Page 151 of Requiem
Hell, I tried to kill myself in NYC at least two times that I remember.
Emma sits beside me in the backseat, quiet beneath the dark wool coat draped over her shoulders. Her ribs are still healing, and every bump in the road makes tension flicker across her face, no matter how carefully the driver moves through traffic. She hides it well now. Better than she did during those first days after waking up.
But I notice everything about her now, because I can’t stop staring at her. I’m not a creep, but I can’t help but gaze into the face that I was once conditioned to fear and hate. I sometimes fear that I’ll wake up and feel that hell again. So maybe I’m obsessed with her face because I never want to forget her again.
Since waking up in Moscow, she’s been a little different. There’s less…sunshine coming from her. I fucking hate myself for robbing her of any of that light that I love so much. But I suppose I’m different, too. Though I’m trying my best to make sure she’s okay.
My hand rests over hers, thumb brushing lightly across her knuckles while the city blurs outside the tinted windows. Her fingers tighten weakly against mine in response. That tiny movement is enough to keep me breathing. She’s reassuring me, because she knows I’m an anxious mess right now.
Across from us, Levi is working. His phone glows in one hand while the other flips methodically through a stack of printed documents balanced against his knee. Every few minutes, another message lights up his screen, and he responds without hesitation, calm and composed in his charcoal coat. Nothing rattles the man. Not even the fact that a murderer is sitting across from him right now. But I suppose he’s used to that sort of thing.
“We’ll enter through the private access point,” Levi says without looking up. “No statements or reactions. Do not engage with press if they somehow breach perimeter. Got it?”
Rafe snorts quietly from the seats behind us. “You say that like Graves over here doesn’t look one bad question away from biting someone’s face off.”
“Rafe,” Adela mutters tiredly beside him.
“What? I’m trying to lighten the mood.”
“You are physically incapable of reading a room.”
“I read it fine,” he replies easily. “I simply choose to be a dick.”
Emma’s shoulders shake faintly with laughter beside me, and the sound make the corner of my lips twitch.
I glance back briefly. Rafe looks far better than he did in Moscow, though the bandage still disappears beneath the collar of his black shirt near his shoulder and neck. Adela sits tucked against his side, one leg folded beneath her on the seat. Her bruising has faded to yellow now.
Heather, Micah, Kami, and Finnick follow in the SUV behind us. Micah wasn’t cleared to travel until four days ago. Heather nearly fought the doctors over it despite the fact that she was sleeping curled against his hospital bed every single night anyway.
The memory almost pulls a full smile out of me this time. Then the courthouse appears ahead, and every single thought in my head goes quiet. Large barricades line the sidewalks despite the early hour. News vans sit across the street like waiting predators beneath the winter clouds, satellite dishes pointed toward the courthouse steps while bundled reporters linger outside the restricted perimeter. Even from here, I can feel the pressure of public attention. I’ve never particularly cared for it, I must say. But especially now that everyone probably hates me.
Levi finally lowers the papers in his lap. “They know you arrived in New York yesterday,” he says evenly. “But they do not know where you’re staying, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
Emma shifts slightly beside me. “How bad is it online?”
Levi’s expression barely changes. “Divided.”
My jaw locks as the SUV slows beneath the underground entrance ramp. Divided means some people think I survived. And others probably think I deserve to die. I stare through the windshield as security gates begin sliding open ahead of us.
“You are not on trial for being abused,” Levi says suddenly, his voice quieter now. “You are not on trial for surviving captivity,” he continues. “You are not on trial for what was done to you psychologically over years of coercion and torture.”
My throat feels tight.
“However,” Levi says carefully, his blue eyes sharp. “You are absolutely being judged for it. And I’m sorry for what you’ve gone through, kid. Truly.”
The SUV rolls fully underground, away from cameras, noise, and public speculation. Concrete walls replace city lights, and the gates close behind us. For a moment, nobody moves. Then Emma’s hand slips more firmly into mine. I glance down at her to see that she’s already looking at me.
“We’re okay,” she whispers softly.
The words make me nauseous.
Levi opens his door first. “Let’s go,” he says. And just like that, survival ends, and consequences begin.
***
The private waiting room outside the courtroom smells like burnt coffee. I sit near the far wall beside Emma, elbows resting against my knees while exhaustion drags through my body. My bruises are mostly faded now, but my knuckles still split open whenever I flex my hands too much.
A television mounted silently in the corner flashes through news coverage while subtitles crawl endlessly beneath talking heads.
