“You can’t just… spill that,” she adds quietly, the humor cracking. “What if she goes and tells people? What if she—” She bites off the sentence and swallows like it’s poison.
I watch the storm run across her face. I know the list, what she’d have to say, and who it would touch. I know the way the world folds when a name gets loose. So I keep my voice low, measured. “Esther’s not that kind of woman. She’s done this work for years. Intimate-partner violence, trafficked women, people caught in family nets. She knows the side-stepping, the names not spoken. She understands families that move pieces for favors. She’s careful because she’s seen the damage when people aren’t.”
She laughs once more, small and brittle. “So she, what? Signs a contract with an NDA?”
“No.” I shake my head. “She signs no contract with anyone. She has a private practice, unlisted, and she works under conditions you set. She won’t report someone for being embarrassed. She only breaks confidentiality for immediate, credible threats of serious harm, and I’ll handle that before it ever becomes animmediateproblem. If you don’t want names revealed, you don’t give them. If you don’t want her to know details about the business, you don’t disclose them. And if you do, then you do. This is about you and what you can live with.”
Her shoulders drop a fraction, not because she necessarily believes me, but because she can measure the rules. “And if I cry? If I tell her about the alley and how you killed those men?”
“Esther knows who and what I am, which is exactly why she will keep quiet." I'm aware that my words wouldn't be reassuring to anybody but her, and even with her, I quickly add, "She listens, validates, teaches tools. She’s not going to use your words against you. She was brought in blindfolded, with no paper trail. You can meet her here, in a room you control, during hours you choose. You'll have absolute privacy.”
Silence stretches. She stares at a bush as if it might hand her the answer.
“Okay,” she finally says, the word is small. “But if she asks about the guns—if she asks about who I’m afraid of—what then? I can’t give names that make peopledisappear.”
“You don’t have to,” I say. “You tell her what you feel. You tell her the things that keep you awake. She’ll help you name the triggers, give you tools to come back from panic. The rest we can handle without you having to be an informant.”
Her laugh is softer now, almost a sob. “So, basically, I tell her my heartache, and she shows me breathing tricks while you move the chess pieces in the back.”
“That’s it,” I say. “Simple and ugly and honest. And nothing happens without your say-so.” I watch her. “You don’t owe me anything. Meet her when you want, stop when you want. If you see her fifty times, or if you never go again, I’ll still have tried.”
“For what it’s worth,” I add, the words heavy, “I don’t want you fixed. I want you whole. And if that’s therapy, I’ll pay the bill. If it’s something else, I’ll pay for that too. No strings. No gossip. Only doors I open for you.”
She exhales, long and ragged, and the tightness around her eyes eases a fraction. “Fine,” she says finally, voice cracked but stubborn.
"Fine. Good." I nod, and we stare at each other for a little while longer.
"You’re cold," I say after a while, my hands brushing down her arms before I step back.
She nods, and we start walking. The forest closes in around us, but in a good way; branches arch overhead, and the ground feels soft with fallen leaves under myboots. She’s quiet, her eyes drift to the trees, the stream, the places where light spills in like it’s been painted there. I don’t ask what she’s thinking. She looks deep in thought, and I’m not about to break whatever’s going on in her head.
By the time the house comes into view through the trees, her cheeks are flushed from the cold, and there’s a calmness in her face that wasn’t there before.
Lexy’s waiting for us in the kitchen, two mugs of hot cocoa on the counter, with steam curling from them.
"Perfect timing," she says with a small smile, pushing one toward Sophia. "Figured you could both use this."
Sophia takes hers carefully, wrapping both hands around it like she’s soaking up the heat. I grab mine, wishing for something stronger. I lean against the counter and wonder if they'd notice if I put some rum in mine.
Lexy glances at me. "I need to head back to the city for a bit. Got some things at the shelter I can’t put off."
I give her a nod. "Thanks for staying."
She tips her head toward Sophia. "She’s stronger than she thinks." Then, without waiting for a reply, she heads for the door.
"Shelter?" Sophia asks, her voice is soft but carries a thread of curiosity. Something I haven’t heard from her since she got here.
Lexy pauses at the door, glancing back with a faint smile. "Yeah. I run a shelter, financed by yours truly." She jerks her chin toward me. "We take in anybody who’s been abused. Mostly kids."
Sophia’s eyes shift to me, and surprise flickers in their depths. "You… rescue children?"
I shrug, not looking away from her. "Whenever we have a chance."
"Not always as simple as kicking down a door," Lexy adds, "but when we can, we do."
Sophia looks between us again, like she’s trying to reconcile this version of me with the man who walked into the house covered in blood yesterday. "I… I used to help out at a shelter. Roberto…" Her voice catches on the name, her nails dig into the unforgiving ceramic of the mug, and I worry she'll break them. "Anyway… I’d like to come by one day. If that’s okay."
Something tight in my chest loosens at the words. She’s talking about the future—maybe not far, maybe not clear, but it’s there. And she’s choosing to share it.
