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I close the pantry, shaking my head with amusement. All those books, all that knowledge—yet she eats like a college kid.

I move back into the living room, taking another slow look around. The space isn’t overly feminine, but it’s hers. Everything feels like Scarlet. The muted colors, the meticulously arranged books, the throw blanket draped over the couch like it was casually tossed there—when I know damn well she probably folded it perfectly before leaving.

There’s a framed photo on a nearby shelf. I pick it up, studying it. Scarlet and Judge Lambert. She looks happy and full of love. I remember Lambert mentioning that Scarlet is all he has left and that his wife died. The one who had abused Scarlet for years. Still. If she's dead, wouldn't Scarlet have a picture of her, too? I turn in a slow circle, but this is the only personal picture I can see. Interesting.

I continue my search, scanning for anything she might need. Clothes, toiletries, essentials. Gigi bought her some stuff, but she might want her own. The door to her bedroom is slightly ajar. I don't hesitate before stepping inside.

The bed is made all in white, sheets and comforter. A red throw blanket is the only source of color. I don't see an overabundance of pillows or stuffed animals, like Gigi prefers, and no frilly bedsheets, either.

A small desk sits against the far wall. Papers are neatly stacked next to a closed laptop. Pens, again, nothing colorful or frilly, rest inside a pen holder. I step closer and pull out the first drawer. My eyes land on a leather-bound journal.

I know I shouldn’t, but I’m already reaching for it. It looks brand-new. I flip it open, expecting more Latin scrawled notes like in her books. Instead, the date catches my attention. She only started this a little more than a month before her abduction.

My finger taps against the journal. Something like a conscience tells me I shouldn't. That this is a line I shouldn’t cross. But I've never listened to it before, so why start now?

I don't know where I heard to do this, but since this is nothing I can talk to anybody about, I hope that writing it down will be as cathartic as people claim. I have my doubts, but… the nightmares have been getting worse lately, so much so that I don't even want to sleep.

My brows crease with the memory of Scarlet's anxiety attack. My gut churns at the thought of the abuse her own mother rained down on her. I wish I could bring her back to life, just so that I can kill her for what she did. My mind races, wondering why she has no one to talk to about it. What about Daddy Dearest? Or her friends? I don't think she's that much of a private person that she wouldn't… Out of concern—so I tell myself—I continue reading.

Well, here goes nothing, let’s get straight to it then, right? If this doesn’t help, I’ll burn this damn book later. That’s supposed to be cathartic as well. I’ll probably burn it anyway, cause…

I pause, just like she seemed to have done. The hesitation is there, woven into the words. A moment of doubt. A breath caught between confession and regret. Whatever is weighing on her, it’s more than just her mother’s abuse.

My fingers tighten around the edges of the book, and I keep reading.

Alright, here goes nothing.

I KILLED MY MOM.

What?

The words stare back at me, solid and unflinching. For a long moment, everything stops except my heartbeat, which picks up a notch while I process her words. Slowly, a smirk pulls at my lips.

Well, well, well. It seems my little passerotta isn’t a passerotta at all. She’s an aquila—an eagle. I exhale through my nose, running a thumb along the book’s leather cover. I knew she had fight in her. That much was obvious. But this? This is something else entirely. I don’t know if I’m impressed or astonished. Maybe both.

I wonder if her father knows. It doesn't sound like it.

I feel neither anger nor horror. Instead, I feel… intrigued. Scarlet is full of surprises. And if she thinks she can keep this part of herself hidden from me, she is dead fucking wrong.

I close the book, not bothering to read on. She’ll tell me when she’s ready and feels safe enough to let me in. But I can’t leave this journal here.

I glance around her apartment while my mind calculates the risks. If this book ever fell into the wrong hands—if the wrong person found it…

For now, I'll tuck it into my jacket. Later, I'll put it in my safe.

I protect what’s mine. And Scarlet is mine.

While I look through the drawers of her dresser, my mind keeps returning to the bombshell I just read. I knew she was fucking perfect for me before, but now… the more facets I get to see of her, the more she fascinates me.

In her closet, I find a grey bag big enough to hold some of her things, like a pair of well-worn pajamas that I'm sure she loves, as well as some shirts and jogging pants.

The bathroom is a complete surprise. A big grin spreads over my face when I look at the mayhem that happened in here. A curling iron is off now, but a deep, black indentation in the Corian counter bears silent witness that she didn't always turn it off in time.

A blow dryer lies forgotten inside the sink, right next to a bag of cosmetics, which I also grab. I check her shower. I don't think she's attached to her loofah or razor, so I leave them, but I grab her shampoo, conditioner, and body soap.

Then I go through her drawers. They stare at me right from the first drawer I open. Mocking me and tempting me, trying to make me do something… unchivalrous. It's her birth control pills. For some reason, seeing them there… knowing she and Ihad unprotected sex, does something to me. In my mind's eye, I see her perfect body swollen with my son or daughter. And fuck if that isn't something I suddenly want more than anything in the world. More than to avenge my father.

Leave them here… my mind tempts.