“We have an eyewitness account of a woman providing the substance to Ms. Moore. Investigators are actively pursuing that lead.”
A woman.
My throat closes. The apartment feels smaller, the walls inching closer, and air thinning with every breath. It was four thousand dollars. Two parties. I told myself I could control it, that I could fix it if anything went wrong.
I never imagined people would die. I bolt upright, phone clenched in my fist.
Ella’s watching me now, her excitement dimming into concern. “Vi? What’s wrong?”
I force my face into something neutral, something safe. “Nothing. Just… thinking about all the last-minute stuff before you leave.”
She frowns. “I can finish packing.”
“No,” I say too quickly, then soften it. “It’s fine. I’ve got it.”
I don’t. Not even close.
A few minutes later I’m pacing the kitchen with the phone pressed to my ear, pulse roaring so loud I can barely hear Cami over it.
“It’s bad,” she says. “Like—really bad.”
“I saw.”
“You can’t stay there,” she continues. “If they connect the dots—Vi, if they decide you fit the description—”
“I know.” My voice cracks despite my effort to hold it together. “But I don’t have anywhere to go.”
There’s a pause. Then, quieter, “We’ll figure it out. I’ve got some savings. It’s not a lot, but it’ll help. I sent my driver to you with cash and a few things you might need.”
“I can’t take your—”
“Yes, you can,” she cuts in, sharper now. “And you will. This isn’t pride time.”
I swallow hard, leaning against the counter as the weight of it all presses down on me. The cops. The press. The lie unfolding in public, and my name hovering just offscreen, waiting to be said out loud.
Ella is getting out.
And I’m standing dead center of a story I didn’t write, with my name already on their lips.
I don’t know how much time I have left.
But I know one thing with terrifying clarity—
Once the world decides you’re guilty, it doesn’t wait for proof.
Chapter 25
The Message in the Dark
Asher
I can’t sleep.
It’s nearly three in the morning, and Manhattan has slipped into that strange, gilded quiet it only reaches in the dead hours—when the city exhales but never quite rests. Streetlights bleed gold through the windows. Somewhere far below, a lone siren wails and fades.
I’ve paced the length of the penthouse twice. Refilled my bourbon without tasting it. My skin still won’t settle.
So I do what I’ve done every night since Violet became a liability I refuse to relinquish.
