Chapter 101
Lena's POV
The door was unlocked. Of course it was. Nothing here worth stealing.
I pulled out my flashlight and swept the beam across the interior. The studio was maybe three hundred square feet—a single room with a kitchenette against one wall and a bathroom barely large enough to turn around in. The previous tenant had left almost nothing behind. A sagging mattress in one corner. A rickety desk missing a leg. Empty beer bottles scattered across the floor.
I set my bag down and pulled on gloves, then started searching systematically. The desk drawers were empty except for dead cockroaches and yellowed newspaper. The kitchenette cabinets contained nothing but dust. Under the mattress—more nothing.
Frustration built in my chest. What had I expected? A convenient folder labeled "Evidence of Crimes"?
I moved to the closet, a narrow space that reeked of mold. A few wire hangers dangled from the rod. The floor was bare except for—
My hand froze.
In the back corner, partially hidden by shadow: a leather belt, cracked with age. And beside it, coiled like a sleeping snake, a length of rough rope.
The flashlight beam trembled. My flashlight beam. Because my hand was shaking.
Don't be ridiculous, I told myself. They're just objects.
But my body disagreed. My heart rate kicked up, pulse throbbing in my ears. The studio apartment faded, replaced by fragments—
A belt whistling through air. The crack against skin. My skin.
"You ruined everything!" Marcus's voice, distorted by alcohol and rage. "Your mother and I were fine before you—"
Rope biting into small wrists. The burn. The helplessness. Crying and getting hit harder for making noise.
I pressed my back against the wall and slid down until I was sitting on the filthy floor. Breathe. Four in, hold, six out. But the rhythm kept breaking, my lungs tight with something that felt like drowning.
Were these memories real? Or were they nightmares I'd mistaken for truth? The distinction felt crucial and somehow completely irrelevant. Real or imagined, they'd shaped me. Hollowed me out. Made me into someone who accepted loveless marriages and mother's cruelty because at least no one was actively hurting me.
At least it could be worse.
No. I dug my nails into my palms, using the sharp pain to anchor myself. No more of that. No more comparing abuse to worse abuse and calling it acceptable.
I forced myself to stand. My legs were unsteady, but they held.
The belt and rope stayed where they were. I couldn't touch them. But I could leave them behind.
I returned to the main room and continued searching, moving with mechanical precision now. Kitchen cabinets—already checked. Bathroom—nothing but a cracked mirror and rust stains. Behind the mattress—
My fingers brushed something hard wedged in the gap between the mattress and the wall. I pulled carefully, not wanting to alert any rats that might be nesting.
A phone.
Old model, maybe six or seven years outdated. The screen was cracked, spiderwebbing across the display. The case was scratched and stained with something that might have been coffee. I tried the power button. Nothing. The charging port looked damaged, the metal pins bent at odd angles.
But phones kept data. And data could be recovered.
I slipped it into my bag and swept the flashlight around one final time. Nothing else. Just the detritus of a life Marcus had abandoned when it became inconvenient.
Like he'd abandoned me.
I left the apartment and descended the stairs carefully, my earlier adrenaline fading into bone-deep exhaustion. The old man was still in his chair, but he'd fallen asleep. I let myself out quietly.
The night air hit my face like a slap, cold and cleansing. I walked to my car on autopilot, unlocked it, got in. Sat there with my hands on the steering wheel, staring at nothing.
My phone buzzed. Emily: Status check. You okay?
Fine, I typed back. Heading home.
Her response came immediately: Find anything?
Maybe. I'll know more tomorrow.
I started the engine, but before pulling into traffic, I opened a new message to Alexander: Found a damaged phone. Old model, cracked screen, bent charging port. Need you to recover whatever data's on it. Urgent.
His reply arrived as I merged onto the highway: Bring it by tomorrow. I'll see what I can do.
I glanced in the rearview mirror at the building receding behind me. Part of me wanted to burn it down, erase that place and everything it represented.
But the past couldn't be burned away. Only excavated. Examined. Understood.
And then, maybe, left behind.
I drove home through the quiet streets, my mind already turning toward tomorrow. The phone held secrets—I was certain of that with the same instinct that had kept me alive through childhood. What those secrets were, I'd learn soon enough.
In the meantime, I had work to do. Evidence to gather. A mother who'd become an enemy and a father who'd always been one.
They'd made me a weapon without meaning to. All those years of survival training, of learning to swallow pain and plot six moves ahead. Of becoming someone who could smile through dinner while planning her escape.
Now I'd turn that training against them.
The thought should have scared me. Instead, as I pulled into my parking garage, I felt something close to peace.
Or maybe just the cold comfort of purpose.