Author's Note: Thank you for your support on this story!

'Morchella' is a gag designed to play off NYC's once-famous Chanterelle.

The title of this chapter is reference to A Christmas Carol.

"The clerk in the tank involuntarily applauded: becoming immediately sensible of the impropriety, he poked the fire, and extinguished the last frail spark for ever."

There is certainly a correlation between Bob Cratchit's position in that scene and Robert Goren at this point in his life. However, I think correlations can also be drawn to Eames's emotional state and Frances Goren's health.

In 1995, the Winter Solstice was technically on the 22nd. But for the purposes of this story, we're pretending it was the 21st.

In addition, the Winter Solstice is technically the 'shortest day' rather than the 'longest night.' There's a reason I'm not correcting Joe Dutton's astronomy chops at this time.

Please see the end of the work for additional notes.


Chapter-Specific C/W: Scenes involving addiction, care for aging parents, and mental health crisis. Discussion of childhood cancer & death.


5:32 p.m. | Saint Anthony's | Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan

Night fell on the city, bringing with it an atmosphere of uncertainty.

The sun had gone down an hour earlier and they were no closer to catching their arsonist. Everyone was on edge about the prospect of another devastating fire.

Eames was no closer to identifying the odd symbols left at the site of the latest arson. She had struck out while interviewing victims in Harlem.

With nothing to lose, she swung by Saint Anthony's on the way back to 1PP. Many of the victims from the Golden Tulip fire were still being housed at the church.

Eames also wanted to speak with Father Brennan to see what he knew. He had far deeper ties to the city's homeless community and Alex was hoping his expertise could steer her in the right direction.

It was supper time when Eames arrived and the volunteers were in full swing feeding folks, families, and first responders.

"Twice in twenty-four hours."

Eames glanced up at her brother, Ollie.

He looked knackered and was just coming off his twenty-four-hour shift.

"Don't ask," Alex said, anticipating her brother's query.

"That good, huh?" Ollie replied.

He scratched the back of his neck and sighed.

"Actually, I'm glad I ran into you. Do you want to split a pig?" Ollie asked out of nowhere.

Eames blinked, confused.

"A pig," Ollie repeated.

"I don't—"

"Lizzy called. She's all stressed about Christmas," Ollie said.

Their sister, Elizabeth, had insisted on hosting Christmas. Though Liz had a new baby at home, she did have the biggest house. Liz's husband, Peter, worked from home. His job afforded him considerable time off for the holidays and so they were keen to host.

Johnny Eames had insisted on buying the Christmas ham as his contribution to dinner.

"Well, I don't know what happened, but dad must have stopped in to order it on his way home from happy hour," Ollie said. "Ordered a bit more than a Christmas ham, I'm afraid."

Eames braced herself for bad news.

"How much?" Alex asked.

She didn't really want to know the answer.

"Two big ones," Ollie answered.

"Two hundred dollars?" Eames asked, aghast.

Johnny Eames was already on a strict budget. Alex loathed having to micromanage her father's finances like that, but it was necessary.

He had a small pension from his time at the NYPD—it did little to keep pace with the cost of living.

Johnny liked to drink. A good chunk of his weekly expenses went up in smoke (or rather, down the bottle).

Johnny Eames also owed money on a payment play in a settlement worked out with the City of New York for drawing a salary from a Park Service job while drawing on his NYPD pension. Such 'double-dipping' was prohibited, and Johnny had been lucky to get off with a hefty fine agreement.

He had to pay back the money (with interest).

He still owed nearly twenty grand and had to make payments on time each month or he risked a more serious penalty.

Without fail, Johnny's bar tab ate a good share of that money. Every other month, Alex was having to dip into her own tight finances to bail her father out.

Last month alone, Alex had covered her father's utility bills so that he would have the money to get his grandchildren Christmas presents.

"So, two hundred dollars?" Alex asked, concerned.

"Try two thousand," Ollie clarified.

Alex visibly staggered.

"Did he buy a farm?"

"Two whole pigs," Ollie said.

"Were they gold plated?" Alex squeaked.

Ollie snorted.

"I'll be surprised if it's really pork at all. He bought them from Salton Foods," Ollie informed her.

Alex visibly bristled.

Salton Foods was a well-known chain of local butchers based in Inwood. It was run by Jack Driscoll, a shady character with a history of mob ties.

"Anyway, it sounds like dad tried to order two hams and well—"

Ollie trailed off. It was possible Johnny Eames had been too intoxicated to clearly place an order. It was equally as possible that the butcher at Salton Foods thought it would be a real wheeze to take advantage of old Johnny Eames.

Twenty years earlier, Jack Driscoll had beat a kid to death with a wrench over a dispute. Johnny Eames had been assigned to handle the case. Though it occurred in broad daylight in the middle of the street in front of a crowd, no one cooperated with the investigation.

Driscoll had too much power. He ran the streets in Inwood.

"I thought I'd ask if you wanted to erm—"

Alex could read between the lines. Liz and Peter couldn't afford to swing covering for dear old dad on their end and approached Ollie for help. Ollie and his wife Steph were barely making ends meet.

Ah! The joy of being the oldest sister.

"I'll take care of it," Alex assured him.

Ollie was embarrassed. Alex caught his arm.

"It's fine," she said. "I can throw it on the back porch. It's like a freezer this time of year anyway. I'll take some to dad and I'll get the hams to Liz. But I'll need your help finishing it off. I'll bring you some tomorrow. Be sure there's room in your truck, hmm?"

"Thank you," Ollie replied.


Salton Foods Butchers | Inwood, Manhattan

Alex Eames had to use her foot to push open the door at Salton Foods.

One would think the staff would have offered to help her haul the purchase out to her little Civic—especially after she'd just forked over more than two thousand dollars.

Alas, no. Alex recognised the two men working the counter—the Kelly twins. They'd run with Jack Driscoll for decades and had a reputation as both skilled butchers and strong enforcers for Driscoll's criminal enterprise.

So, Alex hauled her purchase out one load at a time.

At least Salton's had let Alex split the purchase between her bank card and her credit card.

"You tell your old man that anytime he needs a cut of meat, he can count us to hook him up, alright?" one of the Kelly twins hollered as Eames left with her final load.

Both twins snickered. Alex rolled her eyes but chose to ignore the comment.

A gust of cold air rushed past the minute Alex stepped outside. She shivered as it seemed to run right through her woollen coat. Eames fished into her pockets for her car key and silently cursed that she didn't have a car with power locks.

"Here, let me."

A helpful pair of hands pulled one of the heavy bags from Alex's arms. She looked up to find Father Mark wearing a soft smile under his knit cap.

Alex unlocked her door and then put the sack down in the backseat. There was just enough room.

"Thanks," she said.

It was a frigid night, and they were at least a thirty-minute walk from the chapel house. The pavement was icy. The parish had a van it used for official functions. Alex knew that although Father Mark could drive, he opted to walk or take his bicycle instead.

"Would you like a lift? Provided you don't mind riding with a bag on your lap," Alex offered.

"Only if it's no trouble," Father Mark replied.

They rode mostly in silence until they reached the stoplight on Sherman Ave. Alex kept her attention fixated on the road.

"How are you?" Father Mark asked.

"Oh, you know. Living the dream," Alex replied dryly.

Father Mark chuckled.

"You were dreaming of bacon?" he teased.

Alex groaned.

"No. Erm… bit of a mix up," she said.

She didn't need to say more. Father Mark could piece together that this was simply the latest example of Alex taking care of another one of her father's innocent (though costly) errors.

"You wouldn't want a pork loin, would you?" Eames asked.

"I'm vegan," Father Mark reminded her.

"Right," Alex recalled.

She should have known that. Her father had certainly given Father Mark enough grief about it during church functions over the years.

Alex pulled off to the side and parked in front of the chapel house. Father Mark lived in a modest one-bedroom flat near the church. It was an old rowhouse that had been subdivided into different units.

"Thank you, Alexandra," he said as he pulled his coat tight. "It wouldn't be appropriate for me to wish you a happy anniversary. But please know that you and Joe are in my thoughts."

Alex froze.

No one else had remembered her anniversary. If they did, they didn't acknowledge it. Joe's birthday, her anniversary, the day of his death, they were all conveniently ignored. Her friends and family didn't know what to say.

And so, they said nothing at all.

Alex turned and met his gaze.

"You remembered." Alex was stunned.

"I've never forgotten," Father Mark replied.

For a moment, his comment hung in the air. Then Father Mark tentatively reached for Alex's hand.

"I'm sure you have been busy with your investigation. But I hope that you are taking care of yourself today," he said. "God holds a special place in his heart for widows."

"Well, I've heard that before. I'd rather have my husband back than my 'special' place," Alex said.

She immediately apologised.

"I'm sorry. That was inappropriate. You were just trying to be kind," Alex acknowledged.

Father Mark wasn't bothered.

"You have no need to apologise," he assured her. "You're grieving. And that's only natural."

"It's been five years and I—"

"Grief is not linear," Father Mark cut in quietly. "Faith isn't linear either. You are always welcome should you wish to talk. And our Widows Ministry—"

Alex snorted and shook her head.

"Please. I know I'm starting to get greys but I'm not some windowed pensioner," Alex said.

Father Mark chuckled.

"I will agree that the average age skews toward the higher end, but we have a few members that were young enough to remember lining up for tickets to the Purple Rain tour," he said. "And it's not all coffee and card games. There's outings. We went bowling last week. And there's a running club."

"My work isn't really conducive to extra-curricular hobbies. Or, well… life outside of the job," Alex said.

Father Mark nodded in understanding.

"Well, you're always welcome at our Lady of Sorrows should you wish to light a candle for Joe. I hope I'm not overstepping my boundaries—but I believe he would have liked that," Father Mark said.

"Yeah. He would have," Alex agreed in a faraway voice.


Inwood | Manhattan

Alex let herself into her father's house.

"Dad?" she called out.

The lights were off, but Eames could hear the television from the other room. As she hauled in a brown paper bag full of meat products, Alex heard her father turn down the evening news.

Johnny stumbled into the kitchen. His glazed eyes softened as he caught sight of his daughter.

"Tink," he said with a fond smile.

Alex dropped the bag on the counter in a huff.

"Wass all this?" Johnny asked.

His speech was slurred. From the way he moved, Alex surmised her father had probably started drinking around noon.

"I was in the neighbourhood. I thought I'd drop this off," Alex said.

Johnny leaned heavily on the counter for support to steady himself. There was no point in Alex asking if he'd been drinking (or if he should stop). Instead, she skipped ahead to mitigating the damage.

"Have you eaten?" she asked.

Alex began to unpack the paper bag from the butchers. She divided it up into piles for the fridge, freezer, and deep freeze in the lower level.

"Are ya worried there's gonna be a run on bacon?" Johnny asked as he surveyed the loot.

"No."

Alex didn't have an answer, and she didn't want a row. It was bad enough when her father was lucid—he was a downright mess when he was minced. Johnny Eames had never been an angry drunk. He was sad, despondent drunk.

And that was worse.

"Those boys down at Salton's didn't take advantage of you, did they?" he asked.

"Not me," Alex replied with an innocent shrug. "I just thought since there was a deal and the forecast looks like a bad winter again…"

She trailed off. To her relief, Johnny didn't argue.

"So, did you eat? I could fix you something," Alex offered.

"I threw a pizza in the oven. Why don't you stay for dinner?" Johnny asked in response.

Alex was standing directly next to the suspiciously cold oven. She cracked the door to discover that her father had, in fact, thrown a pizza in—where it still sat half-thawed on the oven rack.

Johnny chuckled and took a sip of his whisky.

"Oops," he said with a wry grin.

It wasn't the first time Johnny Eames had made that mistake. He'd once come off a long shift and thrown a pizza in for breakfast on 'warm.' By the time he remembered it was still in there (following an afternoon of drinking), the pizza was completely charred.

"Why don't you sit down, and I'll fix you something?" Alex said.

Alex cleared off the range, washed up, and then reached for the skillet. Then she pulled out a package of pork chops and unrolled them from the butcher paper.

"Doing 'em in the pan? Good. I like them a little crispy," Johnny said.

Eames stopped, utterly frozen as she stared down at the raw cuts of pork. It was an unwelcome reminder of the pigeons at the site of the fire.

Alex quickly rolled them back up in the butcher paper and stuffed them into the freezer. She couldn't bring herself to cook them up. In fact, she was considering that maybe Father Mark had the right idea in going vegan.

"Erm… sorry, they're all frozen. How about a ham sandwich instead?" Alex suggested.

That she could manage.

"Go on," Alex said, shooing him from the kitchen.

Johnny scuffled back to his recliner to get out of his daughter's hair. In no time at all, Alex emerged with a sandwich for her father and one for herself.

She settled down on the sofa and pulled her legs up under herself to try and warm her feet.

"Looks like it was a rough day. You want a drink? Why don't I fix you one?" Johnny offered.

"No, dad. I'm fine," Alex replied.

She knew her father was only asking to try and excuse pouring himself another one.

"Can we watch something besides the news?" Alex asked.

She didn't need to see any more coverage about the fires.

"Buttons are on the table. All yours, sweetpea," Johnny replied before he took a bite of his dinner.

Alex reached for the changer and stopped when she caught sight of the photo album on the coffee table. Photos of her and Joe were splayed out across the table.

A moment later, Alex felt a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Tink," Johnny apologised.

"It's fine. Really," Alex replied.

Alex grabbed the changer and sat back on the sofa, ignoring the photograph of herself and Joe from seven years earlier, smiling on what was supposed to be the happiest day of their lives.


Carmel Ridge Sanatorium | Poughkeepsie

Bobby should have known that his golden day with his mother couldn't last.

They never did.

After an exquisite meal and dessert at Morchella, Bobby and his mother had sipped on coffee and enjoyed watching the people bustle about from their table near the window. December in New York always brought in an influx of tourists.

When the coffee was finished, Frances Goren had sighed and clutched her abdomen, complaining of an upset stomach. Bobby ordered her some sparkling mineral water and they sat for another twenty minutes before the restaurant politely informed them that the table was needed for the next reservation.

On their way out of the restaurant, Frances had pleaded to stop and see Bobby's flat before they left the city.

Then she wanted one more walk around Brooklyn to 'help with the digestion' after their meal.

It was a two hour drive up to Carmel Ridge.

They stopped four times—once for coffee, twice so Frances could spend a penny, and once at a little roadside service station that advertised holiday goodies.

Frances insisted on looking at everything.

She picked up each and every decorative mug, shook all the snow globes, and had to examine the stitching on every scarf. Bobby didn't want to rush her, but the station was due to close.

Frances talked the ear off a confused kid at the till as she purchased some saltwater taffy for the gals back at Carmel Ridge.

By the time they finally reached Poughkeepsie, Frances had pleaded with Bobby to take the long way around to Carmel Ridge. She wanted to drive around and see all the holiday lights before they returned—insisting they go by one particular street three times.

"Why don't we drive across the river?" Frances suggested.

"I promised Doctor Shima we would be back before 8:00," Bobby said.

Like many people with schizophrenia, Frances Goren struggled with disruptive sleep. Her symptoms were worse at night and routine was key to mitigating the worst of it.

Frances reached for Bobby's hand. Her breathing changed.

"Bobby, please. Just a little longer. It was such a lovely day. I don't want it to end," Frances pleaded.

Bobby flashed his mother a sad smile.

"I wish it didn't have to. But we can do this again," Bobby offered.

Outwardly, he kept his demeanour upbeat. Inside, Bobby sent up a silent prayer to the universe that his mother would accept that finality—even as he watched the situation devolve before his eyes.

They reached critical mass when Bobby turned onto the road that led to Carmel Ridge.

His mother squeezed his arm, painfully so.

"Bobby, don't do this! Don't do this!" she urged.

"I'm right here, ma," he assured her.

"I don't want to go back there! I can't go back there! I want to go back to the city, Bobby!" she shrieked.

Bobby pulled the car over onto the side of the road and took hold of her hands.

"Okay. Okay. I understand you don't want to go back. We're here together. Would it be okay if I go with you?" Bobby asked gently.

"That place is full of lies, Bobby. They're not supplying us with pills. It's… it's experimental drugs. They don't help! I didn't consent to this!" Frances went on. "I can't read. I can't think. They're turning me into a zombie. A zombie, Bobby!"

It was these conversations Bobby feared most. His mother was a smart, accomplished woman. The medication that was necessary for her to function with any sense of self also stripped away a significant portion of her passion for life.

The fatigue and apathy were real. The medication caused a degree of cognitive impairment—and that was on top of numerous other unpleasant side effects.

Relapse was common.

Bobby, his mother, and her care team at Carmel Ridge were always walking a tight rope between balancing the autonomy of a vibrant, intelligent woman against the need to manage sensory hallucinations and delusions caused by brain chemistry.

"I'll be right with you. And I could stay for a while. We could read or we could play a game?" Bobby suggested.

Frances flashed her son a queasy smile.

"Alright then," Bobby replied sweetly, though guarded.

He put the car in gear and continued on at a slow pace. He kept a careful watch on his mother out of the corner of his eye. Frances turned her attention out the window.

They were less than a hundred yards from the entrance to Carmel Ridge when she made her move and tried to flee on foot.

Bobby was forced to call the staff at Carmel Ridge—it was his most-dialled number next to Eames.

"You're not my son! What did you do with Bobby? My son loves me. He would never do this to me!" Frances snarled.

His mother's brain was convinced with absolute certainty that her son had been replaced by an imposter.

'YOU'RE NOT MY SON! YOU'RE NOT MY SON!" Frances roared.

"Mum… mum please," Bobby said.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and shifted his weight from foot-to-foot. It was cold enough that Bobby could see his breath. He knew his mother must have been freezing too.

"Why don't we just sit in the car okay? We can just sit in the car where it's warm," he suggested.

"I'm not going anywhere with you! I know you replaced my son! I want to know what you did with him!" Frances demanded.

"Mum—"

"STOP CALLING ME THAT!" Frances shouted.

Her face contorted with pain. She backed away from Bobby in fear, threatening to whack him with her handbag if he came any closer.

"You're gonna take me back to that place. I'm being held against my will! I won't go back there! I won't!"

Bobby had to try a different tactic. He reached into his coat and pulled out his badge.

"I'm… I'm a police officer. I just want to make sure you're safe. I'm not going to force you to go anywhere," he said in a smooth voice.

Bobby did his best to make himself seem small and unthreatening.

"It's pretty cold out here. Would you like to sit in my car where it's warm? We don't have to drive anywhere," he continued.

Frances's chest heaved. She glanced around, eyeing the wooded area around Carmel Ridge like she was trapped in a slasher film.

"I want to go to the city. I want to go back to the city. I want to go back to my home. My home in the city!"

Frances's voice grew more desperate with each word.

Bobby put up his hands to indicate he was compliant and took a tentative step forward. He needed to get his mother inside for her safety.

"Can we talk about this inside? Where it's warm?"

"BACK OFF!" Frances warned.

Deep down, Bobby understood that her anger and fear was not directed at him. It was a delusion.

It still stung.


The Church of the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin, Our Lady of Sorrows | Inwood, Manhattan

Father Mark wasn't sure what brought him to the window. He had just fixed a cup of herbal tea when he caught sight of a familiar silhouette slip around the corner. He wasn't surprised by her appearance—he knew she would come.

She glanced around as if to ensure she was really alone and then padded up the steps and into the chapel. Once more, the Inwood street stood devoid of life.

It had begun to snow. Her footprints were the only trace that someone had been out on such a frigid night.

Alex was relieved to find the chapel empty. There were dozens of votives already lit in various stages of burn. There were always more during the Christmas season. They lined the wall along the side of the chapel, casting a warm glow over the space.

It was an old church, built sometime in the 1840s by Irish immigrants that flocked to the north of Manhattan and built it into the neighbourhood that would become Inwood.

It was a small church too and in desperate need of renovation. Our Lady of Sorrows didn't serve a wealthy parish. The working-class Irish, Polish, and, more recently, Dominican parishioners didn't have the means to support a chapel the likes of the grand Saint Patrick's Cathedral, the historic Trinity Church, or the new mega-churches that had cropped up with their thousands of congregants with their cheque books at the ready.

Alex ran her hand along one of the wooden pews. They were the same pews that Alex and her siblings had crowded into as children, shoving one another for space and fighting to sit next to mum. Alex had thought the pews were old then.

So much Alex's life had occurred within those walls.

The Church of the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin, Our Lady of Sorrows (often shortened to 'Our Lady of Sorrows for convenience), had been a fixture in her childhood.

Alex could still remember what it felt like to stroll in for her First Communion wearing her homemade dress from a Simplicity Jiffy dress pattern with the lace sleeves. She'd felt so grown up in her knee-high white socks and buckle shoes.

Her mother made the dress. Her aunt Ruby had come early that morning with her great barrel curler to tame Alex's pageboy fringe. The Eames's family rented the back of the local VFW and all of Alex's cousins had come.

Ollie had been a little shit that day, telling his sister that she looked like a cotton swab and goosing her twice on the walk to church. Lizzy had cried until Aunt Ruby agreed to fix her hair first—forcing her to rush when it came to Alex.

That was the last Easter before Liam got sick.

Lizzy's First Communion a year later had been a subdued affair. There'd been no money for a dress or new shoes then. Lizzy got Alex's hand-me-downs and Liam got to come home from the hospital.

The year after, Ollie celebrated his First Communion. Unlike Alex's golden day where all life in the Eames's house had revolved around that celebration, Ollie's First Communion was barely a blip.

Liam had been too ill to go, and their mother stayed at his bedside. Alex, Lizzy, and Ollie had walked to the chapel alone. Johnny Eames, pulling as much overtime as possible, barely made it off work to get to the church on time.

Liam had never got a First Communion.

The whole of the family had turned out for Liam's funeral. The pews of our Lady of Sorrows had been full of row upon row of sandy-haired Eames's. Both of Alex's parents had come from big families, many of whom went on to have their own large families.

She had dozens and dozens of cousins. It was a running joke that they had so many Patricks and Johns (and one John Patrick). There was Jack and Jackie. And Dan and Daniel and Danny.

But only one Liam.

As a girl, Alex had imagined Liam dressed in a white vestment like the altar boys and a shiny halo atop his golden hair.

Like a little angle.

Alex knew it was ridiculous—but the thought was enough to give her pause.

She would have to light a candle for Liam too. Lord knew there was no one else to do it. Ollie had his hands full at home. Lizzy was caring for her new baby. Johnny Eames couldn't even talk about Liam. Even thirty years on, he just got quiet.

When Alex was a girl, her father had pulled her aside shortly after Liam's birth. Johnny told Alex that she had a great responsibility as the oldest child.

Someday, it will fall to you to look after them. Johnny had said.

Like most things in life, Alex had simply accepted her role without complaint. After all, who else was going to do it?

It was no more Johnny Eames's fault that he'd struggled as a single parent any more than it was his wife's fault for dying young.

It was a sobering thought for Alex to reflect on the fact that she was only thirty-seven and had already outlived her own mother.

Alex realised that she should probably light a candle for her mother as well.

And it stops there. She told herself.

She didn't want to be responsible for causing the city's next arson.

Alex dropped her donation into the box and selected three candles, placing them next to each other on the candle holder. She paused before she lit them, torn somewhere between solemn reflection and prayer.

She sighed, surprised that she would entertain the idea of praying to a God she wasn't sure existed.

Joe was steadfast in his faith. Alex had never shared the same dedication.

It had been a running joke in their marriage—Joe was devout, Alex was dubious.

In the wake of Joe's death, Alex had tried to honour his memory by turning to the church. Father Mark was patient and incredibly kind, but Alex just didn't find the kind spiritual fulfilment she had hoped for.

Alex had hoped to find answers. She had been desperate for anything that could offer a sense of peace surrounding that loss.

She felt empty and the more she poured herself into her faith, the angrier she became.

Alex just couldn't rationalise the belief in a higher power knowing what she did, having experienced what she had.

But oh, how she wished she could.

She longed to share in the same blissful sense of hope, for a better world where people didn't off their loved ones for pitiful sums of money.

The world was a callous, cruel place. Eames had seen more than her fair share during her short life—enough that she was completely disillusioned by the notion of her family's Catholic faith.

She couldn't bring herself to participate, nor could she extract herself from the routine.

So, Alex brought her father to Mass each week and remained seated, watching Ollie's squirrelly wee ones while the rest of the family took communion.

And she returned each year like clockwork to light a candle for Joe's soul.

Alex heard the footfalls behind her. She didn't need to turn around to know that it was Father Mark.

He made the sign of the cross and then knelt down next to Alex, offering a silent prayer for her departed husband.

For a moment, they stood in silence. They both kept their attention focused on the rows of votives.

"I am the light of the world; he who follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life," Father Mark said, quoting aloud.

He turned toward Alex.

"You do this for him. What do you do for you?" he asked.

Alex shot Father Mark a knowing look.

"Why are you here?" Alex asked.

"Today can't be easy. And I know you don't exactly relish coming here," Father Mark acknowledged. "I didn't want you to feel alone."

"Sorry to pull you out into the cold," Alex apologised.

Father Mark wasn't bothered.

"Fancy a cup of tea? Or we could walk up to Sean's Place?"

"No, thank you," Alex replied in earnest. "I have to get up early and I'm sure you've got your hands full too."

Father Mark nodded.

"Contrary to popular belief, I don't write my homily the way I used to do my homework," Mark said.

That was enough to earn a smile.

In a rare twist of fate, Father Mark had been assigned to serve the very parish where he'd grown up. Detective Eames and Father Mark had known one another since the days when they had raced their banana seat bicycles up to Mr K's for a cherry ice pole.

"Alexandra," he said.

Alexandra.

Father Mark never called her 'Alex.' It was one of the ways he kept a healthy distance between his parishioners and himself.

"I'm here and ready to listen," Mark offered.

Alex snorted with laughter.

"We both know you can't offer absolution for the sins I have to confess," she remarked.

Father Mark grinned and turned his attention overhead.

"I wish we had more laughter in here," he said before adding, "I miss your laugh."

Alex fell silent.

"This chapel may be named for Our Lady of Sorrows, but it wasn't meant to be taken as a prescription for how to live," he said.

"I'm happy," Alex said.

She had grown tired of explaining that to people.

"I mean, obviously I imagined things would be different. I would have preferred for Joe to be here but…"

She trailed off and shook her head, struggling to put words to her feelings.

"I am happy. Really," Alex insisted. "I—"

She stopped once more.

It didn't feel right to say that she loved her job or was happy working Major Case. That was heartless given the circumstances of her work.

"I find great fulfilment in my career," Alex settled on. "I know that I can't change the world. There will always be cases we never close. But… but I'm glad to be a part of that team. And my partner is brilliant."

"He seems like it," Father Mark said.

His own brief encounter with the eccentric Detective Goren had left an impression.

"Can I make an observation?" Father Mark asked.

Eames braced herself for yet another unwelcome observation about her relationship with her partner.

As if a man and woman can't work together without forming some romantic attachment! Alex thought bitterly.

"Detective Goren is my partner. We're colleagues. That's all," Alex declared.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't—"

"It's fine," Alex cut in.

Father Mark reached for Eames's hand.

"What I was going to say is that you've been… well, I know you. I know you well enough that I can see you've been carrying a weight. For months," Father Mark said.

He had first taken notice of it after the birth of Elizabeth's baby. The addition of the newest member of the Eames family had brought great joy—and a fresh wave of uncomfortable pressure for Alex.

Father Mark had observed plenty of the comments and well-intended (but snide) remarks Alex was subjected to by her family. And knowing Ollie and Johnny as he did, Father Mark knew Alex was likely getting it tenfold at home.

"I think you are happy. I think you're in a very healthy place. And I think that you feel guilty about that," Father Mark explained.

Alex blinked in silence.

"I think that you aren't sure what to do because a part of you feels like you shouldn't be. It's not a sin for you to feel happy. And it's certainly not a disservice to Joe," Father Mark said.

Alex didn't know what to say. She had struggled for months to put words to the unusual, confusing mix of emotions she'd grappled with.

In the span of a few months, Alex had celebrated her thirty-seventh birthday. She had welcomed a new nephew. She adored Ollie's kids and watching them grow. Alex found great fulfilment in her role as their aunt.

Eames had finally reached a point where she'd clawed her way out of the deep financial hole in the wake of Joe's death. By no means was she rolling it in, but she was financially stable and making progress on their mortgage. Her finances were significantly better than they had been five years earlier.

Most of all, she loved her job.

She was grateful for the opportunity to serve the public and to do so with a phenomenal partner. They had an impressive close rate. More than that, Alex felt good about their collars in a way she hadn't when busting people for petty 'moral' laws.

"It's not easy taking care of your old man. You're a saint. And I see you do so much for your family. But you deserve to be happy, and I don't think you should be made feel bad for finding that," Father Mark continued.

Alex visibly relaxed.

"Thank you," she said.

"That's what I'm for," he replied. "In spite of what Father Tobias may have taught us growing up, the weight of the world is not ours to bear every waking minute of the day."

They shared a laugh at the memory of Father Tobias, the parish priest during their youth.

"He sure knew how to lay it on thick," Alex said.

"You've no idea," Father Mark agreed.

Alex waved him off.

"You were a good kid. Better than I was," she said.

"Hardly. Why do you think I was always volunteering? That wasn't by choice—it was penance," Father Mark said. "I was fourteen before I finally wised up and realised that what I was experiencing was a perfectly natural part of puberty and that he was none the wiser if I omitted a few things."

Silence descended on the pair as they stood in front of the altar.

"I am glad you came tonight," Father Mark said.

"So am I… I mean, I'm glad you're here," Alex replied.

Talking helped. Her family never knew what to say when it came to Joe. Most of the friends they had shared as a couple had vanished after Joe's death, dropping off one by one until their friendship had become nothing more than an annual phone call or holiday card.

Widowhood was lonely.

For the first time in a long while, Alex felt unburdened.

"You know, I haven't… not since that night," Alex shared.

"I assumed you found a new confessor," Father Mark said.

When Father Mark had first returned to Inwood, many of the parishioners found it awkward to confess to the young man they had once known. In contrast, Alex found it easier to confess to Mark than anyone else.

Too easy.

Until it wasn't.

"You are always welcome. It is never too late to return—if that is your desire," Father Mark said.

Alex's eyes darted over to the confessional and then back.

"Can we not do this here?" Alex asked.

She wasn't sure if it was nerves from the length of time that had passed or a desire to hold onto the happy memories she had in that chapel.

"Do you still like popcorn?" Father Mark asked.

"Yeah."

"Come on," he said, pulling Alex toward the door.

She paused at the back of the chapel and took one last look. Seven years earlier, nearly down to the minute, she had stood at that exact spot.

Alex didn't believe in sappy romantic tropes. But Joe's face really had lit up when she stepped into the chapel.

And when it was all said and done, they had stood together in the same spot at the back of the chapel in their first few minutes as a newly married couple as they waited for the handful of people present to bundle up.

"You know what?" Joe had asked.

Joe leaned in close and whispered against her ear.

"Longest night of the year," Joe said.

At the time, Alex had braced herself for some sneaky, inappropriate remark about their wedding night. Instead, Joe's words sparked something in Alex. Something that left her with a warm glow in a way she hadn't felt again—not since that moment.

"That means every day that follows will be brighter. More sunshine. Because I have you. And you have me. And we'll be together from here on out," Joe whispered before he kissed her temple.

Alex stood there for a moment, reflecting on that memory and Father Mark's observation about the misplaced guilt that had left Alex in an emotional standstill for too long.

And she wondered…

Dare she say hoped?

… if that last frail spark was still in there somewhere buried beneath all the charred ashes of her soul.


Carmel Ridge Sanatorium | Poughkeepsie

Bobby sat in silence at his mother's bedside.

The only sound was the constant ticking of the clock on the wall and the occasional noise of cart passing in the corridor.

The lights were dim, but there was enough moonlight for Bobby to see clearly. He watched his mother's chest rise and fall with each breath and it broke his heart to see his once vivacious, highly-intendent mother reduced to just another patient on a bed.

She looked frail.

The staff at Carmel Ridge were left with no choice but to restrain and sedate Mrs Goren.

She would wake the next day or perhaps the day after—groggy and confused, likely irritated, and parched. It would be days before her appetite returned and weeks to regulate her sleep pattern again.

Bobby felt responsible for all of it.

What were you thinking? Bobby asked himself.

It had been too much. He shouldn't have pushed for the trip to the city. He shouldn't have put so much emphasis on making the day perfect. He could have pulled over sooner or taken more time in driving back.

He should have recognised the signs sooner.

Should have.

Could have.

The last time Frances Goren suffered a psychotic break, the psychosis lasted for two months. During that time, the care team at Carmel Ridge had to restrain and sedate Frances Goren numerous times. It was a terrifying experience for Frances and her son.

Hardest of all was the fact Frances fervently believed it was all designed to harm her.

Bobby knew he was doing what was best for his mother to stop her from hurting herself—but it didn't make it any easier to see her in such a state.

Frances's eyes were open, heavily lidded as she stared at the ceiling. Every once in a while, a long, indecipherable noise would escape from her throat—somewhere between a rasping breath and a groan.

Bobby tentatively reached out and held her hand between his own.

"I love you, mum," he said softly. "I love you and I'm here with you. Please don't be afraid."

She was so heavily drugged that she didn't even turn her head.

"I-I had a really great day today. Y-y-you were really something on that dance floor. And… and I'm glad you liked the cream cake."

Bobby smiled.

It was all he could do. Smile. Talk softly. Bobby had no way of knowing if his words provided any tangible benefit—he only hoped the sound of his voice was a comfort.

"Maybe I could bring some for you next time?" Bobby suggested.

All of a sudden, Bobby's phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored the call.

"I was going to wait until next week, but I think you'll really like this. I ordered you a set of books. Some new mysteries," Bobby shared.

He had ordered them special from a bookseller in Baltimore as a Christmas present.

"There's erm… there's one about a cruise ship that gets lost at sea. And ooo! I really think you'll get into the one with the diamond heist," Bobby gushed. "When you get done with it, I'll be curious to know your thoughts on La Roux."

Bobby's phone buzzed again with another incoming call.

"He's a bit of a gentleman thief," Bobby continued.

His mother always had something to say on that subject. In spite of her biting criticism of literary tropes, Frances Goren truly did enjoy a good mystery.

When Bobby's phone went off for a third time, he could no longer ignore it.

"Excuse me, ma. I'll be right back."

Goren flipped open his mobile and saw it was a call from Captain Deakins.

It was nearly midnight.

"I'm sorry. I know you're upstate. But there's been another fire," Deakins informed him.

Bobby cast an apologetic look to his mother.

"Right. I'm heading back now," Bobby said.

He hung up the phone. Bobby sat back down at his mother's bedside and reached for her hand.

"I… I have to go now, mum," he said.

Her eyes remained glossy and unmoving save for an occasional heavy blink. Bobby started to sing in a soft, low voice.

It was the same song that Frances Goren used to sing when she put Bobby to bed or when it had been a hard day. Like dancing, it was one of the happy memories Bobby retained from his childhood.

Bobby hoped it made his mother feel the same.

Bobby pulled the blanket up over his mother's shoulders and tucked her in. He kissed her forehead.

"Make my bed, leave on the light. I'll be home late tonight," he sang. "Blackbird, bye, bye."


Father Mark's Flat | Inwood, Manhattan

"I don't know if he misspoke or was confused. Either way, I suppose it doesn't matter," Alex said.

She was seated at the table in Father Mark's flat, recounting her meat catastrophe over a bowl of popcorn.

"Did they ever prove Jack Driscoll was behind that bullet in your dad's Cutlass?" Father Mark asked.

Alex sat back and laughed.

"Of course not," she replied. "Couldn't nail him down on that or when we got that brick through the window."

She cocked her head to the side and sighed.

"Do you know why I didn't wear a flower to the prom?" Alex asked.

"No," Mark answered slowly.

"When I showed up at the florist to pick it up, they informed me that it was already paid for courtesy of Jack Driscoll," Alex said.

The message was clear.

"It's a wonder you ever became a cop," Father Mark said.

"No more surprising than you taking the cloth," Alex replied, teasing him.

Father Mark smiled as he turned his attention out the window. It wasn't much of a view. He was close to the river. His flat overlooked a warehouse loading dock, a pawn shop, and a mattress store that everyone knew was really a mob front.

"I never thought I would come back here. I wanted to be a rockstar, you know," said Father Mark. "Now, I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

"I used to dream of living on a horse farm. Or a mansion on Park Avenue. Anywhere but here," Alex said.

She had seen the way her parents struggled. She had no desire to follow in their footsteps.

"And what do you want now?" Father Mark asked.

"I want to—"

Alex trailed off. Her face lit up.

"Pork," she said suddenly.

Father Mark choked on his tea.

"The pork in the car. I know you said you don't want any but… but would you take some of it? I mean could you use it?" Alex asked.

Father Mark coughed and beat his chest to try and clear his throat.

"I'm sure you know of families that could, well… or the people at Saint Anthony's," Alex said with a small shrug.

She trusted that Father Mark would know where to send it.

"You're a good woman," Father Mark said.

"Hardly. I just don't have the freezer space," Alex replied.

She fell back on her attitude of practised nonchalance. Alex rejected the very premise of being morally 'upstanding.'

It was too uncomfortable.

"Why is it so hard for you to accept that you are an ethical, decent, dare I say… selfless person?" Father Mark asked directly.

Eames bristled. She recovered quickly and tried to play it off.

"Yeah, whatever. I'm not making a donation to the roof fund," she teased.

Father Mark reached for her hand.

"You are a good woman, Alexandra," he assured her. "And I do not mean to push you. But if you are struggling to see that in yourself, you may find it a relief to unburden your soul."

Confession.

"My offer still stands," Father Mark said.

Alex sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. She turned her attention to the window. The snow was really starting to come down.

"God already knows my sins and how I feel about them. It's not his forgiveness I need to beg," Eames said.

She glanced back at Father Mark, eyeing him hard.

"As I priest—"

"I'm not asking you as a priest. I'm asking you as my friend."

"There is nothing to forgive," Father Mark said in a gentle voice.


The snow fell thick and fast as they cleaned out the back of Alex's car. With Father Mark's help, they managed to get it all into a deep freeze in the basement of the church.

"I'll be sure this gets distributed to families that could use it. They'll be very grateful," Father Mark said.

"Seriously—thank you," Alex huffed as she dropped the last bag.

She paused to push her hair back from her face.

"I'm afraid these fires have put me off meat for a while. Maybe permanently," Alex shared.

Father Mark opened his mouth to offer a supportive shoulder. Eames put up her hand to stop him.

"I'm fine," she insisted. "I just don't need to see any raw meat for a while. Or pigeons for that matter. I know, I know. Easier said than done in this city."

"Pigeons?" Father Mark inquired.

Alex nodded. Her face soured.

"Yeah. You don't… you don't happen to know if anyone you've met working at the shelter has an obsession with pigeons?"

She was grasping at straws. Alex had seen sorts during her time in the NYPD. She wouldn't put it past someone to have axed all those pigeons for a good reason.

At least, a 'good reason' in the sense that it was perfectly clear to the perpetrator.

Messages from God, CIA-robot pigeon spies, Russian listening devices—she'd heard it all.

"Somebody killed a bunch of pigeons. Whacked off their little head and then lit 'em up," she said.

Father Mark's brow furrowed.

"Are you saying somebody sacrificed them?" he asked.

Alex chuckled.

"I'm sorry. I know that's ridiculous, right?"

Father Mark was deep in thought.

"If his offering to the Lord is a burnt offering of birds, then he shall bring his offering of turtledoves or of young pigeons. And the priest shall bring it to the altar and wring off its head, and burn it on the altar," Father Mark said, reciting from memory.

It wasn't a part of scripture he typically thought about.

"Leviticus," he said.

"Leviticus as in…"

Alex trailed off and shivered. She felt like she was standing at the edge of the wood, staring at a path she didn't want to go down.

LV.

Alex reminded herself that the investigation was going to go where it would go—there was nothing she could do to change that.

"What chapter and verse?" Eames asked tentatively.

"First chapter. Fourteen and fifteen I believe. There's more too about how it's to be done and sheep and goats and the like. It's not really a part of my day-to-day. A bit before my time," Father Mark said.

Only Alex was half-listening.

"I… I have to go," she said before rushing off.

Alex paused at the door.

"Mark? Thank you," she said.


Additional Notes

Flowers have been used by organised crime groups to intimidate or threaten people. It can be a warning that 'you're next' or a that a loved one is in danger.

In this story, it was Driscoll's way of telling Johnny Eames to back off the investigation referenced in The Last Street in Manhattan.

Bobby sings slightly altered lyrics to Bye, Bye, Blackbird. That was intentional. 'Light the light' always felt too repetitive to me.