The next day came, but Barry hadn’t managed even a wink of sleep.
Every time he closed his eyes, the memories clawed their way back—the sight of his mom’s lifeless eyes, his dad’s broken cry, the metallic scent of blood, the faint hum in the air, the lingering heat of lightning.
Every fragment, down to the smallest detail, was etched with painful clarity.
He tried to push his mind toward the future, but that night refused to loosen its grip.
He sat upright against the bedrest, gaze fixed on the window, though he wasn’t really seeing the view outside.
Hours slipped past, heavy and silent, until the door opened and the person he had been waiting for finally stepped in.
“Barry,” a woman in a tailored suit crossed the room quickly and wrapped him in a firm embrace.
“Barry, I’m so sorry.
I heard what happened…..”
It was Mrs.
Jean Loring—a well-known lawyer with her own firm in Starling City.
Barry had only met her once before, by chance.
During a business trip to Central City, she’d been in a car accident.
Barry, passing by, had rushed in, giving her first aid until the paramedics arrived.
His quick actions saved her life.
After recovering, she’d personally visited the Allen family to thank them and had left her number, offering help if they ever needed it.
Now, Barry had called in that favor.
“Mrs.
Loring… Thank you for coming.” Barry’s voice was steadier than the night before.
The grief was still there, but at least he could speak without breaking.
“Barry, I know this is painful.
But I need you to tell me everything.
Only if I understand the whole picture can I help your family properly.” Jean’s tone was gentle, professional but warm.
She had met Nora and Henry Allen briefly; they were a loving couple, and the thought of Henry murdering his wife didn’t fit at all.
Barry nodded and began to recount everything—the timing, what he had seen, the strange moments where he suddenly found himself blocks away from his house.
He tried not to skip any detail.
By the time he finished, his fists were clenched so tight the bandages on his hands started to tear.
Jean didn’t interrupt.
When he finally fell silent, she leaned forward and hugged him, her hand firmly holding his to stop him from hurting himself further.
“You’ve been through more than anyone should at your age,” she said quietly.
“I promise—I’ll do everything I can.”
“I need to see my Dad.” Barry’s urgency broke through.
He knew Henry’s pain had to be greater than his own.
His father had lost his wife, the love of his life, and now stood accused of killing her.
Barry couldn’t imagine the weight Henry was carrying.
Jean hesitated.
“Barry, you should rest.
I’ll see Henry and begin working on his defense.
You’ve been through a lot.”
“Mrs.
Loring, please.
Everyone keeps saying that, but I know my body.
I’m fine.
I have to see my dad… I can’t lose him too.” Barry’s voice cracked.
His eyes brimmed with tears, his composure finally slipping.
Finally after an eternity of loneliness , he tasted the warmth of family and before he could embrace the warmth, he lost half of it.
The boy who had already lost so much couldn’t bear another separation.
Jean’s chest tightened.
She saw determination behind the grief.
She couldn’t bring herself to refuse him.
“Alright,” she said softly.
“We’ll do it properly.”
They completed Barry’s discharge quickly and drove straight to Central City Police Headquarters.
Inside the precinct, an all-too-familiar voice stopped them.
“Barry?
What are you doing here?
You should be resting.”
It was Detective Joe West, Iris’s father.
His surprise quickly shifted into concern when he saw who was with Barry.
“Detective West,” Jean introduced herself firmly, “Jean Loring.
I’m counsel for Henry Allen.
I understand you’ve been holding him.
I’d like to review the evidence against my client and speak with him immediately.”
Joe straightened, his tone professional.
“Ms.
Loring, we wouldn’t be holding him unless we thought we had enough evidence.”
Jean’s voice stayed calm, measured.
“Circumstantial evidence, at best, I’m sure.
And you know as well as I do that Henry Allen is entitled to counsel and to see his family.
That includes his son.”
Joe’s eyes shifted to Barry.
“Barry… you shouldn’t be here.
This isn’t a place for you.” His voice softened; he truly didn’t want the boy caught in what he believed to be a dark reality—that Henry Allen had killed Nora.
Barry didn’t respond.
His eyes darted around the station, searching.
Then, without warning, he sprinted down the hall.
“Barry, stop!” Joe called after him.
But Barry’s feet carried him straight to the interrogation room.
Through the small window in the door, he saw his father.
Only a night had passed, but Henry Allen looked as if he had aged a decade.
His face was haggard, his eyes hollow.
“Dad!” Barry burst through the door.
Henry’s head jerked up at the sound.
The dullness in his eyes cracked; for the first time since the nightmare began, light returned.
“Barry… it’s really you.” Still cuffed, Henry leaned forward as Barry rushed into his arms.
The embrace was awkward, but full of strength.
Father and son clung to each other, both reluctant to let go.
Jean and Joe finally caught up.
Joe hesitated, watching the raw emotion in front of him.
For once, he didn’t step in.
“Jean,” Henry managed, his voice hoarse, “you’re here… Thank you.
And thank you for bringing Barry.” He guessed Barry had called Jean himself, and for a moment Henry felt ashamed that his son was showing more composure than he was.
The interrogation room smelled faintly of bleach, but no amount of cleaning could scrub away the weight that hung in the air.
Henry Allen sat hunched forward, his hands trembling against the steel table.
His eyes—once warm, bright—now looked hollow, drained by grief.
Jean sat across from him, posture firm, but voice soft.
“Henry, I need you to focus.
Tell me exactly what you remember.
Everything.
Even the smallest detail.”
Henry’s lips parted, his voice cracking.
“Jean, I didn’t do this.
I loved Nora.
I… I tried to save her.” His hands curled into fists.
“And now they think I—”
“Henry,” Jean interrupted gently, “I believe you.
But belief doesn’t win cases.
Evidence does.”
From the corner of the room, Joe shifted uncomfortably.
His eyes lingered on Henry, suspicion wrestling with sympathy.
Henry glanced at Barry who was hugging him refusing to let go—for a boy who had just lost his mother, his composure was unsettling.
This made Henry worry this event will really affect his bright quiet boy
“Barry,” Henry whispered, forcing a smile, “go with Joe for now.
I’ll see you soon.”
Jean nodded.
“Go on, Barry.
We’ll take it from here.”
The boy looked at Henry and then Jean, who nodded reassuringly.
Barry reluctantly let go of his embrace and left the room with Joe following behind, before the door closed he looked at one last time at his father who was, obviously, forcing a smile so he wouldn’t worry.
“Come son lets get you something eat” Joe patted his back, leading him somewhere to have some food
Barry tried to refuse but his stomach protested, causing Joe to smile at his embarrassed face.
So he nodded
Joe took Barry to a nearby food stall, while sitting on the bench.
Barry was quietly eating his sandwich.
There was silence around Joe and Barry, this made Joe awkward and worried.
Joe cleared his throat.
“Barr… I know this is hard…
I could only imagine what you could be going through, but holding it inside will only make it worse… if you ever need to talk I am always here” He was worried if the boy kept holding it in, it will break him even more
Barry turned, gave Joe a small smile.
“I know.
Thanks, Joe.” He knew holding these emotions are detrimental but now is not the time for him to break down.
Barry was actually thinking about how to help his dad, from what I remember my father would be convicted, and sentenced for life imprisonment., all the evidence pointed towards him being the murderer but… Barry thought for quite some time, he found something which could help him.
“Joe,” Barry said after a moment, “can we stop by the house?
I want some things..
And a change of clothes”
Joe frowned.
The Allen house was still a crime scene.
But when he looked at Barry—sitting calm, polite, with none of the hysterics he expected—he sighed.
“…Alright.
But you don’t touch anything unless I say.”
Barry nodded.
“Understood.” His expression somber, going back to that nightmare is not easy for him.
The Allen house still smelled of copper and dust.
Police tape clung to doorways, photos marked blood spatters.
Barry’ s eyes lingered in the living room, He couldn’t bear to look too long at the spot where Nora had fallen.
Barry moved upstairs, collected a change of clothes, and packed quietly.
His eyes lingered onto the rack which contained his awards, remembering his mother’s memories.
His vision was becoming blurry.
He hurriedly wiped his eyes, taking everything necessary.
When he came down, Joe asked, “Got what you need?”
“Yes.
Just one more thing” Barry answered, He moved towards the dining room, when he suddenly stopped and looked towards the wall
“What happened..” Joe followed his eyes—and froze.
He saw a knife to be precise a Knife handle, nearly blending into the wall, was lodged in the plaster.
Barry spoke evenly.
“That’s the knife I threw at the man who tried to attack me.” Barry noticed something
Joe raised a brow “…You sure?”
“Yes.” Barry nodded
Joe pulled on gloves, walked over carefully, and worked the blade free.
He noticed dried blood clung to the steel.
We missed this… the detectives must’ve overlooked.
He slipped it into an evidence bag with deliberate care.
“What does it mean?” Barry asked.
His tone was mild, but his eyes hid something different.
It looked like my knife hit someone that night.
Let’s hope…..
Joe swallowed.
“…It means we’ve got work to do.”
Barry than found the thing he was looking for – The toy car that was his recent science project this could also become the key to clear his dads name
Joe blinked.
“What’s that?”
“My science fair project.”
“What do you need this for..” Joe was puzzled
“I made this car into a remote recording device, it is programmed to spontaneously record in case of sudden increase in exposure” Barry explained while opening the car and removing a memory card
Joe frowned.
“English?” He couldn’t understand a single thing Barry side
Barry gave him a faint smile.
“It probably recorded something that night.”
Joe stared, shaken.
“You’re telling me this toy might’ve—”
“Yes.” Barry placed the card in Joe’s hand.
Joe’s thoughts swirled; he looked at Barry, then at the memory card, he found there is more to this case than it lets on; their initial scope of investigation was too narrow.
They rushed to CCP, new evidence means another round of investigation.
The reinvestigation began almost immediately.
Jean pressed them hard, insisting on police incompetence on leaving potential evidence behind.
Joe pushed the camera footage through evidence channels, though whispers around the precinct questioned whether a child’s toy was credible.
But then the results came.
The blood on the knife did not belong to Nora.
Nor to Henry.
Nor to Barry.
An unidentified male.
The footage, though grainy, captured flashes—Nora crying out, a blur of movement, a streak of crimson lightning that vanished as quickly as it appeared.
And Henry—desperate, frantic—pressing against Nora’s wound, not stabbing her.
Jean seized on it like a lifeline.
“This proves someone else was there.
Someone the department hasn’t accounted for.”
Joe’s hands tightened.
Part of him wanted to believe.
Another part whispered that it was impossible.
Red and Gold lightning?
Unknown intruders?
It sounded like fantasy.
But it did rule out Henry being the murderer, now the question was who was the perpetrator.
The blood sample they found did not have any match.
In the meantime Barry was at Joe’s home with Iris.
He was silently contemplating his actions, although almost everything was going as expected until now, but the hearing still remains.
The courtroom in Central City was packed, heavy with whispers and the restless shuffle of reporters’ pens.
Henry Allen sat at the defense table, pale but steady, with Jean Loring beside him.
The prosecutor’s side laid out his case: no forced entry, Henry’s fingerprints on the knife, and blood on his hands.
Jean countered with what the police had overlooked—the second knife Joe West himself had found embedded in the wall, its blood type not matching Henry or Nora, and the shaky footage from Barry’s science project camera.
Though the quality was poor, it showed Nora’s struggle, Henry rushing in—and, for the briefest instant, a strange flash of red lightning.
The judge frowned, tapping her gavel.
“While new evidence raises questions, the State is not prepared to dismiss charges against Mr.
Allen.
However, the court will not proceed to trial at this time.
Mr.
Allen is released pending further investigation.”
Relief flickered in Henry’s eyes, though it was bitter.
He was free, but not cleared.
The courtroom had thinned after the trial arguments, but the air was still heavy with tension.
Barry sat quietly behind his father, small hands folded neatly, eyes sharp though he appeared calm.
The judge cleared her throat and adjusted her glasses.
“Before this court is adjourned, there remains the matter of custody for the minor, Bartholomew Henry Allen.”
Her voice carried a weight that made Henry Allen straighten in his chair.
He didn’t flinch; he didn’t plead.
He simply folded his hands together, steady, listening.
“Mr.
Allen,” the judge continued, “this court recognizes you have not been convicted of murder.
However, until this matter is fully resolved, you remain under investigation as the prime suspect in your wife’s death.
Given the seriousness of that allegation, I cannot, in good conscience, leave your son in your care.”
Jean rose smoothly, “Your Honor, this sets a dangerous precedent.
My client has not been convicted of any crime.
To remove his child on suspicion alone—”
“Counselor,” Judge interrupted, her gavel tapping once, “this is not punishment.
This is a precaution.
The child must be placed somewhere safe and stable while the case remains open.”
For a moment, silence pressed down on the room.
Henry spoke then, his voice calm, warm even in the face of heartbreak.
“Your Honor… if it must be so, then I accept.
I only ask one thing—that Barry not be sent into state care.
He deserves a family, not solitude.”
Before she could respond, a voice rose from the gallery.
“I’ll take him.”
All eyes turned to Detective Joe West.
He stood, buttoning his jacket, his expression resolute.
“Your Honor, I volunteer for temporary custody.
Barry already knows me, knows my family.”
The judge studied him carefully, then nodded.
“Detective West, your record with this court is strong.
If you’re willing to assume responsibility until Mr.
Allen’s case is resolved, I will allow it.”
Henry turned to Joe, his eyes carrying gratitude without a trace of bitterness.
“Joe… Thank you.
You’re giving Barry what I can’t right now.
That means more than I can ever say.”
Joe inclined his head, voice steady.
“He is family, Henry.
Always will be.
You focus on clearing your name.
I’ll take care of the boy.”
Barry watched everything.
There was a glimmer of bittersweet relief in his chest.
He had managed to prevent his dad from going to prison, but he knew Henry would most likely leave Central City.
The memories of Nora—the guilt of not saving his wife—would only drown him if he stayed.
It’s probably for the best.
But I will make sure to clear his name, Barry thought, quiet as ever.
The judge’s gavel came down with a final thud.
“Custody of Bartholomew Allen will be transferred to Detective Joseph West.
Mr.
Allen will be granted one week before the arrangement becomes official, for the purposes of transition and farewell.”
The Allen house was heavy with silence, the kind that reminded them both of what was gone.
Henry tried to fill it—meals, small jokes, even cleaning the garage as though order could patch grief.
Barry, as always, stayed collected.
His face betrayed little.
He smiled when his father teased him, answered questions calmly, and spoke of school and science with a maturity that unsettled adults.
To a stranger, he seemed unshaken.
But Henry wasn’t a stranger.
He found Barry sitting alone on the back porch some nights, staring at the stars as though searching for something beyond them.
He’d lay a hand on his son’s shoulder.
Barry would nod, polite, but his eyes never left the sky.
It wasn’t until they went together to Nora’s grave that the façade cracked.
Barry knelt in front of the tombstone, his hands folded, jaw tight.
He said nothing at first—just sat there in silence, a boy who’d lost too much too soon.
Henry stood a step behind him, giving space, until Barry finally spoke.
“I’ve been telling myself I could hold it together,” Barry said, voice low, even.
“That if I didn’t cry, if I stayed calm, I could… I don’t know… fix it.
Keep you safe.
Make it all mean something.” His hand brushed the cold stone.
“But it doesn’t work like that, does it?”
Henry’s throat tightened, but he answered softly, “No, son.
It doesn’t.”
Barry turned then, and for the first time since that night, the composure shattered.
His face pressed into Henry’s chest, sobs breaking loose he’d been burying for days.
Henry wrapped his arms around him, strong, steady, not telling him to stop, not telling him to be brave.
Just holding him.
Father and son, grieving together, letting go of the walls they both had built.
When the storm passed, Barry pulled back, wiping his eyes quickly.
The sharp, calculating light returned to them, as if the boy was already stitching his mask back on.
“I’m fine,” he muttered.
Henry gave him a sad smile.
“No.
But you will be.”
That night, back at the house, Henry told Barry of his decision.
“I can’t stay here.
Not with these memories.
I’ll sell the house, I already submitted my resignation to the hospital, and maybe go stay with Jay for a while.
Your mother loved to travel around the world, now I am also thinking about going around the world.”
Barry already anticipated this moment, his eyes steady despite the redness around them.
Then he nodded once.
“Then you should go.
Don’t let this city bury you.”
Henry placed a hand on his son’s cheek, pride and heartbreak mingling in his gaze.
“You’re stronger than I’ll ever be, Barry.”
The final evening of that week, Barry drifted to sleep beside his father on the couch, exhaustion finally claiming him.
Henry didn’t move, didn’t dare.
He only watched, memorizing the boy’s face, and whispered to himself, “I’ll come back for you.
I promise.”
Even in sleep, Barry’s brow furrowed—like some part of him already knew the promise would take years to be kept.