Jack of My Heart

The Dark Truth

When we get up to his apartment I feel a very strong urge to punch him in the nose.
His 'messy apartment' is, in reality, in perfect order, with plush throw blankets draped over his large, square, dark grey sectional, placed over a white rug in front of the electric fireplace. His dining area and living room combined are larger than my entire apartment, and the luxurious decorations make my eyes glimmer.
"Again, so sorry for the mess, but just put your jacket there. Our food will get here soon," Vincent tells me, sweeping past me to his kitchen sink.
"This is the most gorgeous place I have ever seen," I mumble, staring around the beautiful apartment.
"Oh, thank you," Vincent smiles, looking slightly nervous. He goes into another room and comes out with a huge stack of files and books, the grin on his face smug. "And now for your favorite part. 'Good, old fashioned research,'" Vincent mocks me, dropping the stack in front of me.
I give him a sarcastic smile and flip open the top file. It has our clients details, pictures, and information.
"Oh, Vincent, I've been meaning to talk to you about the knife," I look up from the paperwork. Vincent has his back to me, pulling dishes from the top shelf of his cabinet.
"Oh?" He freezes up, hands gripped around two thin plates.
"Why didn't you tell me that he was stabbed with his own knife? Do you know how much harder that makes things?" I press my palm down on the counter.
"Oh, you scared me. I thought you were going to say that the police found our clients fingerprints on the knife. And, to be honest, I didn't know. Why didn't you tell me? You're the psychic," He turns it around on me.
"I'm not psychic," I grumble. Vincent just shrugs and sets down the plates as if to say 'whatever you say.' I open the file back up and look through it, eyes closing as the victim's death flashes before my eyes like it's my own memory.
"Oh, oh, I think I found something," I tell him, patting his arm as he walks past me.
"What?" Vincent swings around to look at the files.
"He was a criminal, a horrible man. We can argue either self-defense or make a moral argument that he deserved to die. That's what the knife was giving me! It wasn't just him being stabbed, he killed someone else with the knife!" I exclaim and look up at him with excitement.
"How did you- you did it again, didn't you? I thought it only worked with bodies," Vincent says in a questioning tone, going to the door.
"I thought so too, but maybe it's like a muscle," I guess, not really knowing anything about my 'gift.'
"A muscle?" Vincent retorts.
"Yeah, like the more I use it, the more I can use it for. It just," I grimace as a small wave of pain and nausea washes over me, "it makes me kind of tired."
I end my sentence with a yawn, stretching my arms up and then back down in a circular motion.
"Well, eat up. I don't want you getting hurt on my watch," Vincent commands, opening the door and giving the delivery guy money.
"So sushi can be delivered," I think aloud. Vincent chuckles softly and sets a California roll in front of me along with a pair of chopsticks. "Hold on, let me see if I can see anything else,"
Vincent puts his hand on mine, drawing me out of my brain.
"Stop. That's enough for tonight. If you do this too much you could get seriously hurt," Vincent warns me. I know he's right so I nod and pick up one of the pieces of sushi.
"I wish I could help the police out more. I'm a police consultant now! Laney said she'd get me a sticker," I beam with pride. Vincent returns my smile and snaps his chopsticks which makes me jump back. I don't know why I did, and my face gets hot as I stare at my food.
"I think the person you're representing is innocent," I tell him before he can say anything.
"Well, that's always good in a defense," He quips, tossing a piece of sushi into his mouth.
"I know I saw who it was. If I just try again-" I start, but Vincent throws up his hands.
"I said no, Jack. Remember, you still work for me," Vincent gives me a stern look. Like a scolded puppy I shrink back, quietly eating my food. With a few grumbles under my breath I flip the folders back open, looking over information about our client. The poor kid seems to be in his early twenties, just a year or two older than me. Luckily for us, he had A and B Honor Roll in school, maybe two parking tickets, and certainly no pathological tendencies. His record isn't suspicious, but it is clean.
"I don't have anything solid yet, but you can argue the morality of the client. I'll put in a call to Dr. Geronatus, see if they can do a screening and maybe testify," I tell him, stealing a piece of his sushi. He snips at me with his chopsticks and takes a drink of water. With a nod he reaches over, closing the file on my hands.
"Show off," I gesture to the chopsticks, "only using one hand."
"You use more than one hand to do chopsticks?" He obviously is trying not to laugh, but lets out a chortle.
"I don't use chopsticks," I reply, giving him a raised eyebrow. "Say, do we have any motive?"
"A motive? I don't think so, he just discovered the victim," Vincent tells me absentmindedly. He just discovered the victim, I repeat to myself, then a revelation strikes. I close my eyes as hard as I can and try to picture the body again, focusing on the back. I didn't see the back however, and for the sake of my sanity I take a break from trying.
"Have you found what you're looking for with the crash?" Vincent asks through a mouth full of food, poking at edamame with his chopsticks.
"K-Kind of," I stammer out, remembering Danowitz's words. Vincent raises an eyebrow, imploring me to continue and with a hesitant sigh, I do. "Detective Danowitz said that he was wrong. Three people went missing, but only one was a witness. A k-kid."
My last words silence Vincent, who looks up from the green beans and at me with wide eyes. Slowly, he swallows down the sushi in his mouth and straightens up.
"A kid," He repeats, as if he's double checking. I nod and he sets down his utensils. "And you think that kid is..."
His voice trails off, but his meaning is clear. I nod again and watch him give a long exhale.
"And that's why you wanted the records, isn't it? To see the names submitted by the attorneys," Vincent continues, sticking his hands in his pockets.
"And what side submitted it," I take a drink of water.
"What side? Why do you want to know—oh... because you witnessed... oh," Vincent slowly says, realizing what I did in the coffee shop. "Do you remember?"
I shake my head with pursed lips, disappointed in myself. I've been trying to remember all day, but nothing has come of it except a headache.
"But that's not important right now. Can I see the images of Madison Brown's sister?" I request, my eyes following his movements as he stands up and sets his plate in the sink.
"Her sister? Why?" He makes eye contact with me while rinsing off the plate and bowl.
"Can I just see them, please?" I sigh, picking up my dish.
"I don't like how your... 'abilities' are increasing. What if you suddenly are able to do The Thing through pictures?" He demands, thrusting the plate down.
"What if I am?" I retort, moving around to the sink.
"Jack," Vincent groans, head tilted to the sky.
"What? It might help our case, Vincent. How is this any different than having me look at the victim? You said that we're running out of time. Let me see the pictures," I argue.
"You know, I just can't understand you. You beg and plead to be allowed to see a body, but when it actually comes time you act like I'm holding a knife to your throat," Vincent raises his hands and his voice in frustration.
"I know. I don't like doing it, and I most certainly don't want to, but I do want to help, and this is how. You were right when you said it was quicker. For us at least," I mumble the last part, crossing my arms. Vincent rolls his eyes and walks away from me, turning on his record player. Shaking out of my trance I wash off my plate and move back to the files, balancing one knee on a barstool and one foot on the ground, looking through the information.
"Why do you have to make so much sense?" Vincent asks, throwing himself into an intricately decorated armchair.
"I can't help it, I listen to you too much," I decide to fluff his feathers with a sly smile. Apparently it works, because he subconsciously puffs his chest out and tries to suppress the grin that emerges on his features. He crosses one leg over the other and drapes his arms over each side of his chair.
"I think you listen to me just enough," He gives me his signature stare coupled with the smile and I can feel myself melting. "Now, sit over there and tell me what you think we should do."
Vincent indicates to a spot on the couch across from him and I grab the things I had been reading, resigning to the place he gestured to.
"Before you say anything, just hear me out and know that no matter what you say, I'm going to do it."
"Okay..." Vincent gives me a hesitant look, one eyebrow slightly higher than the other.
"I'm going back to the morgue tomorrow-" I begin, pressing through Vincent's objections, ignoring when he shoots up from his seat with a scowl- "and I'm going to get Madison's sister's pictures. And do some research into her past."
Vincent marches across his living room to me and places his hands on either side of my head.
"Don't forget that I am your superior. Even though we may be getting... friendlier, you still report to me, and do what I say. And I say: 'don't even think about the morgue.'" Vincent threatens, his shadow engulfing me. I swallow hard and try to keep a tough facade.
"You're not as scary as you want everyone to think you are, you know," I smirk, although he really does terrify me.
"No. I'm much worse." He bends his elbows, leaning forward and staring into my soul. He looks me up and down, eyes brushing over my trembling fists and deadlocked legs, then gives a smirk and settles back into the armchair. "I'm kidding. Don't look so petrified, Jack. You know that I would never hurt you, right?"
He leans forward slightly, seeming to be seeking an answer from me. I remember how he got me a towel and made sure I was okay when it was raining, how defensive he was about me, and how concerned he was when I hit my head.
"Right, sir, I know that," I nod which is greeted with a warm grin.
"I'm so glad!" He beams, but like someone flipped a switch, his eyes become dark and dangerous again. "But seriously, don't go to the morgue."
"I'll go tomorrow! My psychic battery will be recharged by then!" I exclaim, because like I said before, I'm going whether he likes it or not.
"You won't go at all, and that's it!" Vincent slams his fist onto the small table beside him. I flinch back and bite my lip, nodding slowly.
"Y-Yes, sir," I say with my fingers crossed behind my back.
"Good... now enough of that. I'm very impressed with your progress since you started here. You've grown quite a bit. If you ever need an internship for your graduation or extra credit, just let me know," Vincent tries to lighten the mood and make me forget his threats and intimidation.
"Thank you, sir, that means a lot," I smile, but I can feel myself retreating back behind the wall I had built for myself. Vincent seems to notice this and straightens up, clearing his throat.
"I'm just doing this to keep you safe, you know that, right?" He leans forward, holding his chin in his hand. I nod and cross my legs, getting back to work. "I was debating on giving these to you, but here are the records for the trial of Frank Cafre or as some call him: the Blackjack Killer."
Vincent stands up from the chair and sits next to me on the couch. In his hands there is a huge stack of papers, some paper clipped, others sticking out at an angle. My breath hitches as I watch the stack get closer to my outstretched hands. Vincent delicately hands them over and lays his arm behind me on top of the couch as he observes the pages flipping over themselves. I keep turning the papers over, eyes rapidly scanning the words, some blacked out.
"Wait, here! Witnesses submitted by the prosecution," I point to the heading on the page. Even after rereading the paper three times, I still can't find my name or my parents names: Barry and Madeline Langdon. Sometimes, on a bad day, I can't remember their names, other times their faces.
"It's alright. Maybe it was an accident, and completely coincidental that it was in that area," Vincent shrugs.
"I've still got 145 pages," I grip either side of the large stack and hold it in front of his face. Vincent shrugs, holding up his hands in surrender.
"I just don't want you to be disappointed," He raises his eyebrows.
"Oh, yeah. I'll be so sad if I find out that no one ran my car off the road and it isn't actually my fault that my parents are dead," I snap. Vincent is quiet for a minute.
"You know it wasn't your fault, right? No matter what that paper does or doesn't say, it wasn't your fault," He stares into my eyes, face deadly serious, forehead slightly creased in concern.
"If I find that my name is on this record, it will be my fault that someone murdered my parents. They weren't even the targets! I was, and I'm the only one who survived. So please, tell me how that can be perceived as anything other than my fault!" I explode, tears springing to my eyes as my fists clench shut. My chest is heaving rapidly, my breathing spinning wildly out of control. I punch my thigh, take a deep inhale and shake my head. "I'm really sorry, Vincent. I am. I know you're just trying to be a good, uh, friend, but this is kind of a touchy subject for me."
"I completely understand that, Jack. Discovering this new talent, finding out your parents might have been murdered, and that you may have witnessed multiple murders when you were a child... I can't imagine the kind of mental toll that's taking," Vincent moves closer to me, trying to get me to meet his gaze.
"I'm really sorry," I murmur, head down, looking wistfully at our feet, pointed towards each other.
"Jack," His voice barely rises above a whisper, his face contorted into one of pain and concern. I bite my lip, give a slight shake of my head, and lift it back up, flashing a wide smile at him.
"Thank you for getting these for me, I don't imagine it was too particularly easy," I say in a joking tone, patting the records on my lap.
"Well, it was easy on my part. All I had to do was ask for the records. My friend Sarah had to digitize them and email them over," Vincent shrugs, leaning back heavily on the arm resting on top of the couch.
"Oh, well, tell her thank you for me," I smile and straighten the papers. Vincent nods absentmindedly, eyes intently studying my features. Feeling my face go bright red, I turn away from him, folding yet another page over.
"Ah, here we go. Witnesses submitted by the defense," I say to no one but myself, biting my lip. Part of me wants to take the records home, just in case my name is on the list, I don't want Vincent to see my breakdown, for him to have to deal with that. Another part of me desperately wants—no, needs—to be with him, because if I find my name on that list he'd be the only reason I wake up tomorrow. With a deep breath, I steel myself, swallowing hard and laying my finger on the page. The witnesses aren't in alphabetical order but there aren't that many names. I scan over the page, eyes running through each line like FloJo.
"Nothing," I sigh, relief washing over me.
"Jack," Vincent nervously draws my attention.
"Oh no,"
"It says 'continued.' 'Witnesses submitted by the defense, continued.'" Vincent grimaces. Did I flip past it? Did it fall out while I was moving? How many pages are there? Did I make that mistake with the prosecution? I barrage myself with questions, not having answers to any of them. Like a gambling man looking for his loaded die, I scour the floor, hunched over on my forearms and knees as I reach blindly under the coffee table. My hand grasps wildly for anything I can find, but Vincent pulls me back up to my seat. With a cocky look, he twists a large sheet of paper between his first two fingers.
"Looking for something?" He taunts, a teasing smirk playing across his lips. With a scowl I snatch the paper from him, setting it on my lap and hunching over it.
"Oh my god," My heart skips a few beats. The typed out letters don't even register as my name until Vincent lays a hand on my shoulder.
"Are you alright?" He asks softly, hand barely dancing across my flesh, as if afraid I'll break. I gulp.
"What side—what side is it?" I demand, turning the paper to see the words 'Witnesses submitted by the defense.'
"Do you know what this means?" I ask him, but it's very clear that he knows. I'm a murderer. I'm responsible for my parents deaths. I'm a monster. His face tells me that he believes those things too.
"Someone tried to kill you. Someone orphaned you when you were six-years-old. That's what that means." Vincent's voice is final, leaving no room for debate.
"Vincent-" I begin, feeling horrible that I've manipulated him.
"Don't. I know exactly what you're going to say, and it's not true. I need you to know that. Do you know that?" Vincent looks at me like he'll never take his eyes off of me, at least not until I lie to him.
"I do," I say, then softly add, "Do you know what else it means?"
"What?"
"The person in jail is not the person who should be in jail, and I have a memory I don't remember, and the real Black Jack Killer is alive and killing again, and it's all because I can't-" My voice steadily rises, and my hands fly out into wild gestures.
"Don't even finish that sentence—Jack! Don't... just don't," Vincent falls back, clapping one hand over his eyes, then rubbing his temples.
"Yes, sir," Another brick is added.
"Do you want to see him?" The brick is removed.
"The Blackjack Killer?" I inquire, unconsciously leaning forward with excitement.
"The alleged Blackjack Killer," He points a finger at me. "Yes, do you want to see him?"
"Yes," I respond, maybe too eagerly.
"I'll keep that in mind," Vincent's eyes narrow for a split second, a smile crossing his face. The brick weighs heavy in the bricklayers hand, unsure whether or not to put it down. Vincent stands up, drawing me back to the present, and wanders over to a small bar area, pouring himself a drink.
"You have a really nice home... by the way," I say quietly, feeling horrible for making this all about me. Vincent looks over his shoulder at me, then back to his drink, hanging his head.
"Those scars on your arms... how did you get them?" Vincent doesn't turn around. I open my mouth to speak but all that comes out is jumbled stuttering. This apparently concerns Vincent, because he whips around with wide eyes. "Jack?"
"The windshield... I was thrown through the windshield. That's how I survived. I used my arms to protect my face from the glass," I tell him, looking down. I thought I wasn't going to make this all about me.
"But you missed," He comes back to the couch.
"Sorry?" I frown, fingers lightly resting against my face.
"Your lip," Vincent brushes a knuckle across the left side of my lips. "You have a scar there, too."
The memory of me slamming into the ground, face first, intrudes into my mind. A jagged rock sticking out from the ground embedded itself in my lip, creating the scar Vincent is gazing at.
"I fell," I respond meekly. I wonder why he's asking me this and realize when I look down that I must have rolled my sleeves up at some point during the night. I start to unroll them but Vincent waves a hand in objection.
"You don't have to do that. I'm sorry I asked," He apologizes and takes a swig of his drink, grimacing after he swallows it down. I return the sleeves to the way they were before and hold my hands between my knees. I'm uncomfortable, but Vincent seems to be fine, groaning as he pops his back and settles onto the couch.
"It's getting pretty late..." My voice trails off as I look to the window.
"It is. Do you want to stay here? I can sleep on the couch if you'd like," Vincent offers. It's a generous offer, but I'm hesitant to take it. Who is this man really? He's been kind to me... kinder than anyone else I've met—but still, something about him is dangerous and not knowing what it is terrifies me.
"I don't want to inconvenience you. Thank you though... Vincent," I smile softly, picking myself and the records up from his couch.
"It's no inconvenience, I promise. In fact, it would be better, because I wouldn't be worrying about whether or not you made it home alright," He says, standing up as well.
"Do you worry about that every night?" I quip, trying to disqualify his argument.
"I do," He mumbles, hanging his head with bashfulness. His answer takes me by surprise and I stumble back a step. He looks up at me, gives an open-mouthed smirk and a sharp laugh. After taking a long drink of the alcohol he wipes his mouth with the hand holding the glass and gestures to me. "Does that frighten you?"
"No, why... why would it?" I ask, regaining my composure. Please text me Chuck, please text me Chuck, I repeat to myself, wishing to back up but finding that I'm glued in place.
As if she can sense my cry for help, my phone vibrates wildly inside my front pocket. I flip it out and gesture to Vincent that I need to take the call. Looking dismayed he gives a nod and backs up.
"Hey, Chuck, what's wrong?" I ask, giving an apologetic smile to Vincent who shakes his hands to say 'no problem.'
"Wrong? Nothing's wrong, why do you say that?" Chuck asks, then seems to get the hint. "I mean, oh my god! It's horrible! It's awful! Grandma Tilly's dead! Oh, I don't think I can go on-" Chuck's vehement wailing reaches a fever pitch and I have to hold the phone away from my ear, sharing a look with Vincent.
"Okay, buddy, you're gonna be okay. I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do? I know you two were close," I make something up on the spot, trying to sound convincing.
"I just... need someone to... to sit with," Chuck sniffles, then begins sobbing again.
"Alright, buddy, I'll be right over. Hang in there, okay?" I check with her, slowly hanging up. I turn back to Vincent while pulling on my coat and grabbing my backpack, shoving the information I need inside. "I am so sorry, but she's my best friend and she needs me,"
"I completely understand. Some other time?" He asks, a hopeful gleam in his eye.
"Yeah, of course. Some other time," I reply without thinking, closing the door behind myself.