A week or so later, Father Miguel informed Sketch that Captain Benson was looking for him. With the guy who shot Paco in prison and the bad batch of Purple Magic off the streets, the teen wasn't sure what she could possibly want from him, but with a shrug, he called her to line up when and where to meet.

When they'd managed to connect, she asked him to meet her at Pier 84 Hudson River Park. Despite being a great lover of parks (he went to one almost every day weather permitting), this was one he hadn't been to before, leading him to head there early to see if anything would work for his tourist pics.

As he meandered its circular path, Sketch wondered if anyone realized that parks were great societal equalizers. They were, after all, locations where people from all walks of life gather. Rich, poor, housed, unhoused, old, young, single, married - none of it mattered at a park. People didn't notice a sixteen-year-old sitting on a bench reading a book or drawing. No one stopped and stared at a teenager playing a game or two at the Chess and Checkers House in Central Park or laying on the grass, enjoying the sun or taking a nap. It was in times like that that he felt like he belonged…like he was just like anybody else. An illusion, he knew, but it was nice to feel that way every once in a while.

Parks served another function for him. As an artist, he tended to be a people watcher. You can learn so much from simply watching body language. The flick of a wrist. The turn of a head. The wave of a hand. The shift in posture. They all tell you something about a person and the people they may be with. As an artist, such details were the fodder for many a sketch, and right now, his focus was on documenting the pups and their masters enjoying the hard-court dog run area with the backdrops of the skyline and from some angles, the USS Intrepid docked at Pier 86's Intrepid Sea, Air and Space Museum.

Feeling someone nearby, he glanced up to see Captain Benson standing there, staring at him. Gulping nervously, he put his pencil down and moved to close his sketchbook.

"May I?" She asked as she nodded towards the book.

Looking down at it, he shrugged and handed it over. "Sure. It's nothin' special, just dogs and stuff," he muttered self-deprecatingly while motioning for her to take a seat on the bench next to him.

Knee bouncing as she flipped through it, Sketch felt as though he was awaiting the judgment of some art critic…like her single review could change the course of his entire life. Dramatic, he knew, but given the high regard the Crew had for her, it was a weight of responsibility he couldn't help but assign her, even if she didn't know it.

He heard her breath catch on a picture depicting the shadowed face of a young child with light, brown curly hair playing with their pet, the joy of the moment was palpable on the page. "These are incredible," she breathed, eyes moving over each picture like they were taking in the Mona Lisa or something.

"Thanks," he muttered, shifting uncomfortably at receiving such praise. "Thought Jez can help me sell some on our website or somethin'."

As she continued to flip through the book, she turned towards him. "Website?"

A bit bashfully he dug out a battered Artistic Minds NYC business card and handed it to her. "Yeah, for our company."

Her eyes lit up, impressed. "Good for you," she said as she put the card in her pocket.

When she handed the sketchpad back to him, he ripped out the page that she'd just admired and handed it to her. "Here," he said, shyly. "You can have it."

"Oh no, I couldn't. Not if you're going to sell it."

Stubborn to the max, he just held it out to her. "I got others." Waving at her, he insisted, "Take it for keeping your word on the department covering our hospital bills."

"That was a department decision, so I insist on paying for it." Digging into her pocket, she pulled out her wallet, an expectant look on her face.

With an annoyed huff, he muttered, "Fine. It's five dollars."

"All I've got is $20."

The bill in her hand dangled between them as he stubbornly tried to refuse. Opening his mouth to protest, he snapped it closed at the fiercely determined look on her face. Knowing it was futile, he snatched it out of her hand and shoved it in his pocket with an exasperated "thanks".

As she put her wallet away, she cleared her throat before saying, "Thank you for meeting me. I'm sure you're wondering about why I reached out."

"Figured it had something to do with Paco's case." He shrugged. "Not sure what though since the sketch was useless in the end." He hated to admit it, but he'd been bitterly disappointed when told about this. For a period of time, there'd been such pride and satisfaction in the knowledge that one of his sketches had actually helped catch the motherfucker who'd shot Paco…like he'd helped him get justice.

He startled a bit when he felt her hand on his back. "Sketch, that's not true," she protested, "I'm sorry we weren't more clear on that. It was simply not needed for court, but it was key to getting an informat to confirm his identity and place him at the scene of multiple murders. Without it, we would've had to waste time trying to figure out who he is. Once we had him on other charges, it was easy to get him to confess to shooting Paco, too. So don't ever doubt that it was useful."

Looking down as his hands fiddled with his pencil, he gave a nod of acknowledgement and shot her a small, grateful smile for the explanation. Inside, he couldn't help but feel giddy at the idea that he'd actually played a role in putting someone away…how about that? Me, a street rat, had with but a few brushes of his pencil helped bring down a murderer?! The sense of accomplishment was incredible, and maybe Paco was onto something…could this be a path for him?

Breaking him out of his mental ramblings, Captain Bensn asked, in what seemed to be a bit of swerve, "How is he?"

Leaning forward, Sketch braced his elbows on his knees, rolling his pencil between his fingers, and stared blankly in front of him. "Umm…he's doing okay. I mean, Father Miguel found a clinic that might help with his rehab and his testosterone shots, but we're waiting to see if they'll accept him or give him some sort of price break." Heaving a sigh, he continued, "If they don't, I'm not sure what we'll do, 'specially with Purple Magic bein' so high-end. He talks like he's committed to sticking with it this time, so I guess that's somethin'. But we've been 'ere b'fore with 'im, so all we can do is wait 'n' see I guess."

"My brother Simon was an addict," she shared softly, "So I know this battle well. Unfortunately, he died of an overdose in some random hotel." With a regretful sigh, she continued, "I hope you all are spared that."

Casting her a sorrowful look, he said with as much empathy as he could, "Sorry t' hear about your brother. We've had Crew members OD before, but we're really hoping the next one won't be Paco. It'd kill Mama K…kill us all. He's the baby of our little group right now."

"If you don't mind me asking, who's Mama K?"

Sketch leaned back with a laugh and squinted in thought. "I guess it would be confusing. Umm…guess you could say she's the mom of our little street family. Like a mama with her chicks she gathers us under her wings, teaches us to survive, and watches out for us." He shrugged, a gentle smile on his face as he thought about the woman who had taken them all on at such a young age. "Not many of us know or remember having a parent like her, so she's the heart of us. More likely than not, we'd prob'ly all be dead without 'er."

She cleared her throat. "What about you? Did you know your parents?"

Normally reticent to talk about himself, he opened his mouth to blow her off but found himself saying instead, "Nah, never really knew either one of them. Was raised by my grandparents until they died."

Shock ran through his system. What the hell is wrong with me? He couldn't help but wonder. Maybe it's simply because she is who she is? Confusion overcame him. "Does that matter for Paco's case or somethin'?"

She shook her head and set his drawing beside her. Heaving a sigh as she leaned forward to brace her elbows on her knees, clasped hands dangling between them. "No," she said softly, "It doesn't matter for the case."

"Then why the fuck you care?" He snapped in frustration, hating that he'd given a piece of himself away for no apparent reason.

She shot him a warning look, quelling any further such comments. A feeling of dread began to fester in his belly; he had the notion that whatever was about to be revealed may just alter his reality forever. "No, you know what. I don't wanna know," he spat out hurriedly, shoving his stuff in his bag before standing up to walk away.

She grabbed his shoulder, swinging him around to look into his eyes. "Sketch, you need to hear this."

He shrugged her hand off, swallowing hard at the tears that threatened. "Why? What difference is it gonna make?" He waved a hand around where they were sitting. "Is it suddenly gonna put a roof over my head, food on the table, or money in my pocket? If not, then why the fuck should I care?" He growled furiously, heaving deep breaths to still his rapidly beating heart. So Mr. Cool-as-a- Cucumber has finally lost it, a snide voice in his head ridiculed.

"Because you deserve to know who your parents are, just in case you need to find out your family medical history or something," she reasoned, her chocolate brown eyes containing hints of regret at this conversation.

Dammit, why'd she have to go the logical route? He mentally groaned, knowing his practical nature wouldn't allow him to ignore it. "Fine," he muttered, plopping down on the bench with his arms crossed. "Let's get this over with."

She leaned forward intently and stared into his eyes with sincerity gleaming within her own. "Before I say this, you need to remember that what I'm going to say has no reflection on who you are or who you will be."

"Whatever," he mumbled dismissively, wishing he could just run away now and continue to live in ignorant bliss. Whatever was coming was going to be bad. He could feel it in my bones.

Blowing out a breath, she sat down and faced him. "As you know, we collected DNA during Paco's case, and when we ran the DNA found on Paco through IAFIS, that's…."

"That's the national fingerprint database," he interrupted mulishly. "Yeah, I know."

"Okay," she muttered with a sigh, "Should've figured that." After taking a breath to regroup, she continued, "We got a familial hit to a serial rapist case from 2015, and when we compared that sample to yours, the two were a match."

His brow furrowed in concentration as his logical mind tried to piece it together. "So you're saying a family member was involved in your 2015 case. Is that why you asked about my parents?"

She nodded, seemingly relieved that he'd made the connection.

He shrugged. "So which was it? My mom or my dad?" Now that this had started, the thirst for knowledge…for understanding of…well…everything…kicked in. Curiosity had always been his downfall, leading him down paths that probably should've been left well enough alone. Deep in his heart or hearts he had a feeling this would be another one of those occasions, but it was too late now. In for a penny and all that.

"Your dad was Johnny Drake, also known as Johnny D." Her compassionate, dark brown eyes scrutinized his face, as if trying to see if he'd ever heard the name.

Racking his brain, he tried to remember if anyone had ever mentioned it before but drew a blank. "Nope, never heard of 'im."

With a regretful sigh, she quietly revealed, "He was a serial rapist and murderer."

That landed like a gut punch. He knew exactly what she was saying, and pieces from his past clicked into place. "That's why she didn't want me," he breathed. Pain sliced through his heart at the realization that she would never want him…ever. As a child, it'd been some distant dream that his mother would show up and want to be a part of his life somehow. It did happen for a few months after my grandmother died when I was 10, something about being tied to a will or something (he was sure it had to do with money), but the effects of no food and bruises from a few hits due to drug-induced binges led to him being taken away by CPS. Then she disappeared, never to be heard from again. Hell, she could be dead for all he knew.

"And him?"

She winced when she revealed, "My former partner, Nick Amaro, shot and killed him when he tried to escape the courtroom. He also had no family that we could find, so he's buried in a pauper's grave somewhere."

"Who gives a fuck," he muttered darkly before jumping to his feet.

Rapist and murderer. His mind was stuck on those words. Nothing else seemed to penetrate. Thank God the fucker is dead. A well of despair and self-loathing began to fill his soul, and he knew he had to get out of there before it had a chance to escape. Turning towards her, he told her as sincerely as he could, "I know you think you did me some great favor, but I could've gone the rest of my life without knowing any of that shit."

Regret fell on her face, and she opened her mouth as if to say something else. Not having the inclination to listen to anymore bombshells, he turned quickly and stalked away, mind reeling at the revelations that had been laid at his feet.

It just didn't seem right for him to be there, alive and well, when half of him was from some violent, rapist and the other was some random addict. Why didn't she just have an abortion? Yet, deep down he knew the answer already. His grandparents, strong Catholic people that they were, wouldn't have allowed it. He was sure a grand bargain had been struck in that he'd be given to them to raise, setting his mother free to do whatever the hell she wanted.

If there was one thing he'd learned, the driver of this train known as life has a fucked up sense of humor, and this just served as the prime example. It seemed only fitting that the high of finding Paco, knowing he'd contributed to getting him justice, and seeing the hope of finally setting him on a good path be followed by the crushing blow that the warmth and brightness of the early childhood memories he often pulled out as reminders of better days were now tarnished by the possibility that duty not love had been at the root of it all. Did they ever really love me? Or was I really only ever an obligation…someone she had to raise because her faith wouldn't allow it to be any different?

It took a moment for the wetness on his cheeks to register in his brain, and he was startled to realize that he'd finally lost the battle against the tears that had threatened earlier. Here he was, tough street kid that he was, walking through a public park, while wiping futilely at the dampness on his cheeks. Anyone could see him, but he didn't care. He couldn't handle it anymore. His mask had finally broken, and he wasn't sure that he'd ever be able to repair it.