A strand of hair falls across her cheek, catching the lamplight like a thread of gold. The glow crowns her in something soft and holy—too pure for the likes of me.
I should leave. Instead, I stand there and stare.
At the gentle curve of her shoulder beneath the blanket. At the scar along her leg, peeking out from the edge of the fabric—pale, deliberate, unmistakable. A reminder etched into skin that time, for all its mercy, had chosen not to erase.
I cross the room and pull the blanket higher over her shoulders.It’s risky, but I can’t help myself. Consequences be damned. Her breathing catches for a moment, then evens out again. She doesn’t wake.
The door clicks behind me as I leave the apartment.
Outside, the air is cold enough to sting. I breathe it in, let it burn through the guilt clinging to me.
She’ll never know I was here. But I know her now.
I know what she keeps, and what she doesn’t. I know how carefully she’s learned to live on her own.
I know she hums when she’s afraid—low and steady. Not for comfort, but for control. As though in doing so, nothing else can get in.
And that scar—pale, thin, jagged and old. Healed, but not erased. It’s more than a mark. It’s a record.
I store it away, untouched for now.
Because one day soon, I’m going to find out exactly how she got it.
11
ROWAN
“Ididn’t mean to kill him.”
“That’sthe defence you’re going to use?”
The lecture hall has been rearranged into a rough imitation of a courtroom.
Desks are shoved into stiff, orderly rows. The podium at the front has been promoted to judge’s bench, elevated more by authority than design. A folding table has been dragged forward and propped up just enough to serve as a witness stand. Someone has taped a laminated sign to the front of it.
DEFENDANT
The sign is crooked, scuffed, and peeling at one corner. It’s clearly been reused for years.
I’m standing behind it.
My palms rest flat against the cheap plastic, steady. My pulse isn’t. I can feel it in my throat, in the backs of my knees, in the quiet space just behind my eyes where adrenaline hums like a live wire.
Professor Hale—no relation, unfortunately—paces in front of the room like a man spoiling for blood. His sleeves are rolled up, tie loosened, glasses shoved so far up his nose they’re one sharp gesture away from poking an eye out.
“So,” he says, voice rising, irritated. “Let me understand this correctly.”
I lift my chin.
“You are charged with the murder of your husband.”
“Yes.”
“And yourdefence,” he continues, incredulous now, “iswhat, exactly?”
I don’t hesitate. “I didn’t mean to kill him.”
The room reacts instantly. A ripple of sound—snorts, whispers, a sharp laugh from the back row. Someone muttersthat’s rich. Angus Shear, seated at the prosecution table, grins like he’s just been handed a loaded gun.
