"I won't ask where you found this."

Nathan placed the gun on the countertop before coming to my aid. He checked my eyes, wiping at the pink tears sliding down my cheeks. They hurt, but what mattered was I could see. Nathan pointed that out as a good sign of no severe damage.

Nothing that could kill me, anyway.

"I didn't find it. It's mine," Rosie said, her head still against the wall. Her eyes never moved from Star, who stared at her just the same. "Mom gave it to me before I left."

"Smart Mom," Nathan mumbled as he grabbed my chin. For once, I didn't push him away. My head nearly fell into his hand.

"Yeah," Rosie said.

I coughed, nodding my head. I should've been thankful she had it. Charlotte was a smart woman to not let her wander the streets alone without the means to defend herself.

With a deep, pained breath, I looked at Nathan. "And you? Are you okay?" I asked him.

He lifted his brow as he checked me for organ damage. Again, nothing serious, but with his fingers prodding around my rib cage, I had to admit it hurt—shit, it hurt.

"I'm fine." He stood straight, turning his gaze to Star's trembling figure. "This is what I get for following a hunch."

"They were the hunch, huh?" Rosie asked as she stood beside him. "How'd you know?"

Nathan gripped his sore hand with the good one. Blood had spread further around his bandage. "I found pictures of the fellowship, and they were in a lot of them. I thought I'd come and just ask them about the church. I didn't expect them to kick my ass."

Rosie snorted as she looked in my direction. I saw the fear on her face. Her fingers shook even as she tried to keep them still. She'd never fired a weapon; she'd never shot anyone.

"Monty, you okay?" she asked, biting her lip.

"I will be," I said. An injured hiss followed my words as I pushed myself off the wall with my shoulder. "Time heals all wounds."

Star gasped as I looked her way. She pressed herself against the wall near the exit but didn't turn to leave. She could have, the handle was right there—just a turn, a twist, and the door would open. Rather than escape, she covered her mouth and let the tears fall from her glowing green eyes.

"Star." I crossed the room, kicked pots away with my feet, and stood in front of her. She gulped as I towered over her petite frame, but I did not hurt her. I should have because I'd already convinced myself I'd kill her. "Talk," I ordered.

"I-I'm sorry," she stammered as she grabbed the front of my shirt. "You're right. T-time heals all wounds, it really does."

I narrowed my gaze. "I ordered you to talk, but not about shit that doesn't matter. Your name isn't Star, is it?"

"N-no," her voice trembled, her nails scratching my shirt.

I inhaled her fear. "It's Scarlet?"

She nodded.

I glanced back at Rosie. "You knew who my daughter was, didn't you?"

"Everyone knows who she is." Every bit of her voice begged me not to hurt her, even if she didn't outright say it.

I pulled my lip between my teeth. My hands slammed down on the empty spaces beside her head. The sound from the wall shook the silence around us. It sent waves through my arms, pressing tiny, invisible needles into my bones. I ignored the pain that rippled up my back; the absolute torment on her face was enough for me to bear it. She'd thought I'd kill her.

I should have.

I wanted to.

"And me? You knew who I was? How?" I spoke against her lips, the way I sometimes did. This time, it wasn't flirtatious. I didn't expect a kiss, nor did I want one. I wanted her heart to explode in anticipation of death. I didn't care if she was sick—infected like I was. I'd kill her as easily as I killed any normal man.

She leaned so hard against the wall I heard the wood behind the paint creek with her discomfort. Her hands fell away from me to cover her bottom lip, to hide its trembling. The light in her eyes faded, and they returned to their normal green. She took in one slow, deep breath. "I know you, Lamont. I've always known you," she whispered. "I was surprised when you didn't know me."

I dipped my head back, away from her mouth. "I know you?"

"Don't listen, Lamont!" Nathan hissed. "She's going to play with your head! That's what they do!"

"Nathan's right!" Rosie agreed.

"No!" Scarlet's eyes went wide as she pleaded with me. "I am not lying to you. Lamont, you remember me, don't you?"

I snorted as I pushed myself off the wall. She tensed as I did. My eyes fell on Nathan as I motioned him to open the back door. He nodded as I extended my hand back for Rosie to come towards me.

"Sorry, Scarlet, you're speaking to the man who can barely remember yesterday," I said as I looked at her with dark eyes. "I don't know who you are."

My hand still against the wall moved towards Scarlet's head. Even with the pain, my muscles tightened, ready to push her down—break her neck—all in one blow, but she cowered before I could. She slid down, sitting, pulling her knees into her chest. She looked up at me with those green eyes I learned to love over the years, and I wanted nothing more than to close them forever.

Whoever, or whatever, she was—whether she plotted to kill me, take me to Abby, or torture me senseless—I cared not to know. She'd put my brother in harm's way, and certainly would have done the same to my daughter. She came from the place that trapped my wife. I would show no remorse.

This will be quick. I raised my hand, ready for my palm to crash down.

"I'm Scarlet Thomas, the wife of Ethan Thomas! We owned the Blues Bango in Chicago, 1924! You and Charlie would come every Friday and Saturday night, and danced the night away! We drank together, ate together! You were our best friend!"

My hand stopped an inch from her face. My arm twitched as I kept it steady. Next to me, Rosie gripped my shoulder. "Monts?"

"You're—" I breathed, and immediately, memories filled my head. Memories of Charlotte and I walking through the doors of an underground nightclub; one of many that stirred the nightlife in the early days of Chicago. Its dark doors and bright lights welcomed the start of our weekends with alcohol, cigars, and sultriest dancing. Countless times, I took her in that men's bathroom, where she'd straddle me with her sequin dresses. We'd drink until Monday morning glowed brightly in our faces. We'd dance until her legs grew sore.

No. That wasn't what I was meant to remember.

I was supposed to remember Scarlet. Scarlet, and her auburn hair and slim physique. Her, and her blond husband; the one with the loud mouth. It was that same mouth that told me about the fortune he kept locked in a safe in his office.

I broke into that safe the night I snapped his neck. I'd taken his money and tossed his body into the river.

This was his wife, his widow. Scarlet Thomas.

"Star," I whispered as I stepped away from her. I shook my head. "If you're truly Scarlet, you should be dead."

"I know," she said as she pushed herself up to stand. "I would've died but she saved me. Abby can make you believe a lot of things."

Nathan's hand pushed the emergency exit open and looked outside. Beyond the door was night and the smell of garbage. "We've got to go," he insisted.

"After Ethan died, I thought my world was over. I wanted to die. But then Abby came into my life. She showed me things, told me things, and made me believe I could make you and Charlie pay for what you did." She looked at me with the saddest eyes. "I believed her. I believed every word. Yet, when you live for so long, you learn to let things go."

I chewed on the insides of my cheek.

"Time does heal all wounds," she whispered, touching my face.

I withdrew my head from her hands as I took three steps away from her. My heart hammered in my chest.

Time heals all wounds, doesn't it?

The more I looked at her face, the more I saw the woman who'd disappeared into my past. I remembered standing beside her at Ethan's funeral, remembered Charlotte taking her hand. It rained and rained for days, and we were there to comfort her.

All while we planned to spend her money.

I was wrong for what I did, and she had every right to want me dead. She planned on it, scouted me out for it.

But she didn't do it. Even as I looked at her, nearly tripping on the pans that covered the floor, she silently forgave me. Inside, I was torn. Seconds ago, I wanted her dead. Now, I wanted to apologize.

I wasn't the man I was then.

I wasn't even the man I was two hundred years ago.

"Monty," Rosie whispered as she took my hand to lead me out the door. "We've got to go. If they're here, Abby is here, and we can't let her find you like this."

Painfully, I inched towards the exit. Nathan's hand grabbed my shoulder to keep me steady. Looking out into the back alleyway, at the garbage that hadn't been picked up for days, I felt like I'd rather deal with the smell of burnt caffeine than old, spoiled milk.

Inside, Star had begun to cry. Her next words stopped me before I fully stepped outside the door. "Take me with you, and I'll take you to her."

I spun slowly, as did Rosie and Nathan. "To Charlotte?"

She nodded.

Rosie pushed the door wide open. She looked down at Ron's lifeless body before looking at Star's. With pursed lips, she said. "Get to walking, bitch."