I leave around nine, my ribs aching and my head full of contradictions.
I sit in my truck in the parking lot, engine running, ice pack from her freezer pressed against my side.
Two texts come through almost simultaneously.
Adela: Thank you for helping.
Theo: Remember what's at stake.
I look at both messages, the contrast stark and unavoidable.
Friday looms with the UCLA game. Theo is expecting dominance. Coach is expecting redemption. The team expects me to be sharp, fast, and not hesitant.
And Adela, in her bare apartment with her legal pad and her timeline, getting closer to answers she shouldn't find.
I don't delete either message.
I sit there in the dark, watching her window, trying to figure out which direction I'm supposed to be moving.
If she keeps digging, Theo will escalate.
And next time, he won't aim at just me.
Chapter 19: Adela
Iwakeupatsix in the morning with my face pressed against my laptop keyboard.
The screen has gone dark; the battery is dead from being open all night. My neck aches from the angle I've been sleeping at, and when I sit up, the legal pad covered in my handwriting falls from my lap to the floor.
I don't remember falling asleep.
One moment, I was researching private medical facilities in Washington, trying to match the partial name I saw at the hospital — Evergreen Private Medical something — and the next moment, sunlight was filtering through my window, and my phone was buzzing on the desk beside me.
Three missed calls.
Two from my mother. One from Judge Ravenshaw.
I stare at his name on the screen, my thumb hovering over the voicemail notification. He's been avoiding me — blocked my calls, refused to answer questions about Cody's transfer. And now suddenly he's reaching out?
I don't listen to the message.
Instead, I plug in my laptop and stumble to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face and staring at my reflection. The girl looking back at me has dark circles under her eyes, tangled hair, and the kind of exhausted expression that comes from not sleeping properly for days.
But she's not crying.
It’s weird how the tables have turned.
I get dressed and grab my bag for class. Life keeps moving, even when it feels like the ground is constantly shifting beneath my feet.
Political Theory is a mistake.
I realize this the moment I walk into the lecture hall and feel the energy shift. People glance at me, then quickly look away. Whispers start the second I pass.
Not loud. Not obvious. Just the kind of low murmur that makes the back of my neck prickle with awareness.
I slide into a seat near the back and pull out my notebook, trying to ignore it.
But I hear fragments anyway.
