Chapter 35
ARDEN
It’s been four days since Locke got me out of that hotel room. Three since I left my bed at all. I should be sleeping. Eating. Grateful I walked out without a scratch. But I can’t stop watching it.
The video.
Tiernan sent me a folder full of Luke’s cloud files the day after we left the hotel. I asked him to. I thought it might make his death easier to justify. Maybe it has, but at what cost?
Countless hours of his life are now sitting on my phone like a loaded gun. I should have deleted it all.
Instead, I opened every single file.
Some I couldn’t finish. Couldn’t stomach. Still can’t.
Others, I wish I’d left alone.
All of them are the same: Luke’s voice. Luke’s hands. Girls who can’t stand upright. Girls with their eyes half-closed and voices too weak to speak… or scream. Girls who should be in school, not in some rich asshole’s hotel room.
He keeps the camera rolling, laughing while he takes advantage of them. And while he hurts them. He treats it like a joke. Like this is his favorite form of entertainment.
He was never going to stop.
And then I found the videos of Jaxon. An entire folder full of memories. Most are harmless, the pair on vacation, or doing silly skits and telling jokes together like best friends do. But there’s one Luke kept separate. One that was clearly meant for a different purpose.
It’s Jaxon, but his hair is longer, hanging down in his face in a way he never wears it anymore. He’s sitting on what looks like a hotel bed, judging by the blankets still covering it. The camera is recording from a few feet away, and the footage is shaky, so someone else was clearly holding it.
He looks toward the camera, and his eyes are completely glazed over. He’s swaying, even as he sits there. His shirt was already off when the video started, but he’s still wearing black leather pants and combat boots.
Then, someone else stumbles into the frame.
A girl who looks like she can’t be a day over sixteen.
She’s still clothed, wearing a simple yellow sundress.
Her hair is sticking to her cheek like she’s been sweating.
Something about her outfit and the way she nearly falls as she takes a step towards the bed makes her look so innocent.
That’s the worst part. She looks like me. The ‘me’ that existed before I learned how to bite back. Before I figured out how to turn my body into a trap instead of falling into someone else’s.
Jaxon looks at her, but it’s not recognition in his gaze; it’s confusion.
He blinks slowly and rubs his eyes as if he’s trying to focus on what’s in front of him.
She sinks down on the edge of the bed beside him, her head dropping against his shoulder almost instantly, as though her body can’t manage to hold it up anymore.
Neither of them speaks. Neither of them even moves. It’s like they’re frozen.
From behind the camera, Luke’s laugh cuts through the silence, sharp, low, and gloating. A familiar sound that makes my skin crawl and stomach turn all over again.
He coaxes in a mocking drawl from behind the lens, “She’s cute, Jax. Don’t pass out yet, you’ll miss all the fun.” But neither of them responds.
The girl lifts her head from Jaxon’s shoulder slowly, like it takes everything she has just to move. Luke zooms in, the frame tilting sickeningly close to her face.
“Hey sweetie,” his voice croons, too soft, too sweet, like poison coated in sugar, “why don’t you give him a kiss?”
My stomach drops as the realization sets in. I’ve seen her.
Not like this, glassy-eyed and hollow. But just last week, on stage at Jaxon’s show. A slightly older version, screaming every lyric until her throat went raw. The same girl who gazed at Jaxon like he hung the stars himself. And left with him.
But here she was, younger, drugged, and propped against Jaxon’s shoulder like a lifeless doll. Reduced to nothing but a pawn in Luke’s game. The video lingers on her face for a moment before panning over to Jaxon’s; his eyes fall shut as he collapses onto the mattress. Then it cuts off.
I can’t stop hitting play, rewinding, zooming in. Inspecting every inch of the footage, attempting to fill in the blanks. Where were they? When was this? How does he know her? And why did it feel like they shared something real on stage?
The room tilts.
My fingers go numb.
And when I blink, I’m not in my room at all anymore.
I’m eighteen. Sitting in that hallway again.
The carpet is worn thin under my bare feet. The smell of smoke clings to my hoodie. Mom’s bedroom door is closed in front of me. The house has been too quiet for too long.
I already knew.
When I finally gathered the courage to go in, she was nearly falling off the bed, the needle still in her arm. Eyes half-open and empty, looking at nothing. Skin as cold as ice.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything. And then he was there. Not a friend. Not a neighbor. The man who came when my mom was late on what she owed. The one who took debts in cash… and sometimes other ways, too.
He’s leaning in the doorway like he owns the place. Looking at me like he owns me now, too. “You don’t belong here, pretty thing,” he says. “Let’s get you out of this dump.”
I thought he meant out of Vegas.
He told me he could introduce me to an agent. That he’d make me a model… and I believed him.
The studio smelled of hairspray and old coffee. There was a pristine white backdrop and lights so bright I couldn’t see anything past them.
“One more,” they’d say. “Turn your shoulder. Lift your chin. Perfect.” They paid me in cash, not much, just enough to make it feel legit.
Then it was, “A little less fabric, you want to get paid, don’t you?” I kept telling myself it was normal. This was just how modeling worked. But the paychecks eventually stopped coming.
One day, they booked me a “private shoot” at a hotel suite. No lights, no backdrop. Just a group of men on the couch with drinks in their hands. The oldest one smiled as if he’d just been handed his favorite dessert. He told me to relax, that we’d warm up before the actual shoot.
They took my phone and my bag. Claiming it was “safer” that way. It didn’t take long for me to understand what they meant. A younger one brought me champagne, claiming it would help me relax. My lips barely touched it.
The door clicked shut behind me and locked. I laughed it off, kept my face pretty while my gut was screaming at me to run. But I was 10 stories up, and there was nowhere to go.
Then one of them stood up and came in close. His hands were on my arms, then sliding down to my waist. He turned me around as if I were something to inspect. “Perfect,” he said. The rest just laughed.
They made me stand against the wall. Told me how to pose and what to take off. They curated every angle. Every move felt like it belonged to them. The photos did, too.
Then, there were fingers on my skin where they didn’t belong. The sound of a zipper pulled down. A hand over my mouth when I finally found my voice. Threats to hurt me in other ways if I drew too much attention. The camera never stopped flashing.
It didn’t last long. Just long enough to make me understand no one was coming to save me. When it was over, I was a shaking, sobbing mess. I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror. Of course they just left me there. The damage had been done.
I don’t remember leaving or how I got to Lexi’s house. Just her voice, raw and full of panic, when she opened the door.