Chapter 37
Elise's POV
I stood at the street corner for a long time before I finally made up my mind to step out—to be precise, from the moment I watched Liam's car disappear around the corner of the alley.
Victor had dropped me off two blocks away from here and stopped the car.
He said, "I don't like dropping people off," and then just watched me get out. No goodbye, no warning to be careful, not even an extra glance in my direction.
But after I got out of the car, I realized something—I didn't have my keys. The apartment keys were in the pocket of that black dress from last night, and that dress was probably still lying on the floor of the Cocoon Room at this very moment.
So I came here.
The tattoo parlor.
I had a spare key hidden in the brick crevice behind the fire hydrant by the door—this was an unspoken secret between Marcus and me. He never asked about it, and I never used it.
I bent down, my fingers finding that cold brass key.
Then I saw what was on the ground.
Cigarette butts.
The ground was covered with cigarette butts.
Not just three or five. Dozens of them. Scattered densely across the pavement in front of the iron door, stretching from the base of the wall all the way to the middle of the road, as if someone had stood here for a very, very long time—long enough to carpet the ground with white fragments.
I could recognize the brand at a glance.
Lucky Strike.
Slender white cigarette sticks. Red circular logo.
Liam's favorite brand.
I stared at the crushed cigarette butt in my hand, my fingertips touching what seemed like residual warmth—no, not warmth. Just the temperature of the morning air. He'd been gone for a while now.
Liam had waited for me here.
This conclusion required almost no deduction to reach. Only he would smoke this brand. Only he would stand outside a tattoo parlor all night. And only he—
would do something like this and then say nothing, just quietly leave.
I stood up and tossed the cigarette butt back onto the ground.
There should have been some emotion welling up inside me.
Guilt? Heartache? Being moved?
He had waited here all night looking for me. He didn't know who had taken me away, didn't know if I was dead or alive—he could only guard the one place I might return to, smoking one cigarette after another, waiting until dawn.
A normal person would be touched by such a gesture.
But I had no energy to think about these things.
I inserted the spare key into the lock and turned it open.
The door hinge let out a familiar creaking sound, as if greeting me. The warm yellow light from the industrial lamps spilled out, illuminating the terrazzo floor, the exposed brick walls, and the workbench against the wall.
Everything was exactly as I had left it.
My place.
I walked in, closed the door behind me with my backhand, and stood leaning against the door panel for a few seconds.
What occupied my mind wasn't the fact that Liam had stood outside all night.
It was—seven days.
The time Victor had given me.
To make a proper break with Liam.
As for whether he had waited for me here all night last night...
I wasn't interested.
I sat down at the workbench, my mind beginning to make a list.
Leaving Liam—when spoken aloud, it was just a short sentence. But doing it was a headachingly long checklist.
First was the matter of housing. The apartment I currently lived in was rented by Liam, the lease was in his name, and the monthly rent was automatically deducted from his account. Once we broke up—no, I should say "once the relationship officially ended"—I would have to find a new place within a few days. There was a small storage room behind the tattoo parlor that Marcus occasionally used to store supplies; maybe I could make do there for a while.
Then there was money. The "living expenses" Liam gave me every month were substantial—enough for an ordinary college student to live quite comfortably. Once that money was cut off, my daily expenses would have to rely entirely on the tattoo parlor's income. During peak season it would be enough; during slow season I might not even be able to afford food.
The school situation was even more troublesome.
I had gotten my acceptance letter through an art university program funded by Liam's family. Although it was nominally an "outstanding student scholarship," everyone knew it was just a spot obtained through a targeted donation from the Sterling family. If my relationship with Liam publicly fell apart, would the school administration revoke this spot? Would someone come to "investigate" my admission qualifications?
In the past, each of these things could have made me anxious for days.
But now, sitting at the workbench and thinking through these items one by one—my heart was surprisingly calm.
It wasn't that I didn't care anymore.
It was that there were more important things to care about.
I realized that I had been bound by these things only because I had once harbored illusions about Liam. I had placed part of my hope in him. Now that part of my hope had shattered, and instead I could see clearly.
I retrieved the document envelope from the hidden compartment under the workbench.
Waterproof fabric, sealed with a rubber band. Inside was a stack of A4 papers—some already yellowed, with frayed edges, traces left from being looked through too many times.
I spread them out on the workbench.
Case files.
Complete photocopies from five years ago, of my parents' murder case.