Chapter 10 Valentina #2
The room tilts for a heartbeat, and suddenly it’s not Marcus on that ground anymore. The photograph slides sideways in my vision, the edges warping, and another memory slams into place with brutal force.
A different night. A different body on the ground. The same cold concrete pressing up under my shoes. The same thick, metallic gleam of blood spreading out like a dark halo under someone’s head. My own breath too loud, too ragged, too guilt-stained.
You did this.
You brought this.
This is on you.
My fingers go numb around the edge of the table. The sound in the room muffles like someone stuffed cotton in my ears. George is saying something, Johnson is saying something, Jackie’s pen drops, Zay’s chair creaks, but it all turns into white noise.
The photo blurs. The edges of the room blur. My vision tunnels until all I can see is red on concrete and the ghost of a man’s eyes staring up at me, accusing and empty.
My chest squeezes tight. No air. No space.
Not here. Not now. Not in front of them.
I try to inhale and my body refuses. My fingers curl into my palms so hard my nails bite skin, but it doesn’t ground me. I hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, too fast, too loud, out of sync with everything else.
A hand touches my knee under the table, warm and firm.
“Valentina,” Asher says quietly.
I don’t look at him. I can’t. My eyes are glued to the photo, which is no longer just a photo but a door someone kicked open in my head.
The hand on my knee squeezes, enough pressure to cut through the static. “Hey. Look at me.”
His voice isn’t the one he uses with the others. It’s lower, softer, anchored. The tone of someone talking to a spooked animal, someone trying not to startle it deeper into the woods.
I drag my gaze up. It feels like lifting a boulder with my eyeballs.
Asher’s face fills my vision. His eyes are sharp, worried, steady. He sees too much, always has.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, his thumb moving in slow circles just above my kneecap. “In through your nose.”
I try. The first inhale shudders, breaks halfway, but at least it’s something.
“Good,” he says. “Now hold it. One… two… three… let it out slow.”
I follow his count. In. Hold. Out. The room is still too bright, too sharp around the edges, but the oxygen helps scrape some of the panic off my ribs.
“Nobody talk,” he says without looking away from me.
The table falls silent.
“Name five things you can see,” Asher murmurs. “Right now. Out loud.”
My brain scrambles, but the request gives it something to cling to. “Table,” I manage, voice rough. “Photo. Your… hands. Jackie’s pen. The… the crack in the ceiling.”
He nods, relief flickering in his eyes. “Good. Four things you can feel.”
“My skirt,” I say, focusing on the leather biting into my thighs. “The chair. Your hand. My… heartbeat.”
“Three things you can hear.”
“The music,” I whisper. “The fridge in the hall. Your voice.”
His mouth softens, just barely. “Two things you can smell.”
I almost laugh, because the answer is just the house and the room and the faint scent of cleaning chemicals on the table, but the act of searching for it helps drag me a little deeper back into my body.
“One thing you know is true,” he finishes.
I swallow. “I’m… here,” I say. “I’m at the table. I’m okay.”
He studies my face for a long second, then nods slowly. “Yeah,” he says. “You are.”
The room seeps back into focus. Jackie’s wide eyes, Zay’s drawn brows, George’s quiet concern, even Johnson’s wary shift in his chair. The photo is still there, but it’s just ink and paper again, not a portal.
I straighten slowly, shoulders shaking.
“Sorry,” I say. “The picture just—”
“What did it hit?” Asher asks gently. “What did it remind you of?”
The flash of the memory presses behind my eyes again, sharp enough to hurt. The man on the ground. The way blood creeps along the cracks in concrete like it’s trying to escape.
My tongue feels thick.
“It’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to—”
“It was the photo,” I cut in, grasping at the easiest lie within reach. “Just… seeing him like that. Dead. It caught me off guard.”
Asher’s eyes search my face, like he’s flipping through pages of a book he knows has whole chapters torn out. He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “I get that.”
George clears his throat. “We can table this for now,” he offers. “Come back to Marcus when we’re less… raw.”
“No,” I say quickly, though my hands are still trembling. “We keep going. We need answers. We’re not letting this sit forever.”
Zay looks at me with a softness that makes my chest ache. “You sure, V?”
I nod, even if sure is a generous word. “We just… don’t start by assuming the worst of the wrong people. We follow facts. We don’t treat speculation like a verdict.”
Johnson opens his mouth like he wants to argue, then closes it again when Asher turns his head slowly in his direction, an expression carved from stone.
“Fine,” Johnson mutters. “We follow facts.”
My pulse finally settles into something close to normal. The panic slinks back into the shadows, not gone, but quieter.
I adjust my grip on the table’s edge and force myself to meet their eyes one by one.
“I’m fine,” I say.
Asher’s hand stays on my knee for a moment longer than necessary before he pulls it back.
“We’ll make sure you are,” he murmurs.