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Gillian

I don’t remember the drive. Just the way my hands felt on the steering wheel—wrong. Like they didn’t belong to me. Like they belonged to someone steadier. Someone smarter. I don’t even remember deciding to steal the car. Ellis’s car. Doesn’t matter. The ignition clicks, then roars to life—loud, alive, mine.

What’s done is done.

The steering wheel feels heavier than I expected. Every detail—the leather, the way the seat cushions fit just right, the way the car handles—it’s all him. And I can feel it, deep in my chest, tightening my ribs with every passing second. But I don’t stop. I can’t. I need to be anywhere but there. Away from his house, his rules, his control.

Never mind the fact that they’re going to kill me.

Least of all because of the car.

But aside from locking him in that room—this is the first choice I’ve made in God knows how long. And it feels like a violation. Not just of him. Of me. Of everything I’ve allowed to happen.

When I pull into the parking lot of my apartment, it hits me. Something raw. Sharp. Terrifying. Like I’m finally awake. And it makes me want to run—throw the door open, disappear into the night. But I don’t. I sit there, gripping the journal like it’s the only thing holding me together. Trying to figure out what comes next. Even I already know. Nothing good does.

But I also know I can’t stay in the car. They’ll find it. And they’ll find me. Same as always. This time, however, I don’t plan to make it so easy. I’m not sticking around to find out the extent of the damage they can do. I just have to grab a few things, and I’ll be on my way.

The door to my apartment sticks, same as always. The lights are on. Maybe I left them that way. Maybe someone else did. The thought barely lands before it slips away. I lock the door behind me. Check it twice. Put the journal where I keep the rest.

The hallway tilts. Or maybe it’s just me. I haven’t really slept in days—just a few catnaps here and there. I haven’t eaten anything either. It’s hard to be hungry when you’ve watched a man rip his own teeth out, play chicken with his eyeball, and realized you weren’t rooting for either side to win.

I make it to the kitchen, then stop. Not for food. Not for water. I just stand there, staring at the fridge like it might tell me what to do next. Then I turn. And I feel it.

It starts at the back of my neck—a soft static, familiar, faint. My skin prickles, and for a second, it feels like someone’s breath on me. A thought I’m not ready to think.

I cross to the coffee table. Flip the lid. The journal’s under the remote, half-buried in unopened mail. I fumble with the elastic band. The pages flutter. I scan for my handwriting.

Ellis.

Devon.

Panic room.

Left eye—swollen. Scalpel.

There’s blood under my fingernails. Mine? His?

My breathing’s wrong. Too shallow, too fast. Like I’m running without moving. I press the journal to my chest. Try to hold it there. Try to hold myself there. But it’s slipping. Everything is.

A drop hits the page. Sweat or a tear—I don’t care. I grab a pen. Scrawl:

DON’T TRUST HER.

DON’T TRUST HIM.

YOU’RE NOT CRAZY.

READ THIS.

THEN RUN.

The ink pools. I think I’m shaking, and the world is spinning too fast. Something’s dragging me under again. Same as always. Like my brain is a rope, and someone just cut the tension.

My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

I sink to the floor. The journal still clutched in my hands. I wrote it all down. I did everything right. But for one long, hollow second, I wonder if it matters.