Catching Up

The diner’s neon sign sputtered and buzzed like an old drunk trying to remember the words to a familiar tune. “Mabel’s.” The bell above the door jangled as I stepped inside, the noise too cheery for the grimy surroundings. Burnt coffee, stale cigarette smoke, and enough grease to lube a tank mingled to create a sharp, almost nostalgic smell that wriggled through the dullness that had taken over my senses since the change. Maybe the Nightstone had something to do with that. I wasn’t about to start hoping.

I scanned the room, my eyes catching the reflection of flickering neon in a streaked window. No sign of Bart yet. I moved further inside, the vinyl of the red booths creaking with the weight of ghosts as weary patrons shifted and settled. A couple in the corner murmured over a shared milkshake. A trucker at the counter hunched over his plate, the dull metal of his fork clinking against the ceramic like he was digging his way out of something. A waitress—Dana, according to her faded name tag—gave me a polite smile that barely hid the exhaustion in her eyes.

“Anywhere you like, hon,” she said, and her voice was warm in that way that said she’d seen it all—maybe more than she’d wanted—and didn’t care enough to judge. I nodded and picked a booth in the corner, back to the wall. Old habits.

Places like this had a kind of honesty that the rest of the world lacked. Here, you knew what you were getting. No pretense, no polished bullshit—just folks, raw and worn down, pretending that another cup of black sludge could hold the darkness at bay. I couldn’t taste it anymore, but that didn’t matter. The ritual did. I wrapped my hands around the chipped mug Dana brought, the heat trying its best to thaw fingers that were more memory than flesh.

I closed my eyes, letting the clatter of plates, the low hum of conversation, the hiss and splutter of the coffee machine wash over me. Outside, the city was busy pretending—heroes, villains, martyrs, monsters—but in here, it was just people. People keeping their heads down and trying to make it through another night. Maybe that was enough. Tonight, maybe that was all the heroics anyone could hope for.

The door swung open with a lazy jangle, and Bart stepped in. I could spot him even without looking—he had that energy that seemed to fill a room a second before he entered it. He hadn’t changed much. Maybe a little rounder around the edges, the kind of weight that comes when life slows down enough to let you catch your breath. His shirt was wrinkled, the tie more of an accessory than a commitment, hanging limp and defeated like it had spent all day losing a fight with gravity.

Bart’s eyes found mine, and for a fleeting moment there was something like hesitation in them. Then it was gone, replaced with the grin I remembered, weary but real. He walked over, his heavy footsteps muffled by the worn linoleum, and slid into the booth across from me with a groan.

“Jack,” he said, and the name felt heavier than it should, like he was testing it out, making sure it still fit.

“Bart,” I nodded back, trying not to smile, failing a little. He tossed a thin manila folder onto the table, the paper rustling against the sticky surface.

“You’re a lifesaver,” I said, my fingers brushing the folder—but not taking it yet. It seemed wrong to rush. Like there were dues to be paid before we could get to the business part.

Bart snorted, his eyes already drifting towards the counter. “Yeah, yeah. You and your damn cases.” He lifted a hand, signaling to Dana. “How about a slice of that apple pie? Actually, make it two. And a coffee—decaf.” He glanced back at me, catching the raised eyebrow I shot him.

“Decaf? Really? Isn’t the world fake enough as it is?”

He shrugged, a ghost of a grin tugging at his lips. “Old lady’s got it in her head it’s better for my heart.”

“Since when do you listen to anyone else?”

“Since I learned the value of having something solid to come back to,” he said, a flicker of something serious passing through his eyes before he brushed it off with a half-smile. He leaned back, stretching, and sighed. “Besides, it ain’t the caffeine I need tonight. Just the warmth. I’m not burning the midnight oil as much these days. Some of us have to grow up, eventually.”

I nodded, understanding. We sat in silence for a beat, the folder still between us like a barrier neither of us wanted to acknowledge. It was funny, in a way—how much unsaid crap could stack up in a decade, piling into mountains no one wanted to be the first to start climbing.

“Jack,” Bart said, softer this time, eyes flicking between the folder and me. “You’re not… seriously getting back in, are you? It’s a bad time to test those waters. Something’s been stirring at the bottom lately—something mean.”

I tried a smile, but it fell flat before reaching my eyes. “’fraid so.”

Bart’s face hardened. “Any way you can pull out before it sees you? You know how it goes. Once something in that darkness locks on, you’re hooked.”

I dragged the folder closer, a chill settle into my bones. “Too late for that, Bart. Way too late.”

I tore open the envelope, taking a deep breath before flipping through the contents. Bart’s voice came low from across the table.

“Mind telling me what I’m sticking my neck out for, Jack?”

The file was thin. Too thin. A record, some sparse notes, a few grainy photos of the house’s exterior. An interview with the deceased’s family. That was it. But what stood out wasn’t what was there—it was what wasn’t. No photos of the crime scene itself. No details on the nature of the deaths. Just a hollow shell of information.

“Anyone from the Council been snooping around the files?” I a

Bart leveled me with a hard stare. “Jack, the Council’s always around. One of their guys even has an official spot on the force now—artifact oversight.”

My gut twisted. Worse than I thought. The Council always had their fingers in things, but it had been a whispered conspiracy, shadows behind the curtain. Now they were stepping out into the light, making it official. That meant they were confident, that they had leverage they weren’t afraid to flex.

“Anything else?” I pushed.

Bart’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned back. “You first, Jack.” His expression was tight, guarded. He wasn’t giving me everything, not yet. He wanted to know what kind of trouble he was diving into. Fair enough. I owed him at least that much.

“You probably noticed I’m not quite myself these days.”

Bart snorted, his lips curling into a grimace. “No shit, Jack. For Satan’s hairy back, you look like a damn corpse. I don’t hear from you for over ten years, just poof. Gone. Word was you were dead, or taking odd gigs as a low-level hunter. Same difference.” He shook his head, disgust mixing with the hurt. “Then out of nowhere, I get a call, a favor, and here you are. You look and smell like the inside of my aunt’s purse. You want answers? Start talking.”

I raised my hands, placating. “I get it.”

“No, Jack, I don’t think you do.” His voice was tight, trembling with frustration. “You always were thick-headed, but apparently not thick enough to stick around when things got tough. When Molly left, you turned your back on everything—on me, your friends, your family.”

I tried to find the words, but nothing came. “I’m sorry,” I managed.

He shook his head, his eyes dark and full of a pain that had been simmering for years. “No, Jack, you don’t get to be sorry. You get to be honest.” He was yelling by then, and the chatter in the diner fell silent, a few heads turning our way.

He closed his eyes, taking a breath. When he looked at me again, his gaze had softened. “I can’t imagine what you were going through, losing a daughter… I don’t know if I’d have done any different. But, hell, Jack, you weren’t alone. You didn’t have to be alone.”

A swell of pain rose in my chest, choking me. I looked away, jaw clenched tight, fighting the tears. Not that they’d come—my undead state had long since dried up whatever was left in my tear ducts.

I swallowed it all down—the hurt, the anger, the guilt. Bart was an asshole, but he was always a little bit right.

I took a deep breath, let it out slow. “Okay,” I said, quieter now. “You’re right.” And then I began. I told him everything—not only about the last few days, but the last few years. The whole damn story. Bart listened without interruption, giving a subtle a nod here and there, his face softening as the tale wound on.

How after Sarah died, I lost it. How I tore my life apart trying to find the bastard who’d killed her, only to find him dead, bobbing in a lake, half-eaten by fish. There was no closure, no justice. Just emptiness. So I kept running, but there was nothing left to run toward. So I ran from everything—my life, my memories, my friends. From the man I used to be.

The story spilled out, uneven and broken, looping back on itself, details tangling. But Bart never cut in, never tried to straighten it out. He listened, and I realized I hadn’t known how badly I needed that.

When I finished, Bart nodded once. “Okay,” he said.

That was all. One word. But somehow, it was enough. Something shifted in my chest, like a weight that was still there but no longer quite as crushing. I hated myself for that—for allowing myself even a sliver of relief. It felt like letting go, like losing a little bit of Sarah. And part of me would never forgive that.

“You didn’t kill her.”

“What?” I blinked, the shock twisting my gut. Bart’s voice was soft, barely a whisper, yet it cut through the noise of the diner like a knife.

“You didn’t kill her, Jack. You know that, don’t you?”

“Of course I fucking know that.” The disgust rose in my throat, mixing with anger. My hands clenched into fists. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

Bart leaned closer, his eyes never leaving mine, his words slower now, heavy with something deeper. “Jack, listen to me. You didn’t kill her.”

“I know that,” I snapped, the heat rising to my face. “Shut the hell up about it.” My hand shot out, grabbing his collar, pulling him across the table. The diner blurred at the edges, all the noise fading into a low, dull hum.

Bart didn’t flinch. His hands shot up, gripping my arms, holding me steady. “No, Jack. Really listen to me,” he said, his voice trembling, cracking. “You didn’t kill her. It wasn’t your choice. It was evil, and it was wrong. Maybe you shouldn’t have been working that day... maybe you wish it had been different... but, Jack, you didn’t kill her.”

The tightness in my chest spread, my throat closing in around the words I wanted to spit at him. My whole body tensed, and I tried to look away, but Bart held me in place. His eyes were locked on mine, burning, his voice full of something that made my stomach lurch.

“Jack, look at me,” he insisted, his tone unwavering, pulling me from the dark recesses of my thoughts. “You. Didn’t. Kill her.”

Something snapped. The dam I’d built, that fortress of denial and guilt and hatred, cracked, then crumbled. Years of grief, every self-reproach, every sleepless night replaying those cursed moments, they all came crashing through. My vision blurred; my throat tightened until the first sob broke free. Tears, real tears this time—not the hollow kind that sat behind my eyes—spilled over, ran down my cheeks, hot and relentless. And Bart pulled me across the table, into his chest, his arms wrapping tight around me, his embrace the only thing keeping me upright as my legs weakened, threatening to give.

He whispered into my ear, his voice thick with the pain of an old friend who’d carried too much for too long, “It’s not your burden to carry alone, Jack. It never was.”

I let it all out—the tears, the agony, the years of guilt I had swallowed. I let them fall, burning, searing down my face. It wasn’t my choice. It never had been. And for the first time, I let myself believe it—even if it was just a fraction of belief, it was something.

Silence fell. The diner’s low hum returned, but the world had narrowed to us—two men sitting in a booth, one crying, the other holding him up. I’ll never forget what Bart did for me that night. It wasn’t the words—not the insistence, not the logic—it was his presence. It was the way he asked and then listened, with no judgment, just understanding. It was the fact that he gave me the space to finally say it aloud.

I couldn’t say how long I sat there, how long it took for the world to feel normal again—hours, years, lifetimes? But eventually, it did. And when I returned from that strange place, he was there: the same old Bradley Linderman, waiting patiently with that gentle smile.

I smiled back.

We eased into small talk, not shallow, just a way to shift the mood, like easing into a warm, familiar rhythm.