Chapter 30 #2
I wanted to say no. I wanted to say burn it.
I wanted to say Katherine had worn it to dinner the winter before she died and told me the colour washed me out, but gave it to me anyway because my closet needed more neutrals and less desperation.
Instead, I took the blouse from her and folded it myself.
“Yes.”
Anya’s face softened, but she did not argue.
We finished packing. My whole life fit into three suitcases, two tote bags, one laptop case, a carrier Miss Astoria refused to enter, and more cosmetics than I cared to count.
Sophia looked at the bags. “This is too little.”
“It is plenty.”
“No.” Her voice stayed soft. “For a whole life, it is too little.”
I did not know how to answer because my life had always been too little until someone else added to it—Katherine’s clothes, Thad’s plans, Vincent’s locks.
Vincent carried the heaviest suitcase down the hall without making a show of it.
The hallway stayed quiet except for one door that cracked open, then shut again.
News would spread by nightfall. The girl with the suspiciously dead best friend, the father who called her the wrong name, the professor, the rich ex, the secret.
I kept my chin up and my coat buttoned. Céline Martin walked beside her friends.
Selena Martin carried Katherine’s blouse in a suitcase.
The girl who had let her best friend fall to her death carried Miss Astoria’s carrier because the cat screamed if anyone else held her.
At the curb, Vincent’s car waited, black and quiet. Anya stared at it.
“This car looks like it abducts people very politely.”
Vincent opened the trunk. “Only when necessary.”
I glared at him.
Anya pointed at me. “See? That is exactly why I hate him.”
Sophia touched my elbow. “Ride with us.”
“I should go with Miss Astoria.”
“The cat can ride with us too.”
Miss Astoria screamed from inside the carrier, agreeing or complaining. It was hard to tell.
Vincent looked at me and said nothing.
If he had asked me to ride with him, I would have refused. Because he stayed quiet, the choice stayed mine, and choices had always been one of my weak spots.
“I will ride with Sophia and Anya,” I said.
His face did not change. “All right.”
That irritated me more than anything. I wanted something to push against, something to prove this was still a fight and I was willingly making these choices. Instead, he shut the trunk and drove ahead.
I sat in Sophia’s passenger seat with the carrier on my lap and Anya in the back, threatening to livestream my location every hour. The drive took twelve minutes. I counted them because counting kept my mind from sliding back to everything else.
Sophia parked behind Vincent in the private garage under his building. The concrete smelled cold and clean. Even the garage felt expensive.
The elevator opened straight into a small vestibule outside his apartment. Anya stepped out first, looked around, and said, “I hate this.”
I laughed.
Vincent unlocked the door and stepped aside so I could walk in first. The apartment looked exactly as it had the night before—dark floors, tall windows, rain sliding down the glass.
Sophia moved slowly, taking everything in with her eyes. Anya did not bother with subtlety. She checked the kitchen, the hallway, the bathroom, the windows, the locks, then looked at Vincent like she hoped to find a secret trapdoor just so she could call him out on it.
“Guest room,” I said.
Vincent led us down the hall. The room he showed me was larger than I expected, with a wide bed covered in black bedding, a desk by the window, empty bookshelves, a wardrobe, a private bathroom, and a clear view of the cliffs through the rain.
The air smelled faintly of cedar and fresh linen, prepared too fast to feel accidental.
I turned to him. “You already had this ready.
“Yes.”
Sophia’s gaze sharpened.
Anya muttered, “Serial killer behaviour.”
Vincent ignored her. “The lock is on the inside.”
He opened the door wider so we could see. It was a real lock, solid and simple. I stepped closer and turned it myself. The click felt smooth. Something tight in my chest eased a fraction.
Miss Astoria screamed until I set the carrier down and opened it. She walked out with offended dignity, sniffed the floor, then jumped straight onto the windowsill and settled there like she had been promised that exact view in a past life.
Vincent looked at me.
I refused to meet his eyes.
Anya pointed at the cat. “Traitor.”
“She likes windows,” Vincent said.
“I know,” I snapped.
Sophia checked the bathroom while Anya opened the wardrobe and stared at the empty shelves.
“This room is fine,” Sophia said at last.
The word felt wrong here. Nothing about any of this was fine, but I nodded anyway.
We unpacked only what I needed for tonight—pajamas, toiletries, laptop. I slid the medication into the bedside drawer. I felt Vincent’s attention sharpen from the hallway when the bottle clicked against wood. I closed the drawer and looked at him.
“Stay out of it.”
“I agreed.”
“You agree to a lot of things right before you ignore them.”
His mouth curved just a little. “Noted.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
Anya stepped between us.
“Great. Boundaries set. I love to see it. I still hate the location.”
Sophia zipped the last empty bag and turned to me. “We will come by tomorrow.”
“I have class.”
“After class.”
“I will be fine.”
Sophia’s face stayed the same. “We will come tomorrow.”
There was no point arguing with that tone. I nodded.
Anya hugged me first, hard enough that Miss Astoria made a disgusted noise from the windowsill. “If he murders you, haunt me with every detail,” she whispered.
I laughed into her shoulder. “I will.”
“I am serious.”
“I know.”
Sophia hugged me next, longer and quieter.
“You can still come back,” she said against my hair.
The words pressed against something raw.
“I know,” I whispered.
She pulled back and studied my face. “Do you?”
I nodded once.
She did not look convinced. Neither was I.
When they left the apartment felt instantly different.
Vincent closed the door and locked it. I heard the click from down the hall.
Miss Astoria turned her head from the window.
I stood in the middle of the guest room with my coat still on, aware of every single thing around me.
He stood in the doorway.
“You should eat,” he said.
I laughed softly. “Is that your new plan? Domestic concern?”
“You barely ate today.”
“You do not know that.”
His silence told me he had guessed correctly.
I took off my coat and hung it over the chair.
“I am not hungry.”
“I ordered soup. It seemed unlikely you would want anything more elaborate.”
I looked at him then. He stood in the doorway of the room he had prepared as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
“You brought my father back into my life.”
“Yes. I did not expect him to get greedy. I thought paying him for one phone call would be enough.”
The words still hurt. I wondered how long that sting would last—probably longer than he guessed and less than he deserved.
“And now you are feeding me soup.”
“Yes, I want to take care of you.”
“Do you hear yourself?”
“Constantly.”
I hated that I smiled, small and unwilling.
“Don’t,” I said.
“Don’t what?”
“Look pleased with yourself.”
“I am pleased. It still worked out for me the way I thought it would.”
“I am not here because I forgive you.”
“I know.”
“I am here because you made every other choice worse.”
His gaze held mine. “Yes. I know. You have to admit, though, that I was clear about my intentions from the beginning.”
The honesty should have made me angrier.
Instead, exhaustion rolled through me so fast I had to sit on the edge of the bed.
Miss Astoria jumped down from the windowsill and climbed into my lap. I slid my fingers into her fur.
Vincent stayed in the doorway.
“Your room locks from the inside,” he said. “Use it.”
“I will.”
“If you need anything—”
“I won’t.”
“Then if Miss Astoria needs anything.”
I looked down at the cat. She stared back at me like she had a long list of urgent and expensive demands.
Despite everything, a laugh slipped out of me.
Vincent heard it, and the room felt almost easy.
Then the memory of Katherine’s hand came back—the rain, the ledge, the choice. I wondered if this was what I deserved, not some grand punishment but a life where every safe place still had teeth because I had once mistaken survival for the right to take whatever I needed.
Vincent’s voice came quieter. “I will be in the living room.”
He left before I could answer.
I listened to his footsteps move down the hall.
Then I stood, walked to the door, and turned the lock.
The click sounded small and solid.
I leaned my forehead against the wood and closed my eyes.
Outside the room, Vincent moved through his apartment, giving me the space I had asked for. Inside, Miss Astoria started scratching at the rug.
“Stop it, Miss Astoria,” I said without turning.
She stopped.
Then she did it again.
I laughed once, tired and unwilling, and wiped my face before the tears could start.
The drawer held my medication. The suitcase held Katherine’s blouse.
The apartment held Vincent. The city held Daniel.
And somewhere underneath every name I had taken or answered to, Selena Martin was still there—still afraid, still reaching for the next thing that might keep her from falling next.