Chapter 30
ALENA
Eighteen months.
One year and six months since he walked out of my life and never looked back.
I stand in front of the house—my house now, the papers signed this morning—and try to feel something other than numb.
It's nice. Suburbs. Quiet street. Red brick, white trim, a garden that someone else will have to maintain because I kill plants just by looking at them. Nothing like the Kensington flat with its floor-to-ceiling windows and ghosts in every corner. Nothing designed by him.
That was the requirement. New architect. New blueprints. New everything.
The old flat had his fingerprints all over it—the exposed brick he'd insisted on, the custom shelving, the balcony where we'd shared cigarettes and secrets. I couldn't breathe there anymore. Couldn't write. Couldn't exist without seeing him in every corner.
So I sold it. Let some tech bro overpay for the privilege of living in Drogo Solberg's design work.
Fuck that flat. Fuck those memories.
This house is mine. Clean slate. Fresh start.
Except for the shadow in the corner of my vision.
I catch it from the periphery—dark shape, wrong angles, smiling.
"Fuck," I whisper.
They followed me. Of course they did. Eighteen months sober-ish, six stints in various facilities, three different therapists, two actual exorcists (don't ask), and the spirits are still here. Still watching. Still waiting.
The realtor—perky, blonde, aggressively enthusiastic—bounces up beside me with a clipboard. "So? What do you think? Perfect, right? Fresh start, new neighborhood, excellent schools if you're planning—"
"I'm not," I cut her off.
She falters. Recovers. "Of course! Just you then. Even better. Low maintenance. Quiet. Perfect for writing."
Lucy appears on my other side, grinning like she's personally responsible for saving my life. Which, to be fair, she kind of is.
"New start, babe," she says, squeezing my arm. "Clean slate. No more ghosts."
I glance at the shadow still lingering near the garden gate.
"Sure," I lie.
· · ·
Inside, the house smells like paint and possibility—too clean, too sharp, the chemical scent burning my nostrils after years of old wood and dust and whiskey-soaked furniture.
My footsteps echo in the empty rooms, the sound bouncing off walls that haven't learned my rhythms yet.
The light hits differently here—brighter, harsher, no shadows except the ones that followed me.
My assistant—Clara, efficient to the point of terrifying—has already moved everything in. Boxes unpacked. Books on shelves. Furniture arranged. Even the kitchen stocked. I didn't have to lift a finger. Money does that. Buys you efficiency. Buys you distance from your own life.
The last book I wrote—Through the Veil—was drafted entirely in a psych ward.
Yes, depression had hit that hard. Scribbled on hospital paper between therapy sessions and medication checks.
My editor called it "raw" and "devastatingly honest." The public called it a masterpiece.
Biggest seller yet. Film rights sold before it even hit shelves.
Now in post-production with some A-list director who keeps sending me emails I don't read.
Turns out public breakdowns are good for book sales. Who knew?
I walk through the house. Living room. Kitchen. Stairs to the bedrooms. Everything is perfect. Everything is wrong. The silence is too loud after years of whispers. The walls too white. The air too still.
Lucy follows me into the kitchen. "You okay?"
"Fine."
"Liar."
I open the fridge. Grab a beer. Twist the cap off.
Lucy's face does that thing—worry mixed with disappointment mixed with exhaustion.
"Babe…"
"What?" I take a long drink. "I'm allowed one beer in my own house."
"You said—"
"I said sober-ish." I lean against the counter. "One beer isn't a relapse, Luce. It's a Tuesday."
She doesn't look convinced.
I sigh. Set the beer down. "I have shooting practice at four. Want to come?"
"The gun range again?"
"Three times a week. Doctor's orders." I shrug. "Well. Therapist's suggestion. Something about channeling anger productively. Turns out I'm really good at it."
Lucy raises an eyebrow. "How good?"
"Qualified for competitive shooting last month. Didn't compete. But I could."
"Jesus, Alena."
"What? It's therapeutic. And it's legal." I pause. "Also, I'm terrifying at it. Marcus says I shoot like I'm trying to kill the target's entire bloodline."
She laughs despite herself. "That's… actually kind of hot."
"I know." I pick up the beer again. "After shooting, I have an appointment with the mechanic. To look at the Mustang. Want to come to that?"
Her face softens immediately. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. She's been in the garage for eighteen months. Time to see if she's salvageable or if I'm just throwing money at a corpse."
Lucy hugs me—sudden, fierce. "I'm proud of you."
"For what?"
"For still being here."
I hug her back. Tight. Because she's right. Eighteen months ago, I wasn't sure I'd make it this far.
· · ·
The garage is attached to the house—two-car, which is ridiculous because I only have one. Well. Half of one. I unlock the side door. Hit the lights. And there she is.
My 1967 Shelby GT500.
Still black under the dust and tarp. Still mine.
The restoration shop delivered her last week. "As far as we could go without the owner's input," the guy said. "Engine's rebuilt. Frame's solid. But the paint, the interior, the final touches—that's personal. You need to decide."
I pull the tarp off slowly. The front end is pristine now—no crumpled metal, no shattered glass. Hood smooth. Headlights new. The frame straightened, reinforced. But she's unpainted. Primer gray. Waiting. The interior is gutted—seats removed, dashboard bare. Bones of a car that used to be whole.
I run my hand along the hood. Cold metal.
Potential. The shadow in the corner of the garage shifts—not threatening, not aggressive.
It moves closer, almost curious, following the path of my hand along the primer.
I feel the temperature drop slightly, but it's not the bone-deep cold from before. Just… presence. Watching. Waiting.
I don't pull my hand away.
Lucy stands beside me. "She's beautiful."
"She's a shell."
"She's yours."
I look at the car. At what's left. At what could be.
The mechanic said six more months if I want her perfect—original paint, custom interior, every detail exactly how it was.
But that car belonged to a different woman.
The one who drove drunk into walls. The one who thought love was worth dying for.
"The mechanic said six more months if I want her perfect," I say. "Original paint. Custom interior. Every detail exactly how it was."
"Do you?"
I think about it. About the woman who drove this car eighteen months ago—drunk, crying, broken. About the crash that should have killed her. About starting over.
"No," I say finally. "Not exactly how it was."
Lucy raises an eyebrow. "Different paint?"
"Different everything." I walk around the car slowly, the shadow following at a distance. "New paint. New interior. Same bones, but… evolved. Better. Stronger."
"Like you."
I almost smile. "Like I'm trying to be."
The shadow in the corner of the garage doesn't follow us out. It stays. Watching over the car like a guard dog. I glance back once before closing the door.
"Let's go see the mechanic," I say. "Figure out what comes next."
Lucy grabs her keys. "You driving?"
I laugh—short, sharp. "Not yet. But soon."
We head out, leaving the Mustang in the garage. Waiting. Like me.
The shadow in the corner watches. Not moving. Not whispering. Just waiting.
Like me.
For the day we're both whole again.
Or for the day we burn everything down trying.