It was different. I knew it was different.
But lying here in the dark, reaching for someone who wasn't there, my hand landed on cold sheets. Same ending. Different reason.
Please don't look for me.
She'd asked me not to find her. Asked me to let her go.
I couldn't do that. Letting her go wasn't an option.
But I was starting to realize that finding her might not be enough. She'd run because she was scared—scared of theLangs, scared of what they might do, scared of being the reason someone else got hurt.
I couldn't fix that with words. Couldn't fix it by showing up and demanding she come home.
The only way to fix it was to end the threat. Take down the Langs. Make it safe for her to come back.
She'd come back.
She had to come back.
I closed my eyes and tried to sleep.
I dreamed of the fire escape. The night she'd told me about her father, her voice barely above a whisper while the city hummed below us. The way she'd looked at me after. Like I was someone worth trusting.
I woke up reaching for someone who wasn't there.
CHAPTER 16
Ava
The ceilingof my childhood bedroom still had those glow-in-the-dark stars.
I'd stuck them up there when I was eight, back when I wanted to be an astronaut before I wanted to be a doctor. They didn't glow anymore. Too old. Too faded to matter. Just pale plastic shapes catching the afternoon light, remnants of a girl who used to dream about escaping gravity instead of escaping this house.
Watson was curled on my chest, a warm weight that rose and fell with my breathing. He'd barely left my side since we arrived three days ago, suspicious of this unfamiliar place, silk curtains, antique furniture, strange smells, and echoing silence. Every time I moved, his head lifted. Every time I settled, he pressed closer.
I understood the impulse. I wanted to press close to something familiar, too.
The day I left played on a loop in my mind. The fluorescent buzz of hospital lights. Brian's face, bruised and swollen but peaceful in sleep, the monitors beeping a steady reassurance that he was okay. That he would heal.
That he would keep being a target as long as I stayed.
I'd called my father from the hospital bathroom, voice barely above a whisper. "I need to come home."
No questions. No hesitation. "I'll send a car."
The black sedan had arrived within the hour—tasteful, expensive, everything in my parents' world polished to a gleam. I'd gone back to our apartment alone. I packed my things in the dark, moving through rooms that still smelled like Brian's aftershave, like the coffee we'd shared that morning before everything fell apart.
Watson had watched me from his perch on the couch, yellow eyes tracking my movements with an accusation I deserved.
"I know," I'd told him. "I'm sorry."
The driver helped carry the suitcases down. I'd tucked Watson into his carrier, listened to his confused meow, the same questioning sound he made at the vet, when he didn't understand why I was letting strangers hurt him. And stood in the middle of the living room for one last moment. Brian's books on the shelf. The blanket we'd shared on the couch. The coffee maker that had witnessed a thousand quiet mornings.
I'd written the note at the kitchen counter. Started twice. The first attempt said too much. The second said nothing that mattered. I settled for nine words and hoped he'd understand.
Not enough words. Too many all at once. Nothing that could explain what it felt like to leave the only person who'd ever made me want to stay.
I'd left it on the coffee table where he'd find it. Then I'd walked out and closed the door behind me, tears spilling down my cheeks before I reached the elevator.
