The Gallagher block was quiet when Francis turned the corner, the kind of quiet that always made the South Side feel heavier, like the streets were holding their breath. The porch light on their house buzzed faint, and there she was—Fiona—sitting on the steps, elbows resting on her knees, staring at nothing.
Francis slowed, studying her face before walking up. She didn't notice him right away. Her eyes were far off, glassy, like she was stuck somewhere in her own head.
He dropped down beside her, the old wood creaking under his weight. "What's wrong?"
Her head tilted toward him slowly, lips pressed together tight before she whispered, "Everything."
Francis lit a cigarette, gave her time. He'd learned that with Fiona—you didn't push. You just sat there and let her fill the space when she was ready.
And she did.
Her voice cracked as she said it. "Steve's not Steve. He's Jimmy." She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. "Jimmy fucking Lishman. Rich-kid, car-thief Jimmy. He told me everything tonight. Every lie, every secret… he just dumped it out like it was supposed to make it better."
Francis exhaled smoke slow, his eyes steady on hers. He didn't look surprised. "And?"
"And what?" Fiona snapped, then softened immediately, sighing hard. "I don't even know, Francis. Part of me wants to scream at him, throw him out, tell him I'm done. But the other part…" She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. "The other part just loves him. Stupid, right?"
Francis flicked ash off his cigarette. "Not stupid. Just human."
She looked at him, waiting for judgment, but he gave her none. He just nodded once, calm, like he understood more than he let on.
Fiona leaned her head on his shoulder, voice muffled. "I don't know what to do."
Francis rested a hand on hers, firm, grounding. "You don't have to know tonight. Just breathe. One step at a time."
For a moment, the weight seemed to ease off her shoulders. She let out a shaky laugh. "You sound like you've got it all figured out."
Francis smirked faintly. "Maybe I just fake it better."
They sat there in silence, the night stretching around them, until headlights swung across the street. A car slowed, then pulled up in front of the house. Francis straightened slightly as the engine cut off.
Jessica stepped out.
Her heels clicked against the cracked pavement, her figure sharp under the streetlamp. She spotted Francis on the porch and headed straight for him. Fiona sat up, wary, her brows knitting.
Jessica's voice was steady but low. "You've probably heard about Reynolds's death." She paused, eyes flicking toward Fiona, then back to Francis. "Can I talk to you alone?"
Francis glanced at Fiona.
Fiona frowned, clearly torn, but after a moment she stood, brushing her hands against her jeans. "Fine. I'll… give you guys a minute." She squeezed Francis's arm before slipping inside, the door creaking shut behind her.
Jessica stopped at the bottom of the steps, the lamplight catching the edge of her face. Her eyes looked tired, but there was steel underneath.
Francis leaned back against the porch rail, cigarette glowing in the dark. "Go ahead."
She crossed her arms, her tone sharper now. "He's dead, Francis. They're saying it was some deal gone wrong, that he was sniffing around the wrong people. But I don't buy it. Not for a second."
Francis watched her carefully, his expression unreadable. "And what do you think?"
Jessica took a breath, her jaw tightening. "I think someone wanted him gone. And I think you know more than you're letting on."
Francis smirked faintly, tapping ash into the night air. "That's a bold assumption."
Her eyes narrowed. "Don't play coy with me. I saw the way you looked at him. The way you talked. You were… polite, but you weren't afraid. Like you already had him measured."
He didn't answer, just let the smoke curl between them.
Jessica stepped closer, her voice dropping. "I'm not asking for the truth. I don't even think I want it. But I need to know one thing, Francis—did you protect me and my kids in all this? Or am I going to wake up tomorrow and find us in the crosshairs?"
Francis finally met her eyes, calm, steady. "You're safe. Always were."
Something in her face softened, the sharpness giving way to something heavier—relief, maybe even gratitude. She exhaled slow, her arms loosening at her sides.
"Good," she whispered.
They stood there for a beat, the silence thick between them. Then Jessica shook her head, almost laughing bitterly. "I don't even know why I came here. Maybe because… you're the only one I trust to give me a straight answer."
Francis flicked the last of his cigarette into the street. "Then you came to the right place."
She looked at him for a long moment, her lips parting like she wanted to say more, but instead she turned back toward her car.
"Take care of yourself, Francis," she said softly, before slipping behind the wheel.
The engine started, headlights washed across the porch, and then she was gone.
Francis stood there a moment longer, the South Side night settling heavy again. He exhaled slow, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.
Inside, Fiona's voice carried faint through the house, calling for him.
Francis turned, stepped back into the warmth of home, the wheels already spinning in his head.
Because Jessica was right. He had protected her.
And Reynolds's death?
He absolutely has nothing to do with it, it was all Terry.