Chapter 330: Farewell
The landlord's daughter hadn't just relapsed—she had dragged Pinkman back down with her.
Pinkman's sudden decision to quit, to demand all his money back, and to leave the United States… none of that felt like his own idea.
Frank had spent more time with Pinkman than with his own kids. In many ways, Pinkman was like half a son to him.
He knew him.
Kind. Soft-hearted. Easily influenced. Rarely decisive. Most of the time, he followed whoever stood closest to him.
Quitting everything overnight and planning to leave the country?
That wasn't Pinkman's style.
"It has nothing to do with Jane," Pinkman insisted. "This is my decision."
The denial only made it more obvious.
Frank opened his mouth to argue—then stopped. The words dissolved into a heavy sigh.
"You remember what I said when we first partnered up," Frank said quietly. "If you ever relapsed, you were out."
Pinkman lowered his gaze.
"And now you're the one saying you want to leave. Fine. I agree."
"…Okay." Pinkman nodded, his expression conflicted.
"I'll explain things to Walter," Frank continued. "You don't need to worry about him. As for the money you've got tied up with me—"
"No need to go to the bank," Pinkman cut in. "The payment from this shipment should cover my full share. Maybe I'm short a few hundred thousand, but forget it. Saves the hassle."
He had clearly thought this through.
If Frank tried to withhold his money as leverage, he had planned to offset it with the shipment funds.
Frank looked at him for a long moment.
"You think I'd use money to trap you?"
Pinkman didn't answer.
Frank gave a dry laugh.
"All your earnings are yours. Every cent that's yours, you'll get."
There was a pause.
Then Frank added, more softly:
"You know… I once said that if you ever wanted out, I'd let you walk. I meant it."
Pinkman's throat tightened slightly.
"For what it's worth," Frank said, "I don't think you're leaving because you want to be a 'good person.' I think you're running."
Pinkman's jaw clenched.
"But that's your choice," Frank went on. "You're not a kid anymore."
Silence filled the room.
"So… that's it?" Pinkman finally asked.
"That's it."
No shouting.
No threats.
No dramatic fallout.
Just a quiet ending.
Pinkman stood up.
"Take care of yourself," he muttered.
Frank nodded. "You too."
Pinkman hesitated at the door for half a second—like he might say something more.
Frank remained seated.
For a long time, he didn't move.
Losing a business partner was one thing.
Losing someone who felt like family was another.
He had prepared himself for dying.
He hadn't prepared himself for being left behind first.
More precisely, it wasn't Pinkman who had done the math—it was the landlord's daughter.
The payment from this shipment was almost equal to the amount Pinkman had left with Frank to be laundered.
Before he came over, she had rehearsed everything with him.
If Frank refused to cooperate—what to say.
If Frank tried to detain him—what to do.
If Frank threatened him—how to respond.
She had prepared contingency after contingency, drilled lines into him like a script.
But none of it was needed.
Frank had been… unexpectedly reasonable.
"All right," Pinkman said stiffly. "About Blue Angel—I won't tell anyone how it's made. I won't leak the formula. And I won't cook it anywhere else."
"So… that's it. I'm leaving."
He stood abruptly, eager to go—eager not to stay a second longer.
The money was his.
The decision to quit was his.
He was free.
So why couldn't he look Frank in the eye?
Something twisted uncomfortably in his chest. He just wanted to get out—escape the room, escape the conversation, escape the feeling.
Frank spoke before he reached the door.
"I'm dying."
Pinkman stopped.
"You were there. You saw the hospital reports. It's been almost a month, and I still haven't found a matching liver. I could crash any day."
A pause.
"I want to control you. I want you to do better. But I can't."
"And if you walk out now… we might never see each other again."
"I'm not asking you to attend my funeral or anything like that."
Frank exhaled.
"I'm just saying—drugs aren't your friend. Quit while you still can."
Pinkman swallowed.
"We will," he said quietly, no longer pretending. "Once I take the money back, Jane and I are done for good. Not for anyone else. For ourselves. We deserve a better life."
"If that's true," Frank said, "then good. You do deserve better."
"Leaving this. Leaving the States. Starting over somewhere else… that's not a bad thing."
Silence settled between them.
Both clearly had more to say.
Neither could find the words.
"I'm going," Pinkman said at last.
He opened the door.
Frank hesitated, then added:
"One last thing. Jane might not be right for you. Think about it carefully."
Pinkman didn't turn around.
"I love her," he said. "Take care of yourself."
And he left.
---
Frank stood at the window, watching Pinkman get into his car and drive away.
He returned to the couch and lit a cigarette.
For a long time, he just sat there.
"…Mom really was something," he murmured eventually.
He had always thought the landlord's daughter seemed harmless enough.
But Grandma had taken one look and immediately said something was off.
She had warned him.
He hadn't listened.
If he'd known it would end like this—if he'd known how things would spiral—he would have moved Pinkman out the moment the relationship turned sour. Cut it off early. Prevented everything.
But there is no "if only."
What's done is done.
She had spent nearly eighty years scraping by at the bottom of society. She'd seen every type of person imaginable. Survived chaos, prison, and worse.
Her judgment was sharp.
Frank knew he couldn't match that kind of lived experience.
And she hadn't only warned him about the landlord's daughter.
She had also said things about Walter.
---
Meanwhile, Pinkman pressed harder on the gas.
He didn't know why.
His chest felt tight. His thoughts tangled. He was thinking about everything and nothing at the same time.
The speedometer crept higher.
Then—
Sirens.
Red and blue lights flashed in his rearview mirror.
The police were signaling him to pull over.
Pinkman jolted back to reality.
He was speeding. Badly.
"Shit…"
His eyes darted to the passenger seat. Then the back seat.
Two large duffel bags.
Stuffed full of cash.
The entire shipment payment.
He had gone straight from the deal to Frank's house. He hadn't had time to stash the money.
If the police searched the car—
How was he supposed to explain hundreds of thousands in cash?
Cold sweat broke across his forehead.
His mind raced.
Run?
No. They'd already locked onto him. Speeding up would only confirm suspicion. He didn't know Chicago well enough to lose them. They had a hundred ways to box him in.
That would only make things worse.
Fight back?
Pull a gun. Shoot the officers. Buy time to escape?
…