I like to picture that the next part played out something like this—

Bart’s house wasn’t much. A tired little box that sat next to a row of other tired little boxes, all lined up like a bunch of ex-cons waiting for their parole hearings. Each one had its own sad story: peeling paint, busted gutters, and porch lights that flickered like they couldn’t decide whether to keep trying or just give up already.

Bart shuffled up the path, plastic grocery bags swinging low, the kind of sag that said hotdog dinners and cheap liquor dreams. His shoulders slumped forward, weighted not just by the bags but by something deeper, like the world had been taking cheap shots at him for years and never called time.

At the door, the lock put up its usual fight. Bart muttered something under his breath, a curse he’d used a hundred times before, and jammed the key with just enough force to bully it into submission. The door groaned open, a long, miserable creak that hung in the air like a warning nobody ever paid attention to.

Inside, the house was dark, the silence thick and heavy, like a bad hangover after a worse decision. Bart flicked the light switch, and the bulb coughed out a weak yellow glow, barely illuminating the room.

He froze.

There was a shadow in his recliner. Not a shadow. A presence.

His eyes adjusted slowly, dragging his brain along for the ride, until the shape took form. Legs draped over the armrest, casual like a cat sunbathing. A hand rested on the arm of the chair, holding something gleaming, something metallic.

A gun.

Bart’s gaze darted up, his breath catching when he saw the face. Familiar. Too familiar.

“Jack.”

----------------------------------------

Bart’s voice cracked, his breath snagging somewhere between his chest and throat. His groceries hit the floor with a dull thud, a can of soup rolling lazily across the room. “Christ, you scared the life outta me!”

I didn’t move, didn’t blink. Just sat there, calm as death itself. “Not yet.”

He tried to laugh, but it came out wrong—too forced. “Jesus, Jack. Dramatic much? You could’ve called—“

“This place is a mess,” I cut him off, my voice slicing clean and cold.

Bart froze for a beat, then swallowed hard, like the words themselves had weight. He shifted his foot, kicking a crumpled shirt under the couch in a pathetic attempt at normalcy. “Yeah, well, I’ve been meaning to clean up. Just haven’t had the time—“

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

“Where’s Marge?” The question came flat, without a shred of warmth.

His shoulders stiffened, his mouth working soundlessly for a second too long before he mumbled, “Out with her sister.”

I leaned forward, the gun steady in my hand, the barrel pointed somewhere past him but precise enough to make my intent clear. “Cut the crap, Bart. I know you covered it up.”

The silence stretched, taut and uneasy. Bart froze mid-step, his eyes darting—not at me, but toward the counter where he’d likely have stashed his gun.

I didn’t wait. My gun roared, the sound bouncing off the walls as a cabinet exploded into splinters. Shards of wood scattered like confetti, and Bart stumbled back, his hands shooting into the air.

“Christ, Jack!” His voice climbed a few octaves, high and thin with panic. “Okay! Okay! Just put the gun down!”

“Where’s Marge?” I asked again, my voice steady, the gun even steadier.

Bart stammered, tripping over his own words. “I wasn’t lying! She’s with her sister! Last I heard, anyway. Middle of nowhere—Midwest, you know? Safe.”

“And Ashley?”

The question landed like a sledgehammer. He flinched, hard, his composure cracking wide open. “Jack, please,” he whimpered, his legs threatening to give out. Tears pooled in his eyes, the kind you don’t fake.

“I wanted to tell you. I swear I did. But they said—they said they’d kill her if I talked.”

I stood slowly, letting the chair creak under the deliberate weight of the movement. Crossing the room, I let the gun dangle loose in one hand, its presence more than enough to keep him rooted. I stopped just short of him, then brought the gun down hard across his face.

“Where is your daughter?”

“Jack, please.” His voice cracked, his desperation clawing at the air between us. “Hurting her won’t bring Sarah back.”

The name hit me like a slap, and before I could think, I swung the gun again, hard. The impact sent him reeling, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Bart hit the ground, clutching his cheek as tears spilled down his face.

How dare he say her name. And how dare he assume—

“For crap’s sake, Bart.” My voice came low, cold, trembling with barely restrained fury. “I’m not going to hurt her. I need to know what they have on you so I can get you out from under this mess. But you keep dodging, and I’ll start thinking you want me to.”

“Cat’s got her,” he mumbled, his voice thick with pain and fear. “She’s at his casino, works the top floor of the Sapphire Club. He keeps her there, locked up. Says she’s safe as long as I stay quiet.”

“Hell’s balls, Bart. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t snitch—they’d kill her. You don’t get it. The force is crawling with rats. If I reported it, she’d be dead before I even finished the paperwork.”

“I didn’t ask why you didn’t go snitching to the station. Why didn’t you tell me?“ I leaned in, the gun heavy in my hand. “You know I would’ve helped. I could have gotten her out—especially back then… you know that.”

Bart shook his head, his eyes glassy with fear and guilt. “You don’t understand, Jack. You couldn’t have. And you would have died trying. No, this wasn’t something even the Great Jack Callaghan could solve. Not this time.”

“Who could possibly have you this spooked? So scared you’d rabbit on a friend,” I muttered, more to myself than to him.

“I need a drink,” he said, his voice trembling like a frayed wire.