“The Crown Prosecution Service announced that it will re-open an investigation in regards of Clarissa Griffin, who also happens to be the only alleged witness of Maxim Griffin’s crimes. The serial killer’s daughter should be twenty-seven now. In an exclusive statement, her father’s solicitor, Stephan Wayne, says that she has adopted a new identity and currently lives in London. It’s notable to mention that Clarissa disappeared right after the sentencing of her father and escaped the Witness Protection Program.” A headshot of me from eleven years ago appears on the screen. Even though it’s old, if anyone looks at it hard enough, they’ll recognise me. “The question remains. A victim or an assailant?”

My legs shake, unable to carry me as the screen switches to a statement made by the solicitor, Stephan.

I try to focus, but the world is closing in on me and all I can hear is the beeping in my ears and the sinking of my heart.

The cashier’s attention shifts to me, and I jerk back. God. They’ll recognise me. The nightmare will start all over again.

“May I help you, Miss?” The cashier watches me closely.

I lower my head as Dad’s voice filters from the TV. “In the time I spent in confinement, I started believing in justice, its rules, and how it should be applied. I love my daughter, but she needs to pay for what she’s done. Justice, Clarissa. I taught you that.”

If someone stabs you once, stab them back ten times.

That’s what he taught me. Those were the exact words my father said to six-year-old me when I came crying about a girl who stole my pens at school. He kept repeating them until they became my mantra.

The cashier is still staring at me, but before he can recognise me, I spin around and run out of the small store. They’ll know who I am now, and everything will start again.

The name-calling, the trials, the poor police treatment, the accusatory looks.

Everything.

A hand grabs me by the arm and I yelp, coming to a screeching halt.

Ethan.

His brows scrunch. “Are you okay?”

No. Absolutely not.

He holds my phone that I left in the car, on which there are five missed calls.

“Jonathan has been calling nonstop.” His gaze drifts behind me. “Also, why is everyone staring at you?”

No, no…

Agnus barges outside and kind of pushes me towards the car.

“What’s going on?” Ethan asks, but he follows anyway.

“She needs to get out of the public eye.” Agnus’s features remain steady. “Now.”

Ethan and I are both inside when the car revs its engine in the street. Then Elsa’s father asks, “Are you going to elaborate, Agnus?”

“She’s part of a public trial.”

Again. I’m part of a public trial again.

I barely survived the first one. I can’t go through that nightmare all over again.

18

Aurora

I’m shaking by the time the car stops. I have no clue about the destination. All I know is that I should stay far away from that place, those people.

From everything.

Ethan didn’t try to talk to me, and I’m glad for that. I wouldn’t have been able to converse with him even if my life depended on it.

I’m back to being that teenage girl who sat in a dark corner in the safe houses the police took me to. I pulled my knees to my chest and trembled all night, unable to rid the victims’ faces from my mind.

At every trial, their families brought their happy pictures, their toddler albums, their graduation memories — all the things that made them human.

They thrust them in my face and demanded I see how their lives were stolen and could never be retrieved.

In that dark corner, I prayed for their souls. I even asked for forgiveness on Dad’s behalf, but with time, I stopped everything altogether.

I think a part of me died during those excruciatingly long weeks. With every trial, every escape from the media, and every look in Dad’s desolate eyes, pieces of my soul slowly chipped, then scattered.

For eleven years, I’ve been trying to gather them back together again, and just when I thought I finally could, the nightmare rushes back in.

The door opens, and I startle, pushing into Ethan’s side. What if they found me so soon and will now finish what they started eleven years ago?

Maybe my attacker has returned and he’ll drag me back to that eighth grave.

A breath leaves me when I get trapped in those grey eyes. It’s a weird sense of relief, something I never thought I’d feel upon seeing Jonathan.

There’s a crease in the middle of his forehead as if he doesn’t approve of the scene. As proof, he clutches me by the elbow and pulls me out of the car. I stumble, but he catches me against him, his arm wrapping tightly around my waist.

He leans back into the car to glare at Ethan. “Get off my property and don’t show your face here again.”

“A thank you would be nice,” Ethan shoots back.

“You’re lucky that I’m not setting you and your car on fire.”

“If it weren’t for me and my car, Aurora wouldn’t have gotten here in time.”

I gulp, imagining what might’ve happened if I had been caught there on my own. Sure I could’ve escaped, but they could’ve recognised me first, or worse, filmed me and caused some sort of a media ruckus.

“That’s why I’m allowing you to leave intact.” Jonathan slams the door shut.

Ethan lowers the window. “Take care of yourself, Aurora.”

And just like that, the car speeds down the road.

“That fucker.” Jonathan stares at the retreating vehicle.

I’m still shaking, and as much as I want to, I can’t stop. There isn’t anything I want more than to pull myself together and then…what? Run? Disappear? Is that even an option anymore?

Jonathan holds me by my shoulders an arm’s length away and leans down so he can stare me in the eyes. There’s a slight furrow in his brow, only, it’s not his usual disapproval; it’s something similar to concern. “Are you okay?”

Tears gather in my eyes as I shake my head frantically. I don’t attempt to speak, because I have no clue what to say, and something tells me I’d burst out in sobs.

I don’t want Jonathan — or anyone — to see me that way.

“You will be.” His thumb slides under my eyes, gathering the unshed tears and wiping them away. “Do you trust me?”

I stare at him, taken aback by his sudden question.

If he’d asked me that in the past, my answer would’ve been a definite no — especially after I heard Alicia’s message. However, ever since that turned out to be null, there’s been something morbid growing inside me for this man. Maybe trust is part of that?

When I don’t answer, he grabs me by the hand, where the wound is almost healed. “You’ll have to trust me on this one.”

Before I can make out what he means, Jonathan drags me to his car. As soon as we slide inside, Moses drives out at full speed. I physically push back against the seat cushions from the force of it.

Jonathan straps a seatbelt across my chest, then asks Moses, “Is everything set?”