Few minutes later, the Chevy rolled slow down the block, engine low, headlights cutting across the cracked sidewalks. Francis leaned back in the driver's seat, cigarette hanging from his lips, mind still circling what he'd left behind at Reynolds's house.
He almost drove straight past her.
Karen.
She was on the curb, waving goodbye to some skinny Asian dude who pulled off in a beat-up car. She laughed a little too loud, tugged her jacket tighter, and started walking up the block like she owned it.
Francis sighed, rolling his eyes. He almost kept going. Almost. But then Sheila crossed his mind—her soft voice, that strange but genuine kindness that never seemed to fit this neighborhood. Of all the people in the South Side, she was one of the few who didn't deserve the hell she got. And right now, Sheila was home, probably waiting for this girl.
Francis slowed, pulled the Chevy to the curb, and leaned across the seat. The passenger window rolled down.
"Get in."
Karen blinked, squinting into the car. When she saw who it was, her grin spread quick. "Oh, shit. Lip's brother."
She jogged over and slid into the seat without hesitation, dropping her bag on the floor. "Well, aren't I lucky. Free ride."
Francis didn't answer. He just pulled the gearshift and started driving.
Karen glanced sideways at him, smirk curling. "So, you always cruise around picking up girls at night? Or just me?"
Francis exhaled smoke out the cracked window. "Buckle up."
She clicked the seatbelt, still smirking. "You're quiet. Lip talks more shit in five minutes than you have all year."
Francis didn't look at her. The Chevy hummed along the dark streets, his eyes locked forward.
Karen leaned closer, her perfume sharp, cheap. She let her hand drop on his thigh, fingers light. "You're not bad-looking, you know. Way less nerdy than Lip. And older. I like older."
Francis caught her wrist before she could move further. Not rough, but firm. His voice was flat, low. "Don't."
Karen blinked, surprised, then laughed. "What? You shy? That's cute."
Francis let her wrist go, shifting the car into the next gear. "Not shy. Just not interested."
She tilted her head, frowning like she couldn't process the word. "Not interested? You serious? Nobody says no to me."
"Then start getting used to it," Francis muttered.
For a second, she sat back, arms crossed, pouting like a kid denied candy. Then she smirked again, shaking her head. "You're weird. You look like Lip, but you don't act like him at all. He'd kill to get me in this car."
Francis flicked ash out the window, his jaw tight. "Lip deserves better."
Karen laughed so hard she almost snorted. "Better? Than me? You're hilarious."
Francis didn't laugh. He didn't even glance at her. The weight in his voice made the air heavier. "Yeah. Better than you. Way better."
That shut her up for a moment. She shifted in her seat, chewing her lip, eyes flicking toward him like she wanted to bite back but couldn't.
The car rolled through the familiar South Side streets. Streetlights flickered, dogs barked somewhere in the distance. Karen leaned her head against the window, muttering, "You sound like Sheila."
Francis glanced at her finally, his eyes sharp. "That supposed to be an insult?"
Karen shrugged. "She's all, 'sweetheart this, darling that.' Acts like the world's made of candy. It's fake."
"It's not fake," Francis said, voice cutting. "She's the only real thing in this neighborhood. And you don't even see it."
Karen shifted uncomfortably, tugging her jacket tighter. For once, she didn't have a comeback ready.
The Chevy turned onto her block. Francis slowed, pulled up in front of Sheila's place. The porch light glowed soft, warm against the dark.
Karen unbuckled, smirking again like nothing happened. "Thanks for the ride, big brother. If you ever change your mind—" She tapped his arm, leaning closer. "—you know where I live."
Francis met her eyes once more, steady, cold. "Don't wait on it."
She blinked, her smirk faltering. Then she laughed like she didn't care, pushing the door open. "Whatever. Your loss."
She hopped out, slamming the door behind her, and walked up the steps, swaying her hips on purpose. Francis didn't bother looking twice.
He lit another cigarette, leaned back in the seat, and exhaled smoke into the night. His eyes lingered on Sheila's porch light.
She deserved better. She always had.
Karen disappeared inside, the door closing behind her. Francis started the Chevy again, the engine growling low. He pulled off into the dark, the cigarette burning slow between his fingers.
Some people in this neighborhood were poison. He could smell it on them.
And Francis Gallagher had no time for poison.