Chapter 15: The Hunt Begins.

Elena’s choice of words wasn't lost to Julia.

She didn't say 'my husband'.

She called him 'the man who married me'.

“Is he… dangerous?” Julia asked.

The question landed like a cold echo of what Elena never really forgot. Her grip on the mug trembled.

Julia needed no words.

She recognized trauma when she saw it. The far-off stare, the way the girl’s shoulders stiffened at the question as though bracing for a blow.

Years of working with children who arrived at the Family Center in the dead of night had taught her that silence could speak louder than a confession.

Something inside her tightened, a mix of professional instinct and an older, more personal ache.

She recalled the first runaway she’d helped years ago: she had the same haunted look, the same tremor barely hidden behind clenched fingers.

She drew a slow breath, schooling her voice to calm. This wasn’t the time to press.

“It’s all right,” she said softly. “I promised you rest, didn't I?”

Elena nodded, grateful for the switch in topic.

She swallowed the secret too heavy to share. For now, the warmth of the chocolate and the hush of the room were enough.

Julia rose and crossed toward her. “Let’s get you a bed to rest.”

Elena sat forward, pushing herself up.

Then the room tilted. A slow, gray wash edged her vision.

She gripped the couch arm for support, then tried again. Her knees wobbled once. Then twice.

Then they gave.

“Hey- easy.” Julia caught her under the arms as she sagged, her weight suddenly slacking. Her body was burning up.

“I feel… dizzy,” Elena whispered, her voice weak.

“Sit back down,” Julia said, steady but urgent.

The younger woman winced as Julia helped her back into the couch.

Julia reached for the phone on her desk, her voice tightening.

“Get a wheelchair and come with someone. Quick.”

Within seconds, a pair of attendants arrived with a wheelchair. Everything was a blur for Elena.

Julia steadied her as the attendants eased her into the wheelchair, her own heart pounding.

The Family Center’s clinic was only a corridor away. Under the bright, sterile lights, a nurse knelt to remove Elena’s shoes.

Julia’s breath caught. The skin of Elena’s feet was raw and blistered, angry red where the fabric had rubbed while she fled.

The head nurse, Claire, carried out basic checks.

“Blood pressure is 70/40. Too low. She's dehydrated. Administer double IVs,” she said to another nurse who got to work immediately.

Claire's hand stilled over Elena's midsection and glanced up at Julia, her voice low but certain.

“She’s pregnant. Early, but that's definitely a baby bump. Let's get her fever down first.”

She folded up one sleeve of Elena’s jacket to prepare for the IV.

Julia’s gaze caught on the faint, silvery scars that marred Elena’s forearms, half-faded but still visible beneath the clinic’s light. They told a quiet story of pain.

Her gaze fell on Elena's face. She now laid unconscious.

Julia felt a slow ache of sorrow and resolve settle in her chest. Whatever haunted this young woman had already left its mark.

And now, she thought, it was her fate to help keep those ghosts from finding her again.

But what did she really know about Elena? Finding her by Jaden's tombstone wasn’t enough reason to get involved in her life. Yet, Julia couldn't shake the feeling.

She exhaled slowly, her hand brushing against the edge of the bed.

Outside the clinic window, dawn pressed against the glass.

What if Elena was more trouble than she could handle?

She'd have to wait for her to wake up. Then she'd find out.

~~~~~

BRAD

The house was quiet.

Elena’s last words bounced off the walls in Brad's head.

First, he feared what she might do with the information. Then he raged at her defiance and at himself for missing its return, but especially, for being careless with the card.

He should be getting paid right now, not looking for a runaway wife.

If he just handed over what he had, the Morano brothers would kill him. He’d seen what they did to Harper Andrews, the cop he replaced.

They'd nailed his badge to the hood of his own car and left his body for the rats under the Tobin Bridge.

But he was smarter than Harper. And everything was going according to plan - until Elena found the original.

The only reason he was still breathing was because the Moranos believed that there was only one copy of the files in play.

And that he had it.

He did. Sort of.

The card Elena discovered was the original; the raw, untouched footage.

He'd made a copy. One carefully edited to erase every trace of himself and saved it on a flash drive.

The plan was simple: hand over his copy for the money.

And if they tried to kill him anyway, the original would become his shield. His insurance.

If they ever found out that Elena had another copy, he'd become a cautionary tale whispered in the alleys, like Harper.

Brad’s chest rose and fell slowly as his eyes swept over the neatly made bed.

He couldn't sleep in it.

Not without her.

His jaw flexed.

Ten hours and still no sign of her.

Not on the streets.

Not in motels.

“How long did you plan this, huh?”

The faintest trace of her scent lingered. He loved the way it clung to her skin no matter what he did to her. He inhaled sharply.

He paved the room slowly, stopping at the vanity where her brush still lay. Strands of her hair were caught in the bristles. He touched them like they offended him.

His voice dropped, almost amused.

“You actually left me?”

In the kitchen, he opened the fridge. It was stocked full. His lips curled.

“Oh, now you're mocking me.”

He slammed the fridge shut, the sound echoing through the hollow house.

“Why? I thought we had made progress. You became a good girl.” He scoffed. “And I liked that.

Memories flashed - her back arching away as he cornered her, her eyes widening in fear. Her pulse hammering like a trapped bird beneath his fingertips.

He smirked, bitterness settling inside him.

“Only you grew a spine, didn't you? You can defy me now.”

His breath grew heavier, like he was pained.

“You think you can get away from me? Hide?”

He laughed.

“No. You don’t get to rewrite yourself.”

Upstairs again, lowering himself onto the spot she always curled into, as far away from him as the bed allowed.

He lay down, stretching his arm across the empty space where she used to stiffen beneath him. His fingers pressed into the sheets, searching for warmth that wasn’t there.

“You hated my touch,” he whispered to the emptiness. “You breathed so damn fast.”

His eyes slid shut.

“I can still hear it.”

His eyes flew open.

“You were supposed to be here when I got home. Obedient. Quiet.”

He sat up sharply, breathing hard.

“But you… you left. With my retirement plan.”

He stood, knocking over the lamp with a swipe of his arm.

“And you dare threaten me.”

He glanced around, the emptiness answering him.

“You’re gonna be sorry.”

He crushed the fallen lampshade beneath his boot.

“I was wrong about you.”

A tremor of fury slid through him. “And I’m going to fix that.”