The small 50s diner Jack and Sam ended up in was familiar and mostly empty, letting Jack eat without feeling self-conscious over his every move. He even got to enjoy the whipped cream on his pancakes without feeling like he was being judged over a childish preference.

"So let me get this straight, he drowned?" Jack asked as he skimmed over the article in the local paper again.

"Right," Sam said between mouthfuls.

"After they lopped off his arms and legs?" Jack absently chewed on the straw in his drink. Considering how much information the newspaper had, someone's job was at risk. He hoped it wasn't anyone he liked.

Sam nodded.

"That's pretty fucked. Any idea who did it?"

"It has a certain style to it," he admitted, "but it's just not the same. I have my own suspicions, though."

"Oh?" Jack looked up, curiosity piqued. "Who?"

"Just a thought," Sam replied dismissively, "and I'd rather not trouble you with it since I'm probably wrong. So do yourself a favor, and stay out of my computer. I only told you about the case because it's plastered everywhere, and I wanted to reassure you."

"A news story's not gonna give me nightmares," Jack said, slumping back against his seat. He frowned and stared at the remains of his pancakes as the image of a bloodied stump flashed across his mind. He breathed in shakily. "Maybe I should stay the night with you guys."

"I'll have Candy make sure the guest room's cleared out."

"I thought it was 'Cadence,' now," he said, grinning.

Sam gave Jack a withering glare and drank his coffee.

---

Jack packed up his toiletries and a change of clothes while Sam waited by the door. He surreptitiously checked that all his detritus was exactly where he'd left it. Nothing out of place. Not even the candy wrapper sitting on the window sill had been moved.

"Would you like an oven for Christmas?" Sam asked, critically eyeing the empty spot between the kitchen cabinets.

Jack rolled his eyes and pointed at the countertop stove. "I don't need one. Besides, those things are heavy, and what am I gonna do if I ever move? Just have an extra oven?"

"Sell it?"

"Then save everyone the trouble, and just give me the money." He gave his apartment another once over, running down his mental checklist. Laptop, phone, keys, taser, pepper spray, clothes, toothbrush… "Wallet."

"By the coffee pot," Sam replied.

Jack grabbed his wallet and shoved it in his bag. "I think that's everything."

Sam pushed off the wall and yawned. "You want me to drop you off at the library, or do you wanna head over now?"

"Library. I'll catch a bus to your place."

"Don't—"

"I'm not gonna spy on you."

"I'll believe it when I see it."

---

Happily set up in his usual corner in the library, Jack pulled up various news feeds on last night's murder. One news site declared it the work of someone named Delaney. Jack leaned back as he tried to remember why the name sounded so familiar.

He didn't have to look far; the top hits for his initial search were of several news articles and arrest records. It was mostly white collar crime with a lot of circumstantial evidence for everything else. Delaney was out on parole for good behavior and had managed to keep his nose clean for the year he'd been out.

Jack clicked through the articles until he came across a photograph of Delaney standing next to a gorgeous blond man. He froze as he stared at the photo. Delaney knew Farragut.

He tugged on his sleeves and looked around the library. No one else was hanging about in the research stacks. He was alone. He was fine. He was safe. He should hurry up and head over to Sam's house.

Jack's thoughts ran wild as his eyes fell back on the photo. Delaney had to be an official suspect. Sam had said there was a certain style to the murder.

Farragut liked amputation well enough, but… Jack frowned and stared at his keyboard. That wasn't right. Farragut never killed anyone. Not that Jack could remember. He'd even testified that Farragut was innocent on that front. Beating and cutting someone up under orders wasn't the same as murder. But his gut reaction to the questions asked were the complete opposite of the words that fell from his mouth.

His heart beat faster as he tried to remember more from his time with Farragut. Something besides hungry smiles and whispered promises of keeping him. He had seen things. He knew it. He was certain of it. The images were just on the edge of his memories, slipping into a fog.

He pulled his left sleeve up and twisted his wrist, eyeing the scar that circled it. A flash of a knife slowly dragging over his skin and the threat of losing his hand hit him, and he screwed his eyes shut at the venomous words spoken in a serene voice.

That wasn't right. He'd tried to off himself as a means of escape. Farragut… Michael had been so concerned about all the blood. Had kissed Jack's wrist and…

Jack rubbed at his wrist as the memory of holding the knife in his right hand solidified over the one of Farragut gleefully licking at Jack's wrist.

He needed to get away from his thoughts and the wrongness he felt. He needed a distraction. He slammed his laptop shut and decided to head over to Sam's house early. He'd deal with the extended tarot reading. Anything to stop feeling like he was crazy.