little wave as he pushed past him to leave the locker room. “Later, Tony.”  

Race gave a half-hearted grunt that passed for a goodbye.  

He hated being called Anthony. Hated being called Tony even more. Only people who didn’t know him called him that — which, these days, meant pretty much everybody.  

The ride from Rosendale back to Harlem was long. Too long. Long enough for his shoulders to stiffen up and his thoughts to start circling. He kept his eyes on the train floor the whole way home, boots planted, and body swaying with the turns. People got on, people got off. None of them looked at him. That was fine. He didn’t have much left to offer anyone these days.  

Some of the guys from way back when still worked in the mines. He remembered a few of them had even dropped off casseroles after his Pop died.  

That was years ago now. His old man had spent fifteen down there before his lungs gave out with the timbers. Race was only on year six, and it already felt like he was aging in dog years.  

By the time he stepped into the bar, the sky outside was low and heavy, the shop windows see-through now in the fading light. He made his way to his usual seat, the air around him smelling of old wood and quiet regret.  

Race was a creature of habit.  

Same seat with the back to the wall, clear view of the room. Same drink. Same ache in his shoulders that seemed to be permanent now. Same shift. Same day.  

Over. And over. And over.  

He wasn’t the brash gambler that slung cards in Manhattan years ago; sharp tongue, rough charm, and impeccable comedic timing. Life had sobered him in more ways than one. He still played cards sometimes, still had a grin in the corner of his mouth for the right company, but most days… he just kept his head down and worked. Too rundown, too stuck in routine to care much anymore.  

He liked it that way. Didn’t have to talk to anyone.  

He nodded his head at the bartender who didn’t need to ask what he wanted. Just poured him his drink and slid it across the counter without a word. Race threw some coins down as payment and took a small sip. He nursed his drink slow. Not for the taste — it wasn’t good — but for the ritual. The pause between work and sleep. The only part of the day that felt like it belonged to him.  

He hadn’t heard from the others in years. Not really. 
Flash was gone, living some version of a life in a city that didn’t know any of their names. Spot had disappeared deeper than anyone, swallowed whole by whatever shadows he’d chosen. And Delta — well, Delta was like smoke. She came and went. Left you thinking she might still be in the room even when she wasn’t. 

They all used to be something. Now they were just stories in his head he didn’t know how to stop telling.  

He took another sip. Let the burn settle in his chest. The door jingled again.  

Race didn’t look up. Not at first. Until he heard a familiar voice that sent him tumbling back into the past.  

“Hey there, Charlie. Get me my usual?” Boots’ voice rang clear, and Race was hit with a wave of nostalgia. He was older now. Maybe 20-ish, same face but taller. Voice deeper. But definitely Boots.  

Charlie grabbed an empty glass and gave Boots a warm smile. “You got it, B.”  

Racetrack fought the urge to say something. Did he want to? Maybe. But maybe he needed to leave the past in the past. He dropped his head down and stared into his Rittenhouse Rye, trying to disappear long enough for Boots to get his drink and leave.  

No dice.  

“Race? Racetrack, is that you?” Boots asked, disbelief creeping into his voice. “Man, I haven’t seen you in ages. What’s it been, like 3 years?”  

Racetrack gave a small sigh into his cup before picking his head back up and giving Boots the fakest smile he could muster. “Boots. You’re looking...” he paused, scanning his eyes over him, “Tall,” he finished.  

Boots grinned and crossed his arms. “And you’re looking old. They weren’t lying when they said the mines aged people like milk left in the sun.”  

Racetrack glowered and took a sip of his drink. “I prefer the saying ‘aging like fine wine’ personally.”  

“How old are you now, Race?” he teased. “Late thirties?”  

Racetrack snorted, bits of his old self starting to break through the cracks. “I’m 25, you asshole.”  

Boots let out a loud laugh that turned a few heads, completely unfazed. “You sure about that?”  

Race couldn’t help it — the corner of his mouth twitched. Just a little. It felt foreign. Dangerous, even.  

Boots pulled out the stool next to him without asking. Of course he did. Sat down like the past 6 years hadn’t been a dark smudge on paper that no one talked about. Like this was still the Lower Manhattan bunkroom and they were just killing time before the morning headlines.  

“You still drinking rye like you’re mad at your liver?” Boots asked, eyeing the glass.  

Race gave a small shrug. “It’s cheaper when you don’t mix it.”  

“Cheaper than what? Happiness?” Boots shot back.  

That earned the kid a signature Racetrack look, and for a beat, neither of them said anything.  

Racetrack wracked his brain, pulling conversation starters from the depths and blowing off the dust. He hadn’t had to do this in a while. Small talk. Small talk with someone that had a clearer picture of what Race once was... and how different he had become.  

“So uh... you still running with the Manhattan crew then?” Race asked him, already knowing the answer.  

“Naw,” Boots said, downing a mouthful of his double gin on the rocks. “Grew outta that the minute I started having to shave my face every morning.”  

“Figured as much,” Race muttered. This was painfully uncomfortable. He’d let himself slip too far into monotony. Drifted away from everyone once he moved back to his childhood block in Harlem. People had tried to reach out but things just weren’t the same anymore. Not after everything.  

“New leader of the gang makes Jack look modest and tame in comparison,” Boots chuckled. “Kids got big dreams. Reminds me a bit of Conlon.”  

Race felt his stomach drop at the mention of Spot. They’d stopped speaking years ago. But people still whispered. Spot’s name was still known by many. It had garnered attention from some real seedy guys.  Spot moving from borough leader to the workings of the underground hadn’t surprised him. Just disappointed him.  

“Big dreams ain’t always what they’re cracked up to be. Let’s hope he don’t turn out like Conlon.”  

Boots swirled the last of the gin in his glass, then tapped it twice on the bar. Not for a refill — just a habit. Same way Race cracked his knuckles before dealing cards back in the day. Small ticks that lingered even when the game was long gone.  

He glanced over, like he’d been holding something back.  

“I passed through Bushwick yesterday,” Boots said casually, like he wasn’t about to drop a grenade.  

Race didn’t react. Not right away.  

“So?”  

Boots kept his voice light, almost too light. “So you been out there lately? Near the Becker house?”  

Racetrack stared at him blankly. He made a point not to go out that far anymore. No reason to. Why leave Manhattan when he didn’t have anything to go to? “No. Why would I?”  

Boots raised an eyebrow and downed the rest of his liquor in one motion, sitting his glass back on the counter and putting his money next to it.  

“Ain’t boarded up no more.”  

“What?”  

Boots stood and grabbed his coat off the chair next to him, sliding one arm through the sleeve. “Windows are open. Curtains are up. Lights on. First time in 6 years it don’t look dead on the inside.”  

Race didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared straight ahead, like if he kept his eyes forward, the words wouldn’t catch up to him.  

“You sure?” he asked finally, but his voice had gone low. Strained.  

Boots gave a slow nod. “Dead sure.”  

A silence stretched between them, heavy and full of unspoken history. Race’s fingers twitched against his glass. He hadn’t been to Bushwick since— Well. Since a few months after she disappeared off to wherever the hell she’d been all these years.  

Boots hesitated before speaking again. “You think it’s her?”  

Race didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because the thought had already hit him square in the chest, and it hadn’t stopped echoing since.  

Flash.  

Had to be her.  

Who else would have a reason to unlock that door? To breathe life back into the place that used to hum with it?  

Boots finally broke the moment, shoving his other arm through his coat sleeve and heading for the door. “I’ll see you around, Race.”  

Race gave a small nod, barely perceptible.  

He sat there long after Boots left, hands wrapped around a drink gone warm. The burn was gone now — nothing left but the weight in his chest.  

The Becker house wasn’t dead anymore.  

Which meant neither was the past.  

Life. There were signs of life at that old pile of bricks that lay quiet for years. Paused in time. Like it was holding its breath just waiting for someone to open the door again.  

Racetrack stood by the lamppost a few yards away. Same one they’d shared a few smokes under. Staring. He was just staring at the house in the distance, still grappling with what he was going to do.  

Part of him wanted to turn around and take his tail back home. Avoid it altogether. Because it would bring up memories he’d spent years trying to bury. In the mines, in his head. And he couldn’t do this. They’d all moved on with their lives in one way or another. Different vices for different ghosts. But carrying the same wounds.  

The other part of him wanted to run straight for that front door and rip it open. Because he knew who was on the other side. And that part of him trumped everything else.  

He threw his cigarette down, crushing it before he walked swiftly to the gate outside the house. The flowers had long died. The yard was unkempt and grass reached towards the top of the posts, the ivy a blanket that surrounded each board in the fence. Hell, even it  looked like it was tired of waiting. Abandoned and forgotten like the rest of them.  

He swung the front gate open, the hinges creaking and flaking with rust buildup from nonuse. He could still turn around. He could catch the Atlantic back home and pretend he’d never even heard of the house on Bushwick Avenue. Pretend it came from a bad nightmare after eating too much aged cheddar.  

How did that saying go? Cheese before bed, dreams in your head . Where had he heard that from?  

Racetrack shook his head once to try and gain back some control over his thoughts. He was stalling, he knew it. Fuck. No going back now, Higgins. Knock on the damn door already.  

Racetrack took a breath before reaching out to rap on the peeling wood, knuckles hitting the center firmer than he’d intended. The sound was loud. But then—nothing. No movement. No shuffling. No voices.  

He waited, wrapping his coat tight around him and crossing his arms, impatience creeping up his neck like a rash.  

This was stupid. Why had he thought it’d be a good idea to come here? And say what?  Heya Flash, I know you took off without saying goodbye but how’ve ya been? Abandon any more friends here lately?  

He turned to leave. Half a step off the porch, foot landing heavy on the top stair— 
click. 

The sound of the deadbolt turning froze him.  

Racetrack didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just slowly turned his head back toward the door as it creaked open, a slice of warm light spilling into the dusk like a secret let out.  

And he saw her.  

Same frame in the doorway. Hair done in the same braid down her back like she used to do. Same eyes but somehow softer. Older. More tired, if that was even possible.  

Their gazes locked, a silent stalemate unfolding in the air between them. Until—  

“Wondered when you’d turn up, Higgins.” She grinned, the corners of her mouth stretching to touch under her eyes. Same but different, her voice still laced with traces of the South. But a new intonation, a slight lilt in her words pointed him towards the idea that she hadn’t been anywhere close by all this time.  

“Flash...” was all he could breathe out, surprise taking the rest of his words and running just out of his reach.  

Her smile dropped, just a little, and her eyes flicked with something suppressed. A faint glimpse of something that resembled disdain.  

“Actually, it’s just Allie now,” she said quieter, eyes not leaving his. “I outgrew the former, I guess. Lacks the same... charm,” she finished.  

Racetrack let the name sit between them a moment — Allie . It didn’t feel right in his mouth. Didn’t sit where Flash used to live in his chest. But maybe that was the point.  

“Right,” he said finally, voice low. “Guess we’re all tryin’ on new names these days.”  

Her expression shifted — not quite pity, but something close. Something softer. “Race, look...” she trailed off, furrowing her brows. She hadn’t been prepared to do this. Not so soon. “I didn’t come back to stir up dust and old memories,” she said gently. “I didn’t think anyone’d even notice I was here.”  

Racetrack squinted his eyes at that. “You think people don’t still talk about what we did that night? I hear kids whispering about it in the street like it’s some folklore. Adults our age that were around back then... it was important. Of course people would notice when a key player turns back up after being gone for so long.”  

Her face hardened at the mention of that night, and she crossed her arms in front of her chest, voice low and firm. “I would like to leave the past where it belongs. Behind me. What’s done is done, Race. We were just a bunch of kids playing civil war. I’ve got... responsibilities now. Very real, very adult shit on my plate.”  

“ Playing civil war?” he asked, dumbfounded. “You can’t be serious. We fought a battle together. People got hurt. People died.”  

She flinched, her mouth set in a hard line as she stared past him. She wasn’t going to talk about it. Not after she spent so long trying to accept what she had done. Taken a life. Maybe he’d deserved it. Phillips.  

But as the saying goes: An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.  

And she had just started being able to see again.  

“You think I don’t know that?” she said after a beat, voice low and bitter. “You think I didn’t replay it every time I closed my eyes?”  

Racetrack didn’t answer her, but she could see him visibly tense his shoulders.  

Flash — Allie — swallowed hard and let out a breath through her nose. “I didn’t leave to hurt anyone. I left because staying was hurting me. I’m not asking for forgiveness, Race. I’m not even asking for understanding. I just want to be left alone. Get this house in order, sell it to the first person that’s willing to take it off my hands, and go. I need this chapter in my life to end.”  

He stared at her. Really stared. Not at the braid or the tired lines near her eyes — but at the way she stood like she was still braced for a fight. Like she hadn’t unclenched her fists in 6 years.  

“Why are you so set on letting all this fade into the background? Didn’t we mean anything to you?” he asked quietly. “You didn’t even  write . I thought you’d at least have the decency to do that. Thought I had earned it, given everything that happened between each of us.”  

She closed her eyes and let out a slow, low breath. “It’s not that you guys didn’t matter to me. You guys meant everything to me. But it’s just not that simple, Racetrack. Not everything is black and white.”  

He couldn’t hold his annoyance in any longer. All his old feelings started to show in his voice. “It could be that simple. You’re making things harder than they have to be. I see some things never change.”  

She couldn’t get angry. Not really. She knew her leaving would have its own set of consequences. Especially without proper goodbyes. But she couldn’t go back and change it now. The most she could do was try to have some empathy for him.  

“I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry that to get right with myself, I had to hurt you guys. But I can’t sit here and harp on what I can’t change. Like I said, it’s not that simple,” she bristled, hands on her hips now.  

“Why the fuck not, Flash?”  

A sound came from inside the house. A voice.  

“Mama, what is taking so long?” the voice called out. “You promised you’d let me play you in poker.”  

A little girl popped into view and all of Racetrack’s breath left his body.  

“And I’ll know if you let me win.” She turned her head to get a glimpse of Racetrack, her eyes burning a hole into his. “Who’s the old guy?”  

She was a small thing—but she stood like she wasn’t. Head full of messy blonde curls that couldn’t decide whether they wanted to be waves or snarls. Freckles dusted across her nose like she’d wrestled the sun and won.  

Her eyes — that’s what did it. They caught him off guard. Pale but sharp, with this strange blue-gray glint that felt way too old for a kid that size. Watchful eyes. Eyes that didn't blink unless they had to.  

Cool, measured confidence. The kind of composure most adults couldn’t even fake. The stubborn curve of her mouth, like she had more questions than she knew what to do with.  

Flash’s eyes dropped down to meet her daughter’s. “He is not old.” Her eyes flicked back over to Racetrack’s, and he could see the faintest little smirk at the corner of her lips. “He’s just tired.”  

Racetrack shot her a look, annoyance mixed with a hint of humor. “You always pop up like you’re trying to spook a shadow?”  

The kid tilted her head, thinking. “Only when the shadow looks like it needs spookin’.”  

That made him snort, despite himself. She grinned wide, like she’d won a prize — then stuffed her hands deep into the sleeves of her coat and rocked back on her heels.  

“You’re trouble, you know that?” he muttered, eyeing her sideways.  

She shrugged. “That’s what Mama says.”  

“What’s your name kid?”  

“Mabel.”  

He repeated it in his head. Mabel.  

She didn’t flinch under his gaze. If anything, she looked through him. Like she was trying to figure out what kind of man he used to be.  

And he didn’t know why, but he had the strangest urge to sit up straighter. To be better. Like his every move was under scrutiny.  

God. His heart lurched somewhere unpleasant. She even smirks like Flash.  

“And how old are you, Mabel?” he asked her curiously.  

“Six,” she told him, tilting her chin up in confidence. She had an unmistakable aura of cockiness about her. Like she was trying to intimidate. Analyze. Read between the lines.  

Familiar.  

The same look in her eyes that he had at that age.  

Something twisted low in his gut. He didn’t want to name it. Not yet.  

His eyes shot to meet Flash’s, but his head stayed down, addressing Mabel. “Six, huh? I loved being six. It’s the best age.”  

Flash looked like she wanted to bolt inside and lock the door. But she didn’t move. Just stared at Racetrack’s face. It's not that simple, she mouthed.  

Mabel gave him a satisfied nod. “I can’t wait to be 7 though. Mama says that I’ll get better at poker when I’m older. I wanna be world ranked,” she said proudly before her smile faded, replaced with a pout. “But mama goes too easy on me. I won’t get any better that way.”  

Flash and Racetrack had a silent conversation, all subtle twitches of the face and quick flicks of the eyes.  

He was asking her permission.  

And she was giving it.  

“Well Mabel, that’s because your mama don’t wanna hurt your feelings. Luckily for you, I never let anyone win. Wanna show me what you got?”  

Mabel beamed at him and tore her cards out of her pocket. “Only if you promise not to cry when I take all your money, mister.” She turned and took off down the hallway towards the living room.  

Racetrack couldn’t help but smile. Her confidence was gonna be her best asset.  

Flash stepped back to let him pass through the door, arm motioning him inside.  

“Thanks, Race.”  

“No one calls me Race anymore. It’s Anthony now.”  

She scrunched up her face, wrinkling her nose like she’d smelled something foul. “Yeah, I’m not callin’ you that.”  

“And I’m not callin’ you Allie,” he smirked as she closed the door behind him.  

And for the first time in years, Race’s chest didn’t feel so empty.  

Chapter Text

September 1901  

Nothing had prepared Racetrack for what he’d see when the door to the lodging house burst open and Spot stormed his way inside. Red eyed and wet faced. Not even trying to hide it. 

“Infirmary. Now,” Spot clipped as he stomped past the table, a single sheet of paper clenched tightly in his hand like it was his last breath. 

Racetrack glanced around the room at the others, their eyes trained on him, looking just as shocked as he felt. He stood without a word and followed after Spot. Because when Spot spoke, you were supposed to listen. 

But when Spot cried? You should be worried that the end times were upon you. 

Race closed the door quickly behind them, trying to save Spot the last shred of dignity he had left, before turning to fully take in the sight of him. 

He was in a state. Eyes swollen like they’d had contact with a mean left hook. But no bruising. His face was splotchy. Drenched like he’d been crying for hours, layers of tears building on top of each other. Nose running. Lips pressed together to hide the obvious quake in them. 

It was enough to knock the wind out of him. Race had never seen Spot look so broken. Not in the entirety of the 8 years they’d known each other. He’d seen him cry before, yes. But it was rare. Usually small. A single tear that you’d miss if you blinked at the wrong time. 

Race was one of the only people Spot trusted enough to see him vulnerable. See him upset. Because despite everything that had ever happened between them, they were still brothers. 

Something was horribly wrong. 

“Who died?” he whispered, afraid if he spoke any louder, his fear would waver in his voice. 

Spot shook his head and took in a shallow breath, staring hard at a bit of floor next to him. 

“Me.” 

Racetrack waited for him to look up but he didn’t. “What do you mean you?” He dropped his voice back down and grabbed Spot’s arm, afraid that the action may cost him a finger. 

But Spot didn’t snap. Didn’t rip his arm away or look at Racetrack in disgust. Instead, he bit his bottom lip and scrunched up his nose, failing to stop the soft, pained sob that escaped from the depths of his chest. 

“Conlon, you’re scaring me,” Racetrack warned, gripping Spot’s arm tighter like it would kink the line to his tear ducts and stop them dead. 

Spot looked like he wanted to speak. His mouth opened once. Closed. Opened again. But no sound came. 

Race kept his hand on him. Didn’t loosen his grip, even when Spot’s fingers twitched like he might bolt. 

Then, slowly, with shaking hands, Spot held out the letter. 

Race took it carefully, eyes dropping to the first line. Just one word written in her familiar, loopy script. 

Sean.  

He looked up, mouth parted like he had a question—but Spot was already collapsing. 

Not to the floor. Not dramatically. But inward. Shoulders curling like the weight of everything he hadn’t said finally got too heavy to carry. Like the grief had roots, and they’d wrapped around his ribs and pulled him down from the inside. 

He sat on the infirmary cot without looking. Elbows to knees. Face in his hands. 

And then he started to talk. 

“I thought that if I never said it, I still had power over it. That it couldn’t pull me in. Couldn’t set me up just to knock me down.” He sniffed and rubbed at his eyes, face still obscured by his shaking hands. “I thought that ignoring it would save me from all the damage it usually leaves in its wake. But it didn’t, Race. It still tore me up and left me bleeding.” 

Racetrack’s eyes scanned the letter, each word falling heavy in his stomach until it formed a massive, cancerous pit. 

Just like that, she was gone? Where was his goodbye? Where was his letter? 

Spot kept on, his voice cracking. “I never said anything. I never told her what she—fuck, what she meant. Just stayed quiet like an idiot. Pretended like a fucking coward. Because I was scared. And now—” he drew in a breath like it physically hurt him. “Now she’s gone. Left without ever knowing.” 

He gave a small, broken laugh. 

"Turns out, loving someone and saying nothing feels just like a knife you left in your own damn back." 

Racetrack sank down on the cot beside him, stone faced, the letter still firm between his fingers as he put his free hand on Spot’s shoulder. 

“She knew, Spot,” he said softly. “She knew you loved her. We all knew you loved her. You never had to say it.” 

“But I should have said it,” Spot said forcefully. “I should have said it to her.” He looked up then, eyes shining wet and furious. At himself. At the universe. “But my own fucking ego got in the way like it always does. My pride has ruined everything it has ever touched. Inflicted damage in the worst ways.” 

Race didn’t interrupt. Just let the words land. Let the silence stretch between them like the aftermath of an earthquake. 

Spot exhaled shakily, rubbing his palms over his knees like he could scrub the guilt off his skin. His eyes flicked to the letter still in Race’s hand, then quickly away again. 

“I’ve been... tryin’ to get the words out,” he muttered. “Been sitting at my desk all damn night—pen in my hand, hands in my hair—just... trying.” 

He sniffed, biting the inside of his cheek, voice quieter now. “She gave me everything in that letter. Every truth I never asked for. Every wound I didn’t know still bled.” 

His gaze dropped to his lap. 

“Feels like I owe her something back. A letter of my own to say all the things I should’ve said while she was here. I’ll shove it under the front door in Bushwick.” He paused, taking a shaky breath. “Even though she’ll never read it. I can still pretend she will.” 

It was quiet, only for a few seconds, but those seconds felt like years. 

Spot’s voice dropped to a rasp, guttural and thick with grief. 

“God, I wanted her to stay.” 

And for once, Race didn’t have anything to say back. Because there wasn’t a lie kind enough, or a truth clean enough, to make it better. 

So he just sat with him. Hand still on Spot’s shoulder. Letter still in his grip. And together, in the silence, they let the weight of it settle into their bones. 

The letter. The goodbye. And the love that never made it past his lips. 

October 1907  

Power wasn’t about volume—it was about knowing when to shut up and watch. And the group of new recruits scattered around the room in front of Spot had about as much power as damp matches in a monsoon. 

The wiry one, Owney Madden if Spot’s memory served him correctly, had been the one that showed the most potential. At the ripe age of 15, this kid had run neck and neck with some of the better ones in the Gophers. And that was without a lick of training. He was pliable. Moldable. But not too soft. 

The rest of them were half a crown’s worth goons that didn’t know a heist from a handbag. 

One of Spot’s jobs as an enforcer was to vet the trash from the treasures. And it looked like he had a landfill on his hands. 

He didn’t speak. Didn’t try to make conversation with anyone. Just leaned back in his chair, one arm slung lazy over the backrest, the other nursing a glass of something darker than the mood in the room. His eyes moved slow, deliberate, calculating—like he was reading the end of a book before deciding if it was worth the start. 

Let them all sweat. Let them guess what he was thinking. That was the point. 

Around him, the other Gophers filled the smoky speakeasy with idle chatter—half-boasts, half-bullshit. But Spot stayed silent. Watching Owney. Watching the others. Watching the way ambition moved in a boy’s body when he thought no one was looking. 

He’d learned something since the old days—power wasn’t just about control. It was about restraint. Knowing when to throw away a bad hand before it burned your pockets. 

 He could kill with a look now. Didn’t even have to raise his voice. Didn’t have to lift a finger. People remembered him. They knew the stories. And if they didn’t… well, they didn’t last long enough for that to matter. 

But it wasn’t enough anymore.  

He’d joined the Irish Mafia 3 years ago with a deep-seeded pain that had morphed into drive. The need to be something bigger. Something stronger. Something better. 

The Gopher Gang had never been able to pin down a leader for more than a few months. And Spot had made it his mission starting out that he would work his way up the ranks. That he would be the one that stuck. The top dog that set the curve for everyone else that had the guts and gumption to cross him. He’d managed to do it in Brooklyn. Hell’s Kitchen should’ve been a cake walk. 

But the longer Spot was in, the more he realized the position had a revolving door. Constantly circling and pulling people in only to spit them out mangled on the other side. Caught by the coppers. Crippled to no return. Dead. 

Ruled by a constant stream of leaders, each worse than the last. 

And his ambition to be part of something bigger was smoke in the wind. 

Now he just did what he was told. Kept quiet, never rocked the boat or did anything too showy. Tried to fade into the background gradually to avoid being dragged further up the food chain. Because the higher you got, the more certain your demise was. 

But to his dismay, disappearing wasn’t in the cards for him. No matter how many times he shuffled the deck trying to lose, he ended up with a better hand than he had before. 

There was only one thing worse than being hated by the mob. And that was being liked. Because being hated got you killed. But being liked got you killed when you least expected it. 

Spot brought the glass to his lips and let the liquor sit there, unmoving, just to feel something sharp press against his mouth. It didn’t burn like it used to. Nothing did. Not after that day. The day he wouldn’t let himself think about anymore. 

The laughter at the other end of the room cracked louder, one of the newer guys cackling at his own story. Spot’s eye twitched, and he didn’t bother hiding the way it irritated him. 

It was always the loud ones that got clipped first. 

Owney caught his eye again—only for a second—and straightened up like he’d been caught slouching in church. Spot didn’t look away. Just watched him until the kid dropped his eyes to the floor, like every smart one eventually did. 

He’d be trouble one day. The smart ones always were. Spot would keep an eye on him. Not out of care. Out of caution. 

A chair scraped beside him. Duffy—big, bull-nosed, all bark and sweat—dropped into it with a thud and slid a fresh glass across the table. “You’re quiet tonight,” he said. “That usually means somebody’s about to die.” 

Spot didn’t look at him. Just blinked slow, then muttered, “Not tonight.” 

It wasn’t a promise. Just an observation. 

Duffy laughed like it was a joke, but Spot didn’t join him. 

“Oi, Conlon,” a voice called from the doorway. “The Bull wants a word.” 

Every head in the room turned—except Spot’s. 

The Bull. Brendan Donoghue. Second only to the top brass. Which meant something was happening. Or about to. 

Spot didn’t rush. He knocked back the last of his drink and stood slowly, adjusting the sleeves of his coat like he had all the time in the world. And when he passed the table of recruits, they shut up without being asked. 

Because they knew who he was. 

Not the full story, of course. Not what had made him this way. Not the ghosts that trailed him like fog. But they’d heard the whispers. The ones about Brooklyn. What he’d done with his bare hands. How wicked he was with a knife and no backup. 

But none of that is what made him dangerous. Not the blade. Not the fists. But the stillness. The calm. 

Spot followed the runner down a narrow hall, past locked doors and smoke-stained walls, until they reached a back room where three of the higher-ups sat playing cards. A few other lieutenants leaned against the wall. Spot knew most of them. Knew which ones were loyal, and which ones were biding their time for a knife in the dark. 

Each lieutenant had their own crew. Their own set of lackeys they were responsible for. Tasked to break them, strip them down until they moved without being told. Listened without speaking. Killed without a second thought. 

And for a while, Spot had taken a liking to the task. Being asked to break someone purposefully, instead of doing it without meaning to. But even that got old when it stopped filling a void. Now he just scared them into submission, rather than using some of their more... bloody methods. Doing it as a duty, not because he enjoyed it. 

Donoghue didn’t look up as Spot walked in. Just flicked a card onto the table. “Conlon,” he said, avoiding a formal greeting. “You’re still breathing.” 

“Disappointing, I know,” Spot drawled. 

A couple of the younger guys chuckled. Donoghue didn’t. 

He set his hand down and finally looked up, eyeing Spot the way a butcher eyes a pig he’s not quite ready to carve but knows that one day he might. “We’ve got a situation down on West 49th. Couple of dock workers with more muscle than brains decided they’d skim off the last shipment. We need it handled.” 

That could mean one of two things. And one of them involved him getting his hands dirty. Something he didn’t do any more if he didn’t have to. 

Spot didn’t blink. “Handled or gone?” 

“Handled first. Gone if they get smart.” 

Spot nodded once. They’d better stay stupid if they knew what was good for them. 

“You’ll take Duffy, Tommy, and Red with you,” Donoghue said. “Don’t make it a show. And don’t drag it out like you did last time.” 

Spot didn’t respond. Just turned on his heel and stalked to the door. He’d stopped being so theatrical. It had gone out the window the same time his desire to lead had. Theatrics drew attention. And attention is not what he wanted. Not now. 

“You hear me, Conlon?” Donoghue called after him. “You’re being watched.” 

Spot paused in the doorway and tossed over his shoulder, “Aren’t we all.” 

The night hit colder by the docks. Salt air, sour with rot, clung to the back of Spot’s throat as he stepped off the curb. His coat collar was turned up high against the wind, but he barely noticed it anymore. The cold didn’t bother him like it used to. 

Duffy, Tommy, and Red trailed behind. All muscle. All noise. They were still fresh enough to enjoy this part. Gnashing at the teeth to get their feet wet. 

 Spot didn’t speak to them on the walk over. He didn’t have to. 

They reached the warehouse—one of the smaller ones, barely guarded, the kind of place a man would only skim from if he thought no one was looking. The dock workers weren’t subtle. They didn’t have to be. Until now. 

Spot stopped in front of the entrance and lit a cigarette, his hand steady against the wind. One slow drag into his lungs and a squint of his eyes. Then he nodded. 

Duffy and Tommy kicked the doors in like they’d been waiting all night for an excuse. Red slipped inside first—quick, quiet, mean—and Spot followed last, his steps silent on the concrete flooring. 

There were four men inside. Caught mid-haul. A crate half open at their feet. 

One of them swore. Another reached for something under his coat. Bad move.  

Spot slammed the handle of his knife down on the guy's temple, sound cracking before he could even blink. Clean. Fast. The man dropped without a sound and the others froze, mid struggle. 

Spot leaned down to peer at the man, cigarette still hanging lazily between his lips. “Feeling a little froggy, are we? Leap again and I’ll turn your face into a story they whisper about.” 

He straightened back up to look at the remaining thieves. “Take a seat,” Spot said calmly, gesturing with the blade of the knife still gripped in his hand. “We’ll keep this short.” 

They didn’t move fast enough, so Red helped one into a chair with a solid kick to the back of the knees as Duffy grabbed another by their shoulders, slamming him down into the chair. The third one had enough common sense to shake the starch out of his pants without being made to do so. 

Spot stepped into the circle, cigarette still burning in his mouth. His tone didn’t rise. Didn’t shift. It was smooth. Measured. Like someone reciting the day’s weather. 

“You skimmed from us,” he said. “That’s a mistake.” 

“Didn’t mean to,” one of them stammered. “Didn’t think—” 

“No,” Spot cut in. “You didn’t.” 

He crouched in front of him to meet his eyes. “Here’s what happens now. You give us names. Everyone who knew about this. Everyone who got paid. If we like what we hear, you walk out with a limp. If we don’t…” He looked down at the man passed out on the floor. “You don’t walk out.” 

The man swallowed. “Y-yeah. Yeah, okay.” 

Spot nodded once then stood. “Red. Make sure he’s telling the truth. If he isn’t, Tommy’ll finish what I started.” 

Red grinned and Tommy cracked his knuckles. 

Spot turned and walked out before the man even started talking. Didn’t need to see the rest. Didn’t care to. That wasn’t his job. Not anymore. He’d pulled his weight; gotten his pound of flesh, 

Out on the street, he leaned against the warehouse wall and finished his cigarette while the sounds inside turned into something ugly. Something familiar. 

And he felt nothing. 

This was his life now. Quiet violence. Calculated outcomes. No attachments. No mess. Just orders, just action, just the echo of a name no one used anymore. 

The wind picked up again, and he closed his eyes for a second—just one—before snuffing the cigarette out beneath his heel and moving back into the shadows. 

Chapter Text

Lenora Carrow Inquiries was never supposed to exist. But against all odds, it did.   

The plaque on the peeling door at 137 Ludlow Street read Lenora Carrow Inquiries — No Lies, No Nonsense . Not that anyone needed to read it. If you were coming here, you already knew why.  

Delta hadn’t set out to be a PI. It just kind of fell into her lap against her will. Like a stray cat that sulks around your doorstep trying to scratch you, but you continue to feed it anyways.  

It had started out small. A kid in the old tenement lost a pocket watch that wasn’t his to lose. Delta had found it for him. No fuss, no fanfare.  

And that kid told another kid. Who told another kid. Who told another.  

Pretty soon, she was running around the greater part of Manhattan searching for missing things. Stolen shoes, pay stubs, a girl that hadn’t come home from the factory floor.   

She never meant to hang a sign.  

But it went up all the same. Delta Carrow: Locator of the Lost carved into the wood with a pocketknife, nailed half-crooked over a doorway in an alley that no one would bother to look twice at.  

It was supposed to be a side gig. Something she did in her free time for the street kids in the neighborhood. The kind of work that the coppers wouldn’t even sneeze at.  

She figured it would fizzle out. But somehow, instead of dying quiet, it took flight.  

Word spread. And soon, it had turned into a full-blown hustle.  

First non-street kid client had been a lady from Midtown that had overheard her name from a couple of teenagers passing through from Alphabet City. She had been in for a surprise when she discovered Delta was a grifter turned gumshoe that ran her operation out of a seedy back alley.  

But in the end, she’d had no qualms about asking Delta to tail her husband who’d been sneaking off to Gramercy every few days. Turns out—he had a second family. Rich. Lived in one of those polished mansions.  

Also turned out he was already married to the lady of said family.  

Delta made it out the other side with 15 dollars that day. And a newfound appreciation for how lucrative investigating could be when you actually charged for your services.  

Soon it had evolved even further with people asking her to track down missing family members. Long lost siblings. Renters that had skipped out on paying the landlords, leaving no forwarding address, of course.  

Then the reporters came, whispering about politicians on the take. She didn’t always say yes to these. But when she did, the fallout tended to make headlines. Just not with her name attached.  

If you took into consideration that her work generated headlines, and those headlines helped the newsies sell their papes, she’d come full circle.  

Delta had never chased prestige. She just had a nose for what didn’t sit right. And people had noticed her knack for uncovering the truth—even the ugly kind.  

She’d saved her money, gotten a designated office in a crumbling brownstone on the Lower East Side, and started going by her real name to add more appeal and professionalism to her craft.  

Thus, Lenora Carrow Inquiries was born.  

If only her father could see her now. He’d pop a blood vessel knowing that his daughter had made a career out of being nosy.  

She had accidentally made quite the life for herself. But all good things usually come with a cost. And the payment for this good thing was her friendships.  

She hadn’t really noticed at first. How visits had become shorter. Talks had become brief. Connection had become muddled. It was only when she turned around to celebrate that she realized there was no one there.  

Spot had been the first to go. Before she’d really gotten her foot out in the real world. Delta had tried to keep a hold on him—prevent him from sinking too far down in the dark. But it was like trying to grip water with your bare hands. And soon, he’d slipped through her fingers just as easy, without another look back.  

Race had been slower. More painful. Like the blister you get on your ankle when your shoe rubs it too much. It left something raw in her chest, something burning. Because Spot left on his own accord. He’d chosen something darker. She’d lost Race through her own neglect.  

He’d been around for the start of her dip into the investigative wading pool. He’d even held out a branch for her to grab onto a time or two. But she’d gone too far out, too far away to hear him calling for her. And when she’d finally made it back to the shores of reality, he was gone too.   

Buried under rock, like she’d unknowingly laid to rest their last chance at being friends. Maybe even something more —if she hadn’t lost herself in other people’s problems.  

She just couldn’t help herself though. Like now, thinking about the missing journalist, Elias Knox. And how she’d only met with him a week before he vanished.  

Elias hadn’t come to hire her. He’d needed a second set of eyes to sift through some information he’d quietly put together. A story he was working on in the dark. And it had to be tied to something pretty big because the notebook she’d swiped from his coat pocket that day was full of fractured, coded writing.  

Numbers, letters, phrases that pointed to the idea of corruption or deception. Descriptions scrawled in the margins, smudged and crossed out. It looked like the diary of a madman.  

She flipped through the pages for the umpteenth time, cigarette dangling from her mouth, pen clasped tightly in between her fingers. Delta had been chipping away at this case with a chisel and mallet for months. And each word decoded, each number translated... just opened the floor for more questions.  

M.J/14/AC-RH/$45 paid M.J/15/SC-HG/Absconded: follow up 

F.A/28/TSL/$30 paid M.A/24/Tribeca/$10 unpaid: Sent SPC,GG (unknown) 

M.J/16/AC-RH/Subject to Search F.A/19/Rerouted; Sold-#1874 

Players: B.J.F; SPC; B.D; D.O; Ties to FGG? -must look into this  

The middle letters had to be locations. She’d worked out that much because Tribeca was spelled out instead of shorthanded. The rest hadn’t made much sense to her. Not yet. But her head would blow up if she continued to stare at it for much longer.  

She sighed and tossed the notebook back into the top drawer of her desk with the rest of her files, locking it with the key she’d stashed away for safe keeping.  

She grabbed her crumpled copy of the Sun, scanning through the columns as she puffed away, letting her eyes fall on each headline. Nothing exciting like she’d hoped. Delta liked to analyze the paper periodically to look for patterns. She knew that certain papers leaned in favor to certain political figures while others did not. She’d found some lose threads to pull at quite a few times by doing this.  

"CITY IS HARD UP, BUDGET TO BE CUT"  

"SECRETS OF COURT EXPOSED IN TRIAL"  

“ AVENUE C—RESCUE HOUSE TO RECEIVE GRANT”  

“KNICKERBOCKER CRISIS UNFOLDS”  

Wait a damn minute.  

Delta’s eyes darted back to second to last headline, reading it again.   

Avenue C- Rescue House. AC-RH.  

She slammed the paper down on the desk and hurriedly unlocked the drawer, fishing out the small black notebook and flipping to the page again.  

There it was.  

Avenue C- Rescue House was a charity funded home for wayward girls. Girls that’d had a rough go in life. Beaten, abused, cast out to the street. Whatever was in this notebook had some type of tie to it.  

She read through the scrawled notes once more. M.J. No idea what that stood for. 14. AC-RH. Paid. The number had to be an age. The wayward girl's home was only for children under the age of 18, and both lines that referenced it had numbers less than 18 next to it.  

Or she could be dead wrong.  

Cling.  

The bell above the front door jangled, a sharp metallic sound that bounced off the narrow office walls. Delta didn’t look up right away. Her eyes remained fixed on the last line in the notebook, her thumb pressed tight against the margin like she could hold the pieces in place with sheer force.  

M.J. / 15 / SC-HG / Absconded: follow up.  

She mouthed the phrase silently, then finally set the book down, picking her burnt up cigarette out of the tray.  

“Oh Christ,” she muttered under her breath before pulling a new one from the clasp case in her breast pocket. “Be with you in one moment,” she called towards the footsteps steadily approaching the door to her office.  

She struck a match and touched it to the tip, waving it through the air to put it out once she was sure her smoke was lit.  

“How can I—” she stopped mid-sentence as her eyes met his. Still full of charm with the playful gleam tucked behind his pupils.  

“...Higgins?”  

Racetrack gave her a small smile, looking nervously around the room. “Delta. Or sorry, do I call you Lenora now?”  

“You here for business or for kicks?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow at him.  

“Neither. Or—maybe both? I don’t know, Delta. I just... you were the first person I thought of,” he trailed off, looking down at the floor.  

Her playful edge dropped, replaced by something softer, her brain recalling something nostalgic. Familiar.  

“Delta’s fine then,” she told him, gesturing for him to sit down in the seat across from her.  

He slid into the chair and let his eyes wander around the room. It was all very... her. Cork board on the back wall with maps, drawings, newspaper articles; all pinned crooked and overlapped. Half-full ashtray on the corner of her battered and worn, ink-smudged desk. Rings on the wood indicating that she still hadn’t learned to use a coaster.  

A kid’s drawing sat in a frame next to her stacks of leatherbound journals, cracked from constant use. Coffee mug full of pens beside a small mountain of Chiclet’s chewing gum wrappers. A tin box that read ‘ Do Not Open Unless Dead.’  

“So.” She leaned back in her chair, one leg folded over the other. “You get lost or something?”  

Race gave a half-shrug. “Might’ve. I wasn’t sure you were still here. Haven’t been by in... a while,” he finished.  

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. Just long. Familiar in that too-much-left-unsaid kind of way. Race let his gaze wander over the mess of papers on her desk, before finding his way back to her face.  

“I always knew you’d find a way to make truth seeking a career. Never thought you’d have an office though.”  

“And I never thought you’d drop in without having a punchline ready.” Her voice stayed flat but still had that slight softness hidden in it from before.  

He gave her a half-smile as he stared down at his hands. Rough. Scarred. The way his Pop’s hands used to look when he was a kid.   

“How’s everything?” He asked, trying to sound nonchalant. He wasn’t ready to tell her why he was really here. Not yet. Not when they hadn’t seen each other in so long. It would feel like an ambush in a way. Or like he only came by when shit hit the fan.  

She shot him a look, one that said are we really doing small talk right now , but paused for a beat to mull over his question. If she was going to be honest, she’d tell him she felt like a hermit. A shut in. Because even though she travelled all over the city, she did it alone.  

Gathering evidence? Alone. Solving the case? Alone. Eating? Alone.  

Sleeping? Well, she didn’t even want to touch on that subject.  

She stared at the water ring on her desk, mind shuffling back to a memory from a few years ago. Back when they had been almost inseparable.  

The rain had come out of nowhere, thin and cold and mean, like it resented having to fall. Delta had ducked under a crumbling overhang to wait it out, soaked from the waist down and scowling at the sky like it owed her something.  

Race appeared beside her without warning, same cheeky grin he always wore when he had thought of some way to tease you.  

“You look like you lost a fight with the Hudson,” he said, offering her half a pretzel he’d somehow kept dry in his coat pocket.  

She didn’t laugh, but she didn’t ignore him either. Just took the pretzel, tore off a piece, and popped it in her mouth.  

They stood in silence, side by side, water trickling down the bricks behind them.  

“Figured you might be here,” he said finally. “Kid said you were tailing someone from Canal. Thought you could use backup.”  

“I don’t need backup.”  

“Yeah, well, you’ve got it anyway.”  

She looked at him then. The lamplight caught his profile—rain on his lashes, jaw clenched like he was thinking too hard. Too much had changed since the newsie days. They’d all grown sharper, quieter. Less invincible.  

He noticed her looking and smiled a little, soft and tired. “What?”  

She almost said it then. Everything. That she’d started looking for him in every crowd. That her chest always did something funny when he showed up, unannounced but somehow always exactly when she needed him. That she hadn’t let anyone close in a long time, and yet he’d managed to wedge himself in without even trying.  

Instead, she said, “You’re getting good at this.”  

He shrugged, pretending it didn’t matter. “Just like being around people who actually say what they mean.”  

She hummed. “That’s rich, coming from you.”  

He grinned again, but quieter this time. “Yeah. Maybe.”  

Then—he shifted. Almost like he was going to reach for her, just for a second. Not for a kiss. Not for anything obvious. Just a touch. A line crossed.  

But the rain eased up, and her breath caught, and she turned away first.  

“Let’s go,” she muttered. “Before God decides to bring on the next great flood. Still got a lead.”  

And just like that, it passed. Whatever it was.  

She shook her head to clear the memory before Racetrack could see the thought grow smaller in her eyes.   

But he’d noticed. Didn’t say anything. What could he? But he had clocked the far-off look in her eyes when they’d blinked hard and shifted back to him.  

“Things are... things are good,” she lied.   

Racetrack studied her, the slight tick in her jaw. The way her eyebrows crinkled together, so small and so quick he’d almost missed it. How she shifted her eyes down at the last word and then back up. He’d been around her enough, paid enough attention to her to know that she was lying.  

But he’d also been around her long enough to know that she wouldn’t tell him the truth yet. He’d have to earn that back again.  

So he gave her a lie of his own.  

“Yeah,” he said with a shrug, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m good too.”  

Delta didn’t call him on it. Just tilted her head the slightest bit and gave him a look — not pity, not surprise. Just... knowing.  

She took a long drag of her cigarette, exhaled slow, and said nothing.  

Because that was the game, wasn’t it? Say you’re fine. Pretend to believe it when the other does the same. Keep your lies polite and your truths buried where they can’t sting.  

They sat in the quiet a moment longer. Delta tapped ash into the tray. Race chewed at the inside of his cheek like he was working up to something.  

He was.  

“Flash is back,” he said finally. No warning. No lead up. Just outright to get it over with.  

Delta paused mid-flick, and Race could see the lights snap back on in her head. She blinked. Slowly. Like her brain had to reroute in the middle of a thought.  

And suddenly, his reason for coming all the way to the Lower East Side had slid into place. Because the past they’d all pretended didn’t exist, buried deep, had started to climb its way out of the dirt.  

“ How do you know?” she asked cautiously, almost in disbelief. Not that she didn’t believe him , of course she did. He wouldn’t have scooted his way into her office to drum up old feelings and present her a half-baked lie. But this whole scenario was unexpected.   

Why now? Why after six long years had passed and everyone had finally found their footing again?  

Racetrack cleared his throat. “I saw her. At her house in Bushwick.”  

“You spoke to her?”  

“Yeah.”  

Delta felt her eyebrows creep up her forehead and her lips parted slightly. “How is... how is she doing? Does she look good? Why'd she come back? Where did she go?”  

Racetrack threw a hand up to get her to slow down. “Whoa, whoa. Easy, Carrow. One question at a time please. Christ, no wonder people are quick to give you details. You bombard them and get them confused.”  

It wasn’t an insult. Because he was right. She did do that on purpose, for the exact reason he said. Funny how he knew that.  

Delta exhaled sharply through her nose, trying to play it off like she wasn’t rattled. She flicked ash again, more forcefully this time. “You didn’t answer,” she muttered.  

Race raised an eyebrow.  

“Does she look good?” Delta clarified, quieter now. Less professional, more human.  

He hesitated. Not because he didn’t know the answer — but because he did.  

“She looks... different,” he said finally. “Not in a bad way. Just... like she’d been taken care of. Had an ounce of peace for once.”  

Delta stared at him, unreadable. Then looked away, chewing her cheek in the exact same rhythm he had moments ago. Lucky her.  

“She’s got a kid,” he added.  

Delta blinked again and fully stilled. “What?”  

“A little girl. About six. Real mouthy. You’d probably like her.”  

Delta didn’t respond. She just nodded once, slowly, and stubbed out her cigarette like she was putting out a thought she didn’t want to finish.  

A six-year-old. Could mean nothing really. Could mean everything. But she couldn’t help but start trying to piece together the timeline. Force of habit, looking for clues to paint a bigger, better picture.  

“Flash didn’t say much,” Race went on, a little quieter now. “But she’s staying at the house. Said she’s cleaning it out. Selling it, probably.”  

Delta leaned back, folding her arms over her chest. “And after that?”  

“No idea.” He bit his lips and shrugged one shoulder. “Best guess is she’ll run again. Because... well... it’s Flash,” he finished, no further explanation needed. She knew.  

Delta chewed on that. Then asked, almost too casually, “Think she might need a job while she’s here? Renovations can be pricey. I got contacts around the city, I can pull some strings.”  

Race gave her a look — that half-tilted smirk that always saw straight through her.  

“You thinking about checking in?” he asked.  

She didn’t look at him when she replied. “She did leave me an entire borough of misfits to take care of. Kinda wanna kick her in the ass for that. And I can help her. Offer at least. Whether she takes me up on it is up to her.”  

Race nodded. “Alright.” There was a slight hesitation, like he was deciding whether to ask. “Mind if I tag along?”  

Delta raised an eyebrow. “You that eager to follow me to Bushwick?”  

He shrugged. “You that eager to go by your lonesome?”  

A smirk played on the corner of her lips before she could stop it. Different year, different setting, same old Race.  

She didn’t answer. But she didn’t tell him no.  

Chapter Text

Becker’s Bushwick house sat untouched and abandoned for so long, Delta had almost forgotten what it looked like without the wood planks covering the windows. 

You could actually tell there was a yard now, instead of an out-of-control hoopla for weeds. The path to the door was clear, the gate hinges oiled, and the front stoop had been scrubbed of six years' worth of dirt and debris. Flowers were still dead but hey, baby steps. 

Racetrack stood nervously in front of the door fiddling with his hands like a kid waiting outside the headmaster’s office. Even after all these years, the guy couldn’t just hold still.  

Delta reached out and grabbed his hands with one of hers, forcing them to stop moving. “You rub your hands together any faster and they’ll start sparking. Set the whole neighborhood on fire.”  

Racetrack gave her a sheepish grin and tucked his hands in his pockets, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “Sorry. Forgot to mention that she said she wants to leave the past in the past. Don’t know if that means us too. She might be mad that I brought you here.” 

Delta stared at him and exhaled hard from her nose. “You forget that I dragged this woman out of a cemetery while she was drunk and trying to rip everyone to shreds. What’s she gonna do now? Yell at me? Wouldn’t be the first time.” 

Racetrack tilted his head and clicked his tongue as if to say you got me there as Delta reached out to knock firmly on the door. Three taps. Precise and efficient enough to get her point across. Just the way Delta liked to do things. 

They could hear the small patter of feet running down the hallway and a faint voice on the other side of the door. “I got it, Mama! If it’s those church people again, I’ll growl at ‘em until they go away!” 

The door whipped open to reveal Mabel, snarling like a rabid mutt onstage. Full of bark, zero bite, and absolutely loving the drama. Her snarl dropped when she caught sight of Racetrack, mouth stretching into a toothy grin. “It’s just Uncle Race!” she called over her shoulder. Her eyes flicked to Delta. “And some lady,” she said, almost as an afterthought. 

Mabel grabbed ahold of Racetrack’s hand and pulled, leading him into the house, leaving Delta standing on the doorstep. 

Delta poked her head through the open door, gave the room a once-over, then sighed and stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. She walked slowly down the hallway, eyes scanning the walls until she reached the living room. It was like she had been transported back in time. 

Everything was exactly as it had been six years ago. The coffee table still sat in the center of the room, a stack of books on top like they'd been waiting all this time for someone to come back and flip through them. The couch was still draped in the same sheet they’d used to hide the blood stains after Flash’s coma. Same chipped kitchen table. Same gouge in the countertop near the sink. 

Like the house had held its breath, waiting for her to return. 

“Did you brush your teeth like I told you?” Flash asked, turning toward Mabel. But she stopped short the second her eyes landed on Delta. 

Because Delta hadn’t changed much in the last six years. Not really. 

Same wild red hair. Same spatter of freckles across her nose. Same intense, steel-grey eyes that still had the unnerving ability to make Flash feel like she was being seen all the way through. 

The only difference now was the worry lines starting to show on her forehead. The slight frown lines. More defined than before. Like she’d forgotten how to smile. 

“Delta,” Flash breathed. No other words came. 

What could she say, really? 

The last time they’d seen each other, Flash had been giving her tasks like she was a personal assistant picking up dry cleaning. The only one who knew she was leaving. At least, the only one who got to hear it in person. 

They were quiet, just staring at each other while Racetrack joked around with Mabel, pretending that he couldn’t feel the stillness in the room. 

Delta didn’t move. She just stood there, arms folded across her chest, like she was keeping something in—or maybe keeping herself from slipping. Her eyes didn’t waver. Didn’t soften. 

Flash looked away first. Of course she did. 

“I didn’t expect…” Flash started, then trailed off. 

Delta let out a breath, slow and steady. “Yeah. Well. No one ever does.” 

She said it evenly. Not cruel. Not warm. Just... measured. 

Because she wasn’t angry. Not really. At least, not in the kind of way that could be shouted out and fixed with an apology. 

She understood why Flash had left. Deep down, she’d always known it wasn’t just grief that drove her away—it was survival. But understanding something didn’t mean you were at peace with it. 

She didn’t resent her for leaving her . 

She resented her for leaving them . 

For leaving Race to stand in the wreckage. For leaving Spot to break on his own, no one around to notice when he did. 

Delta could still see it all—Race trying to play it cool, pretending nothing hurt, even when it clearly did. Spot closing himself off like the door had locked behind him and he’d swallowed the key. 

And Flash? She had just... disappeared. Vanished into the fog without looking back. 

Delta rubbed her thumb over her wrist, feeling the pull of old loyalty and older wounds. She wanted to scream. She wanted to hug her. She wanted to ask what the hell had been so important that she couldn’t send something. 

Instead, she just said, “Nice place. Doesn’t look like it’s haunted anymore.” 

A truce. For now. 

Flash let out a breath, almost out of relief. She knew Delta wasn’t happy with her. Even after all this time, even now, Flash could see the gears turning in Delta’s head as her eyes flicked from Racetrack to Mabel and back to Flash. Always looking for the patterns. The details that everyone else didn’t see. Or pretended not to. 

Flash walked over to Delta and wrapped her arms around her torso, pulling her into a hug. 

Delta tensed. She hadn’t been hugged in... God, she didn’t know how long. And now here she was—standing in Becker’s old living room, Flash clinging to her like a wet blanket. 

Motherhood must’ve softened her. Because the Flash Delta remembered would’ve sooner ripped off her own fingernails than show affection this openly. 

As Flash finally let go and stepped back, Mabel came skidding into the room again, one sock half off and a deck of playing cards clutched in her hands. 

Mabel flopped onto the rug, playing cards fanned messily in front of her like she was mid–street hustle. She licked her thumb, split the deck with surprising precision, and said, “Alright, who’s feelin’ lucky and dumb enough to lose?” 

Flash smiled as Mabel dealt the cards with an ease that felt eerily familiar. Too familiar. 

Delta froze in place, her eyes narrowing just slightly. 

The cards, the mannerisms...that was Racetrack. But the attitude ? 

That little smirk, that cocky spark, the challenge in her voice — that was all Spot Conlon. 

She shot a pointed look at Flash, who met her gaze steadily but didn’t say a word. Instead, Flash gave a subtle shake of her head, a quiet signal that now wasn’t the time. 

Delta’s gaze softened just enough, but the questions in her eyes didn’t disappear. They were only biding their time. 

They sat stiffly on the couch, the silence stretching between them, unsure of who was going to break it first. 

Flash was the first to cave. “So, Delta. What’ve you been up to? Race says you do investigations now? Seems right up your alley.” She gave Delta a small smile, trying but failing to break the tension. 

Delta returned the smile, polite and practiced. Look at them. Dancing around the past like it hadn’t swallowed them whole. Like they hadn’t bled and clawed their way through things no teenagers should’ve had to. 

She’d pretend. For now. In front of the kid. But the itch under her skin wouldn’t stay quiet forever. 

“Yeah,” Delta said. “Got an office on Ludlow. Lenora Carrow Inquiries. Not far from the Brooklyn Bridge.” She picked at a nonexistent thread on her sleeve. 

Flash leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Sorry, it’s been so long. I don’t really remember all the roads anymore.” 

Delta looked over, something sharper in her eyes. “It has been long, hasn’t it? You remember the Brooklyn Bridge though, don’t you?” 

The tone was calm. The jaw said otherwise. 

“Of course I remember the Brooklyn Bridge,” Flash said quietly, gaze falling to her hands. “That’s not something I’d forget.” 

“You sure about that?” 

Flash flinched, barely, then asked, “How is he?” 

Delta sighed, unable to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “I don’t know, Becker. He isn’t exactly around anymore, is he?” 

Flash stilled, eyes lifting. “What does that mean?” 

Delta folded her arms, leaned back. “Means he checked out. He’s still breathing, yeah. But he ain’t coming over for Sunday dinner if that’s what you were expecting.” 

“I don’t know what I was expecting, Delta,” Flash snapped. “But I sure wasn’t expecting this level of hostility from you. Aren’t you even the least bit happy to see me?”  

Racetrack looked up from his game of cards with Mabel, eyes shifting between Delta and Flash as he clocked the obvious tension. Whatever they were saying wasn’t quite what they meant. Not fully. 

“You ladies good?” 

Mabel snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Uncle Race, you’re not supposed to butt in to grown-up conversations. Mama said that after I asked Father Fredricks what fornication was.” 

Racetrack lost it. He snorted loud, slapped a hand to the table. Flash and Delta still hadn’t looked away from each other, but even they couldn’t keep the smirks from creeping in. 

“I said it once and I’ll say it again, kid. You’re trouble,” he chuckled, popping the unlit cigar back into his mouth. He wasn’t gonna smoke it. Not in front of Mabel. But the feel of it was familiar. Like the old days when things between them weren’t so damn complicated and laced with hidden meaning. 

Delta’s voice softened. “Of course I’m happy to see you, Becker.” 

Flash blinked at that. 

“But that doesn’t mean I’m not still mad at you. For leaving. For vanishing. No letters. No word. We didn’t know if you were…” She mouthed the last word— dead —glancing briefly at Mabel, who was clearly listening harder than she let on. 

Flash could feel the guilt creep up and lodge itself in her throat. She knew that she had went about things the wrong way back then. She knew what she was doing would hurt people. People she loved. But she was scared. She was scared and she couldn’t stay. Not broken the way she was. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. No edge. Just sincerity. She meant it. 

The anger in Delta’s eyes disappeared, replaced with something softer. Fondness. Forgiveness. Hope. 

“I know.” That’s all she had to say. Forgiven but not forgotten. 

“Mabel, if you’re gonna cheat, at least don’t let me see you shove the card under your arm.” Racetrack smirked and tugged the corner of the card she had hidden under her armpit. 

Mabel feigned a look of surprise. “Oh my gosh, how’d that get in there? I swear, Uncle Race, I think I’m magic or something. Mama is always pulling quarters out of my ears. Now you’re pulling cards out of my armpit.” 

Flash chuckled under her breath, the sound easing some of the tightness in her chest. She leaned back on the couch and exhaled, letting the moment settle. 

“She's a menace,” she said softly, watching Mabel try to stack the cards into a leaning tower. “A good one, but still.” 

“She’s sharp,” Delta offered, her voice still quiet. “Quick hands, too.” 

Flash smiled faintly. “Yeah, she didn’t get that from me.” 

There was a pause. Not heavy this time—just quiet. 

Flash glanced around the room, eyes skimming over the walls, the ceiling, the corners of the house that still needed fixing. “I’ve been putting all my time into getting this place back in shape. Costs more than I thought it would, though. The money from my grandparents’ estate helped, but...” She trailed off, then gave a self-deprecating shrug. “Turns out staying afloat takes more than inheritance and elbow grease.” 

Delta tilted her head slightly. “You looking for work?” 

Flash hesitated, then nodded. “Something flexible. Something decent. I just… I need to make it work without blowing through everything.” 

Delta leaned back and crossed one ankle over her knee. “I know people. I can ask around. Could probably get you in as a Probation Aid with Juvenile Court. You’d be good at it. It's mostly working with kids who remind people of who they used to be.” 

Flash blinked, surprised. “You think?” 

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” Delta replied simply. 

Racetrack glanced up with a grin, switching out his cards and giving the old ones to Mabel for her tower. “You’d be great at telling kids not to growl at church people.” 

Mabel beamed at them, throwing her arms up in the air. “I can help!” 

Flash shook her head at Mabel and clucked her tongue. “Oh, no ma’am. I’d like to keep this job.” She sighed and leaned back on the couch, eyes to the ceiling. “I didn’t even think about that. I don’t have anyone for Mabel.” 

“I’ll take care of that,” Racetrack said casually, still focused on his cards. “I still talk to some of the guys from the good days. I’m sure they’d love to meet Flash reincarnated. If you don’t mind.” 

Flash looked over at him. “You’re not leaving my daughter with Skittery, are you?” 

Racetrack chuckled. “Oh c’mon, he ain’t that bad.” 

She raised an eyebrow. No words. Just mom-mode judgment. 

“Okay, okay,” he surrendered, hands in the air. “No Skittery. But Blink’s good with kids. And Crutchie? Come on. He’s a sweetheart. Who wouldn’t love him?” 

Flash rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the little smile tugging at her lips. “Alright. Fine. Thank you. Really.” 

Racetrack shrugged. “Don’t mention it. And if Delta can swing the interview on a Sunday, I’ll watch her myself.” 

Flash bit her bottom lip, eyebrows raised. “Mighty nice of you to give up your only day off. You sure?” 

“Absolutely.” 

The sun was starting to set, casting golden light in through the windows to kiss their skin. The kind of light that made everything look like it was on fire. 

Racetrack leaned back, folding his cards into a loose stack. “Alright, kid. You win. Again. I’m starting to think you’re still cheating.” 

“I’m not cheating at all,” Mabel said with exaggerated innocence, clutching the deck to her chest. “I’m just gifted .” 

Flash shook her head, grinning. “Gifted or not, it’s past your bedtime.” 

Mabel groaned. “But—” 

“Nope. Don’t ‘but’ me. Say goodnight and go wash up.” 

Mabel narrowed her eyes, clearly calculating how far she could push it. One look from Flash told her... not far. 

With a dramatic sigh, she dragged herself to her feet. “Fine. But I expect a rematch tomorrow. And this time, I’ll only use one hand.” 

Racetrack chuckled. “Can’t wait.” 

Mabel started toward the hallway, then doubled back just long enough to throw her arms around Racetrack in a hug that nearly knocked the wind out of him. “Night, Uncle Race.” 

“Night, you little shark.” 

She glanced at Delta and offered a small, shy wave before disappearing around the corner. 

Flash turned back towards them and gestured to the hallway. “Let me walk you out.” 

They didn’t argue. Just stood and followed her quietly toward the front door. The house was quieter, the kind of quiet that made memories feel louder. Made them realize how different things were now. But also how some things just never change, no matter how much time passes. 

Flash cleared her throat, suddenly unable to look them in the eye. “I really am sorry you guys,” she said softly. “I promise when I leave again, I’ll tell you where I’m going. And I’ll write. Of course, I’ll write.” 

“You’re not leaving again,” Delta said dismissively.  

“Delta... Yes I am. Did Race not tell you?” She flicked her head over to Racetrack who shrugged as if to say she doesn’t listen.  

“ Oh no, he told me. But I’m telling you. I don’t think you’re going anywhere,” she finished, like she was stating something obvious. Cut and dry. 

Flash sighed, defeated. Arguing with Delta would be pointless. The woman was a walking crystal ball. She already knew what you were going to say before you said it. 

“Okay, Delta. We’ll see.” 

Flash reached out and pulled them both into a hug, awkwardly squishing them so their bodies were pushed up against each other. 

Racetrack and Delta shot each other a sideways look. She was way more lovey than she used to be. 

She let them go and smiled. “Ya’ll come back tomorrow? I can make dinner. We can catch up. You can tell me all about this Lenora Carrow... investigative stuff.” 

Racetrack grinned and clapped her on the back. “Hey, free food? Ain’t gotta ask me twice. Delta?” 

Delta hesitated. On one hand, her workload was starting to increase. She was taking new cases every other day, never working on less than three at a time. And she was getting bogged down more and more. On the other hand... she’d missed her friend. As much as she hated to admit it. 

Delta felt herself smile at the offer. “Sure. Sounds good.” 

They gave her a little wave and Flash watched them until they disappeared down the footpath and out of sight. 

She gave a little sigh of relief, glad that it hadn’t turned as ugly as she thought it might, before swinging the door closed. 

The sound of something sliding across the floor caught her attention and her head dropped, eyes searching the floorboards. She almost thought she’d imagined it until her eyes found the source. Half of an envelope sticking out from under the baseboard behind the door. 

How long had that been wedged back there? She furrowed her brow in confusion before bending down to yank it out. 

It was dusty. Looked old, like it hadn’t been touched in years. It was still sealed, the contents inside seeming to have never been read. She turned it over and almost dropped it back on the floor. 

There on the front in familiar handwriting was her name. Not Flash. Not Becker. But Allie. 

She could feel her heartbeat in her throat and her mouth went dry. Because she knew who this was from. 

Flash tore the envelope open with shaky hands, trying not to rip what was inside. Her eyes flew to the first line. And before she knew it, she was devouring this letter like a woman starved. 

Little Bird,   

I don’t know how to start this. I’ve stared at the paper so long the candle’s burned itself out beside me.   

You used to say I was good with words when I wanted to be. Quick with comebacks, sharp as a blade. But none of that helps now. Not when it counts. Not when it’s you.   

I’ve been in fights where I’ve bled enough to stain the floor. Watched boys die. Buried more names than I can remember. But nothing’s ever hit like this.   

You.   

You are the thing I never saw coming. The one I didn’t know I needed until I couldn’t imagine the world without you in it.   

You were fire in the cold. A storm I would’ve walked into willingly, over and over, just to be near the eye of it. Just to find peace in the chaos.   

You saw things in me I didn't want anyone else to notice. Things I thought I’d buried too deep to matter. You looked at me like I was good  Even when I wasn’t. Especially when I wasn’t. You saw the blood on my hands and didn’t flinch.   

That scared the hell out of me.   

Because I think you’re the only one who’s ever really known me. And loved me anyway.   

I don’t know how to carry this. I don’t know how to move through the world without checking over my shoulder, hoping I’ll see you coming around the corner, all spitfire and stubbornness and light.   

But I know this:   

I loved you. I love you still.   

Not in the way men write about in songs. Not the kind people toast to in bars.  
Real love. The kind that stays buried in your ribs long after the person’s gone. The kind that teaches you where your soul is because it hurts there.  

You told me you thought you were turning into your father. That scared you.   

But I wish you could see what I see.   

You are nothing like him.  
You’re strong. Braver than anyone I’ve ever met. You left because you needed to, and that took guts. It took clarity.  
And I hate it. God, I hate it.  

But I get it.   

Wherever you are — if you’re starting over, if you’re healing, if you’re learning how to breathe again — I hope you know this:   

You were the best part of me.   

And I’ll love you until this whole damn city sinks into the river.   

Forever and always yours,  
S.C. 

Flash didn’t realize she was crying until a tear dropped onto the paper, almost bleeding onto the ink. She thought she’d buried these feelings. She thought she was over it. Moved on. But this... This brought it all back. Everything she ran from. Every heartache, every bit of pain, every ounce of love. It all flooded her chest at once. 

“Mama, it’s time for my bedtime story!” Mabel called from the bedroom, excitement ringing in her voice. 

Flash hurriedly wiped the tears from her face and folded the letter before following Mabel into the room. 

“You’re right, it is.” 

Flash tucked the folded letter into her old jewelry box on the dresser. It had never actually held any jewelry at all. Except the key, many moons ago. 

Mabel raised an eyebrow curiously. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing to the box. 

Flash sniffed and gave her a fake smile. “Nothing sweetheart, just some old paperwork I found when I was cleaning out our moving boxes.” She clapped her hands and rubbed them together. “Okay, get in bed. Which story do you wanna hear tonight?” 

Mabel squealed and jumped into the bed, tugging the covers up over her little legs. “Can you tell the one where Birdie almost gets trapped by the Phylo Monster? And Dagger Carraway comes and saves her with Storm Callahan and Rock Hoggins?” 

“Mabel, I’ve told that one a hundred times.” 

“So?” Mabel said defensively. “It’s my favorite one. Storm is strong. And Rock is funny. And I want to be like Dagger when I grow up.” 

Flash felt a pang in her chest and had to take in a deep breath before answering. “Okay, fine. But one time and then you go to sleep. Deal?” 

Mabel grinned and held out her pinky, locking it with her mom’s. “Deal. Now come on, Mama. Get on with it.” 

Flash smiled and sat down on the edge of the bed. She began like she’d done time and time again. About the tale of Little Birdie and her 3 Amazing Friends.  

Chapter Text

November 1907  

He never asked questions about the things done in the shadows. It was easier that way. Especially now, since he was a shadow lurker himself. Plausible deniability was easiest when you knew as little as possible. 

Show up. Get in. Do what was asked. Get out. 

Same four steps, every time. He followed them like scripture. He didn’t need to know what debt he was collecting, just the best means to get it. The why didn’t matter. Only the how.  

Spot was usually their last resort. Contrary to what the other street gangs would tell you, the Gophers had a method to their madness. Not always a thirst for blood. But they knew when to pull the pin on the grenade. 

And Spot knew when to go boom.  

Wes Draper was the subject of the night. Spot’s age, 24, with a habit of defaulting on payment. He just couldn’t seem to grasp the concept of legal tender for services rendered . Guess he thought Tribeca was too out-of-the-way for the Gophers to bother with. 

Wrong.  

Spot took a long drag of his cigarette as he searched the outside perimeter of Draper’s property. Some guys thought they were clever and set traps for him. But he could sniff those out with one nostril stuffed and the other sewn shut.  

Amateurs.  

Draper must have had at least a little sense not to prolong the inevitable. Because traps wouldn’t have stopped Spot. Just slowed him down a hair.  

Yard clear. Porch empty. Doorframe un-rigged. Child’s play. 

But he’d done enough jobs to know when a house was too quiet. 

Spot flicked the butt of his cigarette over his shoulder, not bothering to put it out before he tucked the bat in the crook of his arm.  His feet made no noise as he moved up the steps. Slow. Deliberate. 

Front door was locked but that hadn’t stopped him before. The lock was cheap brass. Yale style with a little rust around the keyhole. Someone didn’t want uninvited guests.  

He pulled a slender tension bar from the inside of his boot and a pick from his sleeve.  

 It took him eight seconds. 

 Didn’t even try. 

The house was dark, save for a dim glow bleeding from a room in the back. From what Spot could see, Draper didn’t take care of his things. 

Newspapers littered the floor. Clothes draped over every piece of furniture. The air stank— stale piss and something rotten beneath it. 

It looked ransacked. 

And if Spot didn’t know better, he’d think he’d already been here. 

He moved toward the back of the house, bat slung across his shoulders, a jovial whistle curling from his lips. 

No sense being quiet now. Draper had nowhere to run. And if he was stupid enough to try... Well. He’d better hope he wasn’t. 

Light spilled from the doorway to Draper’s room, casting half a shadow across Spot’s face as he paused in the frame, making his presence somehow even more ominous. 

Good. 

Wes stood frozen, one hand clutching his chest, the other tucked behind his leg like he was trying to obscure something from view. 

His eyes went wide when he saw Spot standing there and his voice trembled. 

“Conlon. What’re, uh... what are you doin’ here?” he stammered, gaze darting between Spot’s face and the bat balanced across his shoulders. 

Spot didn’t say a word. Just stared — hard — eyes locked on the arm Draper kept behind his back. 

C’mon, Wes. Don’t be a fucking idiot.  

Draper caught the look and panicked, quickly raising both hands. “No, no — I ain’t got nothin’, I swear. I ain’t tryin’ to pull a fast one on you.” 

Spot pulled the bat from his shoulders and let the bottom rest against the floorboards in front of him, casually leaning on it. Like he wasn’t there to squeeze money from him like toothpaste from a tin tube. 

“You’re late,” Spot said simply. 

Draper swallowed hard, his breath coming more rapidly. “Look, I was gonna pay,” he said, backing toward a cluttered desk. “I just—things got... delayed.” 

Spot glanced around the room. It didn’t look much better than the rest of the house. Cracked wallpaper. Broken blinds. Trash. A door to the right that probably led to a filthy, shit crusted bathroom.  

“Black Jack don’t like excuses.” 

“Yeah, I know. I know, it’s just—the delivery, it wasn’t—what I paid for, it was—” 

“You didn’t pay.” He cut him off. Calm. Even. “That’s why I’m here.” 

He flinched like he’d been slapped and his breath caught in his throat. “I didn’t mean no disrespect, alright? It’s just... I don’t even have it anymore. It’s not what I asked for, so I got rid of it. I was pretty specific in—” 

It didn’t matter what he’d asked for. He was lucky they’d even done business with someone that was dumb enough to waste their time. And he told him as much. 

“Don’t care.” Spot’s voice cut through him. “Could’ve asked for a diamond and got a rock from the bottom of the Hudson. Still gotta pay.” 

“Okay,” he said finally. “Okay. But I need more time to come up with the funds.” 

Spot raised an eyebrow and did a little nod, picking the bat up to lean on one of his shoulders. “Wes— I can call you Wes, right? Wes, I’m a reasonable man. You say you ain’t got the money nor the product now. That’s fine. I’ll go talk to Black Jack and explain the situation. See if we can work something out.” 

Draper sighed with relief.  

“Really?” 

“No.” 

The bat came down in one clean, brutal swing. It connected with Draper’s knee, the sound a gunshot in the cramped room. He let out a scream of agony as he dropped to the floor, cradling his leg in his arms. Retching. Tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. 

“Still need more time?” 

Draper shook his head quickly, rocking back and forth with his mangled leg still held tightly like pressure was going to put his kneecap back together. 

“Top drawer,” he managed to choke out between guttural groans. “Money’s in the top drawer. Take it. Please just take it.” 

Spot slid the drawer to the desk open, a wad of ones thrown carelessly inside like garbage. He picked it up and thumbed through it, counting out the money owed in one hand and shoving the rest in his front pocket. 

“Hope you don’t mind me taking a bit for my troubles,” Spot told him, rolling up Black Jack’s cut and tucking it into his coat. “Compensation for making me have to get my hands dirty.” 

Spot stepped back into the doorway, bat in the crook of his arm again. “Pleasure doing business with you, Wes. I look forward to more in the future.” 

He gave Draper a wry smile and turned to leave. Then paused. 

A thud . Then a slight wheeze.   

From the other side of the door he assumed was a bathroom. 

Spot’s eyes snapped to the sound. Then to Wes. 

“You live here alone, Wes?” 

Draper didn’t look up. Still hunched, eyes locked on his broken knee. “Yes. Yeah, I do.” 

Spot stared at him — cold and unmoved. “Don’t lie.” 

“I do,” Wes said quickly, head jerking up. “My... Christ, my cat’s in there. It’s just my cat.” 

Spot didn’t believe him. Cats didn’t make sounds that loud. But he didn’t press. Not yet. He’d humor him. Let him pretend it was a cat.  

But something twisted in his stomach. Slow. Deep.  

A feeling he couldn’t quite name gnawed at him. He filed it away. Something to examine later. 

Because his intuition was usually sharp and right on target. It told him something was off.  

Wrong. 

But he walked out anyways, bat never leaving his shoulder.  

And the feeling never leaving his gut. 

Racetrack knocked twice and let himself in, just like old times. The Bushwick house still smelled like lemon polish and dust and something sweet in the air — like someone had tried to cover up the years with sugar and soap. 

He could smell remnants of the breakfast Flash had made for Mabel as he walked down the corridor that led to the living room. That must’ve been the sweet smell. Molasses. It made his mouth water, and he wished that he would’ve thought to eat something beforehand. 

Flash was at the sink, elbow deep in soapy water with a stack of clean dishes on the counter next to her. She refused to let dishes sit in the sink for any length of time. Racetrack remembered that. 

“Race,” she said as she caught sight of him coming around the corner. She wiped her hands off on a towel and pointed to one of the barstools at the prep counter. “Sit. Eat.” It wasn’t a question; it was a demand. 

He didn’t argue as she brought out a heaping plate of food. Bacon, scrambled eggs, hot biscuits with marmalade and molasses, stewed apples with cinnamon, and a bowl of oatmeal.  

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he said, but he quickly pulled the fork from her hand and stabbed it into the mountain of eggs. Christ, she’d even put cheese on them. 

She slid a cup of coffee across the counter to him and poured him a glass of milk to go along with it. “Shut up, Higgins. Finish your food. Because you’re gonna need as much energy as possible to keep up with my daughter.” 

Racetrack snorted, shoving a strip of bacon into his mouth. “C’mon, you’re exaggerating. Mabel ain’t no worse than any other kid. And I dealt with plenty of those back in the day. Little boys are rowdier than little girls.” 

Flash shot him a look. “Mabel is... smart. Her mind works a bit different than other kids, Race.” 

Racetrack shrugged a shoulder. “So she’s smart. What’s that gotta do with the price of tea in China?” 

“Means she’s sneaky. Has a penchant for trouble and mischief,” she said, wiping the counter down with a wet cloth. “You gotta keep a close eye on her.” 

“Reminds me of someone else I know,” he muttered under his breath, spooning marmalade on one of the biscuits. His comment earned him another dirty look and he grinned. 

“I’m serious, Racetrack. She’ll try to pull one over on you when you least expect it. You have to stay one step ahead of her.” 

Racetrack waved her off, taking a sip of his coffee. She’d made it the way he liked it. Black. No cream, no sugar. One thing they still had in common. 

There was a lull in their banter for a beat and Flash cleared her throat, busying herself with sweeping the kitchen floor. 

“Speaking of unexpected things,” she began, not meeting his gaze as she spoke, “Found something under a baseboard a few days ago.” 

Racetrack sat his coffee back down and raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? What’d you find, tickets to a matinee at The Astor?” he joked. 

She didn’t laugh and didn’t look at him as she continued. “A letter.” He didn’t say anything. “From Spot,” she clarified, finally moving her eyes to meet his. 

“Recent?”  

She shook her head.  

“Old?”  

A nod. 

He let out a low breath as his memory recalled the day she left six years previously. Spot had been... frankly, Spot had been a blubbering mess. Going on and on about the things he regretted, the things he never said, the actions he shouldn’t have taken. Mentioned wanting to leave a letter shoved under her door. Only wanting to do it because she’d never read it. Or he thought she’d never read it. 

“What’d it uh... what’d it say?” He asked, tentatively stirring sugar into the oatmeal. It was thick. Thick like the loaded silence that had found its way into the room. 

Flash stopped sweeping and turned her body to face his, one hand on her hip and the other gripping the broom handle. “Well, he wasn’t talking to me about the weather, was he? It was... a confession of sorts. A vulnerable, messy, beautiful confession.” 

“Love.” 

He didn’t have to ask. He knew. He had a feeling he knew exactly what was in that letter. 

Flash crossed the room and leaned against the counter, folding her arms. “Part of me hated him for writing it. For waiting until it was too late. And part of me—” she faltered, “part of me’s been reading it every night like it’s the word of God.” 

Racetrack didn’t look at her. He didn’t have to. “That’s Spot for you. Always said the right thing after it stopped mattering.” 

A beat passed. Then Flash’s voice softened. “You think he’s gone, Race? Like... really gone?” 

He sighed through his nose. “He’s still here. Just... not the way you remember him.” 

“What do you mean?” she asked surprised. 

He hesitated, looking down at his half-eaten plate of food, unsure of how much to tell her. Because he didn’t even know himself what was true anymore. 

“After you left um... Spot kind of fell apart. Not publicly. Not outwardly. Not emotionally after that first day. But when you disappeared...” he swallowed hard, “You took something of his with you.” 

Flash scrunched her eyebrows together but stayed silent, urging him to continue. 

“You took his humanity, Flash. His hope. All of the good pieces of him. They went with you onto that boat.” 

Flash felt a pang in her chest. She knew Racetrack wasn’t trying to make her feel bad. Or hurt her. But his intent didn’t change the way those words ate up her insides, no crumbs of hope left in the pit of her stomach. 

“Where is Spot now?” she asked, unable to keep the concern out of her voice. 

Racetrack half-shrugged again and lifted his hand with the motion. “Around, I guess. I’ve heard a couple different things. None of them good.” 

“What kind of things?” 

He paused. He knew this would disappoint the hell out of her. She’d seen Spot’s potential for great things more than most. Looked past things that others viewed as undesirable. She found the strength hidden in his flaws. Even if she’d hated them. It would upset her to know that the strength in his flaws hadn’t been used for good. 

“Illegal activity. Street gangs. He’s involved in some... really dark stuff, Flash. Darker than you or I can probably fathom. No one knows for sure. I’ve only seen him a handful of times in the last couple of years.” Racetrack shook his head and sighed. “He doesn’t speak to anyone. Looks right through me when I pass. Like I’m not even there. Like we don’t even know each other. And maybe we don’t anymore,” he finished quietly.  

A creak sounded in the next room and Flash’s eyes glanced towards the closed door, glad that Mabel tended to get distracted for long periods of time. This isn’t something she needed to hear. 

She hadn’t meant to snoop. 

Not really. 

But the look on her mama’s face when she’d shoved that piece of paper into the box had piqued her curiosity. Boring paperwork for a dusty old house wouldn’t have made her mama cry like that. Because even though Flash had wiped her eyes and put on a brave face, Mabel was too observant for her own good. 

The box was in the corner of her mama’s bedroom, tucked behind a pile of sewing scraps and an old hat. Mabel had waited until no one was looking, then snuck it open like it was a treasure chest. 

The letter wasn’t too long. Not like the fairy tales Flash told her before bed. But the writing was strange — crooked and faded in places. She couldn’t make out every word, but she knew some. 

“ Little Bird .” 

That part she could read. It was written all fancy, like the way Uncle Race signed his name on those little poker notes he wrote for her. 

She mouthed it quietly. Little Bird. 

The name sounded soft and sad and secret. And Mabel couldn’t help but think about the Chronicles of Little Birdie and her 3 Amazing Friends. Her mama must’ve liked birds a lot.  

“I don’t know... how to... s-s-start this... I’ve stared at the paper... so long the...” 
“...can-dle’s burned... itself out,” she whispered to herself, dragging a finger under the words like her mama had shown her how to do when she read. 

Did candles usually burn themselves? She didn’t know. But it sounded lonely. 

She kept reading. “ You used to say I was good with... words...”  

“That scared the hell out of me.”  

Mama had scared them. Mabel didn’t know how. Unless she had yelled. Mama could get kind of scary when she got loud. 

She skipped a few lines that made her mouth twist up. She didn’t know comebacks or chaos or buried — at least not yet. But she did know the next line her eyes fell on. 

“ I loved you. I love you still.”  

She blinked. Read it again. 

She knew what that meant. Her mama said it to her every night before bed. And a thousand times in between. And whoever wrote this... they loved her mama. Just like her mama loved her. 

She kept reading, slower now. Skipping and stumbling over the lines and words she didn’t recognize. 

“ Real...love.”  

She frowned. She didn’t know what kind of love wasn’t real. Was there a such thing as pretend love?  

Near the bottom, her voice caught on the words again. 

“ You were... the best part... of me.”  

Her eyes narrowed. Best part? That didn’t make much sense. How could someone else be a part of you ? 

“ Always and forever... S.C.”  

Mabel’s stomach flipped. Little Bird . Now S.C. Storm Callahan? The boy from mama’s stories that got his name from the storm in his heart? He’d always protect Birdie. He was the first on scene when the bad guys would come after her to put her in a cage. Storm would lead Dagger and Rock to save her. 

Rock. Rock Hoggins. 

Mabel furrowed her brows, her eyes darting to the closed bedroom door between her and the two adults on the other side. Her mama. And Uncle Race. What did her mama call him sometimes? Higgins? 

Race. Race Higgins. 

Sounded an awful lot like Rock Hoggins. 

Her mother’s voice called out to her from the kitchen, muffled by the bedroom door. 

“Mabel! Come in here, I have to go now! Aunt Delta’s here to take me to my interview.” 

Mabel flinched and hopped up, running quietly across the room towards the open jewelry box. She folded the letter and stuffed it back inside, throwing the sewing scraps and old hat back in front of it. 

“Coming Mama!” she called back, giving the box one last look over her shoulder. 

Mabel didn’t know much. She might not have known all the words in that letter. She might not know why her Mama hid it from her. But she did know that whoever wrote it loved her Mama real big. And was sad when her Mama left.  

Her bedtime stories didn’t seem to be the work of her Mama’s imagination anymore. They were real. Which meant the people in them were real.  

Birdie was real. 

Rock Hoggins was real. And Dagger Carroway. 

And Storm Callahan was real. 

S.C. 

And she was going to find him. 

Chapter Text

Most people didn’t know this, but Racetrack was a halfway decent artist. He always said it had everything to do with his steady gambler hands. But his ability to remember details and active imagination were the real stars of the show.  

He wasn’t the best by any means. But he’d practiced enough to be considered above average. That’s why his horse looked like a horse. And Mabel’s pirate looked like he’d taken a tumble off the side of the ship.  

“His leg’s backwards,” Race observed, tilting his head at her drawing.  

“That’s his sea leg,” Mabel said matter-of-factly, sticking her tongue out slightly as she colored in the pirate’s eyepatch.  

Race grinned. “Ah, got it. Pirate anatomy. My mistake.”  

“Uncle Race, you think pirates ever went to Coney Island?” she asked, moving her pencil to color in the hook hand she’d carefully drawn.  

Racetrack smiled to himself as he shaded in the shadow coming off the horse’s backside. “Oh absolutely. Probably got bored of the Caribbean. Went searching for hot dogs and a cure for scurvy.”  

Mabel giggled and shifted to a new sheet of paper, peering over at Racetrack’s drawing to try and duplicate it. She drew softer now. Quieter.  

The afternoon light beamed in through the front room window, catching on the soft dust that always seemed to linger in old houses like this. Racetrack liked this time of day. It made everything look warm. Happy. Like nothing ever went wrong.  

Mabel broke the silence again. “You ever tell stories, Uncle Race?” she asked, not taking her eyes off the page.  

He arched a brow. “All the time. Especially if there’s a crowd and someone’s buyin’ drinks.”  

She giggled. “No, I mean like... bedtime stories. Not ones with cards and horses and tricks. I mean the kind with heroes. And monsters.”  

Race leaned back on one hand. “Suppose I’ve heard a few. Never told any. Why? Your mama tell you any good ones?”  

Mabel nodded slowly. “Mm-hmm. She tells me lots of stories. They’re all about a girl named Birdie and her three amazing friends. There is a smart one named Dagger Carroway. She got her name because she can slice through things using her words. I wanna be like her when I grow up.”  

Racetrack chuckled. “Dagger, huh? Wouldn’t have picked that as a name for a children’s story character but hey, to each their own.”  

 Mabel continued, ignoring his comment. “And then there’s Rock Hoggins. He’s funny. And my favorite . Mama said he got his name because he was heavy enough to hold everyone down when it felt like they were gonna float away.”  

Racetrack’s pencil stopped moving as he stilled his hand. This was starting to sound... familiar.  

Cutting through stuff with words. Delta. That was Delta through and through. Could slice you to your core with the truth without so much as breaking a nail.  

Rock? There was no way that wasn’t him. Flash had told him once that he kept her grounded when she felt like she was drifting too far away. And come on. Rock Hoggins? She couldn’t have come up with something cooler for him? Geez, she didn’t even try. He’d be having a talk with her about this one.  

“Then there’s the brave one...” She paused, glancing sideways at him. “He was the one with the storm in his chest.”  

Race stopped fidgeting with the edge of the paper. His eyes stayed on Mabel. “Storm?”  

She nodded her head, not looking up at him. “Mama said he had a lot of love in his heart but the storm always tried to drown it. That’s why his name is Storm Callahan.”  

Racetrack swallowed, carefully setting his pencil down.  

“Storm Callahan, huh?” he repeated, like he was rolling the name around in his mouth.  

Mabel nodded again, still focused on her drawing. But he could see the way her eyes flicked toward him every few seconds, testing the waters. Like she was fishing for something — not sure what kind of catch she’d get.  

“He sounds like the hero,” Race said carefully.  

“He was,” Mabel replied. “But then he got lost. Mama said the storm got too big. And Birdie had to fly away.”  

Race’s mouth went dry.  

“But I think Storm wrote Birdie a letter. A real letter. I found it in mama’s jewelry box.” She laid her pencil down and tucked her hands under her chin. “It said Little Bird at the top. And it had a lot of feelings in it.”  

Race’s brows drew together. He leaned forward a little. “Feelings? What kind of feelings?”  

Mabel looked at him, eyes wide with innocence but riddled with deception he hadn’t picked up on. “Love feelings. It didn’t say Storm at the bottom, but I know it was from him. The name started with an S. And Storm starts with an S.”  

Well, the girl clearly knew her alphabet, he’d give her that.  

“Do you know what the name was?”  

Mabel’s eyes looked to the ceiling like she was trying to remember something. “No. But I remember there was an S. And a C. Mama said his name before. She told me about the real boy with the storm in his chest.”  

Racetrack coughed to clear his throat. This was getting a bit too real for him now. Hitting a little too close for comfort.  

Mabel could see he was close to cracking. He got that same look on his face that Mama did when she asked her something she wasn’t expecting. The look that meant she was real close to getting an answer.  

“Do you know him, Uncle Race? The real Storm Callahan?” she pressed, watching him crack the rest of the way, like the ceramic pot she’d accidentally dropped in Ms. Caoimhe’s art class.  

“Yeah, kid. I do. Just like I know who Dagger is. And Rock. And Birdie,” he said quietly.  

She raised her eyebrows, feigning innocence again. “Can you please tell me? Pretty please?”  

He bit his bottom lip and sighed through his nose, shaking his head slowly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, kid.”  

Mabel pouted, poking out her bottom lip and making her eyes as wide as possible. “Please, Uncle Race? I’ll never ask you for anything ever again. And I won’t tell Mama you told me. Honest!”  

She placed a hand over her heart and Racetrack could feel himself giving in.  

“Alright. Fine,” he muttered. “Just stop looking at me like that. It’s hardly fair.”  

Mabel did a little squeal and sat up so she was cross legged in front of him. She slid their drawings to the side and rested her hands in her lap, looking up at him expectantly.  

“Okay, I’m ready. Let’s hear it, mister.”   

He sighed and tossed the pencil he’d been rolling between his fingers. This wasn’t something he’d been prepared for. He did not wake up today thinking he was going to tell a precocious six-year-old about what life was like before she was born. About how her mom had been. Who Delta was. Why she hadn’t met any of them until recently. And he definitely did not think he would ever be telling her about Spot Conlon.  

“You remember that lady from the other night at dinner? With the red hair?” he asked, resting his elbows on his knees and folding his hands under his chin, leaning closer to her.  

Mabel nodded slowly, smiling with glee. Too easy.  

Racetrack dropped his voice low, like he was scared Delta would pop around the corner any second. He wouldn’t put it past her to be hiding in the linen closet. “That’s Delta. But you know her as Dagger.”  

Mabel’s eyes widened for real this time. “ That’s Dagger? Well, Mama lied then. Her words didn’t cut nothin’.”  

Racetrack couldn’t hide his smirk. “They don’t cut for real. Not where you can see.” He pointed at his chest, finger right above his heart. “They cut you here . Because the best thing about Delta is she can see stuff. Stuff you hide inside you. Her words cut the stuff loose. Makes you feel free.”  

Mabel’s lips parted, like she wanted to say something else — but she didn’t. She just nodded, eyes flickering toward the closed door like she was tucking that bit away for later.  

Racetrack continued, moving onto himself. “Rock is me. Guess your mama thinks I help people by grabbing onto them and not letting them fly into the sun.”  

“Like balloons?”  

“Yeah, I guess. Like balloons.”  

She peered over his arm again, tracing the leg of his horse with her eyes and moving her pencil to try and copy the shape. “Mama says Rock was Birdie’s best friend. And that Birdie and Rock used to get into all sorts of adventures together before the other two came along.”  

He felt a calmness settle over him at her words. She was right. Birdie and Rock had been best friends. Before everything got so convoluted. So tainted with sadness and regrets. He didn’t like to think about that though. He preferred to remember all the good stuff.  

The time he’d helped clean her up after that nasty fight. Halloween, where she first admitted to actually liking his presence. Thanksgiving. His birthday where she schooled him in poker for the first time. He still had the coin she’d made him, tucked in his sock drawer at home. He’d taken it out a few times over the years to read the words. In Race We Trust.  

It had stopped bringing him luck soon after she left.  

He smiled sadly. “Yeah. They were the best of friends.”  

Mabel gave him a cheeky grin. “Mama also said Dagger and Rock love each other. But they’re both too... gunk-co on pretending they don’t.”  

His mouth went dry and he felt warmth creep up his neck. Now he’d really be having a talk with Flash. Seems she took creative liberties with the facts.  

Racetrack blinked. “Gunk-co?”  

“Yeah,” Mabel said, like it was obvious.  

“ Gung-ho,” he corrected, rubbing his temple. “And no, that part isn’t true.”  

They were both silent, Mabel still grinning up at him with her eyebrow raised.  

“Did she really say that?” he asked after a beat. “Because I’m tellin’ you, Mabel, she made that up.”  

Mabel didn’t say anything. Just kept staring, smug as a cat who’d caught a canary.  

And Racetrack had the distinct feeling she didn’t believe him one bit.  

But she breezed past it, giving him a shred of mercy. Because even she knew grown-ups didn’t always like saying what feelings they had.  

“So, Aunt Delta is Dagger,” she clarified, ticking each character off on her fingers. “You’re Rock. Mama is Birdie... Who is Storm?”  

He hesitated.  

If he told her this, he could be opening a door that Flash had all but bolted shut. Once the name left his mouth, there would be no taking it back.  

But he couldn’t lie to the kid. Not when she was looking at him with those piercing blue-grey eyes.  

“Alright, listen close you little shark, ‘cause I’m only gonna say this once.”  

She nodded solemnly, like she was taking an oath to keep this a secret.  

He swallowed, passing the point of no return. “Storm is a guy named Spot. Spot Conlon. And your Ma wasn’t too far off about the stormy chest thing. He was... a king. The King of Brooklyn. And your Ma? She was the Queen of Queens.”  

Mabel’s mouth dropped to her knees. “Mama never told me she was a Queen.”  

“Not a real Queen. But she was a queen in a way that mattered. Your mama is one tough lady. And Spot was one tough man. And together, they made one tough team,” he finished, sitting back up.  

Mabel was quiet for a minute. And then softly: “Did Spot love my mama, Uncle Race?”  

He gave her a sad smile, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, kid. And your mama loved Spot.”   

“Then why didn’t they stay together?”  

How could he tell her that when he wasn’t even sure he knew the answer himself? But he knew he had to give her something. Mabel wasn’t the type to take no for an answer. She was persistent. Like him.  

“Look, kid... sometimes people don’t get to be together, no matter how much love they have. Sometimes when you really love someone, it hurts. And the best way to get that hurt to go away is to let it go.”  

“So, Mama let him go... even though she loved him?” she asked confused.  

Racetrack nodded, his mouth a soft line. “She let him go because she loved him.”  

He patted her hand and turned away, signaling the end of the conversation.  

But Mabel wasn’t done. Not yet. She still had one more very important question.  

“Where is Mr. Conlon now?”  

Racetrack shrugged, picking his paper back up to add the final details to his horse and carriage. “Beats me, kid. Last I heard, the boy with the storm inside him was in West Manhattan. Somewhere in Hell’s Kitchen.”  

 He paused, pencil stilling in his hand again as he turned his head toward her. “No place for a kid to go, you hear me? Don’t get no funny ideas.”  

“Mama said Hell is where the Devil lives,” she said, feigning innocence . “She said it’s very hot there. Why would I want to go to his kitchen?”  

Racetrack smiled and ruffled her hair before turning back to the paper. “You’re cute. I think I’ll keep you around.”  

Mabel gave him a sweet smile and went back to her own picture. But she wasn’t focused on it anymore. Not really. Because now, she had to figure out what Hell’s Kitchen was. Where it was. And how she could manage to get there.  

She had a general idea about where Manhattan was. She remembered it being on the other side of that big bridge. The Brooklyn Bridge? Were they in Brooklyn? She wasn’t sure.  

But she did know that it would take a really long time for her to get to that bridge. Unless she could get creative.  

But how would she get out of the house without Uncle Race stopping her?  

And then it came to her. Easy. Because Mabel was more cunning than most people gave her credit for.  

She colored in silence for another few minutes, her brain spinning faster than her pencil. She had a name. A place. A direction.  

All she needed was a window.  

She glanced up at Uncle Race. He was humming some old tune she didn’t recognize, nose scrunched as he concentrated on adding reins to the horse in his picture.  

Time to start the act.  

“Uncle Race?”  

“Yeah, kid?”  

“I’m hungry.”  

He didn’t even blink or look up from his horse. “Didn’t your mama feed you a ginormous breakfast like two hours ago? I can still smell it in the air.”  

“I’m growing,” she said with complete seriousness. “And drawing makes me hungry.”  

Race rolled his eyes but pushed up from the floor. “Alright, alright. What do you want? A sandwich? Fruit? Caviar on crackers?”  

“Peanut butter and jam!” she called, a little too cheerfully. “With the crusts cut off, please.”  

He walked his way to the kitchen, busying himself with finding the bread.  

Mabel waited until she heard the rustling of the bag and the clink of the butterknife against the counter before she jumped to her feet, tossing the pencil on the floor. He was focused. Busy. Not paying her a bit of attention.  

She stretched dramatically. “I’m gonna go use the bathroom!” she called to him, turning on her heel.  

“Alright, yell if you fall in!”  

She snorted, disappearing into the bathroom and locking the door behind her. She looked around, eyes falling to the window. It was pretty high up. She’d have to stand on the wicker basket that mama put clothes in. And he might hear her.  

She twisted the tap on the sink until the water came on to mask her sounds. The wicker basket creaked as she dumped the contents in the floor and tipped it over to stand on the top.  

How’d you open a window? She pushed against the glass and to her surprise, the window swung open. Simple enough.  

Mabel ducked her head out and threw one leg over the ledge, shimmying herself down the side until her tiptoe touched the ground and she could get her other leg through.  

She was out.  

Her hands trembled with excitement at the realization, and she paused to listen, tilting her ear towards the window. Nothing except the running water. She grinned.  

Perfect. Detective Mabel strikes again.  

She bolted down the alley as fast as her little legs would carry her, turning left because she was pretty sure that’s where the bridge was. And the bridge led to Manhattan. And Manhattan led to Hell’s Kitchen. And Hell’s Kitchen?  

That’s where the boy with the storm inside him would be.  

Chapter Text

Pretending was one of Mabel’s favorite things. It was performative. Easy. Fun. And something she’d learned how to do from the minute she could walk. 

Shop keeper. Ballerina. Carriage driver. But this had to be her most important role yet. 

Super-secret spy. 

Her mission: Find Spot Conlon. 

Her tools: sharp eyes, sharper ears, and one unsuspecting Racetrack left back in her kitchen. She almost felt a little guilty for lying. Almost. 

Her disguise: she didn’t need one. Most people didn’t pay any attention to kids as long as they didn’t look lost. So, she made sure it looked like she belonged exactly where she was. Chin up, shoulders rolled back, and a certain spring in her step that only a girl with a mission could have. 

She walked fast, hands jammed in her coat pockets and wild blonde curls bouncing in the afternoon breeze. She scanned every person’s face she could as she walked by them, the city humming and bustling around her. A cacophony of footsteps, carts rattling on cobblestones, and distant shouts from street vendors.  

Now was the time to start asking questions. 

She approached a newsstand and waited until the old man behind it glanced her way. 

“Excuse me,” she piped up. “How do you get to Hell’s Kitchen?” 

The man blinked at her and frowned. “Beg your pardon?” 

“It’s very important,” she added, lowering her voice like it was classified information. “I’m lookin’ for someone. I think he might be a... dangerous guy.” 

The old man gave her a squint. “Go home, kid.” 

Strike one.  

She sighed and stalked off, keeping her eyes peeled for her next target. A woman came out of one of the shops. She looked nice enough. Kind of hoity toity but not mean. She’d do. 

“Hello, Ma’am. Could you point me in the direction of Hell’s Kitchen?” she asked, tugging on the hem of the woman’s dress. “I have someone I’m trying to find.” 

The woman put a hand to her mouth, a concerned look in her eyes. “Oh my, dear. Are you lost? We need to find your parents.” She grabbed Mabel tightly by the hand and swiveled her head around the crowd of people. “There has to be an officer around here that can help us.” 

Mabel yanked her hand back quickly. “No, no—I’m not lost. I’m on assignment.” 

The woman blinked. “Assignment?” 

“Super-secret one,” Mabel said, lowering her voice again and glancing left and right for dramatic effect. “Top priority. Can’t talk about it with civilians.” 

The woman frowned deeper. “Where are your parents?” 

Mabel offered her best innocent smile. “They’re... around. Just waitin’ on me to finish this very important mission.” She took a step back and waved quickly. “Thanks for your help though!” 

She turned and darted into the crowd before the lady could flag down a patrolman. 

Strike two.  

She walked a little faster now, heart thudding in her chest. Not from fear. But excitement. This was the most thrilling thing she’d ever done. Oh, her mama was gonna be so mad at her. No poker for a week probably. Maybe two... but she wasn’t going to think about that right now. 

She was in the thick of it. The thick of the city. And she loved it. 

Tiptoeing around corners like she was trying to pull off one of those jewel heists her mama told her about in those detective novels. Ducking under signs and traipsing through alleyways like she was in a corn maze.  

She had made it into a little game. Spot the Spot. It’d be easier if she knew what he looked like... 

But maybe she’d know when she saw him. Maybe if she got close enough, she’d feel the rain from the storm coming off his skin. 

She weaved through the crowd like smoke, taking care not to get stepped on in the process. Her mama wasn’t a tall lady. Mabel didn’t know about her dad. But she knew that whoever he was, he couldn’t have been that tall either, because Mabel stood about as high as a wastepaper bin. On a good day. 

Her eyes went back to scanning faces. Jackets, hats, boots. Anything she could to get a clue. But she was coming up empty. She didn’t feel or see anything stormy yet. Just a lot of tired eyes, busy mouths, and loud conversations. 

She was starting to think the city was just too big. Too many hats, not enough storms. But then she heard it. 

Not thunder. Not lightning. But laughter. Coming around the corner. Raspy, boisterous, boyish laughter. The kind that was usually ignored by grown-ups. But made kids stop and listen. 

And that’s what Mabel did.  

She sidled around the corner of the building, pausing to lean against a lamppost about ten feet away. The boys: a group of 5 or 6 newsies, draped over a stoop like stray cats, tossing dice, flinging apple cores and talking like they owned the block. 

“—swear it happened,” one of the older boys was saying. “A whole group of ‘em tried to take over. Said the King got soft. Said all of ‘em did. And it was time they ran things their way.” 

“Right. And then the leaders came down on ‘em like a hammer,” another added with a dramatic flourish. “Tore through ‘em in the middle of the night. Busted up the ringleaders, scattered the rest.” 

Mabel’s stomach dropped. Because this sounded familiar. Like she’d heard it a thousand times, just with more... magical flair. 

Kings. Leaders. Take downs in the middle of the night. 

Her mind flashed to the bedtime stories. To Birdie. To Rock. To Dagger. To Storm. The Phylo Monster. It wasn’t just the people that were real. The stories were too. 

“That really happen?” one of the younger ones asked suspiciously. “The mutiny?” 

His friend put a hand on the side of his head and pushed him. “’Course it did. My sister said so. She said everyone was covered in blood by the end of it. Especially him. And his girlfriend too.” 

Mabel’s brows drew together. Storm and... Birdie? Covered in blood? That hadn’t been in her story. Or maybe that was the part mama said wasn’t for six-year-olds. 

She stepped forward, as casual as if she were walking into a bakery, hands in her coat pockets and eyes fixed on the pack of boys. They didn’t notice her at first — too busy arguing about what weapons were used and whether someone got thrown off a roof. 

“Excuse me,” she said firmly. 

That got their attention. All six pairs of eyes turned her way, blinking like they’d just seen a squirrel learn how to talk. 

“What the hell—?” one of them muttered. 

“Language. I have a question,” Mabel said plainly. 

The tallest boy squinted. “You lost, kid?” 

“Nope.” 

“You shouldn’t be here. Little girl like you shouldn’t be wandering by herself. That’s how you go missing.” 

“Well, I am here,” she replied, matter-of-fact. “And you were talkin’ about a mutiny. The one that happened a long time ago. Right?” 

One of them shrugged and cut his eyes to her. “How would you know about it? Judging by the looks of you, you weren’t even alive.” 

She continued, ignoring his question. “The boy. The King you talk about... was his name Spot Conlon?” 

The group erupted into noise again — laughter, disbelief, scoffs. 

“You know Spot?” 

“She thinks she knows Spot.” 

“More like knew him,” one kid snorted. “He ain’t been around in ages, sweetheart. No one sees him unless they got a death wish or an in with the Irish.” 

“I was born in Ireland,” she said coolly, like that settled it. “I know plenty of Irish people.” 

The oldest one of the bunch chuckled. “Not those kind of Irish, doll. You don’t want nothin’ to do with these kind of Irish, trust me.” 

Mabel jutted her chin forward, cocking her head to the side and giving him a sly little smile. “Irish is Irish. I need to find Spot. And I’m not leaving this stoop until you tell me how to get to Hell’s Kitchen. Swear it.” 

They stared at her like she’d just asked for the deed to Manhattan. 

“You serious?” 

“As a heart attack.” She’d heard her mama say that once. 

They exchanged a few more glances, trying to decide if someone put her up to this to pull one over on them. But they could tell, this was no prank. 

The oldest boy answered her again. “Can you read?” 

She nodded, not taking her eyes off his. 

“Alright kid. You see that sign?” He pointed toward the crooked street marker overhead. “Take 35th west all the way to 9th. From there, keep walking ‘til you hit 52nd. Look for a busted-up tavern with a red iron stag above the door. If he’s anywhere, that’s where. But you ain’t gettin’ in.” 

Mabel smirked at him. “Watch me... doll.” She turned on her heel and trotted her way in the direction of 9th Ave, her boots clicking against the ground with the confidence of a girl who didn’t know how to be afraid. 

The city changed the farther she walked. 

Gone were the flower carts and bread stands. The crowds thinned. The air turned heavier — like it had things to hide. The buildings got taller, shadows longer. Men stood on corners with toothpicks in their mouths and mean looks in their eyes. Nobody smiled here. 

Mabel kept walking. 

She stuck to the directions in her head like a map, repeating the street names under her breath like a spell: 35th to 9th… then to 52nd… 

By the time she reached the block, her legs were starting to ache. But she didn’t stop. Couldn’t. 

Because now she was here. 

The Iron Stag didn’t look like much from the outside. Just a squat brick building with a rusted metal sign swinging above the door — shaped like a stag’s head, its antlers twisted like they’d been doodled by someone that forgot how deer looked. The windows were dark. The air outside smelled like smoke and sweat and musk. 

Mabel squared her shoulders and marched up the steps like she’d been invited. 

Then she pushed the door open, walking in briskly like she belonged there. 

The bar went quiet. 

Not all at once, more like the slow ripple of a stone being dropped into a lake. One man coughed awkwardly. Another paused mid-sip of his ale, squinting towards the door like he was expecting to see someone twice her size. 

Cards stopped shuffling. Hands came off sticky tabletops. Chairs scraped on the floorboards as people moved to get a better look. 

And there she stood in all her glory, Mabel Shae Becker, six-years-old, elbows bent and fists on her hips, looking every bit like the sheriff in a town full of outlaws. 

A few of the men laughed. Not because it was funny — more because they didn’t know what else to do. A child didn’t just walk into the Iron Stag. Not without a chaperone. Or a handful of something to sell. 

“Somebody lose their kid?” a guy near the bar asked, glancing behind her like her mother might come barreling through the door next. 

“Nope,” Mabel replied, loud enough to carry through the still room. “I’m lookin’ for someone.” 

That got a few more snickers. A chair creaked as someone leaned back, tipping the legs dangerously close to the floor’s edge. 

“And who exactly are you lookin’ for, sweetheart?” another man asked, voice dry with amusement. 

Mabel stood up straighter. “Spot Conlon.” 

That got their attention. 

A few eyebrows raised. Someone muttered a curse under his breath. One of the men at the card table let out a whistle through his teeth. A different kind of hush settled now. Heavier. 

A tall man with a lopsided cap and crooked nose pushed up from his seat and sauntered over, eyes sharp but not unkind.  

“People don’t come lookin’ for Conlon,” he said. “Conlon goes lookin’ for people. You know what kind of place this is, kid?” 

“Nope,” Mabel said brightly. “Don’t care either.” 

He huffed a laugh. “That so?” 

“Yup.” She hopped up on an empty stool and started kicking her feet beneath it, boots swinging in rhythm. “Only thing that matters about this place is that it’s got Spot Conlon in it.” 

“Listen, lass... this ain’t a place for little girls like you. You need to get goin’.” 

She sighed. “Can you please just go get Mr. Conlon? Tell him... Little Bird says hello.” 

The man froze. 

That name hadn’t passed through this place in years. Not since Brooklyn. Not since Spot Conlon wore a crown, not a chain. 

He stared at her for a beat too long. 

Then he muttered, “Wait here,” and turned, disappearing down the cellar steps toward the office below. 

The basement office was dim. Thick with smoke and silence. 

Spot sat behind the desk, coat off, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He was hunched over an open ledger, one hand curled around a cigarette, the other flipping slowly through a stack of numbers that didn’t add up. Shipments he hadn’t seen come through but had been marked as paid. It didn’t make sense. Where the hell was this cargo? 

The door creaked open, but Spot didn’t look up. 

“Unless this is about someone bleedin’ out in the alley,” he said, “you got ten seconds to close that door and walk away.” 

A pause. 

Then Frankie’s voice, hesitant and edged with something hard. 

“There’s someone upstairs askin’ for you.” 

Spot’s eyes narrowed and flicked up from the ledger and back down again. He flipped the page lazily. “So?” 

“Said to tell you...” The man scratched at the back of his neck. “Said to tell you ‘Little Bird says hello.’” 

Spot froze. 

He stared at the man, hard. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard right or if a ghost had come out of his mouth. 

“ What did you say?” 

“Little Bird,” the guy repeated. “That’s what she said.” 

Spot’s head turned slowly toward him and his voice dropped. “Who?” 

“Didn’t ask.” 

“What the hell do you mean you didn’t ask?” 

The man shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. “Didn’t recognize her. She said the name, I figured you’d want to know.” 

Spot stood up fast, the chair screeching across the floor. He slammed the ledger shut. “If this is a joke, I swear I’ll break someone’s goddamn jaw.” 

“I ain’t jokin’.” 

Spot didn’t wait for more. 

He moved like a dog that’d been unhooked from his chain—up the steps two at a time, teeth clenched, fists curled, pulse pounding in his ears. Little Bird . It had been years. No one used that name. No one should be using that name. 

So who the hell... 

He shoved the basement door open and stepped into the bar, eyes sweeping across the smoke and low light and he stopped. 

Dead still. 

There, sitting on a barstool like it was the most natural thing in the world, was a child. Blonde curls. Boots swinging. Arms folded like she was waiting on her root beer float. 

Spot’s stomach dropped. 

Because she looked just like her. Same hair. Same freckles. Same I-don't-give-a-shit demeanor. 

For a moment, all he could do was stare. His pulse roared in his ears. She didn’t look hurt. Didn’t look scared. She looked... expectant. 

Hopeful. 

His fingers curled into fists. 

“What the fuck is this?” he growled, voice sharp and cracking like a whip through the room. “Who brought her here?” 

No one answered. Because no one had. 

Mabel twisted on her stool, bright-eyed. “Hi,” she said, like she’d been waiting forever. “You’re Spot Conlon, right?” she asked, like she already knew the answer. 

Spot didn’t answer her. Couldn’t. 

Because he was looking at a mirror from a life he hadn’t dared to touch in years. Allie’s smile. Allie’s defiance. And maybe… something else. Something in the eyes. 

And just like that, the floor went out from under him. 

Chapter Text

Spot didn’t know what it was he should be doing. He wasn’t sure about anything really. Not now. Because what he knew to be true in his life… just wasn’t true anymore.  

The only thing he knew for certain, based on fact and irrefutable proof, was that there was a little girl that had managed to meander her way into Gopher territory. No second thought for the consequences. And she was sitting in front of him in the office, a glass of tea in her hand he’d made with a teabag he’d found shoved in the back corner of his desk drawer. Chamomile? Mint? He didn’t know. Didn’t care.  

Believing the words coming out of her mouth proved to be a little more difficult. First time in years he hadn’t trusted his own ears. And he’d heard a lot of bullshit.  

He folded his hands on the desk in front of him, staring her in her big, steel blue eyes. Eyes full of familiarity and suspicion of her own.  

“You got no idea where you are, kid. Hell’s Kitchen ain’t a carnival. And frankly, you’re lucky no one tried to scoop you up on your way over.”  

He expected her to flinch. Or cry. Or at least look worried. But she just rolled her eyes like he was being dramatic.  

She huffed. “My name is Mabel,” was her only response.  

Spot leaned forward so he was eye level with her. “Okay, Mabel . What is your mother’s name?”  

She threw her hand up, exasperated. “I already told you. Her name is Mama.”  

He pressed his fingertips together and dropped them to his lips, eyes shut. He needed a second. Just one. This kid was trying to pull a fast one. And he wasn’t about to get outsmarted by a little girl. Not today.  

“Okay, lets switch gears here. What is your full name? That should tell me enough.”  

Mabel tilted her chin forward and spoke like she was proud of the answer. “Mabel Becker. We just came here from Ireland.”  

His stomach twisted. Becker. No denying that. Couldn’t hide it if she tried. She acted too much like her. Mabel was her little carbon copy, and Spot might be amused by the whole thing if it hadn’t shaken him to his core.  

“You even know who I am?”  

She smiled like she’d been told she could have candy for dinner. “’Course I do. You’re the boy King from Brooklyn. The one with the storm pounding in his heart.”  

Boy King from Brooklyn. Shit, he hadn’t been called that in forever. He’d almost forgotten what it sounded like. The twinge of nostalgia nipped in his chest. She did know who he was. At least partially.  

“Storm in my heart?” he asked confused. “What is that supposed to mean?”  

She smirked and sipped her tea, not answering him. Mama hadn’t been all the way honest with her. She’d left out the part about the storm living in his eyes too.  

He shook his head and waved a hand. “Listen, she ever go by a nickname? Something short?”  

Mabel sat back in the chair, one finger on her chin and her eyes to the ceiling like she was thinking extra hard. “Oh, yes! I heard Uncle Race call her ‘Flash’ before. Is that what you mean?”  

He didn’t think his stomach could drop any lower. But it was on the floor, seeping under the floorboards. He hadn’t heard the name Race in years. Hadn’t seen the man but a few times in passing. Walked past each other like they hadn’t shared ten years of friendship, a girl, and several punches to the ribs.  

Spot leaned back slightly, as if the chair had started burning beneath him. 
“Flash,” he repeated under his breath. “Haven’t heard that name in a long time.” He didn’t ask how Race got involved. Didn’t want to know. Not yet. 
  

Instead, he kept staring at her — at those damn eyes. “She ever tell you about Brooklyn?”  

“She told me stories. About a girl named Birdie with fire in her boots and smoke in her head. And the boy that would come put out the fire. Storm Callahan. Mama said he tried to carry all the water in a bucket, but the bucket had holes in it. So, Birdie had to fly across the ocean to get the fire off.”  

Spot stared at her, jaw slack, eyes unreadable.  

Storm Callahan.  

Fire in her boots. Smoke in her head.  

 A bucket with holes.  

Goddamn. Allie hadn’t just left — she’d rewritten the whole story for the kid. Gave it a fairytale ending. One where flying away made everything okay.  

He remembered what it looked like when she left. She may have gotten the fire off her. But not without sending the rest of them up in flames instead.  

He cleared his throat. “How old are you?”  

Mabel grinned like it was the best question he’d asked her all afternoon. “Six and a half. I’ll be seven in the spring. In April.”  

He felt the blood drain from his face and his mouth go dry as he curled his hand into a fist under the desk.  

Six and a half. Seven in spring. He knew how long it took for babies to cook all the way.  

Do the math.  

His chest tightened — sharp and sudden, like he’d just taken a blade between the ribs. Because suddenly, it wasn’t just some little girl sitting across from him, spinning stories.  

It was their story. And this might be his daughter.  

And he... was angry.  

Angry for not having a say. Angry for not knowing. Angry for Flash leaving all over again. And angry that he was stupid enough to get himself in the position to be a father. Because he didn’t know how to do that. Or if he ever even wanted to.  

He leaned back again, only this time it wasn’t to cool down — it was to keep from breaking something. Like the desk. Or the tea glass. Or his own damn resolve.  

His jaw clenched. “And your mama… she tell you who your dad is?”  

Mabel tilted her head. Shrugged. “Nope. Said he didn’t stick around. But she didn’t sound mad about it. Just sad, sometimes.”  

That nearly did him in.  

Spot looked away and pressed his thumb hard into the corner of his eye. That same corner where tears used to well when he was thirteen and too proud to cry in front of the boys. He thought that part of him had calcified. Thought there was nothing left that could hit that deep.  

But here was this kid — this tiny, stubborn mirror — sitting in his chair like she owned the place. And maybe she did.  

Maybe she owned a part of him he didn’t know was still up for grabs.  

“How long has your mother been back?”  

“A month.”  

“A month?!” The word scraped out of his throat before he could stop it. He wasn’t sure why it surprised him. It wasn’t like he expected her to come say hello. Hell, she hadn’t even told him goodbye.  

But knowing she’d been back in New York — back in his city — and he hadn’t known about it? That crawled under his skin like something toxic.  

She was in Queens. Practically on the edge of Brooklyn.  

His borough. The one he knew better than the back of his hand. Every street, every shadow, every gust of wind that cut between the buildings.  

And she’d slipped in like it didn’t matter. Like seeing him didn’t mean a damn thing.  

Mabel tilted her head. “You look mad.”  

Spot let out a dry, humorless breath. “That’s 'cause I am.”  

“Why?” she asked, blinking at him like this wasn’t the most loaded question in the world.  

He dragged a hand down his face. “Because I don’t like surprises. Especially ones that show up in my bar askin’ for me by name and drinkin’ my last tea bag.”  

Mabel shrugged, unbothered. “It was just sitting there.”  

“That’s kinda the problem,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “You just... showed up.”  

“You’re the one who gave me tea,” she pointed out. “You didn’t have to.”  

Spot shot her a look, but there wasn’t any heat behind it. Just exhaustion.  

“You always this mouthy?”  

She thought about it for a beat. Then nodded. “Most of the time.”  

He huffed out something like a laugh and leaned back again, arms folded across his chest. “Well, that would track.”  

Spot looked at her again — really looked — and something in his chest shifted. Sharp at first, then dull, like a bruise forming under his ribs.  

He couldn’t let her stay here. Not in this bar. Not with these men. Not with him.  

And he sure as hell wasn’t about to send her back alone. Not when someone else might see her before she got where she was going. Not when she was walking around talking about him like it was safe.  

He pushed away from the desk and stood. “You can’t stay here, kid.”  

Mabel didn’t look surprised. “I didn’t think I could.”  

He grabbed his coat off the back of the chair and shrugged it on. “You walk here alone?”  

She nodded like it was nothing. “Wasn’t hard. Some boys told me how to get here.”  

“That’s not the point.” He ran a hand through his hair, jaw clenched. “C’mon. I’m takin’ you home.”  

She tilted her head again. “You even know where that is, Mr. Conlon?”  

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her. That messy head of curls, the shape of her nose, the corners of her smile — and then he opened the door.  

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know exactly where.”  

Bushwick.  

The old house. Flash never really left it, not in his head. Not in the parts of him that remembered the nights curled up in her blanket, unable to tell where his body ended and hers began. If she was back in New York with nowhere else to go... of course she’d go there.  

He held the door open. Mabel hopped down from the chair and slipped her tiny hands into the pockets of her coat.  

And Spot stepped back into a life he never thought he’d see again.  

She was mad.  

No.  

Beyond mad. She was livid.  

She’d been gone maybe two and a half hours. And in that time, Racetrack had managed to lose her daughter.  

“I fucking told you, Racetrack. I warned you!” she shouted, spinning around in the front yard to face him. “She’s not like other kids. I specifically told you that. And you blew it off like I was telling you the best way to mash a potato.”  

Racetrack raked a hand through his hair, tugging on it like if he pulled hard enough, it might just undo what had been done. “I’m sorry Flash. But I didn’t expect her to be a little con artist. I was just trying to make her some lunch.”  

She shouldn’t be mad at him. Not really. Flash knew her daughter had a thirst for mischief. She’d gotten it honest. But Flash wasn’t thinking clearly. She was past the point of just ‘calming down.’  

“I told you she was sneaky! Too clever for her own good.” She was yelling now. Yelling at him right in the front yard with Delta standing off to the side, watching the whole thing unfold. Not saying a word. Just observing. Taking mental notes.  

Racetrack made a face at her. “What did you want me to do, Flash? Follow her into the bathroom?”  

Flash threw her hands up in the air. “I wanted you to use some common sense. Maybe question why the water was running and why she hadn’t come out after ten minutes.”  

Racetrack scratched the back of his neck and ran his hand through his hair again. “I’m sorry, okay? We’ll find her. And next time I watch her, I won’t let her out of my sight at all.”  

“Next time you watch her?” Flash screeched. “There is not going to be a ‘next time’, Racetrack Higgins. I’d sooner give Skittery a babysitting gig before I give another one to you.”  

Racetrack flinched at her words. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was only meant to watch Mabel, keep an eye on her, maybe get some answers—see if he could be her father.  

He hated the thought, hated dragging up that part of his life. But the truth was unavoidable. He and Flash had been close before she left. Intimate. And given the timing, he was almost certain Mabel was his.  

Flash wasn’t the type to jump countries and sleep with just anyone. If not him, then who else could it be? There was no other explanation.   

Racetrack gave Delta a look, silently pleading with her to say something.  

She gave a little sigh and crossed her arms in front of her chest. She understood where Flash was coming from. But this wasn’t solving anything. It was slowing them down and grating her last nerve. Because Delta knew how crucial the first few hours were when a child went missing. She’d located several.  

“Yell later, Flash. Find the kid first.”  

Flash glared at him, wrestling with herself on whether to listen to Delta or tear a hole in Race. She opted to listen to Delta.  

She shot him another dirty look and pointed a finger at him. “I’m not through with you, Higgins. Get inside and help me figure out what to do.”  

The three of them stalked inside the house and to the living room. Flash bit at the skin around her fingernails, pacing back and forth in front of the couch. Racetrack stood motionless with his head in his hands. And Delta... Delta was the only one with the wherewithal to actively start putting together a plan.  

She took out a pen and notepad, scrawling Mabel’s name and age at the top of the page. “Has she done something like this before, Flash? Does she have a habit of running off?”  

Flash rubbed across her eyes to her temples. “Not a habit. But she has done this before. She’s a curious kid. And sometimes that curiosity gets the best of her. So, to answer your question, yes. She has done something like this before.”  

Delta scribbled some words down before turning to Racetrack. “Race, what was she wearing?”  

He looked at her stunned. He hadn’t paid attention. Was he supposed to start paying attention to these things? “Shit um... a green—wait no a blue dress? Fuck, I don’t know Delta.”  

Flash shot him an annoyed look, not taking her eyes off him as she answered Delta’s question. “A long sleeve green pinafore dress with white ruffles on the hem. Brown leather shoes. White knee-high socks. And a white gold necklace with an M on it.”  

More scratching on the paper. “You got a good memory, Flash. Being detailed will only help us. What time?” She turned her head towards Racetrack expectantly, but she was met with a blank stare.  

“Sorry?”  

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered under her breath. “What time did she take off? When did you notice?”  

He put both palms against the kitchen table, leaning on his arms and staring down at the chipped wood in thought. “Let's see... You guys left around what? Nine o’clock? Sun was starting to peak... I’d say it was close to eleven? Maybe a quarter after? I think.”  

Delta crossed out what she’d written and shot him a look over her notepad. “Which is it, Higgins? Eleven or eleven fifteen? Because fifteen minutes can make a world of difference.”  

“Eleven fifteen,” he said flatly, swallowing down what little saliva he’d managed to produce. His mouth always got dry when he was nervous.  

“ Eleven fifteen,” she said to herself as her pen moved across the page. “We know how she got out. The hampers turned over and the window is open. Was she upset? Did you maybe tell her no about something?”  

He shook his head. “No, she wasn’t upset at all. Not as far as I can tell. We were just talking about her bedtime stories.”  

Flash froze. Then turned slowly to face him. “Her bedtime stories? What about her bedtime stories?”  

Racetrack swallowed again. This time there was nothing in his mouth but guilt and unease at the look on her face. Swallowing did nothing. He wished he would’ve swallowed that sentence.  

He sighed, long and shaky. “Well... look, the girl had questions. What was I supposed to do?”  

“ What did you tell her Racetrack?” she hissed. The way her nostrils flared made her look like a bull ready to charge.  

Knock knock knock.  

Delta’s head snapped towards the door, and she had an overwhelming sense of tension and discomfort wash over her. It felt like electricity in her blood. Quick and fleeting. And a little raw.  

“You expecting someone?” she asked, voice low and eyes never leaving the front door.  

“No.”  

The knocks came again. Slower. Harder. Like the hand on the other side was making sure they couldn’t ignore it.  

Delta glanced at Flash, waiting to see if she would go for the door. But she didn’t. Delta took that as permission to investigate, walking briskly down the hallway, closing the distance between her and the noise on the other side. The handle turned and she cracked the door slightly, just enough to catch sight of the hardened face of Spot Conlon.  

And for once, Delta Carrow was caught off guard.  

She didn’t say anything. He didn’t either. But they didn’t need to exchange words with each other. Their eyes were doing all the heavy lifting.  

He was taller now. Not thinner but more... defined. His clothes taut on his frame.  

Gone were his signature red suspenders and gold topped cane. Replaced with black wool trousers that sat snug against his hips, suspenders hidden under a crisp white shirt. The top button was undone. Seemed deliberate.  

Midnight black waistcoat to match the trousers beneath a double-breasted coat. Tailored shoulders. His boots, two-tone oxblood and black leather, whispered quiet expense — unnoticed unless you knew shoes.  

The only sign of the old Spot was in the way he wore his hair. Slightly longer on top, pushed back like he’d ran a hand through it and dared it to fall. It wouldn’t.  

He was eerily restrained. More so than she’d ever seen him before. It was like he was trying to keep her from reading him the way she used to.   

And it was working.  

She caught only the smallest shifts behind his eyes. Micro-movements of feeling buried beneath something hollow. Something chilly.   

She didn’t like it. Not because he was colder, or sharper, or dressed like a man who made dangerous choices — but because she couldn’t read him.   

Spot Conlon’s face had once been a map she could follow. A flicker in his jaw, the twitch of his fingers, a quick glance to the side — all tells. Now there was nothing. Just shadows behind locked windows. Whatever lived in his head, he wasn’t letting it out. Not for her. Not for anyone.  

And maybe that was what unsettled her most. Not the silence. Not the suit. But the fact that Spot was hiding. And hiding well.  

“Have something that belongs to one of you.” He stepped to the side, revealing Mabel trailing behind him, looking completely unaware of the tension crackling through the air.  

“Hi, Aunt Delta,” she said sweetly. “When did you get here?”  

Delta gave her a disapproving look and motioned towards the hallway. “Inside, Mabel. Now.”  

Mabel’s smile faded instantly at Delta’s tone and she hung her head, knowing she was about to get the scolding of her life from all the adults in the house. She shuffled slowly down the hallway to the living room where Flash caught sight of her.  

“Mabel! Oh my god. You okay?” she asked, concern mixed with sternness. “Where were you? How did you get back home?”  

Delta and Spot remained locked in a silent standoff. One of her hands gripped the doorknob, the other the doorframe, debating whether to close the door on him.  

Spot wanted to leave. Turn and vanish back into the wind from which he came. But his legs had a mind of their own. He took a step forward—closer to the door. Closer to Delta’s outstretched arm blocking his path.  

She glared up at him, scanning his stoic face for any sign of emotion. But she didn’t need to read his face to know what his body wanted.  

She pulled her arm away, swinging it aside as she stepped back to make room.  

One curt nod from him.  

Then Spot crossed the threshold of a place he never thought he’d see inside again. An unexpected wave of memories slapped him so hard it almost knocked the wind out of him.   

He could hear her voice before he saw her. Alarmed. Confused.  

“Wait...Mabel, who brought you home?”  

Mabel didn’t say a word, just pointed at him as he rounded the corner.  

Flash turned. And all the breath left her lungs. Because here he was again. Standing like a ghost in her living room. Except it felt different now.  

It didn’t feel like the past rising to meet her — it felt colder. Sharper. Like the warmth had been pulled from the room the second he stepped inside.  

His eyes weren’t the same.  

Gone was the glint of mischief she remembered. The spark. Now they were shadowed. Jaded. Watching everything and revealing nothing.  

He wasn’t the cocky, charming boy who’d ruled Brooklyn with a grin and a gold-topped cane.  

He was a cold, hardened man.  

 Stripped of all his frills. Nothing left but the bare machinery it took to survive.  

She opened her mouth. But nothing came out.  

For a second, she just stared. Frozen. Like her mind hadn’t caught up to her eyes yet.  

Because how do you speak when your past just strolls into your house?  

Her heart hammered. Her stomach twisted. Her throat burned with things she hadn’t let herself say in six years. Things she thought she’d buried somewhere in the Irish countryside.  

Instead, she just stood there. Breathing. Shaking. Waiting.  

He was the first to break the loaded silence.  

“Allie.”  

His voice was firm. Steady. Unwavering and even. But his insides were anything but.  

“Sean.”  

She was the opposite. Unable to hide the slight shake in her voice after hearing his. But her insides were hard. Stone. Freezing.  

Spot’s eyes shifted to Racetrack in the corner. He was pale and motionless. Made of marble and bad memories. Exuding a nervous energy that Spot could feel through his coat. Not scared. Just uncertain.  

“Higgins.” He gave him the slightest nod, head moving just a fraction. He didn’t need to know details about why he was here. Why he knew about her return before Spot had. Because in the end, it didn’t matter. There was still a Race shaped hole in her life that he was able to fill.  

Seemed that the Spot shaped hole had been plastered over.  

“Conlon.” Racetrack gave him a nod of his own, surprised at the acknowledgment from a man that usually stared straight through him in passing.  

Mabel’s eyes darted from Spot to Race to Flash and back again.   

She clasped her hands behind her back and rocked on her feet. “Mabel,” she said slowly and clearly, trying to mimic the tone. She wasn’t sure why everyone was saying each other's name like a password. But she wanted to play the game too. Even if she didn’t know the rules.  

Delta’s voice was the next to cut through the silence.  

“Mabel, go wait in your room,” she said gently but firmly.  

Mabel looked up, eyes wide with confusion. “Did I do something wrong?”  

Delta put a hand softly on her shoulder and guided her across the room to her bedroom door. “No, sweetheart. You didn’t. You just don’t need to be here for this part, okay?”  

Mabel glanced back at the three adults standing in the living room. Stiff like starched pants.  

“Okay,” she said before going into her room and closing the door behind her.  

Silence again.  

Heavier. Thicker.  

Flash had folded her arms in front of her chest at some point. Not as an act of defiance like in the past. But an act of protection and self-preservation. Like she was trying to keep herself held together.  

Spot never looked away. He couldn’t. He was stuck.  

 Freckles still littered her cheeks like brown ink splotches. Her lips still did the slight curve on the left side when she was thinking hard about something. Her eyes seemed greener, although it could be the lighting.  

But there was one thing that wasn’t a trick of the lights.  

The faint etchings of an S on her right cheek. Faded. Thin. But he could still see it. And it made his stomach clench.   

Flash’s eyes were still on him. Not narrowed. Not accusing. Just searching.  

Like she was trying to reconcile the man standing in front of her with the boy she’d left behind. Tried to shove him back into the mold of the smartass boy that had more drive and ambition than he knew what to do with. But the seams weren’t lining up.  

When she did finally speak, her voice was barely over a whisper. “You didn’t know I was here.”  

It wasn’t a question.  

“No,” he said. Just that. Nothing more. But the word held weight. As if it hurt to admit it.  

She nodded once. Slow. Like her brain was still stitching things together in real time. Like nothing quite made sense yet.  

Then her eyes drifted. Not intentionally, more like something pulled them.  

His coat had shifted. His sleeves were pushed just enough to reveal the ink curling around his forearm. Three tight X’s linked like barbed wire with two jagged G’s, roughly etched but unmistakable.  

She didn’t flinch but something in her face changed. She didn’t know what it meant, not exactly. But she knew it was a brand of sorts. He belonged to something new. Something bad.  

Delta’s eyes locked on the ink, her features sharp and immediate. She didn’t speak but the look in her eyes said everything. Recognition. And worry. Because he was in something bigger than she assumed. He was marked.  

Race was the last to notice. But his body stiffened as he did. Tensed like a coiled spring. Because he’d seen that exact tattoo before. On the kind of men who slinked through the Lower East Side, extorting businesses with soft threats and cold eyes.  

The Gophers. Group of good-for-nothing scum that gave the Irish a bad name in these parts. Mobsters in tailored coats, all muscle and menace.  

And now Spot was one of them. There was no denying it. No speculation.  

He was owned.  

Flash found her voice again, finally able to cut through the tension that had been quietly pulsing in the space between them.  

“I wondered if you’d turn up,” she said quietly. “Fitting that it happened in a time of crisis.”  

Spot gave her a slight shrug of his shoulders and a tilt of his head. They were still pretending after all these years. Fine. He was comfortable with that.  

“ Wouldn’t have,” he said coolly. “If she hadn’t turned up in my pub. Maybe see to it that doesn’t happen again.”   

He shifted to walk towards the front door. Got to the hallway before he heard her voice again.  

“You’re different.” It didn’t sound like an accusation. Just a sad, quiet truth.  

He paused then turned his head to the side, just enough to catch her in his periphery. A beat passed before he answered.  

“You’re not.”  

The click of the door closing behind him was the only sound that could be heard in the room. Not even their breathing made a noise.  

Because even after all this time, Spot’s presence could still command a room.  

But so could his absence.