Chapter 20

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Chapter 20: Where the Ash Settles

It had been ten days since Isla saw the body.

Ten days of silence louder than any scream. Of sleepless nights and mornings that bled into each other. Time didn’t move in hours anymore—it crawled in breaths and flinches.

She stood on the rooftop of their temporary hideout, a building buried in the folds of the city’s forgotten districts. From here, the skyline looked almost peaceful. But Isla knew better now. The city hadn’t changed—but she had.

Her coat clung to her like a shield, heavy and dark, chosen by Christopher, who always noticed what she didn’t say out loud. Her hands were buried deep in her pockets, fingers clenched into fists she didn’t remember forming.

Behind her, she heard the soft rustle of footsteps. Not loud. Familiar.

Christopher joined her at the edge, handing her a warm paper cup without speaking. The coffee smelled burnt, bitter.

“You don’t have to stay out here,” he said after a moment.

She didn’t respond right away.

“Ten days,” she finally murmured. “And I still can’t get her face out of my head.”

Christopher didn’t look at her. He just nodded, watching the city with that quiet sharpness that had saved both their lives more than once.

“I wasn’t ready,” she said.

“You were never going to be ready.”

She exhaled, the sound shaky.

“Coming back here... I thought it would feel like returning to something. Like maybe I’d walk these streets and remember who I was before it all burned.”

He turned to her. “Do you?”

She shook her head. “I feel like a ghost.”

He stepped closer, close enough that their arms brushed.

“Then haunt smart,” he said.

They weren’t themselves anymore. Not in the eyes of the world. Their names had been scrubbed, replaced with fakes. Isla had become Elena. Christopher was now Owen. Their apartment was bare—just white walls, borrowed furniture, and secrets stacked in drawers.

She stared out at the train tracks below, tracks that hadn’t been used in years. Rusted steel. Forgotten paths.

“Ethan’s files,” she said eventually. “We need them.”

Christopher tensed beside her. “They’re buried deep. Probably under layers of fake fronts and offshore backups.”

“I know someone who might still have access.”

He didn’t ask. He already knew.

“Claire,” he said.

Her name landed like a stone.

Isla gave a bitter smile. “She thinks I’m dead. Which makes her the perfect opening.”

Christopher looked away. “She won’t help you.”

“I don’t need her help,” Isla said. “I just need her to let me in.”

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Later That Afternoon

The wellness center felt like a dream Isla once had—sterile, expensive, untouched by grief. The kind of place where people came to forget pain, not carry it.

She walked in through the revolving glass doors, her reflection splitting and rejoining as she entered. The air was thick with lavender and polished ambition. Women in white robes floated past like ghosts of another life.

She wore a blazer tailored to fit the version of herself she was pretending to be. Her ID read Elena Winters. Her voice was soft. Neutral. Forgettable.

Perfect.

Claire sat by the pool, lounging like a magazine ad brought to life. The same glossy hair. The same distant gaze. The same carelessness that had always made Isla feel like a smudge on glass.

Isla felt her stomach clench.

She moved to the reception desk.

“I’d like to register,” she said.

The receptionist looked up briefly, tapping her keyboard. “Name?”

“Elena Winters.”

She filled out the forms, scanned her fingerprint, and waited for the system to clear her. A few minutes later, she was in—slipping past security, past the life she used to orbit.

She didn't let her eyes linger on Claire. Didn’t approach. Didn’t flinch.

That wasn’t the move.

Not yet.

Instead, she sat in the lounge across from her, close enough to observe, far enough to remain invisible.

There were questions she wanted to scream. Things that burned the back of her throat. What did he tell you, Claire? Did you know? Or did you just pretend not to see?

But Isla had learned patience. Had been burned enough times to understand the long game.

So she crossed her legs. Sipped cucumber water.

And waited.

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That Night

Back at the apartment, she stood by the window with her back to Christopher. The city glowed beneath them, gold and cold.

She peeled off her blazer slowly, her fingers trembling.

Christopher watched her in silence, like he always did when he didn’t want to interrupt the unraveling.

“She was there,” Isla said, voice low.

He didn’t ask who.

“Same as always,” she continued. “Like nothing ever touched her.”

“Did she see you?”

“No.”

Christopher stepped forward, his voice careful. “You’re shaking.”

“I can’t stop it,” she whispered. “Every part of me feels like it’s still screaming.”

He moved closer, wrapped his arms around her from behind.

“Then scream here,” he said softly. “Where it’s safe.”

She turned in his arms, burying her face in his chest. The tears came silently—hot, bitter, exhausted.

“I want her to feel what I felt,” she choked out.

“I know.”

“I want to make her bleed.”

“I know.”

He didn’t try to stop her.

Didn’t tell her to be better than this.

He just held her.

Because that’s what she needed.

Eventually, she looked up at him. Her face was blotched with tears. Her eyes red.

And when she kissed him, it wasn’t out of passion.

It was grief. Desperation. Need.

She kissed him like she needed to remember what warmth felt like. Like she needed to believe someone still saw her, even in all her broken pieces.

He didn’t pull away.

He kissed her back.

And for a moment, Isla felt like she wasn’t just a weapon waiting to be unleashed.

She felt human.