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Six months later

The city is different.Cleaner.Faster.No one holds the door here, and I like that.They’re too busy.No one watches you long enough to notice you’re watching them back.

I work nights.Something boring.Something forgettable.My manager thinks I’m the kind of girl who used to be pretty.He keeps offering to walk me to my car.I keep saying no.

I’m even thinner now.A little hollow at the collarbone—not that it’s intentional.I still eat.I still sleep.Sometimes.But there’s a sharpness I didn’t have before.Like the edges of me stopped filing themselves down.

The black book lives in my bag.It’s smaller than people would think.Fits in the palm of my hand.I don’t take it out in public.Only at night.Only when it’s quiet enough to hear myself think.

I don’t write in it.It feels like Vance.I want it to stay that way.I just carry it.A reminder.

The real notes live elsewhere.

I add to the spreadsheet most nights.Draw lines.Watch for patterns.

One name stands out.I don’t know if it’s the worst.

But God I hope so.

She posts photos like the pain makes her holy.Little bandaged wrists.Long captions about courage.Her kid never smiles.Not even in the birthday pictures.But she keeps taking them.

Every Thursday, she goes to a different urgent care center.New excuse every week.

Sprain.Infection.Fall.

Always the kid.Never her.

Always the same arm.

I’ve followed her twice today.Sat watching.Once at lunch.And again, at dusk.I know where she parks.Where she stops for coffee.Where she makes the nurse repeat instructions, louder—so the kid can hear just how attentive she is.

She’s easy to hate.

That’s what makes her dangerous.

The letter lives in my bag, too.

Tonight, I opened it.

It didn’t change.

It said exactly what I knew it would.Harsh.Precise.Not exactly tender, but not cruel.Just true.

And the part that stuck—the part that settled in my ribs and didn’t move—wasn’t the warning.

It was the fact that he’d written it at all.

Just in case.

I fold the letter back, leave it just the way it was.

Stare at the road like he might still be coming, watching, judging, waiting for me to fuck it all up.

“Too late,” I say to myself.

But there’s no weight to it.No venom.Just fact.

The car’s too warm.I reach for the dial.Turn the vent left.