Part 3
Ronan’s face filled the screen again.
He had moved from behind the desk. The polished wood was now behind him, his office chair crooked in the background.
“Elena,” he said. “Can you hear me?”
She nodded.
“Say something.”
“I’m here.”
“Good.”
Her eyes burned.
“I’m sorry.”
His jaw clenched.
“Stop saying that.”
“I wasn’t supposed to—”
“You weren’t supposed to what?”
She looked at the dark hallway.
The question remained between them.
Ronan’s expression shifted. Not softer. More careful.
“You do not have to tell me now,” he said. “Do you understand?”
Elena wanted to say yes.
Her body would not stop shaking.
Gideon’s voice came through the phone, steady and near. “Ronan, I need you to stay with her. Keep her talking.”
“I am.”
“She may fade in and out.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know what she remembers.”
“I know that too.”
Elena heard the words but not their meaning. The edges of the room had begun to loosen. The city lights outside seemed to come closer, then retreat.
Ronan watched her.
“What was in your hand when you fell?” he asked.
She blinked.
“What?”
“When you fell.”
“The vase.”
“Before that.”
“I don’t know.”
“Elena.”
“The flowers.”
“Before the flowers.”
She tried to think.
There had been a phone call earlier. Not this one. A call she had not answered. A name she had watched light up and disappear from the screen. There had been a message. Maybe. Or a silence that felt like one.
Her forehead tightened.
“I don’t remember.”
“That’s okay.”
It was the first time Ronan had said those words.
She looked at him.
He was standing in the office now, but he had not moved toward the door. One hand held the phone. The other rested against the edge of the desk as if he needed something solid beneath it.
His face was composed. His eyes were not.
The scrape on Elena’s cheek pulsed.
She touched it with her free hand and found dampness there. She did not look at her fingers.
“Does it hurt?” Ronan asked.
She gave a small laugh that was almost a sob.
“Yes.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
The words came out harsher than she intended.
Ronan went quiet.
For a moment, Elena regretted saying them. Not because she was afraid of him. Because she was too tired to carry the weight of his silence.
Then he said, “You’re right.”
She did not expect that.
He sat down again, but only halfway, perched on the edge of the desk instead of returning to the chair. The phone remained close to his face.
“You’re right,” he said again. “I don’t.”
The apartment seemed to tilt.
Elena could see the antique chair behind her if she turned her eyes slightly. Its cream upholstery was untouched. The curved wooden trim caught the warm light. The cane leaned where it had been leaning all evening, though the sight of it made something cold stir beneath her ribs.
She did not know why.
She did not want to know.
“Can you move your fingers?” Gideon asked.
Elena looked down.
Her hand was still curled around the phone.
“Yes.”
“Both hands?”
She flexed the other one. The motion dragged at the scrape on her arm.
“Yes.”
“Can you feel your feet?”
She tried.
The answer took too long.
“Elena?” Gideon said.
“Yes.”
“Can you feel your feet?”
“My left one.”
“And the right?”
She swallowed.
“Yes. A little.”
Ronan’s face had gone rigid again.
“Elena hated the way they spoke about her body like it belonged to a list. Fingers. Feet. Breathing. Eyes. As if the parts of her could be counted and checked off until the rest of her stopped mattering.
She wanted to tell them she was still herself.
She wanted to tell them she had not become a problem to solve.
Instead, she stared at the phone.
“Ronan,” she said.
“I’m here.”
“Don’t come.”
The words surprised her.
His face changed.
“What?”
“Don’t come here.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then don’t make me promise that.”
“I don’t want you to come.”
His hand tightened around the phone.
“Elena.”
“You’ll make it worse.”
The room went silent except for her breathing.
Ronan did not answer at first.
He looked away from the screen, toward the dark walls of his office, toward the heavy curtains, toward whatever private calculation he was making. His suit was still perfect. His tie still straight. His watch caught the warm light when he moved.
Then he looked back at her.
“Did someone tell you that?”
Elena’s throat closed.
“No.”
“Did someone tell you not to call me?”
“No.”
“Then why are you afraid of me coming?”
She turned her face toward the marble.
A petal was caught beneath her chin. It stuck there for a moment, soft against her skin. She wanted to brush it away but did not have the strength.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
Ronan said nothing.
Gideon’s voice came low through the phone. “Elena, listen to me. You are doing the right thing by staying connected. You are not alone.”
She hated that too.
Not because it was unkind. Because it was kind enough to make her want to cry.
Her eyes filled.
“I am alone.”
“No,” Gideon said.
She looked toward the hallway again.
The dark opening seemed deeper now.
“You don’t know that.”
No one answered.
The silence after that was worse than reassurance.
Ronan stood again. This time he moved away from the desk. The phone image shifted slightly as he walked, and Elena saw more of the office: a wall of dark paneling, a narrow strip of carpet, the edge of a low cabinet. It was all expensive and restrained, every object chosen not to call attention to itself.
He stopped beside the curtains.
The city outside his office was hidden, but a line of cold blue light seeped around the fabric.
May you like
“Elena,” he said, “I need you to tell me whether you hear anyone in the apartment.”
She listened.
