Chapter 33
Thirty Three
Aria
The cold of the rooftop gravel bites into the soles of my bare feet, a sharp, grounding pain in a world that has dissolved into madness.
I creep to the edge, my body low, and peer over.
The street below is a distant, empty river of asphalt.
I am free. For now. The words are a fragile prayer in my mind, a flickering candle flame in a hurricane.
The wind whips around the corner of the building, slicing through the thin fabric of my clothes.
A violent shiver wracks my body, a tremor that starts in my bones and works its way out.
It’s not just the cold, it’s the shock. The psychological whiplash of being in a cage one moment and perched on the edge of the world the next.
My first instinct is to scream. To run down to the street and flag down the first car, to find a police officer and sob out the whole insane story.
I play the scene in my head; I see myself, wild-eyed and barefoot, babbling about a man named Cassian Kostas.
I see the officer’s patient, skeptical face.
Then I see Cassian arriving, calm and composed, perhaps with a faint, concerned frown.
He would explain that I’m his girlfriend, that I’ve been struggling since my sister’s death, that I have episodes.
He would be plausible. He would be powerful.
And I would look like a hysterical, grieving woman who has lost her mind. They would hand me right back to him.
The thought is a bucket of ice water, extinguishing the last embers of that naive hope.
I can’t trust the system. The system is for people like him, people with money and names that are carved into buildings.
The system protects its own. No. I can’t just run.
I have to fight. And to fight, I need a weapon.
My mind flashes back to the loft. To the cold, minimalist perfection of it.
A man that controlled, that obsessive, has secrets.
He has a weakness, and I have a sickening feeling that it's hidden somewhere inside that concrete fortress. I have to get back in. Not as a prisoner, but as a thief. But that’s a battle for another day.
Tonight is about survival. I need a base.
A place to think. A place he can't find.
My old apartment building looms below me. My home. The thought is a dull ache, but it also holds the key.
With a final, deep breath of the cold, clean air of freedom, I push myself off the ledge and move toward the roof access door. Back down the stairs, my heart pounds a steady, heavy rhythm.
The air in the hallway is stale, thick with the ghosts of my old life.
A faded welcome mat, slightly askew. A potted plant, long dead, sits by my neighbor's door.
It's all so painfully normal. I reach up and run my fingers along the top of the doorframe.
My fingers close around the cold, familiar shape of a single key.
My emergency spare. A relic from a time when my emergencies involved locking myself out after grocery shopping.
The key slides into the lock. The soft click of the tumbler turning is a gunshot in the silence. I push the door open and step inside.
The air is thick, unmoving, and smells of dust and forgotten things.
A thin layer of dust coats every surface, sparkling in the sliver of moonlight cutting through the grimy window.
It’s a museum of the life that was stolen from me.
My gaze falls on the kitchen counter, on the chipped yellow mug Jade gave me for my last birthday.
“For all the tea and sympathy,” she’d said, her laugh echoing in the small space.
I reach out a trembling hand and touch the cool ceramic.
For a moment the grief is so absolute, so suffocating that I fear it will pin me here.
I can’t let it. I am no longer the girl who mourns, I am the woman who avenges.
I force myself to move, my actions swift and purposeful.
I am a soldier on a mission, raiding my own past for supplies.
I go straight to my bedroom closet. Behind a stack of old sketchbooks on the top shelf is a small shoebox.
Inside is my emergency stash: seven hundred dollars in cash and a cheap, pre-paid burner phone I bought in a fit of paranoia after Jade died.
A device I charged once and never used. It felt silly at the time. Now, it feels like a prophecy.
I pocket the cash and the phone. My eyes scan the room, looking for anything else.
My gaze lands on my jewelry box. Inside, beneath a tangle of cheap necklaces, is the key.
Not to a door, but to a place. A small, simple key to the padlock on the door of my old art studio, a rented ten-by-ten room in a warehouse downtown that I haven't been to in months.
A place filled with my art, my supplies, my soul. A place he knows nothing about.
I grab the key. Cash, phone, key. The holy trinity of my new war.
I don’t linger. To stay here is to drown in what I’ve lost. I walk back to the front door, pausing for a moment to look back at the dusty tomb of my former life. I am a ghost in my own home, but ghosts can haunt.
I step back into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind me. I don’t lock it. There’s nothing left for anyone to steal.
The street is a shock to the system. The city is a beast, breathing exhaust and noise.
I am a tiny, vulnerable creature in its belly.
I pull my arms around myself and start to run, keeping to the shadows of the buildings.
Every pair of headlights that sweeps past sends a jolt of pure terror through me.
I see the distinctive, aggressive front of a Dodge Challenger in every car.
My bare feet ache, the cold pavement littered with grit and glass I can’t see in the dark.
A car slows as it approaches me, its engine a low rumble.
I duck into a dark, reeking alley, pressing myself against the cold brick, my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest. I hold my breath as the car crawls past. It’s just a taxi.
I let out the breath in a shaky sigh, my legs weak with relief.
The journey takes nearly an hour on foot.
By the time I reach the warehouse district I am exhausted, filthy, and numb with cold.
I find the right building, a hulking brick monolith, and slip through a side door.
I navigate the maze of silent corridors to a small, unassuming door with a rusty hasp. My studio.
My fingers are clumsy with cold, but I manage to get the key into the padlock. It opens with a satisfying clank. I slide the bolt, push the door open, and step inside, shutting and bolting it behind me.
The air is cool and smells of turpentine, linseed oil, and canvas. It’s the smell of creation. The smell of me. Canvases in various states of completion are shrouded in white cloths, looking like a congregation of ghosts in the darkness. My easel stands in the center of the room, a lonely sentinel.
I slide down the rough wood of the door until I’m sitting on the floor. I am safe. For now. I am a ghost, in a room full of them. And here, in the dark, surrounded by the echoes of my own soul, I finally allow a single, ragged sob to tear itself from my throat. The war has just begun.