Gordon

The sheer curtains did little to soften the sunlight, its glare casting a harsh glow across the bedroom walls. Gordon guessed it was noon. He sat up, his toes meeting the cold hardwood, and exhaled through clenched teeth. Every muscle throbbed from the fight in the sewers—pain coiling in his back, a fresh bruise pulsing near his ribs. He dragged himself toward the bathroom, snatching his glasses from the dresser along the way. Lifting them to the light, he spotted a faint scratch stretched across the lens—thin, but there. He sighed, slow and heavy.

The mirror above the sink was kinder than expected—no bruises on his face. He ran a hand through his damp red hair, wincing as his fingers brushed a tender spot on his scalp. Scratching at the stubble on his jaw, he let out another breath and turned on the tap.

He washed up, dressed in jeans and a plain T-shirt, and headed downstairs.

Dishes clanked in the sink. The back door slammed. A window slid open, followed by a voice—firm, but gentle.

"Junior, Barbara, you have thirty minutes. And don't dirty your clothes."

Gordon lingered in the doorway, clean-shaven, hair still damp. The kitchen, like every other room in the house, felt too small, the walls pressing in. The dining table, a solid oak piece that came with the house, was wedged into a nook along the wall, reclaiming what little space it could. 

At the sink, Alice stood with her back to him, rinsing dishes. The quiet drip of water filled the silence.

He stepped forward, arms half-raised to wrap around her waist, but her voice stopped him mid-step.

"Do you want coffee?" she asked, still facing the sink.

The sting of her words was sharper than the welt on his head.

"Yes," he murmured, leaning against the counter near the fridge, watching her.

She dried her hands on a dish towel, tapped the coffee machine, then turned back to the sink. "Are you hungry?"

"No." He shook his head, though she couldn't see him. His fingers curled around the edge of the counter, bracing.

"We're going to Coleman's later," she said flatly. "The kids have already outgrown the jackets we bought them."

She shut off the water and finally faced him.

Alice Gordon was striking—high cheekbones, delicate but sharp features, pale green eyes that saw too much. Even now, with her lips pressed thin and her brows drawn tight, she was stunning.

She crossed her arms. Inhaled. Exhaled. Then—

"Are you involved in something, Jim?"

The question landed like a splash of ice water. His pulse stuttered.

His voice was steady. "No. I told you—I had nothing to do with the arrests."

Her gaze flicked upward, frustration creasing her smooth face. When she looked back at him, her lips twitched—almost a scoff—before settling into a frown.

"Are you lying to me…again?"

Gordon swallowed. "No, Alice. I'm not lying to you."

Silence stretched between them. She tilted her head, searching his face, but she had never been able to read him. The space between them felt wider than the walls allowed.

"When we agreed to come here, Jim, my one condition was that you stop lying to me," she said, her voice steady, but edged. He opened his mouth, but she shook her head. "I'm not finished. You promised it wouldn't be like last time. That you'd keep to yourself, do your job, and talk to me if something happened. Do you remember saying that?"

"I do. And I'm not lying to you," he said, arms crossing. "I keep to myself. I work. That's all. I'm not trying to get involved in anything."

Alice exhaled through her nose, slow and deliberate, then turned to the counter. She opened a drawer, pulled out a manila envelope, and dropped it onto the table. The thick report inside landed with a dull thud.

"This came for you," she said, tone clipped. "No return address. No postage stamp. Just like the others."

She studied his face, looking for something—anything. He gave her nothing.

The silence was suffocating. The envelope sat between them, heavier than words.

The coffee machine beeped. Alice moved first, retrieving a mug from the cabinet and filling it. Gordon watched her—watched the quiet anger in her movements. She handed him the mug without a word. Their eyes met.

And then he saw it. The question behind her furrowed brow. The fear twisting her face before she buried it beneath something sharper.

She walked away.

"I'm not in any trouble," Gordon said, voice softer now. Steadier.

Alice didn't turn. "Would you even know if you were, Jim?"

He flinched.

Regret flickered across her face—but she crushed it fast. "In Chicago, those guys respected you, and they still threw you under the bus. They never even warned you. And here? You're an outsider."

Something tightened in his chest. The betrayal he'd buried surfaced, raw and fresh.

"This is not going to be like Chicago," he said, jaw tightening.

Alice met his gaze, her voice cool and final.

"You're already lying to me, Jim."

The words cut deep.

They stood there, neither willing to move.

Outside, their children's laughter drifted in through the window—bright, careless. A sound that should have felt like home.

Instead, it only underscored the distance between them.