And in this quiet kitchen, with garlic still hanging in the air and the city humming softly outside, I let myself believe that healing isn’t just possible—It’s already happening. And I’m not doing it alone.
Chapter forty-eight
Elijah
We’reatthediningtable—me, Sebastian, Gabriel, and Ava.
Plates half-full. The scent of garlic and warm tomatoes lingers in the air, comforting in the way only home-cooked meals can be. For a moment, everything feels… normal.
Then I see it—her hands slowing, her eyes distant. She’s not eating anymore. Her fork just moves the pasta around, caught in thought.
“I need to ask you something,” she says, voice steady, but a little quieter now. We all look at her.
She’s not afraid. Just carrying something heavy.
“It’s about therapy,” she says. “My first session is next week. And I’ve been trying to figure out how to talk about… George.”
The air tightens, not from shock, but from knowing. We’ve all been waiting for this—her next step.
“How he twisted everything. How he made me doubt myself. Doubt the people who loved me. He got inside my head so deeply, it’s like I forgot who I was.”
She pauses. I reach over and rest my hand on hers—no pressure, just presence. She doesn’t pull away.
“I want to be honest with the therapist. I want to talk about what happened… but I don’t know how to explain the end. The part where Elijah…” Her voice falters, but not from fear. Just the weight of truth. “Where he killed him.”
It lands gently. No one flinches.
“I’m not ashamed of it,” she adds. “He saved me. That part’s never been unclear. But I don’t want to say it out loud in a room where it might come back to haunt us.”
“You don’t have to,” Gabriel says, his tone calm and solid. “You can talk about the fear, the pain, the aftermath—without getting into details that put anyone at risk. Especially you.”
“But what if they ask?” she says. “What if they want to know what I saw, or who did what?”
Sebastian leans forward, voice even. “Then you tell them what’s true—but safe. Like, after George killed Henry, everything became a blur. You were in shock. You don’t remember much. That’s not a lie. That’s trauma.”
She blinks, like that idea hadn’t occurred to her.
“And it’s valid,” he adds. “Your braindidfog out a lot. You were hungover, terrified, trapped. It would be more unusual if your memories were crystal clear.”
“Therapy isn’t about proving anything,” Gabriel continues. “It’s about healing. You’re not there to defend your memories. You’re there to understand how they affect you now.”
I squeeze her hand lightly. “You don’t have to explain my part. You don’t have to carry that. You’ve carried enough.”
She meets my eyes. “But I want to be honest.”
“You will be,” I say. “You’re already being honest—with yourself, with us. That’s what matters.”
There’s a long pause. She looks down at her plate. Then up again.
“So I can say I was kidnapped. That someone died. That it left me wrecked. But I don’t have to give details I’m not ready to share.”
“Exactly,” Sebastian says. “That’s not avoidance—that’s choosing safety while you heal.”
“You’re not hiding the truth,” Gabriel adds. “You’re protecting it. And yourself.”
She nods slowly. And for the first time in a while, her shoulders seem a little lighter.
She picks up her fork and finally takes a bite.
