33. Chapter 33
If he hadn’t been a ruthless, cold-blooded mobster, Ethan Vance would have made a brilliant Hollywood actor.
The man could weep on cue, squeezing out tears that looked so profoundly genuine they had the entire public weeping right along with him.
But I knew the truth. I knew the hollow, dead-eyed monster behind the mask.
He had everyone else fooled, but his performance didn't work on me. Men that far gone didn’t just wake up one day with a conscience.
He had been caught red-handed, and now he was pulling the strings of the media to buy his way out of a cell.
And the terrifying part? It was working.
Watching the media circus unfold across online interviews, Threads stories, and endless video essays made me violently sick to my stomach.
Yet, it was a trainwreck I couldn’t tear my eyes away from.
The disgust turned into a full-blown obsession.
The second I unlocked my apartment door after a shift, I was pulling out my phone or flipping on the TV, desperate and terrified to see what he’d done next.
Ethan was a ghost haunting every screen.
The footage of our altercation at the park had been edited and picked apart by every news outlet in the state.
The angles they chose were devastating; they framed the shot to make me look like a hysterical, unhinged woman overreacting to a saint.
Meanwhile, Ethan’s PR team was running a masterclass in damage control.
In his latest interview, the reporter asked how he felt about the slap.
Instead of showing a flicker of anger, Ethan just let out a heavy, rehearsed sigh and looked directly into the camera lens.
It felt like he was staring straight through the screen, right into my living room.
“I can’t blame her for being angry,” Ethan murmured, his voice dripping with synthetic empathy.
“She’s still grieving. The road to forgiveness is rarely smooth, and I know I may never truly deserve her grace.
She experienced trauma because of my actions.
Honestly, if she would allow it, I would love to personally fund her therapy.
She clearly needs professional help to heal from this. ”
Crash.
My remote shattered against the living room wall.
I breathed heavily, my chest heaving as the plastic pieces rattled onto the floorboards. The bastard was painting me as a lunatic on a national stage, and the world was clapping for him.
Grumbling curses under my breath, I tore through my closet. I pulled on an emerald-green sweater—a thick, heavy knit meant to combat the bitter, snowy dampness of early November—and shoved my feet into my winter boots, pulling the laces tight with a vicious, resentful tug.
The drive across town was treacherous. The roads were a slick, gray nightmare coated in patches of invisible black ice.
When I finally pulled into the cracked asphalt lot of the Ridgeport Motor Lodge, the atmosphere felt just as bleak as my mood.
Only a couple of rusted cars were scattered across the property, and the neon sign above the main office flickered in a dying, erratic buzz.
A tinny bell chimed overhead as I pushed open the door, stepping into a lobby that smelled heavily of stale cigarettes and industrial pine cleaner.
Behind the front desk sat a teenage receptionist, loudly snapping a piece of bubblegum, her eyes glued to the glowing screen of her phone. She didn't even bother to look up.
“Do you have a reservation?” she asked.
“No,” I said, resting my hands on the faux-wood counter. “I’m the new hire. Elara Hart.”
The only response was the sharp, rapid click-clack of her absurdly long, acrylic fingernails tapping against the plastic of her phone case.
I genuinely wondered how she managed to function with claws that long.
She popped another loud bubble, and when I pointedly cleared my throat, she finally let out a heavy, put-upon sigh and shifted her gaze to me.
She looked thoroughly unimpressed.
“Come again?” she snapped her gum.
“I’m the new hire,” I repeated, my voice dropping an octave, tightening with the thread of my remaining patience.
“Oh.”
I shifted my weight from one boot to the other, the wet snow melting off my soles and pooling onto the linoleum. “Is Gary here?”
“Yeah.”
A hot wave of irritation flared in my chest. “I’m supposed to meet with him for a tour of the place at one o'clock.”
“I texted him. He should be here soon.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I tapped my hand awkwardly against my jeans and sat down in one of the chairs. The interview was with a hiring agent in a small office down the road, so it was enlightening to see the motel inside for the first time.
First impressions and all.
Before I could sink too deep into my own irritation, a door behind the counter swung open.
A heavy-set, middle-aged man stepped into the lobby. He wore a faded polo shirt that stretched tight over his stomach, but the moment he looked at me, any apprehension I had vanished. He had remarkably kind eyes—crinkling at the corners with a warmth.
"You must be Elara Hart," he said, offering a thick, calloused hand. "I'm Gary. Glad you made it through the ice."
“Thanks,” I muttered before stepping forward to shake his hand.
Within ten minutes, he was leading me down a narrow hallway for a quick tour.
The back area of the motel was stiflingly stuffy, carrying a stale, stagnant odor of old laundry detergent and aged drywall.
Gary pointed out the essentials with a patient, easygoing pride.
There was a cramped communal bathroom, a tiny staff room featuring a humming refrigerator and a stained microwave, and rows of heavy metal shelves stacked with industrial cleaning supplies.
"We have fifty-two rooms total," Gary explained, jingling a massive ring of keys as we walked back toward the lobby.
"Checkout is strictly at eleven AM, and check-in starts at three PM.
Your shift will mostly be about resetting the rooms in between, or handling late-night emergencies.
" He paused, offering an encouraging smile.
"You'll be working with four other cleaners, though one of them is only part-time. They’re a good group. "
I thanked him, shook his hand again, and stepped back out into the biting November air, the tinny bell chiming behind me and the teenage receptionist blowing one last obnoxious bubble.
I had one more week before I started work here. As I opened my car door and climbed into the driver's seat, the heavy silence of the vehicle was pierced by the aggressive vibration of my cell phone in my pocket.
Emma’s name flashed across the screen.
My lips thinned into a harsh scowl. Now she wanted to talk?
After days of cold silence and leaving me on read?
I stared at the glowing screen until the call finally timed out, letting the noise die.
I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, shoved the key into the ignition, and cranked the heater, waiting for the engine to warm up.
But two minutes later, the phone lit up again.
I stared at it, a sigh rattling in my chest. I couldn't keep running from everything. With a sharp flick of my thumb, I snatched up the phone and swiped the screen, bracing myself for another argument.
"Yes?"
"Elara? Oh my god, I'm so glad you answered."
Emma’s voice wasn't defensive this time. It was frantic, breathless, and trembling so violently I could hear her crying on the other end of the line.
"I saw it," Emma sobbed, the words tumbling out of her in a desperate, panicked rush.
"I saw the news, Elara. The interview at the park...
I saw Ethan Vance. Oh my god, I didn't know.
I didn't realize he was released on parole.
I understand why you've been so upset, why you've been in such a dark place.
I am so, so sorry. Please, Elara, I'm so sorry... "
The sobbing over the receiver echoed through the cold, cramped interior of my car. I went quiet, the phone pressed tight against my ear as the plastic of the steering wheel bit into my opposite palm.
I didn't know what to say.
The anger that had been fueling me for days suddenly felt heavy and awkward, deflating into a strange, hollow space in my chest. Hearing her say his name—hearing her finally connect the dots between the wreckage of my life and the monster on the television—rendered me speechless.
"Elara, please say something," Emma begged, her breath hitching. When I remained silent, she kept pushing, the words tumbling out as if she was terrified I’d hang up.
"I know I screwed up. I just... sometimes I didn't know what to say to you.
I didn't know what to do as a friend. Seeing you in so much pain scared me, and I handled it so horribly. "
The windshield began to fog up from my breath, tracing a blurring border around the flickering neon sign of the motel outside.
"Despite what I said the other night out of anger...
I love you so much," Emma cried, her voice cracking under the weight of her desperation.
"The liquor was talking, I swear. It made me impulsive, and defensive, and just so incredibly stupid.
I don't think you're a burden. I truly love spending time with you.
You're my best friend, and I... I just really hope you'd still want to be friends.
I can't lose you over this. I always get so stupidly defensive when I start dating someone new. It's one of my horrible flaws."
I closed my eyes, leaning my head back against the headrest. The memory of her calling me draining still stung, but hearing the raw, unvarnished fear in her voice reminded me of the Emma I actually knew—the girl who cared too much, who panicked when things got messy, but whose heart was never truly malicious.
I was so tired of fighting and being entirely alone in the dark. Finally, I let out a long, shuddering breath and relented.
"It's okay," I whispered into the speaker, my voice scratchy and quiet.
On the other end, Emma's frantic breathing hitched. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," I said, rubbing a hand across my tired eyes. "Arguments happen, Em. We both had too much to drink." I stared at the dashboard, watching the digital clock click forward. "I'm just... I'm going through a lot of things right now. I'm trying to work through all this shit. It's a mess."
"I know," Emma murmured softly, her sniffles slowing down. "I'm here. I promise I'm here now."
"Thanks," I whispered, turning the key in the ignition to finally let the heat kick in. "Hopefully, things will be on the mend from here on out."
"I really hope so," Emma murmured, her voice sounding thick but infinitely relieved. "We’ll take it one day at a time. I’m not going anywhere."
"Thanks," I said, a faint, weary smile pulling at the corner of my mouth. I shifted the car into drive, letting the engine idle while I stared out at the gray, slush-covered parking lot. "Actually... I'm getting a new job. I'll be out of Blackthorne in a week."
"Oh, thank god," Emma breathed, the tension instantly melting from her tone.
"Yeah. I just left the interview at this motel on the edge of town.
It's a night-shift cleaning gig, but hopefully, the change of scenery will be good for me.
" I swallowed hard, forcing the honesty past my throat.
"I think... I can admit my mental health hasn't been great lately. Blackthorne was just making it worse."
"Elara, that's amazing. I'm so proud of you," Emma said, a small, wet chuckle escaping her. Trying to lighten the mood, she added, "I mean, seriously, anybody's mental health would completely tank if they had to interact with a psychopath like the Jester every day. You're well off out of there."
My breath caught in my throat.
The interior of the car suddenly felt entirely too small, the blast of the heater suddenly suffocating.
A psychopath like the Jester.
A cold, terrifying wave of clarity washed over me, pinning me to the driver's seat. I sat there, staring blankly at the flickering neon sign of the motel, realizing the ugly truth of my own thoughts.
I didn't want to quit.
I wasn't looking forward to my last day. The thought of walking out of those heavy iron gates next week and never stepping back into that dim, maximum-security cell—never hearing his voice prod at my weaknesses, never feeling the chaotic fire of his touch—didn't feel like a relief.
It felt like a bereavement.
"Elara? You still there?"
"Yeah," I choked out, my knuckles turning white as I gripped the steering wheel, forcing my voice to sound level. "Yeah, I'm here. You're right."
I lied to my best friend, because admitting the truth out loud would make me as crazy as the world already thought I was. Leaving Blackthorne was the smart thing to do. It was the safe thing. The healthy thing.
I was doing it for myself.
But as I pulled out of the parking lot and onto the slick, icy roads, my heart felt heavier than it ever had before.