Chapter 89
Elena's POV
The door opened sometime after eight in the evening, and my mother slipped in carrying a tray. She didn't turn on the light, just moved through the shadows to set it on my desk—a sandwich I wouldn't eat, a glass of water, a bag of ice wrapped in a towel.
She looked at me then, really looked, her eyes tracking over my swollen cheek and the dried blood at the corner of my mouth, and I saw her flinch. Without a word, she handed me the ice pack, and I took it mechanically, pressing it against my burning face.
"This morning," she said quietly, lowering herself onto the edge of my bed, "your father made sure I wasn't here when the Vances arrived. He timed it perfectly, sent me to handle affairs so I'd walk in after all the decisions were already made." Her laugh was hollow. "He knew I'd interfere."
I stared at her, at this woman who'd spent my whole life being just present enough to matter but never present enough to help. "Mom," I whispered. "Can you help me now?"
She looked away, and I saw the answer in the slump of her shoulders, in the way her hands twisted together in her lap. "I can't, Elena." Her voice cracked. "I can't protect you. I can barely protect myself."
"But I won't stop you either," she said softly. "Whatever you decide to do, wherever you decide to go—I won't stand in your way."
Then she was gone, and I was alone again with the ice pack and the locked door and the slow, creeping certainty that if I wanted to escape, I'd have to do it myself.
---
I waited until nearly midnight, until the house had gone completely still and I was sure both my parents were asleep. Moving quietly, I grabbed my duffel bag and started packing—just the essentials, just enough to get by. Clothes. Toiletries. My phone charger. The documents I'd need.
At eleven forty-five, I texted Caleb: Ready. I'm coming out now.
Then I walked to the door and tried the handle.
It still didn't budge.
The spare key was downstairs in the front hall drawer, completely inaccessible, and short of breaking down the door there was no way out.
My eyes went to the window.
I crossed the room and pushed it open, cold air rushing in to sting my bruised face. The old oak tree in the front yard had branches that stretched almost to the glass, thick enough to hold weight if I was careful.
---
The street outside Cross Manor was empty except for the skeletal shadows of pine trees under the moonlight.
I crouched behind the old oak tree, my right ankle screaming with every shift of weight. The jump from the second-floor window had seemed manageable when I was climbing down—the branches thick enough, the distance short enough—but the landing had been harder than I'd anticipated. Something had twisted wrong when my feet hit the frozen ground, and now every step sent sharp jolts of pain up my leg.
But I couldn't stay. Not in that house.
I limped toward the side gate, biting down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out. Caleb's headlights became a fixed point, a promise of safety I was desperately trying to reach.
When I finally stumbled into the circle of light from his car, I saw him move. The door swung open and he was out in seconds, his eyes finding mine across the distance. Even in the darkness I could see the way his pupils contracted when he registered the swelling on my face, the way his jaw went rigid with silent rage.
"We need to leave," I said quickly, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. "Now."
He didn't ask questions. Didn't demand to know what happened or waste time with useless reassurances. Instead he closed the distance between us and, before I could protest or prepare, lifted me clean off my feet in one smooth motion that made my breath catch.
"Caleb—"
"You're hurt." His voice was low and controlled, but I felt the tension in his arms, the careful way he adjusted his grip to avoid jarring my ankle. "Don't argue."
He settled me into the passenger seat with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the tight set of his shoulders, reaching across to fasten my seatbelt. Then the car was moving, pulling away from Cross Manor.
"I had to climb out the window," I said after a moment, needing to fill the silence with something other than my own labored breathing. "The door was locked. Second floor. There's this old oak tree—I used to climb it when I was a kid."
His hands tightened on the wheel. "You jumped from the second floor."
"I climbed most of it. The jump was just the last bit." I pressed my palm against the dashboard as he took a turn, my ankle protesting the movement. "It's not as bad as it sounds."
"Elena." He glanced sideways at me, and the look in his eyes made my throat close up. "Your ankle is already swelling. We're going to the hospital."
"It's just twisted—"
"Don't." The single word carried enough weight to make me stop. "Don't tell me it's not serious. I can see your ankle from here, and I can see what someone did to your face."
My hand went instinctively to my left cheek, covering the worst of it. The silence stretched between us, heavy with everything I wasn't ready to say out loud.
"Your father," he said finally, his voice carefully neutral.
I didn't answer, but I didn't have to. His exhale was controlled, the kind of breath someone takes when they're trying very hard not to lose their temper.
"Do I look ugly right now?" I didn't want the atmosphere to get heavy.
His eyes stayed on the road, but I caught the ghost of a smile. "Your ugly looks. I've gotten used to them."
A laugh escaped me, and some of the crushing weight on my chest lifted. "You're terrible."
"And you're going to the hospital whether you like it or not."