32. Chapter 32
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. The same rule had to apply to Sally, right?
On my next day off, I forced myself to choose a local park over the liquor I desperately craved.
I pulled on a pair of tight leggings and a long-sleeved shirt, stepping out into the crisp, biting air.
There was fresh snow on the ground, but the sun was mercifully out.
I blended in with the other joggers circling the path, but the reality of my coping mechanisms caught up to me quickly.
After only a few minutes of pacing the pavement, my lungs burned and I was winded.
Out of shape was an understatement; my body was a temple built on cheap whiskey and stress.
I slowed to a stop, resting my hands on my knees to catch my breath. Maybe there was some truth to the cliché that fresh air and sunshine could patch up your mental health. Or maybe the sudden clarity was just the rare novelty of choosing not to day-drink.
Either way, the fog was finally starting to lift. That, and I took a Plan B pill, ensuring I'd never have the chance to get pregnant with that monster's baby. It was one thing to slip up once, but twice within a week? I needed my brain examined.
For the first time in months, the future didn't feel like a impending trainwreck. The interview yesterday had gone so well that they’d already called back to schedule a walkthrough tour of the motel.
A real job with a steady paycheck that would finally let me put some distance between myself and the wreckage of my past.
I straightened up, wiping a stray drop of sweat from my temple, and let out a long, shaky exhale that bloomed like smoke in the freezing air. The dominoes were finally falling into place. I just had to keep moving, one step at a time.
As I resumed a slow, steady jog, the truth settled heavily in my chest. I had a drinking problem. Every time the memories got too loud, or the silence in my apartment grew too heavy, I turned to the bottle to drown it all out.
That needed to change.
I was on my second lap around the perimeter when the normal ambience of the park shifted.
A crowd was gathering near the concrete steps of the outdoor amphitheater.
Usually, the space was reserved for local indie bands or outdoor church services, but the sudden arrival of two major news vans made me slow to a walk.
I pulled out an earbud, the ambient noise of the park rushing back in. Something was going on. Something big.
Driven by a curiosity, I drifted closer, weaving through the outer edge of the gathering crowd. The hushed, expectant murmurs of the spectators suddenly died down as a man stepped onto the amphitheater stage, flanked by a lawyer and a small security detail.
My heart stopped.
It was Ethan Vance, surrounded by a media circus.
The world narrowed to a pinprick. My hand moved entirely on instinct, slipping into the deep pocket of my jacket. My fingers curled around the cold, textured handle of the pocketknife I kept on me.
A heavy, suffocating static filled my ears as I moved forward like a ghost. I didn't feel the cold November air.
I didn't hear the reporters. I just saw the side of his neck, the soft tissue right below his jaw.
I pressed through the crowd, my tennis shoes crunching softly on the snow-dusted grass.
Five feet. Four feet. I was close enough to smell his expensive cologne. Close enough to end it.
I tensed my arm, ready to drive the blade home—
Suddenly, Ethan’s gaze swept over the crowd and locked directly onto me. His eyes widened in instant, shocking recognition. But he didn't flinch. He didn't call for his guards. Instead, a look of profound, sickening theatricality washed over his face.
"Elara Hart?" he cried out, his voice booming into the microphone before he stepped off the stage, entirely bypassing his security. He ran straight toward me, his hands outstretched. "Oh my god. It's you."
Before I could even register the movement, the heavy lenses of three different news cameras pivoted sharply, tracking him as he converged on me. The red recording lights blinked like predatory eyes.
"Please, don't run," Ethan pleaded loudly, throwing himself onto his knees right on the cold ground in front of me. He grabbed at the hem of my jacket, his face twisting into a mask of pure, unadulterated repentance.
He was hijacking my trauma on live television to paint himself as a tragic, reformed saint.
"I pray for your family every single day, Elara. Please, let me pray for you. Let me beg for your forgiveness right here and right now."
The cameras pressed closer, the reporters shoving microphones toward us, capturing every tear welling in his eyes. He went on and on, his voice a sickening, performative sob, milking my agony for the entire state to see.
Something inside me violently snapped.
Crack.
The sound of my open palm striking his face echoed like a gunshot through the open park. I slapped him with every ounce of suppressed rage, grief, and hatred left in my body.
Ethan’s head snapped to the side, his cheek instantly blooming a fierce, violent red. The entire crowd went silent. Even the camera operators froze in shock.
I didn't wait around for the aftermath.
I turned on my heel and sprinted away, tearing through the paralyzed crowd. The cold air whipped against my face, biting at the tears blurring my vision.
But even as I fled down the paved path, Ethan's microphone picked up the immediate voice of a reporter rushing back to his side, eager to capture the drama.
"Mr. Vance! Mr. Vance, over here! How do you respond to that emotional confrontation?"
Emotional confrontation.
The words echoed in my head. Is that what they were calling it? A "confrontation"? Like we were two reality TV stars having a spat over a stolen storyline, and not a monster and the woman he systematically broke?
My lungs burned as my sneakers slapped against the pavement, but the rage in my chest burned hotter.
Good behavior. The phrase felt like acid in my throat.
He got out early because he made his bed, said "sir" and "ma'am," and didn't shiv anyone in the cafeteria.
That was all it took for the justice system to wipe its hands of him, pat him on the back, and hand him a microphone.
They reduced my years of night terrors and looking over my shoulder into a neat little equation of time served and points deducted for compliance.
The system didn't care about justice. It cared about administrative efficiency. It cared about rehabilitation for the predator while leaving the prey to rot in the aftermath.
How do you respond, Mr. Vance?
I could already see the trajectory of the next few weeks.
I knew exactly how this script played out.
He would give a measured, somber apology to the cameras—just enough faux-humility to look reformed, but vague enough to protect his precious new beginning.
The media would devour it. They’d label him "complicated" and "reminiscent of a tragic figure. "
And then, the inevitable climax of modern American consumption.
In another six months, there would probably be a glossy, true-crime Netflix documentary about him.
I could see the title sequence in my head: moody drone shots of his sleepy hometown, a melancholic cello soundtrack, and talking heads analyzing his psyche.
They’d dedicate three entire episodes to his "troubled childhood.
" They’d interview a high school counselor who remembered him as a "gentle boy who lost his way," or some other sympathetic bullshit designed to explain away the malice.
They would dissect the anatomy of his crimes not to condemn him, but to humanize him.
They’d turn his cruelty into a psychological thriller, packaging my trauma into a binge-worthy Sunday night distraction for millions of people drinking wine on their couches.
He’d get the nuance.
He’d get the backstory.
I would just be a background detail in his story.
I rounded a corner, the noise of the press conference finally fading into the distance, but the fury inside me didn't quiet down. He was free, he was speaking.
And the world was already pulling up a chair to listen.