Chapter 28
ALENA
I don't remember the crash.
Just flashes:
The Mustang's engine roaring too loud. Headlights cutting through rain-slick streets. Vodka burning my throat—the fourth drink in an hour, maybe the fifth, I'd stopped counting weeks ago. Tears blurring the windshield worse than the rain.
Then I saw it.
In the rearview mirror.
Not a shadow this time. A face.
Pale. Hollow-eyed. Grinning. Sitting in my back seat like it had every right to be there.
I screamed. Jerked the wheel. The Mustang fishtailed on wet pavement.
Then impact—metal screaming, glass exploding, the world flipping sideways, my head cracking against something hard. The taste of copper flooding my mouth.
Then nothing.
· · ·
I wake up to fluorescent lights and beeping.
Hospital smell—antiseptic sharp enough to cut through the fog in my brain, mixing with the underlying stench of despair and industrial cleaner.
My head throbs like someone took a hammer to it, each pulse sending lightning through my skull.
My right arm is in a cast, heavy and awkward.
Ribs wrapped tight in bandages that make breathing hurt—sharp, stabbing pain with every inhale.
Everything hurts. But I'm alive. Unfortunately.
The hospital sheet is scratchy against my skin, cold despite the blanket. I can taste blood still, metallic and wrong, coating the back of my throat. When I try to swallow, it feels like swallowing glass.
A nurse hovers, checking monitors with practiced efficiency. "Welcome back, Miss Lupus. You gave us quite a scare."
I try to speak. My throat feels like sandpaper, voice coming out as a croak. "What..."
"Car accident. You hit a wall in Covent Garden at approximately 2 AM. High blood alcohol—point-two-one. No other vehicles involved, thank God. You're very lucky-"
Point-two-one. Three times the legal limit. I'd been driving drunk. Again. Because I'd been doing that a lot lately—drinking until the world blurred, until the ghosts quieted, until I could pretend Drogo might walk through the door any second.
I have a problem. The thought hits me with the clarity that only comes from nearly dying. I have an actual, serious problem with alcohol.
"How's my car?" I ask, because I can't deal with that realization right now.
The nurse blinks. "I'm sorry?"
"My car. The Mustang. How bad is it?"
She exchanges a look with someone I can't see—probably noting head trauma, skewed priorities, possible dissociation. "I... I don't know about the vehicle. The doctor will—"
"Find out," I croak. "Please. Now."
She leaves, concern etched in professional lines across her forehead.
I close my eyes and see headlines already forming behind my eyelids:
HORROR QUEEN'S NIGHTMARE CRASH. BESTSELLING AUTHOR IN DRUNKEN WRECK. MYSTERY WOMAN REDUCED TO TABLOID FODDER.
They'd been circling for weeks now. Paparazzi camped outside my building like vultures.
Photos of me stumbling out of pubs at 3 AM, bottle in hand, robe flapping open because I'd forgotten trousers were a thing people wore.
Videos of me screaming at shadows in the street—screaming his name, probably—going viral across every platform.
"Alena Lupus Unravelling" had trended for three days straight.
Horror writer gone mad. The woman who built a career on mystery and darkness, now a public spectacle. Perfect fucking irony.
The enigma shattered. The mystique dead. Just another broken woman crying over a man who left.
The door bursts open. Lucy and Marcus. Lucy looks like she hasn't slept in days—hair wild, mascara smudged under red-rimmed eyes, still wearing yesterday's clothes like she'd run straight from wherever she'd been when she got the call.
Marcus is stone-faced, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping under his skin, but his eyes—those eyes that never lie—are terrified.
They rush to the bed.
"Jesus Christ, Alena," Lucy breathes, grabbing my good hand like I'm made of glass, like I might shatter if she grips too hard. Her fingers are trembling. "We thought—" Her voice breaks. She touches my cast gently, whispers, "You scared the shit out of us. We thought we lost you."
"I'm fine," I say flatly. "How's my car?"
Both of them freeze.
"What?" Lucy says.
"My car. The Mustang. How bad?"
Marcus and Lucy exchange a look. He shakes his head slowly, fist clenching and unclenching at his side—old pit fighter tell when he's trying not to explode.
"Alena—" Lucy starts gently.
"Just tell me."
Marcus sighs, the sound heavy. "Bad. Front end's destroyed. Windshield gone. Frame might be bent—"
"Might be?"
"They towed it to impound. Haven't assessed it yet."
My heart stops. The beeping on the monitor changes rhythm. "Which impound?"
"Babe—" Lucy tries.
"Which impound?"
Marcus holds up his hands. "Camden. But Alena, the cops said—"
"I need to see it."
"You can't even walk—"
"Then get me a wheelchair. I need to see my car."
Lucy sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle me. "The doctors want to keep you for observation. Concussion protocol. You can't just—"
"Discharge me."
"What?"
"Against medical advice. I don't care. Discharge me." I look at Marcus. "Please. I need to see her."
Marcus runs a hand over his face, something dark flickering in his eyes. "You're insane."
"I know. Will you help me or not?"
He looks at Lucy. She closes her eyes, clearly fighting an internal battle between friend-responsibility and friend-solidarity.
"Fuck," Lucy mutters. "Fine. But if you die, I'm killing you."
· · ·
Two hours later, I'm in a wheelchair being pushed out of the hospital by Marcus while Lucy argues with the discharge nurse about liability waivers and potential lawsuits if I collapse in the parking lot.
The paparazzi are waiting. Of course they are.
Flashes explode the second we hit the doors, white-hot and blinding even through my sunglasses.
Shouted questions assault from all sides—"Alena, how are you feeling?
" "Was it a suicide attempt?" "Is it true about Drogo Nightshade?
" "Are you getting treatment for your drinking? "
Marcus moves like a battering ram, wheelchair rolling fast, one massive hand up to block cameras. "Back off!" he barks, voice low and dangerous—the same tone he used in the pit right before he destroyed someone.
They don't back off. They never do.
Lucy catches up, gets in front of us, yelling at photographers to give us space, her voice shrill with protective fury. We make it to Marcus's car—a beat-up Land Rover that smells like gym socks and determination.
He lifts me into the passenger seat like I weigh nothing, muscles flexing under his shirt. Buckles me in with surprising gentleness for someone with hands that have broken bones for a living. Lucy folds the wheelchair, shoves it in the back with more force than necessary.
"This is a terrible idea," Lucy says from the back seat as Marcus starts the engine.
"Noted," I mutter.
Marcus pulls into traffic, driving with the controlled aggression of someone who's very good at violence and very careful not to use it unless necessary. "You really gonna rebuild that car?"
"If it's salvageable."
"And if it's not?"
"Then I'll mourn properly. With something other than vodka." The admission slips out before I can stop it.
Lucy leans forward between the seats. "You know this is mental, right? You just survived a crash and you're rushing to see the wreckage?"
"I need to know if she's savable," I say. "I need to know if something I broke can still be fixed."
The silence that follows is heavy with meaning.
Then Marcus, quiet: "You're not just talking about the car."
"No," I admit. "I'm not."
We drive to the impound lot in North London. Chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Guard shack. Rows of mangled vehicles waiting for insurance adjusters or scrappers—metal corpses lined up like bodies in a morgue.
The guard recognizes me—of course he does. Everyone does now. "Miss Lupus." He nods, trying not to stare at the cast, the bruises blooming purple across my face. "Wasn't expecting you so soon. You alright?"
"Where's my car?"
He points. "Row seven. But ma'am, it's—"
I'm already wheeling myself toward it before he finishes, good arm working the wheel, ignoring the protest from my ribs.
Marcus catches up, takes over pushing me faster. And then I see her.
My 1967 Shelby GT500. Black with white racing stripes. Or what's left of her.
The front end is crumpled like a tin can. Hood buckled upward. Windshield shattered into a spider-web of cracks, some sections completely gone. Driver's side door dented inward from impact. But—
"The frame," I whisper.
Marcus crouches beside the wheelchair. "What?"
"The frame. It's not twisted. Look—" I point with my good hand. "The rear axle's intact. Engine block might be okay. She hit front-on but the impact distributed across the crumple zones—the car did what it was designed to do. Protected me."
"You're analyzing crash physics right now?"
"She's savable, Marcus." I look up at him. "She's hurt, but she's savable."
Lucy catches up, out of breath. Stops when she sees the car. "Oh, babe…"
"I'm keeping her."
"Alena—"
"I'm keeping her. I'll pay whatever it costs. Full restoration. I don't care if it takes a year."
Marcus stands, walks around the car slowly, inspecting with the methodical attention of someone who understands machinery and violence in equal measure.
He crouches by the rear, runs his hand along the frame with surprising gentleness.
Checks the suspension, the axles, the undercarriage.
Pops the hood—or what's left of it—and peers at the engine.
He comes back. "You're right. Frame's solid. Engine's probably toast, but you can rebuild. It'll cost a fortune."
"I have a fortune."
"It'll take months."
"I have months. And I'll be sober for all of them."
Lucy's head snaps toward me. "What?"
"I was drunk," I say flatly. "Point-two-one. I've been drunk most nights for six months. I have a problem. And I'm done pretending I don't."
Lucy kneels beside me, takes my good hand. "Alena…"
"This car saved my life tonight. Literally. The crumple zones, the frame strength, the engineering—she protected me when I was too drunk and too broken to protect myself." I look at the Mustang. "She deserves better than to rot in a scrapyard. And I deserve better than to rot in a bottle."
Silence. Then Lucy's voice, thick with tears: "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay. We save the car. And we save you."
Marcus nods. "I know a guy. Best resto shop in London. Specializes in classic American muscle. He'll treat her right." He pauses. "And I know another guy. Runs a recovery program. Discreet. For people who can't afford public rehab."
I stare at the Mustang. At the damage. At the wreckage that can be fixed if I'm willing to do the work.
"Thank you," I whisper.
Marcus squeezes my shoulder—gentle, grounding. "We're family. We save what we can."
· · ·
That night, back at my flat—Lucy and Marcus refuse to let me stay alone—I sit on the couch wrapped in blankets while Lucy makes tea and Marcus orders takeaway.
The Mustang is being transported to the restoration shop tomorrow.
Full teardown. Complete rebuild. Six months minimum, the guy said. Maybe a year.
I can wait a year. I've waited six months for a man who's never coming back. I can wait a year for a car that will.
Lucy hands me tea. "Drink. Not vodka. Actual tea."
I drink. It tastes like hope and disappointment.
Marcus settles into the chair across from me, something coiled and dangerous in his posture. "The papers are still outside."
"Let them wait."
"They're having a field day. 'Mystery Author's Mysterious Meltdown.'" He shakes his head. "Vultures."
"Let them write what they want," I say. "I have my car back. That's what matters."
Lucy sits beside me, pulls the blanket tighter around my shoulders. "You're going to be okay, babe. I know it doesn't feel like it, but you will."
"The car will be okay," I correct. "That's enough for now."
Marcus leans forward, elbows on his knees, fists clenched. When he speaks, his voice is low—pit fighter low, the tone that means he's hunting. "We're still looking for him. Every contact I have. Every lead. Something doesn't add up about all this."
"Marcus—"
"I'm serious, Alena." His fist hits his knee once, controlled violence barely leashed.
"Drogo doesn't just vanish. Seventeen years I've known him.
He doesn't run. He doesn't abandon. And that note you got?
That 'found something better' bullshit?" He shakes his head.
"The handwriting was off. The phrasing was wrong. That wasn't him."
I stare into my tea. "Maybe you didn't know him as well as you thought."
"Maybe," Marcus says. "Or maybe something happened to him and we're sitting here mourning while he needs help."
The thought sits heavy in the room, thick and suffocating.
I don't want to hope. Hope is what's been killing me for six months. Hope is what drove me into bottles and through walls.
"The car," I say quietly. "Focus on the car. That I can fix."
Lucy squeezes my hand. "Okay. We focus on the car."
Marcus nods. "And I keep looking. Quietly. Just in case."
I don't argue. Because part of me—the part that's not completely broken—still wants him found. Even if he doesn't want to be.
After they leave—Lucy reluctantly, Marcus with one last warning look—I sit alone in the quiet flat. The shadows pool in the corners like they always do. But they're different now. Quieter. Almost… waiting.
For six months they've been changing. Less demanding. More questioning. Like they're as confused as I am about what happened.
The face I saw in the rearview mirror wasn't trying to hurt me. It was trying to show me something.
I stand. Walk to the bathroom. Look in the mirror.
The woman staring back is battered. Bruised. Broken. But her eyes are clearer than they've been in months.
"If Marcus is right," I whisper to my reflection, to the shadows listening in the corners, "if something happened to him…"
The shadows shift. Closer. Attentive.
"Then I'm going to find out what."
Not hope. Not anymore.
Planning. I turn my eyes to the woman behind me. Maybe she can help.