Page 23 of Cold Mercy

“I was just leaving,” I say. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your routine.”

Before I can step away, she grips my hands tighter.

“Please… exchange numbers with me.”

I stare at her, surprised.

“I have not seen a ‘friend’ here in two years. If you helped her last night, my heart will rest easier knowing I can call you if she needs help.”

She smiles with a grandmother’s kind of mischief.

“I promise not to call at night with nonsense.”

My hand moves on its own, tapping my number into her phone before I've fully processed the thought. An instinct I don't question takes over. I need to be the one she calls. The idea of her reaching for anyone else feels fundamentally wrong, like a violation of an unspoken rule.

“If anything happens, you can call me anytime, I mean it.”

“Gracias,” she says warmly.

I step outside and walk back to my car. As I drive away, I can still feel the weight of Moreau's hands on mine, like my body refuses to let it go.

And that alone is enough to piss me off.

I didn't find a single piece of evidence. I didn't verify a single transaction. All I did was wash the blood off the hands of a potential criminal and tuck her into bed.

By all professional metrics, the night was a catastrophic failure.

But it wasn't.

I left without proof, but with something far better… with leverage.

I didn't save her tonight; I indebted her. By playing the protector, by being the one who held her when she shattered, I've created an emotional obligation. A debt she won't even know she's paying. From now on, every time she looks at me, she'll see the man who was there. That kind of trust is a key, and it unlocks doors that warrants can't. Instead of finding a fault line, I created one. And I know exactly how to use it to make her crack.

I glance down at my shirt, stained with her blood. It feels...earned. A claim.

CHAPTER 5

SOPHIA

Thomas walking into my house and seeing me like that changed something. Not in a dramatic, life-altering way. More like a hairline crack that refuses to seal back up. I let someone see me at my worst, and the fact that it was almost a stranger somehow makes it worse.

He’s tried to check in. A text, a call, and then another text. I have answered none of them. Not because I want to punish him or pretend he doesn’t exist, but every time I look at his name, all I feel is embarrassment.

I showed him a side of myself I don’t even show Elizabeth. Weak, uncontrolled, barely functioning. I didn’t plan to survive that night, and that alone makes the whole thing messier. Gratitude doesn’t land cleanly when it comes wrapped in shame. I don’t want pity. I don’t want someone hovering, watching me like it’s their job to keep me upright.

And yet my days have become simpler. Quieter, but less hollow. I catch myself expecting things without admitting it. I’m still carrying Noah with me everywhere, but the edges aren’t cutting quite as deep.

Today I’m going dress shopping with Elizabeth, and that’s enough emotional labor for one morning. I get dressed, pull my hair into a loose braid, and go downstairs.

Mrs. Gonzalez is already in the kitchen, a mug of coffee waiting on the counter as if she knew exactly when I’d appear.

“Buenos días, mi niña,” she says warmly.

“Buenos días,” I answer, taking the cup. “Thank you for this. You’re an angel.”

I sit for a moment at the kitchen island, absently flipping through the folders scattered there. Two years of my investigation into Aurora. Notes, timelines, theories. None of it is solid enough to hold. I haven’t found proof that Noah was involved, which should feel like a win, but instead it feels like I’ve been circling the wrong target the whole time. I wanted to clear his name, to burn down everyone who helped stain it. Somewhere along the way, that focus blurred.

Mrs. Gonzalez breaks the quiet.