Richard was bent over an open drawer of the small dresser, shoulders hunched and hands busy, when his sister entered the room without a knock. Her eyes fell on the suitcase almost immediately, and the small stacks of neatly-folded clothes contained therein. "Leaving so soon?" she smirked.
"You act like. I have a choice." He kept his back to her as he closed the empty drawer and moved to the closet.
While her brother fiddled with his guns behind the door, Emma wandered to the nightstand. She ran her fingertips over the lace runner and down to the small drawer below. Inside was a neat stack of books, fat with paste-thickened pages, that screamed to be examined further. She lifted the first out of its nest and opened carefully: the first pages were filled with a cramped tally; from there each page was a collage of magazine clippings—smiling sweethearts, rose-cheeked children, modest family kitchens, and the like. Though she smiled, her heart was suddenly filled with a rush of pity for her poor, lonely twin.
His large hands slipped around the book and pulled it gently from her hands. "Did you make that?" she asked as he nestled the it atop a stack of shirts.
He hummed and nodded, cheek flushed.
"It's lovely. Reminds me of those drawings you used to do," she smiled. "You were very good."
"I just. Drew you. As I saw you. While you told stories."
"Then I'm truly flattered." She took a seat beside the suitcase, peaking inside another of his books. This one contained a photograph of he and Tommy and Julia; Richard had turned his face to stare adoringly at his paramour, effectively hiding the mask from posterity's view. They made such a sweet little family that it suddenly seemed crazy to her that he would run from it so willingly, regardless of his moral dilemma. "Where are you going?" she asked, feigning nonchalance.
"I'm. Not sure. I bought. A train ticket."
"Without a destination? What a maverick."
He lifted the second book from her hands and said, softly, "I don't want you. To work. For Nucky." His eye bore into hers, its changeling iris pleading.
"Who says I haven't already taken the job?"
"I told you. I don't. Trust him."
"Trust or not," she said, smoothing a tie within the suitcase, "I'm not going back to the farm without you."
He nodded, averting his gaze, and returned to the closet.
"I can come with you."
"No."
"But—"
"I don't need. To be taken. Care of." He placed a box at the crest of his belongings and closed the lid of the case, fastening it firmly and enclosing his meager possessions in a cocoon of worn leather.
"We can take care of each other." She took his hand in her own, squeezing it reassuringly. "Like we always have."
"It's. Different now." He pulled his hand away and lifted the suitcase from the bed.
"Doesn't mean we can't—"
"I'm. Different, Sis."
"You keep telling me that," she said, rising to snake her arms around his waist, "but all I hear is that you want to be different. You want to leave me so badly, then fine. Go. But it's about time you stopped making bullshit excuses for yourself—"
He leaned in, achingly close. His boldness was startling, unfamiliar, and for a moment she was mesmerized by his lips so near to hers, their breathing in tormented tandem. But she lifted a hand between them, eyes downcast as she pushed her desire at bay. She shook her head, her eyes a wordless warning, and left him to his packing.
He was oblivious, she was sure—at the very least until she had left the building—of his rifle now missing from its hook, but then he had so very many to spare.
When he arrived at the hospital, the nurse gave him a grave look and excused herself to consult with an older, stern-looking nun, who nodded and approached him.
"Mr. Harrow," she said quietly, "I'm afraid that Mrs. Darmody is no longer with us."
Richard felt his heart drop, as if he had missed a step on the stairs. "She's. Dead?'
The nurse looked surprised. "No, no, she…well, she slipped out." She recoiled, clearly preparing herself for a tirade, but Richard merely sucked in a drop of errant saliva and pivoted his head slowly back and forth, searching for an appropriate response. A part of him was outraged, yes, but another was glad that she had freed herself of this place, this place that brought nothing but anxiety and painful, foggy memories to his own psyche and couldn't have fared much better for hers.
"Thank you," he grumbled politely, and stepped away from the desk while his hands worked hard at systematically crushing the hat between them.
As his stiff legs carried him away, he heard an odd sound to his right, somewhere between a hiss and a whistle. He turned to see an elderly woman perched in a high-backed wooden wheelchair, beckoning him towards her.
"You looking for the redhead?" she whispered, clandestinely. Richard nodded, crouching beside her, and she continued. "I saw her. Just up and walked out like she owned the place. But I've seen her around; I know she's batty."
"Did she. Say anything?"
The woman's eyes narrowed and glazed, her lips pursed in a tiny O as she slowly shook her head. Suddenly, she grabbed Richard's arm with an exclamation. "I did hear her say something about…something about looking for her son."
Her son. Had she meant her real son, or the surrogate he had taken from her? Either way, it was none of his concern. Tommy was safe where Gillian couldn't find him, and Jimmy was long gone. He felt a reflexive pang of remorse for letting her go when she no doubt needed him most, but he had worries of his own, worries that couldn't be tucked away with a drink or a needle. Gillian was a grow woman; he just hoped that was enough.
He nodded to the little old woman with a grunt of thanks and continued on his way.
Julia stood on the lawn under the clothesline, the sheets she pinned to it billowing in the June breeze. The air was balmy, the clouds above warning of a summer rain. She wiped her brow and reached for another sheet as Emma and Tommy wandered towards her, hand in hand and deep in conversation.
Tommy ran up to her first. "Can I go upstairs and play?" he said brightly, though always with a seriousness that startled her.
"On a nice day like this? You sure?"
He nodded, and she cocked her head towards the house and smiled as he trotted off past her. Now it was Emma's turn, tendrils of her dark hair fluttering around her face as she sauntered up to her friend. "I wanted to tell you," she began, but bit back the words.
"Yes?" Julia fastened a clothespin in place and gave her friend her full attention.
"I'm leaving. Tonight, actually."
Julia stared slack-jawed at the woman before her. "But you just got here."
"You knew I couldn't stay forever."
"Hey, I don't think we ever agreed to that."
Emma laughed and bent to lift a damp sheet from the basket. A golden stream of sunlight spilled through the building clouds, bathing them in its warmth as they made quick work of the afternoon chore.
"Will you go back to the farm?" Julia asked, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Eventually. For now…I don't know."
Julia nodded, remembering her friend's wanderlust with a weary smile.
"What about you?"
"Me?" Julia snorted. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm kind of stuck here."
"I mean—what will you do with Tommy?"
She sighed, lifting the empty basket to rest on her hip. "I suppose," she replied, "just try to give him as normal a life as I can. Isn't that what we all want?"
"Normal is relative," Emma said, rolling her eyes.
"Emma, please don't go," Julia pleaded. "What will I do without you here?"
"You'll survive," she answered, without a hint of sarcasm. "You will live and you will make life better for a sweet little boy and an old man just trying to get by. You're worth more than your lot, you know. You can handle anything."
"And you? Should I be worried?"
"About me?" Emma smiled a mischievous smile. "I'll be just fine." She pulled Julia in for a hug, kissing her cheek tenderly. "Besides," she said softly, "I'm sure we'll see each other again. Now come on, let me make dinner tonight. It's the least I can do." And they strode arm-in-arm into the house.
He waited in the shadows well into the night, as he had so many times before, daring not to blink as he stood sentry over the house that held his greatest treasures in the world within its walls. After several hours, he saw her emerge, suitcase in hand, and climb into a waiting car—maybe a taxi, maybe not. He set off after her in the car he'd taken from Rosetti's men that night. It had served him well, though he still felt a tinge of guilt that it had doubtless belonged to a man who had died by his hand. Unlike the hard-fought victories of the war, his kills here didn't call for trophies.
The black car moved through the streets with ease in the quiet wee hours, finally turning off of the main road to snake down a winding beachside path. It kept to the side road for some time, leading them further and further out of town. He was glad for the slow procession—he was unaccustomed to driving with only one eye, especially at night. But he soldiered on, eye trained on the car ahead of him, trying desperately to ignore the crippling darkness of the shore at his side. He never had adapted to the strange, empty feeling that such insistent nothingness inspired within him.
They finally slowed at a grouping of cars and trucks near the sand. A crowd of men meandered about, smoking and chatting in the dark. Emma hopped down from the car before it had fully come to a stop and approached a man who looked to be in charge of things, though he knew from experience that appearance could be deceiving.
Richard parked far enough from the crowd to keep from drawing undue attention to himself, and disembarked from his vehicle without a sound. Ducking behind bushes and cars, his eye darted continuously back to the beach. He could just barely make out Emma's shouted commands from afar over the rhythmic roar of the waves, but he could see her just fine: the nucleus of the crowd, rifle held high enough for an accurate shot to be little more than a reflex. She looked dangerous, and magnificent—Artemis in the moonlight.
With another word, the crowd broke and men scattered into position. In no time, the crates began to flow in from a moored ship just visible offshore. Emma marched through the rows of men, pausing in their midst to survey the scene. It was his chance.
He approached her so soundlessly that the men paid him no mind. "Emma," he growled, mere feet from her.
She swung around to face him, rifle aimed between his eyes, amidst a chorus of guns drawn by the men surrounding him following suit, all pointed towards a common target. He instinctively drew his own, aiming it at the most threatening foe: the woman before him.
"You said. You wouldn't take it," he stammered, rifle steady.
"I said no such thing and you know it." She stared him dead in the eye, mirroring his calm. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I came. To stop you."
"From what?"
His lip quivered, words failing him.
"You're not going to shoot me, Richard. We both know it." Yet her gun remained aloft.
With stiff, unsure movements, he lowered his weapon, never taking his eye from her.
"Stand down," she cried, eyes fixed on him. The men did as commanded. "Now get back to work." She lowered her rifle (his rifle—when had she taken it from him?) and trudge towards him, grabbing his arm forcefully to steer him past a sea of whispers ("It's him!" "The guy who shot up Rosetti's guys!" "Masked freak!") towards relative seclusion.
"I will say this once and never again," she said, voice low and hurried. "You cannot force me to do what you want. Not when you don't even know what that is."
He shook his head, words careening through his anxious mind in a jumbled blur.
"I'm not a picture in your book. You hear me? I'm not an idea; I'm your sister. Your flesh-and-blood sister, and I don't care what you think is right or wrong for me, it is my life."
"But. I love you." He reached for her hand, but she pulled it from his reach.
"Whatever this is," she said wearily, "this game of yours? It sure as hell isn't love." She turned and headed back to the beach, swallowed by the sea are and the darkness and the lightly falling rain, and leaving him rooted to the spot still searching for the right words to call her back to him.