I listened to his footsteps move down the hall.
Then I stood, walked to the door, and turned the lock.
The click sounded small and solid.
I leaned my forehead against the wood and closed my eyes.
Outside the room, Vincent moved through his apartment, giving me the space I had asked for. Inside, Miss Astoria started scratching at the rug.
“Stop it, Miss Astoria,” I said without turning.
She stopped.
Then she did it again.
I laughed once, tired and unwilling, and wiped my face before the tears could start. The drawer held my medication. The suitcase held Katherine’s blouse. The apartment held Vincent. The city held Daniel. And somewhere underneath every name I had taken or answered to, Selena Martin was still there—still afraid, still reaching for the next thing that might keep her from falling next.
31
Vincent
I heard the lock turn on the guest room door at the end of the hall. The sound carried down the quiet apartment and settled somewhere low in my chest. She had demanded that lock, and I had given it to her because watching her set her own terms felt better than forcing her to accept mine. Céline was here now, angry with me, locked away from me, and still inside my space where I could hear every small movement she made.
For several minutes, I stood in the living room and let the feeling wash over me. Her suitcases waited near the hallway. Her coat hung beside mine by the door. A faint trace of her perfume drifted through the air, soft and floral under the colder smell of rain coming off the windows. Miss Astoria had already screamed twice from behind the closed door, which meant the cat had found something to complain about or something to claim as her own. The apartment no longer felt empty. It felt occupied. Alive.I had waited a long time for this exact moment, and now that it had arrived, I did not want to rush it.
I took off my watch and set it on the side table, then walked into the kitchen. The Thai food had arrived shortly after Sophia and Anya left. I kept the containers warm because I knew Céline would pretend she was not hungry until the hunger itself became another thing she could hold against me.
She did that often. She denied herself ordinary things like food or rest or comfort because admitting she needed them gave someone else a way to get closer. She hated mushrooms but picked around them instead of sending the dish back. She liked extra lime in her soup. She drank water between bites when she felt cornered because the small pause let her rearrange her face before anyone saw too much.
I set the table for two. Then I stopped, looked toward the guest room, and added a small bowl near the window for the cat. I found the tin of wet food in one of the bags Anya had labeled in block letters.
FOR THE DRAMATIC WHITE CHILD.
Anya Menon was irritating. Unfortunately, she was also funny.
I opened it, spooned some into the bowl, and carried it down the hall. Outside her door, I knocked once.
She responded with silence at first. Then her voice came through the wood. “What?”
“Dinner.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I did not ask if you were.”
After a pause, the door opened halfway. She stood there with her hair down now, damp strands curling around her face. She had washed off the last of her makeup, and the black dress from earlier looked softer against her skin. She looked tired in a waythat made the effort she put into everything else stand out more clearly. Her green eyes met mine, bright and guarded.
She glanced at the bowl in my hand. “That better not be for me.”
“It is for Miss Astoria.”
The cat appeared at her ankle right away, as if she had been waiting for the exact right moment. Céline looked down at her with clear betrayal.
“She has been ignoring me for the last ten minutes, and now she suddenly has perfect hearing.”
“She has her priorities.”
“She has no loyalty.”
