Michael Parker awoke within a few hours of losing consciousness. Chase was the only other person in the room, sitting on a nearby chair. In his hands was a single piece of paper, and on that paper, a single line of words hastily written:

South. In Chicago. Coming back to Brooklyn. Sorry. I'll explain.

Written just beneath that, Spot.

It was obviously composed very quickly and without much though. The signature was undoubtedly authentic, with a hole punched in the paper by the tip of the pencil on the top of the S by accident. Chase had read the words over and again over a dozen times. Each time his eyes scanned that one line, that scratchy, nigh on illegible text, his stomach jumped.

He knew Spot was never dead in the first place. There were a handful of boys who knew, and they were told to keep their traps firmly shut about it on pain of death. It didn't occur to any of them that Spot Conlon would return to Brooklyn. Nobody thought he'd ever leave in the first place, so his departure had a lot more depth than just a quick vacation and a timely return.

So what to do?

Parker had been staring at the ceiling for a few minutes. Chase didn't even notice he was awake. His eyes darted around the various cracks and imperfections, allowing time for his body to build up the capacity to speak.

"Where's Lady?"

They were the first words Chase had heard in nearly an hour, so naturally he was a bit startled. He cleared his throat and folded the letter. "Manhattan," he said, "probably. I sent a guy to follow her, and South."

"And?"

"He ain't back yet."

"Fire?"

"Dead. Don't worry about it."

"Fine." Parker was just then noticing his lack of clothing from the waist up, and the bandages tightly coiled around his midsection. A dull throbbing of pain was coming from both where Lady had cut him and where he'd hit his head when he passed out, but he didn't pay either much attention. He felt all right. "So what's on the paper, then?"

Chase knew Parker would have to know sooner or later, but still, he had no desire to tell him. So instead, he stood and walked the letter over to Michael. "Read it yourself."

South. In Chicago. Coming back to Brooklyn. Sorry. I'll explain.

Spot.

"Oh," Parker remarked simply. "Fuck."

Kate Fox had always been a plain girl. She'd known that since she was a child. Nobody ever told her so, but she didn't need to hear it anyway. That was fine, though. A nice face wouldn't have gotten her much further in the world than she already was.

And so when Spot Conlon fell in love with her, Kate panicked.

She didn't mind it at first. It was actually kind of nice to be told such pretty things. After a while, however, it all seemed too hurried to her, too wrong.

Years from now Kate will tell her second husband about Spot, about their time together and the abrupt end to their relationship. "So you left him?" he'll ask. "You faked sickness and then you just…up and left?"

"What else was I supposed to do?" she'll reply. "He was in love with something else entirely. More of an idea, really. Justice and revenge and…and Brooklyn. I had to get out." She'll pause. "It was a good thing. There was nothing better I could have done for him, because I guess he went back and did the things he wanted to do."

"But it got him killed, didn't it? He's dead?"

"Yes. Yes, he's dead." Kate Fox has never and will never shed a tear for Spot Conlon.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been…" Spot trailed off. He couldn't remember the last time he'd confessed. He continued, though, "…a while since my last confession."

"And I thought nothing of it," Father Dietrich replied. "Word was that you'd been killed."

Spot couldn't help but smile. "You believed that?"

Neither could the priest. "No, not really. Confess your sins, my son."

"The usuals, Father, but that ain't why I came today. I figured I might as well come now because I probably ain't gonna be able to tomorrow. Or whenever, 'cause I don't know if I'm gonna get out of this one. I'm gonna kill a guy."

"Spot—"

"No, I ain't gonna hear it from you, and I don't wanna hear it from God, 'cause I ain't sorry about it. I just…I thought you should know that. I ain't one to sin and not think about it, 'cause I do, Father, I do think about it. And maybe that's even worse. I donno, maybe it'd be better to not even know you're doin' wrong when you're doin' wrong, but to me it's better to know, 'cause then you know and you can repent for it. But you gotta know, Father, that I'm gonna kill this guy and I don't feel bad about it."

Spot was lying to himself, of course. He figured if he believed he was doing no wrong, then Hell could piss off.

"That doesn't make it right—"

"Right and wrong ain't in the picture anymore! I've put this off for too long and let it sit and get worse when I should have dealt with it months ago. So…you've known me longer than anybody else in the world—"

"Longer than your father, Spot?"

Spot didn't usually think of William Conlon, so he was taken aback for just a moment. "My father doesn't need to know about it," he said after a brief pause. "I'd rather he not."

"So then you do feel bad about this premeditated murder. Then by your own logic, you're going to commit a pretty big sin."

"It ain't that I feel bad about it, 'cause believe me, I don't. I've said it lots of times and I'll say it lots more." Another pause. "My dad's a good man. He'd think it was wrong. He doesn't deserve to know that his son's been alive all this time and is a murderer."

There was silence between the two men. Spot didn't have anything left to say. But for the first time in a long time, he missed his father. He missed his mother.

Father Dietrich finally broke the silence. "You know, I should turn you in to the police."

"Yeah, I know."

"I'm not going to."

Spot smiled again. "Yeah, I know."

There was nothing else the priest could say to Spot. He knew he wouldn't be able to change his mind. "Go in peace then, Spot."

Spot left the confessional, but he didn't leave the church just yet. He found his way to a pew and immediately knelt down. Spot clasped his hands together tightly in front of his face and prayed. He prayed hard for mercy and guidance, for strength and forgiveness. Never in his life had he asked God for so much, or regretted his future actions as much as he did.

He left the church after some time, his eyes bloodshot and wet spots on the front of his shirt.

He was ready.

Whoah. Another update so soon? This is madness, I tell you! Madness!

But hey, where are the reviews? Come on, people. I know you're reading. Drop me a line and say so and we can be super best friends forever! Or I'll just be really happy and inspired to write more. One of the two.

So special thank-yous to Cakes, xborogrlxo, FM, and The Mayor's Daughter for your reviews. They really do mean a lot, and they're definitely what keep me going. No lie!

REVIEW! Pleeeeease? Rock!