Chapter 4: THE WOMAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
Lucas opens a beer without offering me one. That tells me everything I need to know about this conversation before it starts.
We're in the apartment above The Forge. Nine PM. The bar below us thrums with music and voices—Sugar's usual crowd drowning their day in alcohol and bullshit. Up here, it's quiet. Just the two of us and whatever truth Lucas is about to drop.
He sits at the kitchen table. I take the chair opposite. The beer bottle sweats in his hand, condensation running down the glass.
"There's someone in Banshee I didn't expect to find," he says finally. "Someone I went to prison for."
I wait. He's choosing his words carefully, which means this matters.
"Her name was Ana. Anastasia. We were partners. Thieves." He takes a long pull from the beer. "Fifteen years ago, we pulled a job. Diamonds. Went wrong. I took the fall. She disappeared."
"You protected her."
"Yeah." He sets the bottle down, staring at it. "Fifteen years in Albion Penitentiary. Every day thinking about her. Wondering where she went. What she was doing. If she ever thought about me."
The math is simple. He got out, came here looking for her. Which means—
"She's in Banshee."
Lucas reaches into his pocket. Pulls out a photograph. Old, creased, worn at the edges from handling. He slides it across the table.
A woman. Blonde hair, sharp eyes, beautiful in a way that suggests danger underneath. She's laughing in the photo, caught mid-motion. Young. Maybe mid-twenties when this was taken.
"That's Ana," Lucas says. "Taken a week before the job."
I study the photo. Try to see what Lucas saw. What made him spend fifteen years in prison protecting her memory.
"And now?" I ask.
"Now she's Carrie Hopewell. Wife of Gordon Hopewell, the District Attorney. Mother of two. Living in a nice house on the edge of town." His voice is flat. Empty. "She built a life. New identity, new family. Everything I went to prison to give her."
I slide the photo back. Lucas doesn't take it. Just stares at the woman frozen in time.
"You came to Banshee for her."
"Yeah."
"Not the sheriff job. Not a fresh start. Her."
"Yeah."
I lean back in my chair. The implications cascade through my mind—each one worse than the last.
"Lucas." I keep my voice steady. "You understand the problem here."
"I understand I spent fifteen years alone because of her."
"That's not what I mean." I tap the table between us. "You're the sheriff. She's the DA's wife. You pursue her, you blow both our covers. Gordon finds out his wife has a criminal past? He investigates. Finds out the sheriff's a fake. Finds out the deputy's something worse."
Lucas's jaw tightens. "I didn't come here for the badge."
"But you're wearing it. And so am I." I lean forward. "You made a deal with me in that wreckage. We survive together or we burn together. I need to know—are you going to burn us over a woman who moved on?"
His eyes flash. For a second, I think he might hit me. His hand closes into a fist on the table.
Then he breathes. Once. Twice. The tension doesn't leave, but the immediate violence does.
"I need to see her," he says quietly. "Need to talk to her. Understand why she never came back. Never tried to find me."
"Maybe she thought you were dead."
"Maybe." He doesn't sound convinced. "Or maybe she wanted to be free. Took the opportunity to start over. Cut all ties."
"If that's true, you showing up could destroy what she built."
"I know."
"And you're going to do it anyway."
He finally picks up the photo. Looks at it like it holds answers. "Tomorrow we're meeting Gordon. Official introductions. She'll be there."
"Jesus Christ." I run a hand through my hair. "You're walking into the DA's office to see your ex-partner in crime. While pretending to be the sheriff. This is insane."
"I know."
"It's suicide."
"I know."
"And you're dragging me with you."
He looks up. Meets my eyes. "I need you there. Need someone who knows the truth. If I see her and..." He trails off. Doesn't finish the sentence.
"If you see her and lose control," I complete. "You need me to pull you back."
"Yeah."
I want to refuse. Want to tell him he's being an idiot. Want to walk away from this partnership before his obsession kills us both.
But I don't.
Because I understand. Not the specifics—I don't remember loving anyone, don't have that context. But I understand obsession. The need to know. To understand. To close a loop that's been open too long.
"Okay," I say. "I'll be there. But Lucas—if this goes wrong, if she exposes you or threatens our cover—"
"Then we run. I get it." He tucks the photo back in his pocket. "But I have to try. Have to see her. Have to know."
"Know what?"
"If she ever loved me. Or if I was just convenient."
The admission costs him. I see it in the way his shoulders tighten, the way he won't meet my eyes.
"Alright." I stand, grab my own beer from the fridge. Twist the cap off. "But we set ground rules. You don't approach her privately. Don't make contact outside official business. Don't give Gordon any reason to look closer at either of us."
"Agreed."
"And if she wants nothing to do with you—if she makes it clear she's moved on—you let it go."
His silence is answer enough.
"Lucas."
"I'll try," he says. "That's all I can promise."
It's not enough. We both know it. But it's what we have.
I sit back down. We drink in silence. The music from downstairs filters up—something old, bluesy, sad. Appropriate.
"Tell me about the job," I say eventually. "The one that sent you to prison."
Lucas considers whether to share. Then: "Diamonds. Israeli merchant, traveling through New York with a case full of investment-grade stones. We had inside information—his route, his security, his hotel. Easy score. In and out."
"But it wasn't."
"Security was doubled. Someone tipped them. We got the diamonds, but they had us on camera. Partial faces, but enough. Ana made it out. I didn't."
"They caught you with the diamonds?"
"No. I'd already handed them to her. They caught me three blocks away. Empty-handed." He finishes his beer. "I could've given her up. Trading information would've cut my sentence in half. Maybe more."
"You didn't."
"No. I loved her. Thought she loved me. Thought we'd be together when I got out." He laughs—bitter, sharp. "Guess I thought wrong."
"Maybe she couldn't risk it. Coming back, I mean. Maybe staying away was protecting both of you."
"Maybe." He doesn't believe it. "Or maybe she just moved on. Found someone safer. Someone who wouldn't drag her back into the life."
Gordon Hopewell. The DA. As far from Lucas's world as possible.
"You know what's funny?" Lucas sets down the empty bottle. "Gordon's a good man. I can tell. Believes in the system, believes in justice. The kind of guy who'd never understand what we are. And she chose that. Chose safety over... whatever we had."
"Can you blame her?"
He looks at me. "Can you?"
I think about it. About waking up in a dying body and choosing to live. About stealing a dead man's name and wearing his badge. About making a deal with a thief in a burning car.
"No," I admit. "Survival makes us do things. Become things. If she found a way out, maybe she was smart to take it."
"Even if it meant abandoning me?"
"Even then."
Lucas nods slowly. "That's what I'm afraid of. That she was smart. That I was stupid. That fifteen years of my life were for nothing."
"They weren't for nothing. They kept her free. That was worth something."
"Was it?"
I don't have an answer. We sit in the silence that question creates.
Eventually, Lucas stands. "I'm going to bed. Tomorrow's going to be rough."
"Yeah."
He pauses at his bedroom door. "Ben? Thank you. For being here. For not judging."
"I'm not exactly in a position to judge anyone."
"Still." He manages a small smile. "Partners."
"Partners," I echo.
He disappears into his room. I remain at the table, staring at the two empty bottles.
Tomorrow we walk into the DA's office. Tomorrow Lucas faces the woman he spent fifteen years protecting. Tomorrow I watch a man confront his past while hiding my own.
The smart move would be to run. Take what money I have, leave Banshee, start over somewhere else. Cut ties before Lucas's obsession drags me down.
But I'm not going to.
Because I made a deal. Because Lucas is the only person who knows what I am. Because I don't have anywhere else to go.
And maybe—just maybe—because I want to see what happens. Want to know if love survives fifteen years and a lifetime of lies. Want to understand if anything real can exist in a world built on deception.
I finish my beer. Head to my own room. Lie down on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Sleep doesn't come easy. My mind runs scenarios. How Lucas will react. How Carrie will respond. How quickly it could all fall apart.
The healing ability pulses faintly in my awareness. That strange sensation of wrongness that means power exists. I focus on it. Try to understand.
Nothing happens. No revelation, no breakthrough. Just the awareness that I'm more than human. That I survived impossible trauma. That something in me defies natural law.
What am I?
The question haunts me. But right now, it's not the most important question.
The most important question is: Can Lucas survive seeing Carrie tomorrow without destroying everything?
I don't know.
But I'll be there when we find out.
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