15. The Wall
The Wall
The apartment was small and dark and it smelled like me.
Not the me I used to be—the me I couldn't remember, the me who might have been Lilah or someone else entirely.
This was the me I was becoming. The one who slept with a knife under her pillow and a gun in her nightstand.
The one who woke at odd hours and stared at the ceiling and counted the cracks in the plaster until the sun came up. The one who was building a wall.
The wall.
It covered the entire far end of the studio, from the floor to the ceiling, a patchwork of photographs and documents and handwritten notes held in place with pushpins and red string.
I'd started it three weeks ago—or maybe four, or maybe just last week, time had stopped meaning anything except the space between kills.
The first photo was Gabriel.
I'd printed it from a psychology conference website, the only image I could find of him that wasn't grainy or blurred or taken from an angle that hid his face.
He was younger in the photo—maybe by five years, maybe by ten—but his eyes were the same.
Storm-grey. Intense. The kind of eyes that saw through you and didn't flinch at what they found.
Beneath his photo, I'd written his name in black marker.
Gabriel Mire.
Below that, a question mark.
Where is he?
Why did he leave?
Is he alive?
Is he dead?
I didn't know.
I couldn't know.
But I was going to find out.
The second photo was Mercy Logistics.
I'd taken it with my phone, standing across the street from their headquarters, hidden in the shadows of a doorway.
The building was nondescript—glass and steel, the kind of office that could have housed any company, any industry, any front for something darker.
But I knew what happened there. I'd seen the shipping manifests.
I'd read the encrypted messages. I'd followed the money.
Beneath the photo, I'd written a list.
*Shipment 47-B.*
Dispatch schedules.
Names of drivers.
Locations of drop sites.
The list was growing.
Every day, I added something new.
Every night, I hunted someone who knew someone who knew something.
The wall was my memory.
The wall was my mind.
The wall was the only thing that didn't lie.
I added a new photo today.
A man I'd killed last night—a dispatcher for Mercy Logistics, middle management, the kind of man who thought he was untouchable because he never got his hands dirty. I'd found him in a bar on the south side, drinking alone, his wedding ring glinting under the fluorescent lights.
"Do you know where Gabriel Mire is?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do."
"You're crazy."
"Maybe. But I'm also holding a knife against your kidney, and if you don't tell me what I want to know, I'm going to use it."
He'd talked.
They always talked.
Not about Gabriel—he didn't know where Gabriel was, didn't know anyone who did—but about Mercy. About the shipments. About the network of buyers and sellers and handlers who'd turned human beings into inventory.
I'd killed him anyway.
Clean. Efficient.
The way Gabriel had taught me.
Or maybe the way I'd always known.
I couldn't remember.
I never could.
His photo was pinned to the wall now, next to the other faces, the other names, the other bodies I'd left behind. Red string connected him to Mercy Logistics, to the warehouse, to the office where I'd killed the guard who'd watched Gabriel work.
The web was growing.
Every thread led somewhere.
Every somewhere led closer to the truth.
The knock on the door was soft.
I knew it was Matt before I looked. He was the only one who visited, the only one who knew where I lived, the only one who cared whether I ate or slept or remembered to drink water.
"Bunny? You in there?"
"Yes."
"You eat today?"
"I..."
I couldn't remember.
"I'll take that as a no."
The door opened. Matt stepped inside, carrying a grocery bag and a paper sack that smelled like warm bread. He looked around the apartment the way he always did—his eyes moving across the wall, the bed, the dishes in the sink—but he didn't comment. He never commented.
"I brought soup. And bread. And some fruit."
"You don't have to."
"I know. But I want to."
He set the bag on the counter and began unpacking. Tomatoes. Apples. A loaf of sourdough wrapped in brown paper. A container of soup that was still warm.
"Sit."
"I'm not hungry."
"Sit anyway."
I sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress was soft, worn from weeks of restless sleep, and I sank into it like it was trying to swallow me.
Matt handed me a bowl of soup and a spoon.
"Eat."
"You're bossy."
"Someone has to be."
He sat in the chair across from me—the one he'd brought from the bar, the one that didn't match the rest of the furniture, the one that had become his spot.
"You look tired."
"I am tired."
"Have you been sleeping?"
"A little."
"How little?"
"A few hours. Maybe."
"Bunny..."
"I know. I know. I need to sleep more. I need to eat more. I need to take care of myself."
"Do you?"
"Yes. But I also need to find him. And I can't find him if I'm sleeping."
Matt was quiet for a moment.
"You won't find him if you're dead either."
"I'm not going to die."
"You might. If you keep pushing yourself like this."
"I've survived worse."
"That doesn't mean you should keep testing your limits."
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes on my face.
"You're not alone anymore, Bunny. You don't have to do this by yourself."
"I know."
"Do you? Because you're acting like you don't."
"I'm acting like someone who's trying to survive."
"Survival isn't the same as living."
"I don't know how to live. Not anymore. Maybe not ever."
He didn't argue. He just nodded, the way he always did, and leaned back in his chair.
"Eat your soup. It's getting cold."
The soup was chicken and rice, the same kind he always brought.
I ate it slowly, spoonful by spoonful, savoring the warmth. The bread was soft, still warm from the oven, and I tore off a piece and dipped it in the broth.
Matt watched me eat.
Not in a way that made me uncomfortable—just present, just there, a reminder that I wasn't alone.
"You added more to the wall."
"Yes."
"Who's the new one?"
"A dispatcher for Mercy Logistics. Middle management. He didn't know where Gabriel is, but he knew about the shipments."
"Shipments?"
"Women. Girls. Assets."
Matt's jaw tightened.
"How many?"
"I don't know. Dozens. Hundreds. The manifests go back years."
"And you're going to stop them."
"I'm going to try."
"That's not what I asked."
"It's the only answer I have."
He was quiet for a long time. The only sounds were the hum of the refrigerator and the distant wail of a siren somewhere in the city.
"You can't save everyone, Bunny."
"I know."
"But you're going to try anyway."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because someone has to. Because no one else will. Because I can't..."
I stopped.
"Because I can't just sit here and do nothing. Not when I know what's happening. Not when I know who's responsible."
"And Gabriel?"
"He's part of it. He started it. He created the methods they're using. But he's not the only one. There are others. Mercy Logistics. The buyers. The handlers. The whole network."
"You're going after all of them."
"Yes."
"Alone?"
"I have you."
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"I'm not a fighter, Bunny. I'm just a bartender who's seen too much."
"You're more than that."
"Maybe. But I'm not a killer."
"You don't have to be. You just have to be here. You just have to remind me to eat. You just have to remind me to sleep."
"That's not nothing."
"No. It's not."
The rest of the afternoon passed slowly.
Matt helped me organize the wall—moving photos, adjusting strings, adding notes I'd forgotten to include. He didn't ask questions about where the information came from or how I'd gotten it. He just worked, his hands steady, his presence calm.
"You're getting better at this."
"At what?"
"At functioning. At being a person."
"I don't feel like a person."
"You don't have to feel it. You just have to do it."
He pinned a new photo to the wall—a shot of the Mercy Logistics headquarters, taken from the street.
"You're building something here. Something important."
"I'm building a map. A way to understand what happened to me. A way to find the people responsible."
"And when you find them?"
"Then I'll make them pay."
He didn't flinch.
"And then what?"
"I don't know. I haven't thought that far ahead."
"Maybe you should."
"Maybe. But not today. Today, I just need to keep going."
The sun was setting when Matt finally left.
He stood in the doorway, his hand on the frame, his eyes on the wall behind me.
"You need to sleep tonight. Real sleep. Not the kind where you pass out from exhaustion."
"I'll try."
"That's not good enough."
"It's all I have."
"Then I'll stay."
"You don't have to—"
"I know. But I will."
He walked back inside and sat in the chair. The same chair. The same spot. The same steady presence.
"Matt."
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For being here. For not giving up on me."
"I'm not going to give up on you, Bunny. You're the closest thing to family I've got."
The words landed in my chest like something warm.
"Family."
"Yeah. Family."
He pulled out his phone and started scrolling, and I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.