Chapter Text
The Red Mirage buzzed with the usual noise. Slurred voices, clinking glass, and a jukebox humming something tired from the corner. Neon lights gave their minimum effort, casting a sickly glow over peeling posters and sticky floors. Lola sighed. Not that anyone could hear it. The bar had a way of swallowing things whole. Sound, time, people. Her shifts always followed the same rhythm: a couple of drunks, some yelling, and the occasional broken glass. Nothing worth remembering. Until tonight. She spotted him almost instantly. New face. Clean jacket. Eyes that hadn't adjusted to the dark yet. Not surprising. Strangers wandered in all the time. But this one didn't belong. He looked like he'd taken a wrong turn and ended up in someone else's story.
"Hello?" the stranger said, unsure how to strike up the conversation. Yes. Conversation. People didn’t look at service workers like that unless they needed something.
"What would you like?"
Lola finally looked up from the glass she was wiping.
"Oh. Just a water…" he trailed off.
She'd already handed him the drink with a look that said clearly enough, What else do you need?
So he proceeded.
"Does the name Dean Whitlock mean anything to you?"
Her expression flickered, just for a moment. The kind of flicker that told him that name should have stayed buried. Months deep. Collecting dust in the quiet corners of her mind. And if Nick’s list was right, not just hers. Nick didn’t move. He rarely needed to. Silence had a way of working better than threats. He let it stretch, a thin thread between them. But it passed. She composed herself fairly swiftly but slowly enough for the background to become louder and the exchange almost silent.
"Who's asking?" Her voice came flat, hoarse. Maybe from the smoke. Maybe from the past.
“Dominic Hall.” The name always felt like it didn’t quite belong to him. He slid it across the counter like a card he didn’t want to play.
“I’m not here to cause trouble. I just want to know what he left behind.”
Lola’s eyes stayed on him as if trying to read him. read further into his name and make more sense into it, like when you try to recall where or when you heard the title before but your brain research gives you nothing except incorrect buzzing.
“What, you writing a book?”
“Not quite.” He didn’t elaborate. Let the pause stretch. Let her wonder.
“A woman I know. Margot Lane. She knew him too. He left her with nothing. She thought maybe she wasn’t the first.” She didn’t flinch, not really, but her jaw shifted. A tic in her cheek that didn’t seem to like the sound of truth. The reminder of what she was.
“So you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart?” She asked in that already familiar sarcastic tone.
“No. I’m doing my job.”
“What job is that?”
“I’m not a cop. PI.” The words follow another pause. Another sip of water. He knew better than to fill the silence.
“Look,” he said, quieter now, “I know he was in that band of yours...” He paused awkwardly, trying to remember the label Miss Lane gave him oh so bitterly.
"Lowlight. I know you were close. I’m not here to dig up dirt. I just need to know if it ended the same way.” He continued with more confidence in his tone.
“And what way’s that?” Nick looked up at her, steady.
“With him taking something that didn’t belong to him.”
Lola didn't answer straightaway. There was a debate in her mind. He could tell by her gaze that didn't seem to focus on anything for longer than a beat. And the decision was whether to be honest or, as always, reshape the story into something it wasn’t.
"He didn't take anything from me." She spoke up again
The detective gave her an inquisitive look. He didn’t take her words as gospel, of course, but he didn’t press her either. “Alright…” he murmured, the words barely more than a whisper. “Then I won’t burden you with my presence any longer.” Before he could even bother saying goodbye, she had already moved on, turning to serve the next customer.
Nick watched her turn away like she’d never been part of the conversation. Just another ghost in a room full of them. 'He didn’t take anything.' Perhaps that was true. Maybe Lola had given it willingly, or maybe she just didn’t want to remember what it felt like to lose. He drained what was left of the water before sliding off the sticky leather barstool. Outside, the night hummed with neon and exhaust. The kind of night where nothing felt quite real. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the photo. Black and white. Faded. There were four people in a band he barely remembered, except for one. "Lowlight." The word, penned in shaky black ink, was fading along the edges. He traced the edge of Dean Whitlock’s face with his thumb, then slipped it back into the envelope. Lola hadn’t given him much. But she’d given him something. A crack. And cracks, if you followed them far enough, always led to broken things.