Chapter Text
September 1901
Flash watched as Dodger hurriedly scribbled her last sentence on paper, tongue sticking out of his mouth as he concentrated. She’d made him get up early every day for the last week to follow her around. Made sure he took notes on everything. Made sure it was thorough and idiot-proof.
“Repeat it back to me, Dodge,” she demanded, squinting her eyes against the rising sun and puffing on her cigarette. She needed to quit these things. They were starting to make her feel queasy.
He exhaled. “Routes stay the same. Tuesdays and Fridays we split with Richmond Hill. If we get shorted, we go to Specs in Manhattan first—never the Bronx, they’ll rob us blind.”
“And?”
“If any of the kids get hit, sick, caught, whatever— no one handles it alone. Always have someone with you.”
She nodded once, satisfied. “Good. I think that about wraps it up.”
Dodger kicked a rock with the heel of his boot. “You gonna be back soon or...?”
Flash gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Soon enough.”
They both knew that wasn’t true. But they liked to pretend that it was. A last-ditch effort to keep something normal. She didn’t let it slip, and he didn’t push.
“You ain’t really expectin’ me to run this place myself, are you?” he asked, weariness creeping into his voice. “I told you months ago—I’m not built for that.”
She chuckled and shook her head. “No, Dodge. I’m not forcin’ anything on you. I got someone to take over for me while I’m gone.”
“You asked someone, and they agreed?” His eyebrows raised in disbelief.
She hesitated. “Well... no. No, not yet. But I know they will.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because,” she said, a smile tugging at her mouth. “All I gotta do is say the truth. And they’ve got a big soft spot for the truth.”
She stood, dusting her hands off on the back of her pants. The cigarette dropped from her lips, and she crushed it beneath her heel. Her throat suddenly felt tight. Looking him in the eye was the hardest part.
“So um… yeah, I guess… I guess that’s it,” she muttered, stumbling a little. “I gotta head back to Bushwick. There’s a few things I gotta square away before I go. Handle some stuff.”
“But you’ll be back soon, right?”
He was giving her the chance to say it out loud. That she wouldn’t be.
But she kept lying, soft and sweet. “Yeah. Of course.”
She gave him one more fake smile, a small wave, and turned before he could see the tears glistening in her eyes.
She wasn’t entirely sure if she’d miss this house or not. It was an enigma. How could a place that held so many laughs and memories be whittled down to nothing more than a bad dream?
How could she look at the flowers in the garden and not hate them for having the nerve to be pretty? How could she not resent the tears and screams that these walls held? How could she love this place for what it stood for and still hate it for what it had become? A constant reminder that good things don’t last. That even the sweetest memories get tarnished eventually.
She scanned the remains of her failed hobbies, the ones she’d picked up when she needed to get out of her own head. Her gaze skipped over the empty liquor bottles she’d never bothered to throw away. Settled on the cluttered shelf of stolen trinkets—souvenirs from corner store heists with Trooper.
She picked one up: a little figurine of a jockey on a horse. Of course he’d picked that one. She’d made fun of him for choosing something so on-the-nose, but he hadn’t cared. He’d grown to love the tracks over the years.
Her fingers brushed the hard, curved tail of the horse, and her thoughts flicked to Racetrack.
They’d seen each other a handful of times over the last month. Not nearly as much as before— since Jack and Sarah left for Santa Fe. It was like they packed the friendship in their suitcases, wedged somewhere between socks and spare shirts.
The leader position had been offered to Race, of course. But he’d turned it down. She’d initially been surprised by that, until she sat back to think about it. Race wasn’t really the leader type. He was dependable. Had a certain edge about him. But he didn’t quite carry the same drive to lead that the rest of them did. He could do it and do it well, sure. But the appeal had never been there. She could understand that.
What she didn’t understand was him deciding to move back to Harlem. Her mind had failed to grasp his reason for leaving the newsie game all together. When he was asked what he planned to do, he hadn’t even given the question a minute to breathe before giving them an answer.
He was going to work in the mines. Just like his father before him.
She respected the impulse—to stay rooted, to carry the family name forward. There was something noble in that. But it wasn’t always the right path.
Take her for example. If she’d wanted to live up to her family legacy, she had to be a spiraling, angry drunk with a body count. Could you imagine?
She laughed bitterly at her own silent joke. Family legacy. One of the many reasons she was leaving.
Flash shoved the figurine in her pocket without a second thought as she reached for the papers on her desk. One with an address, the other with her soul.
Kilbride Manor
Knockrath Estate
Rathdrum, Co. Wicklow
A67 X123, Ireland
She’d found the address scrawled on several envelopes hidden in the bottom of the desk in a false-bottom drawer. Letters to Winnie from her parents. Flash’s grandparents.
They hadn’t known she existed. Until she took the chance and wrote to them. She wasn’t sure if she should have. But she weighed her options, and it sounded better than staying in New York. For now, at least.
They’d agreed to let her come to Ireland. Stay in their guesthouse. Get things sorted. Because she physically and mentally just couldn’t sort anything out on her own anymore.
Killing Phillips had properly scared her. It wasn’t so much being afraid she’d get caught as it was the actual act altogether. Her nights were littered with replays of it in her dreams. Not a single night went by without it.
Looking at herself in the mirror was not an option she gave herself anymore. Every reflective surface in the Bushwick house had been covered with various forms of cloth. Old blankets draped on the mirror in the living room. Windows stayed boarded shut. She’d even gotten creative and cut a hole in the bottom of a sock to shove over the metal tap in the bathtub.
Because when she looked in the mirror, the face staring back wasn’t hers. It was his.
A version of her father.
A version she hadn’t realized lived inside her. Dormant. Quiet. Waiting for a moment of weakness. Waiting for her to crack the door.
Only she didn’t just crack it. She’d ripped it open. And the darkness hadn’t needed to be asked twice.
Into her pocket the address went, nestled beside the figurine.
Then the letter. Her soul. Her no holds barred way of letting it all out. Everything she had been too much of a coward to say.
She couldn’t say goodbye to Spot in person for the same reason she couldn’t do it with Racetrack. They had the potential to change her mind. She knew they could. And she didn’t want them to.
She hadn’t written a letter to Racetrack though. It wasn’t necessary. He knew the way she felt about him. And he’d find out she was gone eventually—someone would tell him. He’d handle it in the way only Racetrack could.
But Spot.
Spot got a letter. Because she’d never been completely honest with him. Gotten close a few times but always had a reason why she couldn’t. For a while it was her denial. Then her anger. Then it was her fear. Because if she admitted to it, it would become real. And real was scary as hell.
But if she waited around until it wasn’t scary, she’d never tell him.
And he would never know how much she loved him.
The letter was heavy in her coat pocket like the words it contained. It weighed her body down the same way it did her chest.
She took one last look around the room before picking up her suitcase and walking out of the house. The front door slammed behind her, almost as if it were closing off that chapter of her life.
All she had left was to leave the letter. Find her stand in. And talk herself onto that boat.
The tired look in her eyes was the first thing Delta noticed. Then the suitcase. And she knew right then what Flash was going to do. It was written all over her face in black ink.
“Going somewhere, Becker?” she asked, eyeing the suitcase in Flash’s hand. Her fingers were clutched tight around it, like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
Flash shrugged, unable to meet her gaze. She knew if she did, Delta would see everything . She always did. She’d flick the light on, ransack her thoughts, and lay them all bare without even meaning to.
“So, listen,” Flash said quietly, finally turning her eyes up to meet Delta’s. “I’m going away for a while. I have three favors to ask of you.”
Delta looked at the suitcase again and then back to her. “Long trip?”
“Could say that.”
The silence between them was heavy. Full of unspoken disapproval on Delta’s part. Not that she could say anything. Because in a way, she understood. She’d left her home too, so she had no business cleaning out from under Flash’s doorstep when hers was equally dirty.
“Am I the first one you’re saying goodbye to or the last?” Delta raised an eyebrow at her.
Flash met her hard stare. “The only one.”
Delta frowned. She hadn’t expected that to be her answer.
She stared at her for a long moment, then crossed her arms. “Three favors, huh? That’s a pretty steep ask for someone who wasn’t even gonna say goodbye.”
Flash winced but didn’t deny it. “If I say goodbye, I might not go.”
“You think that’s a good enough excuse?”
“No,” Flash admitted. “But it’s the truth.”
Delta’s jaw tightened. Her silence said everything.
Flash reached into her pocket and pulled out the jockey and horse figurine, placing it gently in Delta’s outstretched hand. “First favor—this goes to Race.”
Delta’s eyes flicked to the little stolen trinket. She recognized it. Everyone who’d known Trooper would.
“He’ll understand,” Flash said. “It’s my way of saying... what I need to say without saying it.”
She swallowed hard before continuing.
“Second favor—keep an eye on Spot.”
Delta blinked. “What?”
“I mean it,” Flash said. “I snuck into his room. Left him a letter. On his pillow. You always wanted me to be honest, Delta. So I listened. For once.”
Delta stared at her, stunned. “You’re serious.”
Flash nodded. “More than I’ve ever been.”
“You’re really not going to say anything to him in person?”
“No. If he looked at me a certain way or said one damn thing that felt like it meant something, I’d stay. And I can’t afford to stay.”
Delta turned her face to the side, jaw clenched again. “You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah. But I’m your idiot for five more minutes, so let me finish.”
Flash took a deep breath, then stepped closer.
“Third favor... I need you to take over Queens.”
Delta’s eyes snapped back to hers. “What?”
“I mean it. You proved yourself. During the counterattack. The kids respect you now. And they need someone who doesn’t just bark orders—someone who sees them. You know what it’s like to be the one on the outside looking in. Who better to lead a bunch of misfits than the biggest misfit of them all?”
Delta let the silence stretch. Her expression unreadable.
“I can’t force you,” Flash said quietly. “But I trust you.”
Delta didn’t answer right away. She looked at the figurine. Then at the suitcase. Then, finally, at Flash.
“Do you even know when—or if —you’re coming back?”
Flash shook her head. “No. But if I do... you’d probably know anyways. But I’ll make sure to come find you.”
Delta snorted, soft but sharp. “You better.”
A long beat passed. Delta looked at her again. Studied her like she wanted to carve this version of Flash into memory and store it somewhere safe.
Then, simply:
“Don’t let it eat you alive out there.”
Flash blinked.
“That guilt. The grief. The need to outrun it. You can’t. It’ll find you anyway. So don’t be stupid and let it win.”
Flash nodded slowly, her stomach rolling and her throat tight.
That was Delta’s goodbye. Plain. Unsentimental. And devastating.
Something about the day hadn’t sat right, though Spot couldn’t put his finger on what. He hadn’t given it much thought initially. But as the day stretched far and long, his annoyance ticked up. And that annoyance had planted itself into his stomach and seeded, blooming into unease.
Everything he’d done today had just been... off. Like the air knew something he didn’t. Like the city was sitting sideways. Crooked.
He didn’t have many off days. Because Spot was always on. Even when he didn’t want to be. He blamed it on lack of sleep. Since the mutiny had disbanded, some of the traitors had tried to grovel their way back into his good graces. Begging and pleading.
Doing the very thing they had judged Jack for. What started this whole mess. Wanting Spot to welcome them back into the fold with open arms. No harm, no foul, right?
Wrong.
He had a few of them on scullery maid duty. A few on laundry detail. But they were always under the watchful eye of a couple of his most trusted boys. They wouldn’t be pulling any fast ones on him again. He’d make sure of that.
That had to be what the problem was. Anxiety surrounding those spineless fools and their attempts to get on good terms. He didn’t trust them any more than he’d trust Henry Ward Beecher with his wife.
He rubbed the back of his neck as he reached for the doorknob, scowling at the paint peeling around it. The place could use a touch-up, but that was low on his list of priorities. Just gave him something else to add to the long list of things he’d make the traitors do. He stepped inside, half-expecting to feel the comfort of routine settle back over him.
Instead, the air in the room stopped him cold.
It was too still. Like someone had pressed pause.
Spot shut the door behind him, the click of the latch sounding louder than usual. He took a few steps in, eyes skimming the floor out of habit—nothing out of place. But when he turned toward the bed, his stomach twisted. Just once, but enough to make him freeze.
There, sitting dead center on his pillow, was a folded letter.
And he already knew who it was from.
He didn’t move at first. Just stared at it, heart beginning to pick up pace like it had been waiting for this all day. Like his body had known what was coming before his mind could catch up.
He walked over, slow. Reached out. Took the letter in his hand.
It was light. But somehow it weighed more than anything else in the room.
His name was written on the front in her handwriting. That loopy, half-rushed script he’d know anywhere.
Sean. Nothing else. No nickname. No “Spot”.” Just him.
Just her.
His hands shook as he ripped the edge of the envelope and unfolded the paper. She’d written him a novel.
Sean,
I never was good at saying what needed to be said. I talked a lot, sure. But never the words that mattered. Not really. I’d joke or fight or flinch away instead. This letter is me finally trying to do it right. I owe you that much.
I’m leaving, Spot. Not just for a few days. Not to cool off or lick my wounds like I’ve done before. I mean really leaving. I don’t know for how long. Maybe for good. You’ll probably find this and think I ran again. Maybe I did. But this time it’s not out of anger, or pride, or some stupid urge to win a fight. I’m leaving because I have to.
You and I… we’ve been pushing and pulling so long I don’t remember what it felt like to just stand still with you. We burn hot. We always did. And sometimes, we burnt each other. I know I’ve hurt you. You won’t say it — you’re too proud. You wear your pain like armor, and maybe I’ve gotten too used to pretending it doesn’t exist. But I know it’s there. And I’m sorry. Truly.
I love you. I don’t even think I understood the full weight of that until I wrote it down just now. But it’s true. I love you more than anything I’ve ever loved. More than anything I probably ever will love. And that’s the scariest part.
Because I’m not ready for a love like that.
People like to say love conquers all. That it’s enough. But I don’t think it is. Not for people like us. Not when we’re both still bleeding. Still breaking. Still carrying ghosts we haven’t figured out how to bury. We weren’t built for peace, you and me. Not yet. And maybe not ever.
Another reason I’m going is because of me. I’ve changed, Spot. Or maybe I just uncovered something ugly that was always inside me. I got too close to the edge. Too close to becoming him. My father. And you know how I feel about that man. I looked in the mirror and didn’t see myself anymore. I saw him. That scared the hell out of me.
This city — it’s poison for me now. Every corner’s got a memory that cuts too deep. And I don’t trust myself here. I can’t heal here. And you... you deserve more than being dragged down by someone trying not to drown.
So I’m doing the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
I’m walking away.
Not because I don’t love you. But because I do.
You’re going to be okay, Spot. You’re too stubborn not to be. And you’ll keep leading. Keep surviving. Keep being the boy king of Brooklyn — even if you’re too grown now to wear the crown.
But I’ll never forget you.
One day, if I’m lucky, I’ll have a family of my own. Friends who don’t know this side of me. Maybe even peace. And when I talk about my past, I’ll tell them about you. About the boy with the sharp tongue and soft hands. About the one who made me laugh when I didn’t want to and made me feel things I never thought existed. About the one who scared me, because he saw the real me — and loved me anyway.
I’ll tell them about the king who ruled a whole borough and still made time for a broken girl who thought she didn’t deserve anything good.
I’ll always love you.
Even from across an ocean.
Always your Little Bird,
—Allie
He read it. And read it again. And again. Until tears blurred the words and his body sank onto the bed. Because he should’ve told her. Should’ve told her that he’d walk through fire if she asked him to. Bleed every drop of blood in his body if it meant she’d never hurt again. He would give up everything if that’s what it took. Everyone.
Because he loved her.
He really fucking loved her.
The boat rocked harder than it had all morning, the hard push and pull of the waves turning her stomach into one big giant knot.
Flash gripped the railing, knuckles white. She closed her eyes against the motion and tightened her jaw. Like she was latching it shut to prevent the inevitable. She’d been on boats before, of course. But those were small. Fishing boats. Nothing that made her seasick like this. Nothing of this caliber.
And then it hit her.
She stumbled to the side, barely making it in time before her stomach turned itself inside out. She coughed once, twice, breath shuddering through her teeth. A nearby sailor threw a glance her way, half-concerned, half-amused.
“Rough seas,” he muttered. “We’ll be there before you know it, lass.” His Irish accent was thick the way her mother's was before America had softened it up.
She didn’t answer. Just spit and wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve, nodding vaguely. The kind of nod that doesn’t agree or disagree — just confirmed that yes, rough seas had always been a staple in her life. Although until now, that had been metaphorical.
She sat down on a bench once she was sure she wouldn’t vomit up a lung in the process. Her hair was damp from sea spray, eyes watching the coastline disappear into the fog. Her hands sat limply in her lap, not sure what they should be doing. Slapping herself for thinking this was a good idea? Clapping because she was leaving heartbreak behind?
She stared down at them like they didn’t belong to her. And maybe they didn’t. Those hands had done unspeakable things. Dreadful things. Wonderful things. Soft and hard things. They were battered, calloused, and worn.
Her life in a nutshell.
She stood up and looked back out over the ocean. Vast. Scary. Beautiful.
Rough and unrelenting.
The water churned underneath her, carrying her away from everything she’d ever known. The land of the free and the home of the brave. But leaving it behind was the most freeing, bravest thing she’d ever done.
She hadn’t looked back once she got on. She didn’t want to.
Because some things didn’t need a last glance. Some things weren’t over, even when they were.
To be continued...