Jack went straight back to town after he left the ranch, choosing to hide away in his room above the bar for the rest of the day. He didn't want to be seen by the townspeople. His change in clothing would help to prevent him from being recognized as the man described in the paper, but he knew it wasn't foolproof. At best, all it would do is buy him a little time. God only knew how much evidence the law had against him, but he assumed it was a lot more than what had been printed in the paper.

He didn't know what to do. He paced around the room for hours, wracking his brain for his next plan of action, but none of the things he came up with satisfied him. He tried altering his appearance further by tying his long hair back and trimming down some of his facial hair, but again, it was only a temporary solution.

He considered packing up and leaving, going on the run, but he despised the idea. It brought back memories of the time before his family settled in Beecher's Hope. The constant waking up in the middle of the night to move, the nonstop looking over their shoulders, the stupid fake names. It was exhausting. He and his family had spent so much of his life running from his father's sins; he didn't have any energy left to run from his own.

And as much as he hated spending time on the ranch alone, the thought of leaving it behind forever ate at his heart. It was the only real home he had ever had, and it was where his family was laid to rest. Abandoning it entirely felt wrong.

As his anxiety started to reach a peak, he found himself itching for a drink to drown it in. He left his room and started down the stairs to the bar, freezing after he descended the first flight. Frowning, he looked over the railing and observed the place. It was especially crowded that night. Jack could hardly hear himself think over the many loud, overlapping conversations and roars of laughter. Though maybe that was a good thing.

He noticed that the usual music that filled the bar was missing and looked curiously over to the piano. There he saw the bar's regular pianist, Mr. Lauterback, standing beside the instrument, fiddling around inside of it with some sort of tool in his hand. Sitting on the bench in front of the piano was a young woman, who Jack instantly recognized as the same girl he had helped a few days prior: Lilly something-or-other. She was watching the man in front of her mess with the piano and occasionally pushing a few keys at his request. Each time she did so, Lauterback appeared to get increasingly more frustrated with the instrument.

Jack recalled there being a fight in the bar the previous night. He couldn't remember what the two men had been fighting about— he was pretty out of it by that point— but he remembered the fight ending with one of them being slammed against the piano. Then Mr. Weaver broke it up and kicked them out, announcing to the rest of the patrons that from then on, there would be zero tolerance for violent outbursts in his bar. The pair must have been trying to fix whatever damage had been done to the piano.

Jack made his way the rest of the way down the stairs and to the bar where he squeezed into an empty space between two other men. He leaned against the bar, receiving an irritated glance from the stranger at his right when he bumped elbows with him. The man muttered something under his breath, grabbed his drink, and vacated his spot. Jack frowned; the townspeople's random dislike of him never failed to make him upset. But at least his unpopularity gained him some extra personal space….

Sighing, he knocked against the bar to get the bartender's attention. Mr. Weaver responded with a glance in his direction and a gesture for him to wait a moment as he was busy talking with a drunk guy at the end of the bar. Jack sighed and brought a hand up to rest on his temple. His eyes wandered around the room, and he started to feel uneasy about the number of people there. None of them seemed to notice or care about his presence, but he couldn't help the paranoia creeping up his back.

He turned away from the crowd and fixed his eyes down onto the wooden countertop, his heart beginning to race. Everything inside him was screaming at him to go back upstairs and hide, to just come back later when those people were gone. But before he could do just that, the bartender appeared in front of him.

"What can I—"

Jack looked up and locked eyes with Mr. Weaver, who did a slight double-take before grinning.

"Oh, hey, Jack. Almost didn't recognize ya," he said then pointed at Jack's head and chuckled. "You finally cut that hair?"

Jack shook his head, his hand instinctively moving to the nape of his neck where his hair was neatly tied back into a small ponytail. It probably would have been a good idea to cut the hair rather than simply tie it back, but he didn't want to. He had been growing it out for years, and his mother always told him how it made him look like his father.

"Can I just have a beer or something?" Jack asked as he tossed a quarter onto the bar, cutting straight to the chase as he was in no mood for conversation.

The man raised his eyebrows. "Sure," he said with a shrug and produced a bottle from behind the counter, cracked it open, and placed it in front of him.

Jack grabbed it and took a large gulp before setting it back down on the counter and staring blankly at it. In his peripheral, he could see that Mr. Weaver was still standing in front of him, now leaning on the bar with his arms folded.

When he glanced up, he found the man eyeing him with an expression of concern. Jack hunched over, intensifying his focus on the beer in his hand, and shifted on his feet as his eyes bored into him.

"Is everything okay?" Mr. Weaver asked.

"Yeah," Jack replied with an incongruent shake of his head, never taking his eyes off the bottle. Calm down, a voice within him berated him. Everyone can tell you're acting funny.

Mr. Weaver was silent for a moment then humphed. "Alright. I won't pry," he said as he took the quarter off the bar. "I'll be here if ya need anything."

The bartender took his attention off of him, and his eyes wandered to fixate on something behind Jack. A warm smile appeared on the man's face, and Jack curiously peeked over his shoulder to find the familiar young woman who had been working on the piano approaching them.

He hadn't spoken to her since they met— since that old woman led her away from him, undoubtedly to tell her how terrible he and his family were. He quickly refixed his gaze back in front of him and hoped she wouldn't recognize him.

"Miss Lilly," the bartender greeted her.

When she brushed against Jack to occupy the empty spot at his right, he shuffled in discomfort at the invasion of his space. Thankfully, she didn't seem to pay him any mind as she set her belongings on the bar and politely returned Mr. Weaver's greeting. Jack sipped on his beer as he silently listened in on their conversation.

"You two gonna be able to get that piano fixed?" Mr. Weaver asked her, nodding his head towards the instrument, where the pianist was still fiddling with it.

"I think so," she replied with a sigh. "It got pretty fucked up, but—"

"Excuse me?" Mr. Weaver scoffed at her crude choice of words.

The girl shrank back, and Jack could just make out her face flushing in the dim light of the bar. "I'm sorry," she mumbled and cleared her throat. "It was pretty messed up, but Lauterback thinks he can fix it."

"I hope he can. Philips will have my hide if he has to buy a new one," he grumbled, more to himself than to her. "You outta here then?"

"Soon, but"— she reached up to tuck a stray lock of long hair behind her ear— "could I have a coffee first please?"

Mr. Weaver furrowed his eyebrows at her and glanced at a clock on the wall behind him. "It's half past midnight."

She wrapped her arms around herself and said, "I know, but I… I'm tired."

"Well, maybe you oughta go to sleep then," the bartender chaffed with a light chuckle.

"You know I can't do that." The polite smile on her face became strained as she spoke. Before he could reply, she added, "I'll pay for it this time; I promise."

"I was only teasin', girl," he assured. "I'll get you your precious coffee." He turned away from the bar and started rummaging through the cupboards behind him.

Lilly watched him as he prepared the coffee for her, the smile on her face disappearing when his eyes were no longer on her. Jack couldn't help but notice how different she looked from when he had first spoken to her the other day. Her under eyes were dark, making her look as if she hadn't slept in days, and she now wore a mildly disturbed expression on her face. She looked down at her hands, which Jack noticed to be shaking slightly, and began picking at her fingernails.

"Here," Mr. Weaver said as he returned to the bar and set two full, aromatic cups of coffee in front of her.

Her head shot up, and her previous polite demeanor returned as if she had just flipped a switch. She thanked him and moved to fish a handful of change out of her pocket to pay for it.

Mr. Weaver put a hand out to stop her and said, "Don't worry about payin'. I know Philips don't pay you enough to play that piano. Least I can do is give you a couple free drinks."

She nodded and softly said, "Thank you," as she returned the money to her pocket. She grabbed one of the steaming cups, shakily raised it to her lips, and gulped it down with impressive speed.

The bartender chuckled and took the empty cup from her hand. "So is everyone from Boston obsessed with coffee or just you?" he asked with a quirked brow.

"I dunno." She shrugged and took the second cup in both of her hands. "I never really left my house," she said as she took a small sip, the rim of the cup covering the frown that had crept back onto her face.

"Oh." Mr. Weaver awkwardly cleared his throat and looked away from her. "You done with that, Jack?"

Jack peeled his eyes off the girl when the bartender addressed him, pointing at the bottle of beer in his hand. This prompted Lilly to look at him as well, her eyebrows raising in recognition, and he internally cursed the bartender for drawing attention to him.

"No," he said before lifting the bottle and shaking it a little to demonstrate that it wasn't empty.

Mr. Weaver opened his mouth to reply, but Lilly spoke first: "Mr. Marston?"

Jack suppressed a groan when the woman's gentle voice caught his ear; he had hoped she would ignore him. When he turned to look at her, she grinned, and a gleam appeared in her tired green eyes. Her friendly countenance confused him. Considering how that old woman had spoken to her, he would have expected her to hate him— to look at him with the same look of trepidation that so many others in town did.

"Miss," he greeted her hesitantly and took a swig of his beer.

She set her cup back down on the bar. "How are you? I haven't seen you since—"

"I'm fine," he said, trying to keep his tone flat, though a crack in his voice betrayed him, and he bit his lip.

Lilly's smile wavered, and she shared a look with Mr. Weaver, who gave her a subtle cautionary shake of his head. Furrowing her eyebrows and returning her gaze to Jack, she asked, "You sure?"

Jack shifted uncomfortably at the question, and the bartender let out a loud sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. She ignored him and continued, "I… I heard about your father."

Jack tightened his grip on the bottle in his hand. He shuddered to think about what exactly she was told; it couldn't have been anything pleasant. He had heard so many outrageous rumors about his family throughout the years. Frankly, he was surprised that the girl was even willing to speak to him after hearing some of them.

"Okay," he replied curtly, hoping she would get the hint to drop it and leave him alone.

Unfortunately, she didn't. She continued talking to him, but he didn't pay attention to what she was saying, choosing instead to stare blankly at his hands in hopes that she would give up. His family was the last thing he wanted to talk about. He was already worked up enough about the Edgar Ross situation.

"You don't have to be fine."

Jack tensed up when he heard the woman say those words. His mother had said that same thing to him so many times after his father died. He had tried so hard to be strong for her. To him, her sorrow was always more important than his; it felt selfish for him to detract from it. So he would put on a mask of stoicism around her, even when he knew she could see straight through it. She hated it and admonished him for this artificial apathy on many occasions. It wasn't until she was almost dead that he finally let her in. God, did he miss her.

Lilly seemed to notice that the phrase had an effect on him and fell silent, clearly anticipating some kind of response.

"No disrespect, miss, but I really don't wanna talk about this right now," he said in a low, warning tone. His hands started to shake, and he clutched the edge of the bartop in an effort to still them.

His icy tone proved ineffective at deterring the girl. She reached out to lay a soft hand on his forearm. "I know it's hard, but it—"

"You don't know anything!" he snapped, his frustration at her persistence boiling over. He ripped his arm away from her. "If you did, you'd leave me the hell alone!"

She pulled back and froze, her eyebrows rising and mouth falling slightly agape.

Jack's anger faltered a bit when he saw the look of hurt flash on her face, but he doubled down anyway by grumbling, "My… issues aren't any of your business."

Lilly gaped at him for a moment before blinking a few times and shaking the shock from her face. She pressed her lips together and stuck her chin out. "I guess you're right," she said calmly, though her voice was laced with bitterness. "My mistake."

She turned to look at the bar's patrons, many of whom had been silently watching the confrontation. When a snicker rang out from one of them, her stony expression started to crack, and she shifted her gaze to the floor. Her lip quivered and she glanced at the door then at the bartender.

"Goodnight, Weaver," she whispered, giving the man a slight nod without making eye contact.

Mr. Weaver sucked his lips in and wordlessly returned her nod goodbye as she gathered her things off the bartop and rushed for the door. He stared after her as she left the building before shooting Jack a glare.

"Was that necessary?" he spat.

Jack only bowed his head in response as the feeling of guilt started to gnaw at his chest.

The other man shook his head and sighed. "What has gotten into you today? You ain't even drunk."

A roar of laughter erupted from a group of people at a table behind him, stopping Jack from answering. He straightened up and turned around to glower at them, but this only seemed to heighten their amusement.

"That was real charming, boy!" one of the men hollered, as the others continued to laugh at him. "Pretty girl tries to talk to you, and you just go and tell her to piss off." He cackled. "What's that then, Rose?" the man addressed a woman sitting at the table with them; she appeared to be one of the saloon's working girls. "Third time this week he's done that?"

The woman smirked and shrugged. "Thereabouts."

Jack furrowed his eyebrows and looked back down at the bar. He didn't remember ever doing that before.

He heard the scraping of a chair against the floor, and heavy footsteps started bonding towards him. "Man, it's no wonder you're in here drinking alone every day," the man's mocking voice began again, now uncomfortably closer as he leaned against the bar beside Jack. "Your momma must be so proud."

Jack's face went hot at the comment, and he growled, "Get away from me."

"Knock it off, Reid," the bartender intervened, groaning and rubbing his temple.

"Am I wrong, Weaver?" he laughed.

"You ain't any better," Mr. Weaver replied, avoiding the question. "How many times you been dumped out on the street by your wife?"

"Hey, at least I've got a wife. Not gonna die alone like this deadbeat." The man guffawed, patted Jack on the shoulder, and rested his hand there.

This enraged Jack further, and he tightened his fist around the neck of the bottle in his hand.

"I'm not gonna say it again," the bartender warned the man, his voice now firmer.

"I'm not doing nothing wrong, Weaver. I'm just—"

The antagonizer was silenced when Jack, now at his boiling point, smashed his half-empty bottle of beer against his head, sending shards of glass flying in every direction. The impact sent the man stumbling backwards, and he cried out in pain.

"Hey!" Mr. Weaver exclaimed and grabbed Jack's wrist, though he immediately pulled away.

The bar went silent as the man groaned and clutched his head, a steady stream of blood trickling down his temple. Once he regained himself, he clenched his fists. "You little piece of shit!" He lunged at Jack, grabbing him by the collar as his friends back at the table egged him on.

Breathing heavily from his anger, Jack spat in his face. The man groaned in disgust and moved one of his hands to wipe his face. He then balled his fist and raised it, and Jack grit his teeth, bracing himself to be struck by the man.

Mr. Weaver hopped over the bar, an impressive maneuver for a man of his age, and shoved himself between the two, nearly taking the punch meant for Jack. "Enough!" he yelled, looking back and forth between them. "You sit down," he ordered the injured man while pointing at an empty chair.

Panting, the man ignored him and said to Jack, "I'm gonna fucking kill you, kid." He attempted to shove the bartender to the side, and Jack took a couple of steps back.

"Sit down!" Mr. Weaver shouted without budging in the slightest. "It's over. You're bleedin' like a stuck hog," he said, motioning to the man's bloody head.

The man touched the wound at his temple then stared at his hand which was now soaked with blood. He grimaced, and his face paled at the sobering sight. Swaying a bit, he finally obeyed and slumped down into the empty chair. One of the man's obnoxious friends jumped up to his aid, taking off their coat and pressing it against his temple in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

Satisfied with the man's compliance, Mr. Weaver turned his attention to Jack. He pursed his lips, studying him for a moment before reaching out and grabbing his upper arm. "C'mon, kid, you need to leave," he mumbled.

"What?" Jack pulled his arm from the man's grip. "He started it!"

"You made it physical. I woulda got him to shut up peacefully," Mr. Weaver countered, speaking in a hushed yet gruff voice so the others couldn't hear. He placed both of his hands on Jack's shoulders and turned him towards the bar's exit.

Jack tried to shimmy out of the man's grip, but his hold was too tight. "You can't be serious," he griped as the man began pushing him towards the exit.

"You know the rules, boy. You put your hands on anyone, you're outta here," the bartender said loudly as if he were announcing it to the entire building.

"I didn't put my hands on him; it was a bottle," Jack couldn't stop the sarcastic remark from tumbling out of his mouth.

"Don't smart-mouth me," the older man grumbled and gripped more tightly onto Jack's shoulders, forcibly leading him the rest of the way towards the door.

As Jack was pushed out onto the sidewalk, his anger turned into apprehension. He didn't have anywhere else to spend the night— or at least, anywhere else he was willing to spend the night. "You don't gotta throw me out. I'll go upstairs," he tried to bargain with the older man.

Mr. Weaver sighed. "Look, I can't give ya special treatment," he said in a low tone. He pointed his thumb back towards the inside of the building. "The rest of those fools will never take me seriously again if I let ya stay."

"But—"

"Go cool off," he said, irritation seeping back into his voice. "You can come back in a few hours once everyone's left."

Before Jack could object any further, Mr. Weaver entered the building and shut the door on him. He peered through the window to see him stomp up to the group of people who had laughed at him and begin berating them. And to his satisfaction, the altercation ended with the man he had attacked being led to the side door and kicked out as well.

Jack winced when he suddenly became aware of a stinging sensation in his right hand. He raised the hand to inspect it, finding a long, bleeding slash across his palm. In his rage, he hadn't realized that the shards of the bottle he broke had cut him too. Gritting his teeth, he pressed the wound against his coat sleeve and stepped away from the window.

It was dead silent outside, as all of the shops had been closed for hours, and the residents that weren't in the bar had turned in for the night. He hopped off the sidewalk and began to wander aimlessly down the main street, unsure of where he could go to pass the time.

The nearer he got to the end of the street, the more frustrated he felt with himself for his actions that night. He had drawn a record amount of attention to himself directly after obsessing over keeping a low profile. He leaned against the outside wall of a shop when he reached the end of the road and groaned at his stupidity. People were surely going to talk about his outbursts; Blackwater loved to gossip. But maybe, if he was lucky, they'd talk more about the scene he had just made than about Edgar Ross's disappearance.

Jack abruptly straightened up when he heard a dull thud in the distance. He followed the sound and spotted someone sitting in the grass underneath a streetlight by the lake. He squinted at the figure, and his heart skipped a beat when he realized it was the young woman he had just run out of the bar. She was sitting with her knees pulled up to her chest and tossing stones towards the water, though most of her throws missed and instead clacked against the lake's rocky banks.

Jack frowned at his feet, feeling guilty for how he had yelled at her. He spent so much time lamenting over his loneliness yet belligerently pushed away anyone who tried to show him any compassion. He didn't know why he did it; he seemingly just lost all ability to keep himself together after his mother died. Figuring he ought to apologize to the woman— to right at least one of his many wrongs— he took a deep breath and started towards her.

Sticks crunched underneath his boots as he neared her, and he saw her shoulders tense, though her gaze remained fixed on the water ahead. She threw a final stone towards the lake with an excessive amount of force and wrapped her arms tightly around her knees.

"Hi," he said.

She glanced up at him, scowled, and refixed her gaze on the lake without a word. He sighed. He guessed he deserved that….

Jack followed her gaze to look out at the water and admired the beauty of the scene. The clear midnight sky reflected off of the lake, and a swarm of fireflies sparkled above its surface.

"Pretty spot," he remarked as he knelt down beside her.

Her arms tightened around her knees, and she scooted away from him. "I guess," she finally spoke.

Encouraged by her response, he continued, "Don't think I've ever come over here at night. It—"

"You…" she cut him off then shook her head and scoffed. "You've got some fuckin' nerve," she said coldly through gritted teeth, still staring out at the water.

Cowering at her tone, he pressed his lips together and swallowed hard. "I'm—"

"You really think you can just come over here and have a casual conversation with me after makin' that big scene back there?" her voice grew louder as she spoke, and the accent in it became more pronounced.

Jack opened his mouth to respond but bit his lip when she continued:

"After makin' a fool of me for tryna empathize with you. Tryna tell me that I don't get it." She looked at him in disgust. "You don't know anything about me. My father died in '09. You don't…." Her voice cracked, and she stared down at her feet. "You don't have the right…"

Jack's heart sank at the revelation, and he felt even worse for what he'd said to her. Had someone said the same to him, he surely would've flown off the handle like he never had before. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice small. "I didn't know."

Her head snapped back to him, and he winced in anticipation for her to continue laying into him. But when her now tear-filled eyes met his, her face unexpectedly softened a bit. She pursed her lips and looked away, an unreadable expression crossing her features.

She took a deep, shaky breath and fidgeted with the collar of her blouse. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet: "You would've if you hadn't decided to be an a—" she cut herself off and cleared her throat. "To be mean."

"An asshole," he finished the sentence he assumed she had wanted to say before censoring herself. "You can say it. You're right."

"I've been told to stop speakin' that way," she mumbled.

He shrugged and plopped down to sit on the ground beside her. "Some people deserve to be spoken to that way," he murmured and frowned at his feet.

He looked at her for a response, but she said nothing and averted her gaze to the ground. Unsure of what else to say, he repeated, "I'm sorry. Really."

Lilly glanced off to the side and said, "It's fine."

"It don't have to be fine," he told her.

She looked at him and raised her eyebrows at the reiteration of the statement she had made earlier in the bar.

He let out a humorless chuckle and stared up at the night sky. "My ma used to say that all the time too."

"Used to?" she asked, barely above a whisper.

"Yeah." Jack blinked a few times when his eyes started to sting. "She died a couple weeks ago."

"I'm sorry."

He shook his head, his face contorting in pain as he felt a pang in his chest. "Wish she woulda taken me with her," he whispered.

When he looked at her, he instantly regretted saying that. She was staring at him in dismay, clearly knowing full well what his statement implied. His face grew hot, and he wished he could take it back.

"I— I should go," he sputtered.

"Yeah— um— so should I," she said, rubbing the side of her neck.

Jack stood up and extended a hand out to the girl, offering to help her stand. She stared at it uncertainly for a second before she looked away and began to stand on her own. Jack awkwardly moved his outstretched hand to the nape of his neck as she rose to her feet, grimacing when he found that the hand was wet. Another wave of embarrassment washed over him when he realized he had held out his injured, still lightly bleeding hand to her.

He shoved the hand into his pocket and followed the girl as she began walking in silence back to the street.

"Where are you staying?" he asked once they reached the pavement.

She hesitated a bit before answering, "At the hotel."

"I… I can take you there if you want," he offered. "Ain't so safe at night alone."

"Thank you, but it's right there." She pointed out the building at the end of the street. "I'm sure I'll survive."

Jack's shoulders slumped and he stared down at his boots. "Alright," he muttered. He could tell that she was uncomfortable, and he hated himself for making her so.

"I guess…"

He raised his head when she began to speak again.

Lilly sighed and glanced back at the hotel. "I guess it wouldn't hurt though." She nodded in the direction of the building. "Come on."

Surprised by her change of heart, Jack lingered in place for a second, staring at her back as she began the short walk down the road. He jogged to catch up to her and strolled silently by her side, occasionally stealing glances at her, while she never took her eyes off the road in front of them.

When they reached the hotel, he stood a few feet back as she approached the entrance.

"Well, I… I'll see you around," she said.

Jack nodded and replied, "Have a good night."

"You too." She gave him a nod goodbye, pulled the door open, then paused with her back to him.

She looked over her shoulder at him, and he gave her a little wave before turning on his heel to leave.

"Hold on," she stopped him.

When he faced her again, her eyebrows were furrowed, eyes trained on the injured hand he had waved at her with. Holding the hotel door open with her foot, she pulled a small green handkerchief from her skirt pocket. She then reached forward, grabbed his hand, and pressed the soft cloth against the cut on his palm.

When she pulled away, Jack dropped his hand and made a fist around the handkerchief to hold it in place, gritting his teeth as the pressure on the wound made it sting. "Thanks," he stammered, taken aback by the act of kindness— one which he certainly didn't deserve.

Lilly nodded and said, "Take care of yourself," before entering the building, leaving him standing outside to pass the rest of the night alone.