Sofia.
Her body was crumpled beside the bed like a discarded doll, her head twisted at the wrong angle, bruises blooming like dark petals across her skin.
No breath.
No pulse.
No saving her.
I dropped to my knees beside her, hands trembling, tears begging to be released.
“Sofia,” I whispered.
I didn’t know if I was saying her name to wake her up or to mourn her.
My breath caught in my chest, like if I let it out, it would turn into a scream I’d never stop.
She’d called us brave. Just last week, she told Remi and me that we made her believe she could get out.
That she could make it.
That she was more than what he did to her.
That because of us, she had a life to live beyond him.
But that was a fucking joke.
Because now...
She was gone.
I pressed my hand to my mouth, forcing the sob back down.No. Not now. Not here. Not when there was still work to do.
But the sorrow hit hard. Soul-deep and crippling.
Another one. Another goddamn woman lost to a system that only cared when it was too late.
Another girl who screamed for help and was handed paperwork instead of protection.
My chest heaved. For a moment, I wanted to give in to the pit that had opened up inside me and curl up beside Sofia.
That place where the question echoed: Why try? Why keep doing this?
But then my gaze fell to Sofia’s eyes, wide, empty, still searching.
And something in me lit.
A fire. Hot and ancient. The kind that didn’t burn you down, it turned you into something- changed you fundamentally.
I reached forward with shaking hands and gently closed her eyes.
“You can rest now, sweet girl,” I whispered. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”
With my hand that still held my phone, I placed the call.
“This is Ava Sinclair,” I told the dispatcher. “I need officers and medics at 73 Millstone Lane. One injured. One deceased.”
I didn't listen to the response; my phone slipped from my hands and settled beside my still full can of pepper spray.
