Chapter 40 Adela
I wake up thinking about his mouth.
That's the first thing. Before the alarm, before the gray Seattle light pressing through my curtains, before I remember what day it is or what day tomorrow is — his mouth.
The cold of it and then the warmth. The pressure of his hand on my throat.
The way he looked at my tears like they were something he was entitled to.
I press my fingers to my lips in the dark.
Still mine. Still just mine. Nothing has changed except everything has changed, and I have approximately forty-eight hours before I have to sit across from Cody at his father's dinner table and perform devoted girlfriend well enough to survive whatever that evening actually is.
I get up and get ready for the day.
The library is quiet at eight in the morning.
I go because I told myself I wouldn't, and then I went anyway, which seems to be a pattern I'm developing. Third floor. Political science section. I round the last shelf and stop.
Someone is in my chair.
Not my chair. I don't have a chair; I have never had a chair. It is a library carrel that belongs to the university, and anyone can sit there. I know this. I am still standing here experiencing something unreasonable about the fact that someone else is in it.
She looks up.
She has dark hair, a good coat, and the confidence of someone who has always been comfortable taking up space. She's looking at me with an expression that appears friendly.
"Sorry," I say automatically. "It’s usually empty in here, and I’ve always sat there."
"Oh god, I'm so sorry." She starts gathering her things immediately, warm and apologetic. "I didn't know. Here—"
"Oh, no, it's fine." I wave it off because it is fine, objectively, even if something in me is unreasonably territorial about a silly library spot. "I can sit somewhere else."
“Are you sure?”
No. “Yeah. It’s fine.” I smile politely, searching for another place to sit.
"I'm Serena," she says. She has the smile that makes rooms feel warmer. "I've seen you around campus."
"Adela."
"I know." She tilts her head slightly. "You're Cody's girlfriend."
Something moves through me at the name. I keep my expression easy. "Yeah."
"He's a good guy," she says. Warm. Sincere. "We're all so relieved he's okay."
"Me too," I say, wondering if everyone on campus knows him and knows I’m his girlfriend. Good lord.
She asks if I want to share the table, and I say, "Sure," because what else can I say? We sit across from each other for forty minutes while she studies, and I try to read. I mostly look at the empty chair between us, where Theo usually sits, and think about his body over mine in the alleyway.
When I start gathering my things, she says, "It was so nice to meet you. We should hang out."
"Yeah," I say.
“What’s your number?”
I hesitate for a moment, but she smiles kindly, so I give it to her.
She enters it in her phone and says, “Okay. Got it. Maybe we can meet here and study together.”
I nod. “Sure, yeah. That’d be great.”
I smile all the way to the elevator.
Serena. Serena? Where do I know that name?
My ten o'clock lecture is European Political Theory.
I sit in the third row and take notes on Rousseau and think about Theo's annotation in the margins of The Prince.
Power is the only honest language. Everything else is translation.
I wrote back that power is just the symptom, and he wrote back that the treatment becomes the disease, and I haven't been able to stop turning that over since I read it.
The treatment becomes the disease.
I look at my notes without seeing them.
He is so specific in the way he thinks. Not just intelligent — precise.
Like every idea has to survive interrogation before he'll commit to it.
I want to know how that happened. I want to know about the scar on his forehead, his forensic psychologist mother, and what he's like in a room when he's not performing.
I want to know what he's like when nobody's watching.
The thought sits in my chest with a warmth I'm not supposed to feel.
I write something down about the general will and feel guilty about it all.
I'm walking the two blocks from Elm Hall at eleven forty-five when my phone buzzes for the third time since I woke up. Cody. I've been letting them go, but three times means I need to answer, or he'll decide something is wrong.
"Hey," I say, keeping my voice warm. Easy. A girl walking to work without a care. "Sorry, I've been getting ready."
"I was starting to think you were ignoring me." He says it lightly, but it isn't light.
"Never." I shift my bag on my shoulder. "Are you going to the game tonight?"
"No." A beat. "Doctor's orders. I'm not cleared to leave the house yet."
"That's frustrating." I mean it, even if not in the way he thinks I do.
"It is what it is." His voice shifts into something more settled. "I'll be back on the ice before you know it. And when I am, you can watch. You live on campus now, so no excuses."
"I'll be in the front row," I say.
A small silence. The good kind, the kind that used to feel comfortable.
"Speaking of hockey," I say. "I have to tell you something. I should have mentioned it sooner."
"What?"
"When I first transferred, I went to one of your practices." I let the slight embarrassment color my voice naturally. "Well, you weren’t there, of course. I was so upset about everything, and ended up going to see what your life was like before I got here.”
He’s quiet.
"You went to practice," he says.
“Yeah.”
"Did you talk to anyone?"
"Not really. I watched for a bit and left." I hesitate. "Cody, honestly? After what happened to you, I was glad I'd gone. I thought maybe if I'd seen the team in person, I'd be able to figure out whether anyone had anything against you. I even suspected Julian for a while—"
"Julian." His voice shifts. "Why Julian?"
"I don’t know. I was angry. Really angry." I hesitate. "I even thought about your dad at one point." I keep my voice light, trying to make a joke out of it.
The silence this time is different.
"My dad," he echoes, and I know he doesn’t like a single word I’m saying. I thought maybe he’d understand. It’s clear that I was wrong.
"I was scared and grasping at anything." I soften my voice. "I didn't find anything. I just needed to feel like I was doing something."
"You shouldn't have been asking questions." I can hear the tightness in his voice. "You don't know what you could have walked into."
"I know."
"You should have told me the second I woke up."
"I know. I'm sorry. I couldn’t. I can tell you’re getting better now. Your dad told me not to stress you, but I’m telling you now, right? That’s what matters." The guilt I let through is real, just not for the reason he thinks. "Do you remember anything? From that night?"
"No." Sharp. Immediate. "I don't recall a damn thing. Don't ask me that again."
I go quiet, blinking at his harsh tone.
"Sorry," I say softly.
He exhales. The warmth returns, the tool deployed. "I just don't want you in situations you can't handle alone. That's what you have me for."
I stay quiet. I hate when he dominates me.
"What are you doing right now? You sound like you're outside."
"I am." I take a breath. "I got a job. I'm actually walking in right now, so I only have a second—"
"What do you mean you got a job?"
"Yeah. A coffee shop near campus. I just started this—"
"Adela." The patient measured tone. "You're the mayor's daughter. You don't need a job."
"That was the deal if I transferred. I support myself." I keep my voice even. "I'm sorry, I'm literally walking in the door—"
"We're going to talk about this."
"I have to go."
"Adela—"
I end the call.
The café smells like espresso and something baking when I push through the door at twelve.
Jordan is already behind the counter with the same energy as yesterday. He looks up when I come in and nods once, like I've been here for months instead of one shift.
"Apron's in the back," he says.
I find it. I tie it. I start.
Today is busier than yesterday. The afternoon rush hits properly — students, laptops, and complicated orders.
I feel the chaos of a small café understaffed at peak hours.
I move through it without being asked twice about anything: dishes, tables, the condiment station, trash.
I learn the register when it gets quieter.
I learn how to use the milk steamer after that.
My phone buzzes in my apron pocket.
Cody.
I silence it and keep moving.
It buzzes again twenty minutes later. I silence it again.
The third time I step into the back and answer because three times means something is wrong. Is he that upset about the job?
"Hey," I say, aiming for warm and easy, even though it’s not how I feel.
"My dad said you have my laptop."
The cold hits me so fast I almost visibly react.
"I don't have your laptop," I say.
"What do you mean you don't have it? He said—"
"I don't have it, Cody."
"Then where is it?"
"I—" My mind is completely blank. I have nothing. No story, no explanation, no constructed version of events that leads safely from point A to point B. "I don't know."
"You don't know."
"I’m at work, Cody. I have to go."
"Adela—"
I end the call.
I stand facing the wall for three full seconds.
Then I turn around and go back to work.
I steam milk, wipe surfaces, restock the pastry case, and smile at customers. But underneath it, the question loops.
The laptop.
He's going to be furious about the laptop.
Not because he needs it — he has money, he has his father, he can replace it a hundred times over.
He's going to be furious because of what's on it.
Because the laptop is the evidence and the evidence is the thing that proves what he is, and he wants it back, not because it's his, but because it's dangerous.
And he knows I had it.
His father knows.