Blood Loyalty and Paradise: Frank’s Peace

The memory of the airport blurred, the timeline pulling taut. The cheap paint of our office dissolved, the colors running. Ten years of memories—cases, fights, wins, losses—flew by my eyes like telephone poles from a speeding train.

Flash.

I was standing in a hospital room. It smelled of antiseptic and finality. Frank Vance was in the bed, thin, gray, a ghost of the man I knew. He was a hundred years old.

He saw me, and a small, papery smile touched his lips. He was weak, but his eyes were clear.

“Jack… you remember that kid?” he whispered.

I knew which one. “I remember, Frank.”

“Evelyn Reed. The poet,” he breathed, the smile staying put. “All that money. All that… pride. We did the right thing, Jack. We left her alone. All these years… that’s the one. The… the most satisfying case…”

His eyes found mine, and they were filled with a deep, settled peace. The regret I remembered—the ghost that haunted him—was gone. In its place was simple, quiet pride.

He smiled. And he died.

Zip. Flash.

The hospital, the smell, the man I called partner… it all dissolved. The world went silent. The world went white.