Page 9 of Client Privilege

Alex

I COULDN’T go back to the shelter. Not now. Not when Marcus suspected or knew where I was.

As soon as I left Damian’s office, I ducked into a public bathroom and changed my shirt, turning the one I’d been wearing inside out before putting my hoodie over it.

A pathetic disguise, but it was all I had.

I kept my head down as I navigated through the crowded streets, constantly checking over my shoulder.

The business card with Damian’s number burned in my pocket. I should call him. Tell him I wasn’t going back to the shelter. But then what? He’d try to help, find another place, spend more of his finite time on me. And Marcus would find that place too.

No. I needed to disappear where Marcus wouldn’t think to look.

I took three different subway lines, doubling back twice to make sure I wasn’t followed. My ribs ached from the constant movement, the lingering bruises still tender beneath my clothes. By the time I emerged in Moss Park, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the streets.

This part of Toronto wasn’t in any tourism brochures. Boarded-up storefronts, people huddled in doorways, the sidewalks stained with substances I didn’t want to identify. But it was exactly what I needed—a place Marcus Delaney would never set his fine Italian leather shoes.

The neon sign of the Parkview Motel flickered erratically, several letters burnt out. PARK IE MOT L. The irony wasn’t lost on me—there was no park to view, just a concrete lot where two men were arguing over something clutched in a paper bag.

I pushed through the grimy glass door into a lobby that smelled of cigarettes and industrial cleaner. Behind a scratched Plexiglas barrier, a middle-aged man with a patchy beard barely looked up from his phone.

“Need a room,” I said, trying to sound casual.

“Forty cash per night, two hundred per week. Hourly rates available.” His tone suggested he assumed I wanted the latter.

I pulled out my wallet, counting what remained of my cash. After the subway fare and yesterday’s meal, I had $327 left. My fingers trembled as I counted out bills.

“I’ll take it for a week,” I said, sliding $200 through the slot in the barrier.

The man finally looked up, eyebrows raised. “Week? Most people don’t stay past morning.”

“I need a week,” I repeated, hating the desperation in my voice.

He shrugged, took the money, and pushed a registration card toward me. “ID?”

My stomach dropped. My wallet, which was locked in Marcus’s safe, still held my driver’s license. If Marcus started calling motels…

“Lost it,” I lied. “Got mugged last week.”

He gave me a long look, then glanced at the security camera in the corner. “Look, I don’t care what you’re running from, but I need a name for the registry.”

I hesitated, then wrote “James Smith” on the card, along with a fake address .

“Room twenty-three,” he said, sliding a key attached to a plastic fob across the counter. “End of the hall, away from the street. No refunds, no visitors after 11, no drugs in the common areas.”

The implication that drugs in the room were acceptable wasn’t reassuring.

Room twenty-three was exactly what I expected—a sagging double bed with a bedspread I didn’t want to examine too closely, stained carpet, a TV heavily bolted to the wall, and a bathroom with cracked tiles and a shower that dripped continuously.

But it had a deadbolt, a chain lock, and a small window too high for anyone to climb through easily.

I wedged the room’s single chair under the doorknob, then sank onto the edge of the bed, exhaustion hitting me like a physical blow. I’d spent $200 of my remaining cash. That left $127 for food for the week. About $18 a day.

My phone buzzed. A text from Damian. I stared at the message, guilt washing over me. He was trying to help, and I’d run without a word. I texted back:

Three dots appeared immediately:

I hesitated. If I told him where I was, he might insist on coming here, to this dangerous neighbourhood, this disgusting room. Or worse, try to convince me to go somewhere else, somewhere that would leave a paper trail Marcus could follow:

The three dots appeared and disappeared several times before his reply came through:

I set my phone to silent and curled up on the bed, not bothering to get under the covers.

I’d stopped turning it off, now that Damian would reach out to me directly.

I didn’t want to miss his messages or calls when they came through, as important as they were.

The distant sounds of traffic, arguments, and sirens filtered through the thin walls.

So different from the penthouse I’d shared with Marcus, with its soundproofed rooms and Egyptian cotton sheets.

My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since morning. There was a vending machine in the hallway I’d passed, but I couldn’t waste money on overpriced chips. I’d need to find the cheapest food possible to stretch my $127.

As I lay there, I realized I’d left my sketchbook at the shelter.

The thought sent a wave of loss through me more acute than I expected.

That book contained the only pieces of myself I’d managed to preserve during the past three years—sketches done in secret when Marcus was away, hidden between mattress and box spring.

Now Marcus probably had them. Another piece of me in his possession.

I pulled the thin pillow over my head, trying to block out both the external noise and my own thoughts. Tomorrow I’d figure out food. Tomorrow I’d contact Damian about the case. Tomorrow I’d worry about what came next.

Tonight, I just needed to disappear.

THE MEDICAL RECORDS read like a horror story.

I stared at the sterile hospital reports spread across Damian’s polished conference table, each page another chapter in the destruction of my body. Clinical language described my injuries with detached precision:

“Multiple contusions in various stages of healing, indicating repeated trauma over time.”

“Hairline fracture of the seventh rib, left side.”

“Defensive wounds on forearms consistent with victim shielding face from blows. Evidence of sexual assault, patient refused rape kit.”

My stomach churned as I forced myself to continue reading.

The most recent hospital visit—the night I finally ran—was documented in excruciating detail.

Internal bleeding. Concussion. Three broken ribs.

Ruptured spleen. The attending physician had noted “patient exhibits signs consistent with long-term physical and sexual abuse” and had recommended a psych consult and social services intervention.

I’d fled before either could happen.

Damian sat across from me, his expression carefully neutral as he organized the evidence into categories. He worked with methodical precision, occasionally making notes on a legal pad. Only the tightness around his eyes and the muscle jumping in his jaw betrayed his reaction to what he was reading.

“I need to ask you about these photographs,” he said, sliding a manila folder toward me. “The hospital took these as part of their standard protocol for suspected abuse cases. You were still unconscious at the time, so you likely don’t recall these being taken.”

I hesitated before opening it. I remembered the nurse with her gentle hands and soft voice, asking permission to document my injuries. I’d agreed, desperate for someone to believe me, to have proof that I wasn’t crazy or clumsy or making things up.

The photos were worse than I remembered. My body looked like a canvas of violence—purple-black bruises blooming across my torso, the imprint of fingers around my throat, my left eye swollen shut. The clinical lighting of the emergency room highlighted every mark in stark detail.

“Yes,” I said, my voice barely audible. “These are from that night.”

Damian nodded, making another note. “And these earlier medical visits—” he tapped several reports dating back over two years, “—the explanations you gave at the time. Falls. Walking into doors. Sports injuries. Those were fabricated to protect Mr. Delaney, correct?”

I nodded, shame washing over me. “He always came with me to the hospital. Stood right beside me while I told the doctors what happened.” I swallowed hard. “He’d squeeze my hand while I lied. Like a warning.”

Damian’s pen paused. For a moment, something raw and furious flashed across his face before he controlled it.

“That’s extremely helpful for establishing the pattern of abuse,” he said, his voice professionally even. “These medical records, combined with your testimony, create a compelling narrative of escalating violence.”

He moved to another stack of papers—financial records I’d provided. Bank statements showing the gradual emptying of my accounts. Credit card bills in my name for purchases I hadn’t made. The deed to the condo Marcus had “helped” me buy, with fine print showing he maintained controlling interest.

“The financial control is equally important,” Damian continued. “It demonstrates how Mr. Delaney thoroughly isolated you and created dependency.” He looked up from the papers. “Did he control your access to money?”

I nodded. “At first, he just ‘helped’ with my finances. Said I was terrible with money and needed guidance. Then he convinced me to add him to my accounts for ‘convenience.’ Eventually, I had to ask permission to buy anything. Even groceries.”

Damian made another note. “And your employment?”

“I worked at the Lawson Gallery when we met. He was a major donor. After we moved in together, he convinced the owner I needed more time for my art.” I laughed bitterly.

“Really, he just wanted me home. Eventually, he arranged a showing of my work, but when the reviews were good, he got jealous. Said my ‘little hobby’ was taking too much time away from us.”

“So he isolated you socially, controlled you financially, and undermined your professional opportunities,” Damian summarized, the clinical assessment at odds with the tightness in his voice.