Forgiveness, Trust & Forever

Hero

Emily blocked Ava.
Just like that.
One thumb.
One breath.
No shaking.
No flinch.
No dramatic speech for the room to admire.
Blocked.
For one second, nobody moved.
Then Jen, still on speaker, said, "That was satisfying, but she'll use another number."
Emily looked down at Eleanora asleep against her.
"I know."
"Good."
"I'm not stupid."
"No," Jen said. "You're angry in a useful direction. I enjoy it."
Emily almost smiled.
Almost.
Then her face went flat again, because grief did that. Gave you one breath of humour, then dragged you back by the throat.
Brandon's voice still lived in the room.
Not literally.
The audio had ended.
The phone was dark.
Titan had hung up.
But I could hear it anyway.
Tell her our Boo better be stubborn.
Our Boo.
I looked at my daughter.
She was asleep between Emily's arms, face turned into her jumper, lashes damp from earlier crying, one tiny hand caught in the collar like she had claimed Emily and had no intention of negotiating.
Stubborn.
Yes.
She had to be.
She had come at thirty weeks.
She had lived in NICU.
She had known the sound of machines before lullabies.
She had gripped my finger through an incubator opening while I whispered absolute nonsense to her because I didn't know what fathers were supposed to say to daughters who could fit under one hand.
She had come home to a mother who was still bleeding, still terrified, still halfway outside her own body.
She had survived all of us.
Of course she was stubborn.
She had to be.
Officer Grant stood near the door with Emily's phone in an evidence sleeve, though he had not taken it fully away. Jen had given him a lecture about chain of custody, practical safeguarding, and "not making my client unreachable while a deranged woman with multiple burner numbers is actively taunting her."
I liked Jen.
I feared Jen.
Both.
Officer Grant looked at Emily carefully.
"Ms Dean, we'll have a unit check the area again. The new messages suggest Ava may still be watching for your reactions, whether directly or through someone else."
Emily's arms tightened around Eleanora.
"Watching how?"
"We don't know yet."
She laughed once.
No humour.
"That's becoming everyone's favourite answer."
"I know."
At least he had the decency to hate saying it.
I moved closer to Emily, slowly enough that she could stop me if she wanted.
She didn't.
I stood beside her, close but not touching.
Not this time.
I wanted to touch her constantly now.
Not in the old way.
Not only in the old way.
I wanted to anchor her by the waist, the wrist, the shoulder, the smallest contact that said I was here, here, here, and would not let anything else reach her first.
But wanting was not permission.
I was learning that too late.
Officer Grant's radio crackled.
He stepped into the hallway.
Emily looked at the closed door after him.
Then down at Eleanora.
Then at me.
"She'll send it to the press."
My stomach hardened.
"The photo?"
"Photos." Her eyes did not blink. "The video. The chair. The thirty-week labour picture. Brandon, if she finds more. Me in the nursery. Maybe me crying. Maybe me talking to Boo. Maybe me saying things I don't remember saying."
I swallowed.
"We don't know there's video with sound."
"She had a camera, Hero."
"That doesn't mean-"
"Don't."
The word cut cleanly.
I stopped.
She looked at me.
Her eyes were wet but furious.
"Do not optimism me."
"I wasn't."
"You were about to."
I had been.
Not because I believed it.
Because I couldn't stand seeing her forced to imagine more violation.
That wasn't comfort.
That was cowardice dressed as hope.
"You're right," I said.
She blinked.
Still not used to that.
Neither was I.
"We prepare like she has everything," I said. "We hope she doesn't. But we prepare."
Emily's face changed.
Less defensive.
More focused.
"Yes."
Jen's voice came from the phone. "That's correct."
Emily glared at the speaker. "I hate when you approve of us."
"It's important to reward growth."
"I'm going to hang up on you."
"No, you aren't. You need me."
"I hate that too."
"Also growth."
I almost smiled.
Then regretted it because my split lip pulled.
Emily noticed immediately.
"Sit down."
"I'm fine."
The entire room seemed to inhale in rage.
Jen said, "Hero."
Emily said, "Banned sentence."
Officer Grant called from the hall, "Mr Tiffin, you should sit."
Even the police had turned on me.
Unfair.
I sat.
Slowly.
Badly.
My ribs screamed as if they had been waiting all morning for an audience.
Emily watched me with narrowed eyes.
"You need urgent care."
"We already called 111."
"You need to be seen."
"There is a national lockdown."
"There is also an injured idiot in my living room."
Jen said, "Medical documentation may also be useful for the assault case."
Emily pointed at the phone. "See? Legal says suffer administratively."
"I'm not leaving you and Eleanora."
The room went quiet.
Emily looked at me.
There it was.
The real reason.
Not pain.
Not stubbornness.
Fear.
If I left the building, even for treatment, something would happen. Ava would arrive. The press would surge. Emily would vanish into herself. Eleanora would cry and I wouldn't be there to take her. Another photo would come. Another truth would tear open.
I knew it was irrational.
I knew police were here.
Security was outside.
Jen was on the phone.
Titan was probably driving in circles around Winchester despite all of us telling him not to.
But my body did not care about rational.
My body remembered NICU.
Leaving Eleanora's incubator for ten minutes and coming back convinced the numbers would have changed.
My body remembered court.
Letting Emily walk out and not knowing whether she would ever look at our daughter again.
My body remembered the garage.
Hayden's fist.
Emily screaming upstairs.
Eleanora crying behind a barricaded nursery door.
I was not leaving.
Emily's face softened in the most dangerous way.
Understanding.
"You can't stay standing between us and every bad thing forever," she said.
"I can try."
"You'll die of cracked ribs and male arrogance by lunchtime."
"Statistically unlikely."
"Emotionally plausible."
Jen muttered, "I'd sign that death certificate."
I ignored her.
Emily shifted Eleanora higher against her chest.
Our daughter slept through it, mouth slightly open, her little cheek squashed.
"You told me ten minutes," Emily said.
I frowned.
"What?"
"When she cried all night. When I said I didn't know how. You said ten minutes. Then another."
My throat tightened.
"Yes."
"So do that."
I stared at her.
She swallowed.
"Go for ten minutes."
"It won't be ten minutes."
"It's a concept, Hero, not a stopwatch."
"I know, but-"
"No." Her voice shook, then steadied. "You go get checked. Officer Grant stays. Security stays. Jen stays on the phone. Your mum calls every seven seconds. Titan probably climbs through a hedge. Eleanora stays with me."
My chest clenched.
Emily saw it.
Her face flickered.
Hurt.
Of course.
Because a part of me still reacted.
Still doubted.
Still panicked at the thought of leaving our daughter only with her.
I hated myself for it.
But I couldn't lie it away.
Emily looked down at Eleanora.
"You don't trust me alone with her."
"Emily."
"Don't make it pretty."
I closed my eyes.
The room held its breath.
When I opened them, she was still watching me.
Waiting for truth.
So I gave it to her.
"I trust you more today than I did yesterday."
Her face went still.
"And less than I want to."
The words hurt her.
I saw them hit.
But she didn't crumble.
She nodded once.
"Okay."
"Em-"
"No. That's fair." Her voice was tight. "That's... fair."
"It's not a punishment."
"I know."
"I'm scared."
"I know."
"For her."
"I know."
"For you too."
That made her eyes lift.
"I don't know what Ava sending more things will do to you while I'm not here," I admitted.
Emily's mouth trembled.
Then she looked down at Eleanora.
"I don't know either."
There it was.
The truth neither of us could soften.
Jen stayed quiet.
Bless her.
Officer Grant returned to the doorway and seemed to sense he had walked into something private. He stayed by the hall.
Emily inhaled.
"One hour," she said.
I blinked.
"What?"
"You go to urgent care. Or whatever 111 said. Officer Grant can advise. You have one hour. If they need longer, you text. If you need hospital, you tell me. If you don't go, I will phone your mother and tell her you're being brave."
"That's cruel."
"That's parenting."
Our eyes caught on the word.
Parenting.
Not his parenting.
Not mine.
Just the thing in the room between us.
Ugly.
Tender.
Unfinished.
I nodded slowly.
"One hour."
Jen cut in. "I support this plan, provided police consider the movement safe."
Officer Grant nodded. "We can coordinate. With lockdown, urgent medical travel is allowed. We'll arrange for an officer to remain here. Security will stay outside. Mr Tiffin can attend minor injuries or urgent treatment depending on advice."
Emily looked at me.
"See?"
"I hate democracy."
"This isn't democracy. This is everyone being right and you being concussed in spirit."
"I'm not concussed."
"Didn't say body. Said spirit."
I wanted to laugh.
I wanted to kiss her.
I did neither.
Instead, I looked at Eleanora.
"She'll need a bottle soon."
Emily's face did something complicated.
Fear first.
Then determination.
"I know."
"The formula is in the kitchen."
"I know."
"Sterilised bottles are-"
"In the cupboard next to the sink. You told me yesterday. Then again at three in the morning. Then I did it myself."
I shut my mouth.
She raised one eyebrow.
"Would you like to explain nappies to me next?"
"No."
"You look like you do."
"I'm fighting it."
"Win."
Jen made a quiet laughing sound.
Officer Grant stared very professionally at the wall.
Emily's eyes softened despite herself.
"She'll cry when she wakes."
"Probably."
"I might panic."
"Probably."
"She might want you."
"Maybe."
Emily swallowed.
"And I'll still be here."
I looked at her.
Really looked.
Eleanora's fingers curled in her sleep against Emily's collar.
Emily was pale and exhausted, eyes red, hair messy, jumper wrinkled under the weight of our daughter. She looked nothing like the woman in court. Nothing like the woman the papers wanted. Nothing like the villain I had built when anger needed somewhere to live.
She looked terrified.
She looked like a mother.
She had looked like one at thirty weeks too.
Ava had sent proof.
The stupid, vicious irony of that almost made me laugh.
Instead, I stood carefully.
"Okay."
Emily blinked.
Clearly, she had expected more argument.
So had I.
"Okay?" she asked.
"Yes."
"That easy?"
"No."
"Good."
I reached into my pocket for my keys, then remembered police still had half my things in evidence photos. I found them on the side table beside Anna's security envelope.
My hand shook slightly when I picked them up.
Emily saw.
So did I.
For a second, every fear in me clawed upward.
What if leaving was the wrong choice?
What if Ava was waiting?
What if this was the gap she wanted?
What if Emily spiralled?
What if Eleanora woke screaming and Emily heard NICU in it and froze?
What if, what if, what if.
Emily stepped closer.
Not fully.
Just enough.
"Hero."
I looked at her.
"I won't run."
My whole body went still.
She swallowed.
"I might fall apart. I might cry. I might need Jen to talk at me like a hostage negotiator. I might call your mum and regret it instantly. But I won't run with her. I won't leave her. I won't give her to anyone. I won't open the door."
My throat burned.
"And if Ava sends something?" I asked.
"I give it to Officer Grant."
"If press come?"
"I don't go near the windows."
"If Mimi asks to come in?"
"No."
"If Jo-"
"No."
"If Hayden-"
"Hero."
"I know."
Her face softened.
"If I need you, I'll call."
I nodded once.
Then again.
Like my body needed repetition to believe it.
"Okay."
Eleanora stirred then, as if offended by the seriousness.
Her eyes opened halfway.
Sleepy.
Unimpressed.
She looked at me.
Then at Emily.
Then made a tiny grumbling noise and tucked her face back into Emily's chest.
Emily froze.
I froze too.
Because that was not nothing.
That was choice.
Small.
Sleepy.
Possibly accidental.
Still choice.
Emily's eyes filled.
"Did she just reject you?"
I stared at my daughter.
"Rudely."
Emily's mouth trembled.
"She has taste."
"She has betrayal in her blood."
"That's from your side."
"Bold."
Eleanora huffed against her.
I reached out slowly and touched the back of her head with two fingers.
"Be good for Mummy."
The word left me before I could stop it.
Mummy.
I had not called Emily that to Eleanora before.
Not properly.
Not where she could hear.
Not without bitterness or caution wrapped around it.
Emily went completely still.
So did I.
Jen was silent.
Officer Grant definitely pretended to read his notebook.
Eleanora did not care.
She blinked heavily and breathed a warm little sigh into Emily's jumper.
Emily looked at me.
Her eyes were wide.
Wounded.
Not badly.
Like something tender had been knocked.
I almost apologised.
Then stopped.
Maybe not every new thing needed an apology.
Maybe some things needed air.
"I-" I began.
Emily shook her head.
"Don't take it back."
My heart cracked.
"I won't."
Her eyes lowered to Eleanora.
She whispered it like she was testing a language she had once thought was forbidden.
"Mummy's here."
I had to look away.
Immediately.
The room blurred.
My daughter was asleep in her mother's arms while the woman I loved told her she was here.
It did not fix NICU.
It did not erase the empty chair.
It did not undo the birth certificate, the court case, the adoption plan, the nights I spent hating Emily while Eleanora screamed into my shirt.
But it existed.
Here.
Now.
A thing we had not had before.
Officer Grant cleared his throat gently.
"Mr Tiffin, whenever you're ready."
I laughed once, raw.
"I'm not."
Emily's mouth twitched.
"Go anyway."
I nodded.
I leaned down to kiss Eleanora's head, then stopped and looked at Emily.
She understood the question.
"Yes."
I kissed our daughter's hair.
Soft.
Warm.
Mine.
Then I looked at Emily.
No question this time.
I did not try to kiss her.
Not her mouth.
Not her forehead.
Nothing that would ask too much.
I just said, "I'll come back."
Her face flickered.
Maybe because once, years ago, we both had said things like that and failed.
Maybe because coming back was never simple with us.
Maybe because today it mattered.
She nodded.
"You'd better."
I picked up my coat.
My ribs objected.
My shoulder joined in.
My face hurt because apparently smiling and being punched were incompatible hobbies.
Jen said, "Hero?"
I looked at the phone.
"Yes?"
"Do not speak to press. Do not answer studio. Do not call Jo. Do not text Anna unless medical. Send me treatment notes after."
"Anything else?"
"Yes. Try not to make your face worse. It's commercially relevant."
Emily snorted.
I pointed at the phone. "Cruel."
"Accurate."
Officer Grant opened the flat door.
I took one last look.
Emily stood in the living room with Eleanora in her arms, police behind her, Jen in the speaker, security outside, the nursery closed down the hall.
She looked scared.
She looked furious.
She looked like she might break and rebuild herself in the same minute.
She looked like Emily Dean.
I left before I couldn't.
The stairwell smelled like dust, rain, and old paint.
Clara-Bellas below was too quiet.
No music.
No tiny feet.
No Emily shouting counts over a song.
Just police radios and the muffled sound of men checking locks.
I paused at the bottom of the stairs.
The corridor light overhead flickered once.
The same corridor where they had found old adhesive residue.
The place between her studio and her flat.
Her public life and her private one.
Ava had put an eye there too.
Maybe.
A sensor.
A camera.
A warning.
My hand tightened on the railing.
The same railing Ava had touched years ago when I was upstairs with a head injury I barely remembered and Titan had told her to let go.
She had never let go.
That was the problem.
Not really.
Not of me.
Not of Emily.
Not of any version of herself she had invented where she was the wronged woman in every room.
Officer Grant watched me from the landing.
"You okay?"
"No."
He nodded.
Fair.
We continued downstairs.
The studio opened around me.
Clara-Bellas looked wrong full of uniforms.
The mirrors reflected officers in masks, a security man in dark clothing, evidence markers near the corridor, the empty reception desk, a rack of tiny ballet shoes Emily had probably straightened a hundred times with hands that pretended not to shake.
This was her life.
Not the headlines.
Not me.
Not court.
This.
She had built something here.
Ava had entered it.
Hayden had entered it.
The press had circled it.
Mimi had exposed it.
Jo had pointed towards it.
And still the place stood.
Pink noticeboard.
Scuffed floor.
Hand sanitiser by the door now because the whole world had changed overnight.
A sign in Emily's handwriting:
Clara-Bellas closed until further notice. Stay safe, dancers. Keep stretching. Miss E x
I stared at the sign for too long.
Officer Grant followed my gaze.
"She writes like a teacher," he said.
"She is one."
He nodded.
"Good one?"
I looked at the sign.
The little heart after the x.
The handwriting I knew so well I could feel it in my chest.
"The best."
My voice broke slightly.
I hated that.
Officer Grant was kind enough to ignore it.
At the front door, another officer opened the way.
Rain moved in.
Cold.
Grey.
Winchester under lockdown had a strange silence to it, like the city was holding a hand over its mouth.
A marked police car sat near the entrance.
The security man stood at the gate with a clipboard.
Beyond him, across the road, a photographer lifted a camera.
One.
Maybe two.
Not the swarm from before.
Lockdown had thinned them.
Not removed them.
They were like rats that way.
Officer Grant stepped into their line of sight.
"Keep moving," he called.
The photographer took one shot anyway.
Of course he did.
Me bruised.
Leaving Clara-Bellas with police.
Perfect.
A headline waiting to be dressed.
I felt the old instinct rise.
Smile.
Control.
Look unfazed.
Make it easier for someone else to sell you.
Then I thought of Emily upstairs, holding Eleanora, telling her Mummy's here.
I looked directly at the photographer and did not smile.
Not angry enough to feed him.
Not wounded enough to satisfy him.
Just blank.
Done.
The officer guided me towards the car.
Then someone called my name.
Not press.
A woman's voice.
Hoarse.
Broken.
"Hero."
I turned before Officer Grant could stop me.
Mimi stood behind another officer down the road, hood up, face pale and rain-streaked. She looked smaller than usual. Less like Emily's sister and more like a girl who had broken something expensive and only just realised it had been alive.
Officer Grant shifted.
"You don't have to speak to her."
I knew.
I should not have.
Emily had said Mimi did not come inside.
Emily had not said I couldn't speak to her outside.
Still.
This was dangerous.
Mimi looked at me like she expected hatred.
She deserved some.
I had plenty.
But Brandon's voicemail had changed the air.
Not forgiven.
Never that quickly.
Just changed.
I stayed where I was.
"What?"
Mimi flinched at my tone.
Good.
"I didn't know about the camera."
My jaw tightened.
"No one thinks you installed it."
Her face crumpled.
"That doesn't make it better."
"No."
Rain ran down her cheek, mixing with tears.
"I told Ava about the nursery because I wanted someone to know Emily wasn't what the papers said."
"Then you chose the worst person alive to know it."
"I know."
"You told her about Boo."
Mimi's mouth trembled.
"I know."
"You told her about Brandon."
Her eyes closed.
"I didn't mean-"
"Stop saying that."
She opened her eyes.
"I'm sorry."
I looked at her.
All I could see for a second was Emily hearing Brandon's voicemail for the first time, holding our daughter while another stolen thing returned too late.
"You deleted his message."
Mimi recoiled.
So Titan had not told her we knew.
Good.
Let it hit clean.
"I thought it would destroy her," Mimi whispered.
"That wasn't your choice."
"I know that now."
"You knew it then."
She broke.
Not dramatically.
Just a little collapse in her shoulders.
"Yes."
There it was.
Truth.
Too late, but truth.
"I knew it then," she said. "But she was bleeding through her clothes and shaking and refusing to eat and refusing to go to NICU, and Brandon sounded so sick, and I thought if she heard him loving the baby, she'd either run to the hospital and tear herself open or disappear completely."
Her voice cracked.
"So I deleted it."
I stared at her.
I hated her.
I understood her.
Both.
God, I was tired of both.
"You sent it to Titan."
She nodded.
"I couldn't delete him completely."
The rain kept falling.
Behind me, the photographer tried to shift for a better angle. Officer Grant blocked him without being asked.
Mimi wiped her face.
"Does Emily know?"
"Yes."
Her eyes filled again.
"Does she hate me?"
I thought of Emily laughing when Ava's screenshot showed Mimi trying, too late, to stop Brandon being used.
I thought of Emily saying Mimi was still, somewhere in the wreckage, hers.
I thought of the way Emily had said Mimi did not come inside the building where her daughter was.
"Yes," I said.
Mimi flinched.
"And no."
Her breath hitched.
"That sounds like her."
"It does."
"I need to tell her-"
"You don't need to tell her anything unless she asks."
Mimi nodded quickly, like the instruction itself hurt but she was grateful for something to do with her hands.
"Give police everything," I said.
"I am."
"Not almost everything. Not everything you think won't hurt her. Everything."
Her face crumpled again.
"I know."
"No." I stepped closer, ignoring the way Officer Grant tensed. "You don't get to decide what destroys Emily anymore."
Mimi stared at me.
Rain in her lashes.
Shame all over her face.
Then she nodded.
"You're right."
I almost didn't know what to do with that.
People agreeing with me when I was angry usually made me worse.
This just made me tired.
"Mimi," I said.
She looked up.
"If Ava contacts you again, you don't answer. You don't try to reason with her. You don't defend Emily. You don't send one single word."
"I won't."
"You send it to police and Jen."
"Yes."
"And if you remember anything from the agency, anyone who gave Ava numbers, old addresses, gossip, anything-"
"I'll tell them."
I nodded.
Then turned away.
"Hero."
I stopped.
Mimi's voice broke.
"She was never a monster."
I did not turn back.
"I know."
My voice sounded rough.
"I knew too late. But I know."
Then I walked to the police car before either of us could say anything else.
The drive to urgent care took less than fifteen minutes.
It felt like leaving my skin behind.
Every road away from Clara-Bellas was wrong.
Every red light too long.
Every empty pavement too quiet.
The officer in the front seat said nothing.
I appreciated that.
My phone buzzed five times before we reached the clinic.
Mum.
Anna.
Jen.
Mum again.
Then Emily.
My heart stopped when her name appeared.
I opened it so fast my ribs protested.
She woke up. I made the bottle. She screamed because I was apparently too slow. Drank half. Threw the bottle lid at my foot. Currently chewing rabbit ear. Alive. Angry. Fine.
A photo followed.
Not of Eleanora's face.
Just her tiny hand gripping the battered rabbit.
Emily's knee in the corner of the frame.
The living room rug.
Safe.
I stared at it.
My eyes burned.
Another message came.
Don't cry in a police car. It's embarrassing.
I laughed.
The officer glanced back.
I didn't care.
I typed with shaking fingers.
Too late.
She replied immediately.
Idiot.
Then:
Get checked. Come back.
I looked out at grey Winchester through the rain-streaked window.
For the first time since stepping out of the flat, I breathed properly.
Not because everything was safe.
It wasn't.
Not because I trusted the world.
I didn't.
Because Emily had sent me proof she was staying.
Not a promise made in fear.
A bottle.
A rabbit.
A baby angry at being fed too slowly.
Motherhood in its least cinematic form.
Perfect.
At urgent care, they took me through faster because police had called ahead and because apparently my face looked "concerning," which I felt was rude but accurate.
A nurse checked my lip.
My jaw.
My ribs.
She asked how it happened.
"Assault."
"Police involved?"
"Yes."
She looked at the officer outside the curtain.
"Good."
She pressed along my side, and I nearly saw God.
"Pain there?"
"No, I always make that noise."
She gave me a look Emily would have respected.
"Mr Tiffin."
"Yes. Pain."
"Breathing okay?"
"Mostly."
"Dizzy?"
"No."
"Nausea?"
"No."
"Head injury?"
"Not today."
She paused.
I realised how that sounded.
"Sorry."
She looked at my chart.
"Bruised ribs likely. Could be a minor crack. We don't routinely X-ray unless complications. You need rest, ice, regular pain relief, and if breathing worsens, chest pain increases, or you cough blood, you seek urgent help. Understood?"
"Yes."
"You also need to avoid being punched again."
"Working on it."
She did not laugh.
Tough crowd.
She cleaned the split in my lip and checked my jaw movement. No fracture suspected. Shoulder bruised. Ribs miserable. Ego irrelevant.
Then she asked the question I had been avoiding.
"Do you feel safe going back?"
I almost said yes automatically.
Then stopped.
Emily's voice in my head.
Do not make it pretty.
"No," I said.
The nurse looked at me.
"But I'm safer going back than staying away."
She nodded like that made more sense than it should have.
Maybe nurses heard everything.
Maybe nothing surprised them.
She handed me discharge advice and a pack of sterile wipes for my lip.
"Take care of yourself."
I thought of Emily telling Eleanora Mummy's here.
"I'm trying."
When I got back into the police car, I had three more messages.
Anna:
Studio legal is backing off temporarily. Director furious. Good.
Jen:
Do not give comment on medical visit. Press may frame it as Hayden assault. Let them. We'll correct only if necessary.
Mum:
Your father is pretending not to worry by making soup. Come home later if safe. Bring Emily and Nora if she agrees. Do not argue with me.
Then Emily:
She's asleep again. I did not run. You did not die. Ten minutes works. Annoying.
I stared at that one for a long time.
The officer started the car.
I typed:
Another ten?
Her reply came while we pulled away from urgent care.
Already doing it.
I closed my eyes.
Brandon's voice drifted up from memory.
Our Boo better be stubborn.
Emily was stubborn too.
Maybe that was why he loved them both.
The car turned back towards Clara-Bellas.
Towards police tape.
Towards Ava.
Towards a building with new locks being fitted and old ghosts still sitting in the nursery chair.
Towards Emily.
Towards my daughter.
Towards whatever we were now.
Not together.
Not apart.
Not safe.
But trying in ten-minute pieces.
And for the first time all day, leaving had not meant losing them.
It had meant trusting Emily to stay.
When we pulled onto her road, the photographer was gone.
Security stood at the gate.
Police remained at the rear access.
The rain had slowed to a mist.
The officer let me out.
I looked up at the flat window.
Curtains closed.
Light on behind them.
Home, I thought.
Then stopped myself.
Not mine.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever in the way I wanted.
But Eleanora was inside.
Emily was inside.
And some part of me, the part I had left behind in boxes and jackets and old scripts and grief, had never fully left anyway.
I walked through the gate.
Up the stairs.
Past the corridor where a camera might once have watched.
To the flat door.
Before I could knock, Emily opened it with the chain still on.
Her face appeared in the gap.
Pale.
Tired.
Beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with beauty.
"You're late," she said.
I checked the time.
"By four minutes."
"Careless."
"Medical professionals insisted on touching my ribs."
"Did you cry?"
"No."
Her eyes narrowed.
"A little internally."
"Acceptable."
She closed the door, unlatched the chain, and opened it properly.
Eleanora was awake on her hip, rabbit in one hand, hair wild from sleep. She looked at me with solemn, suspicious eyes.
Then she reached.
For me this time.
Emily saw it.
Her face flickered.
Pain.
Then something else.
She handed her over without hesitation.
That mattered too.
Every exchange mattered now.
Eleanora came into my arms with a soft grunt, immediately pressing her hand against my bruised jaw.
"Ow," I whispered.
Emily's mouth twitched.
"She's checking your injuries."
"She's making them worse."
"She takes after me."
"Obviously."
Eleanora patted my face again.
Then turned her head and reached back towards Emily with the rabbit.
Not choosing one.
Moving between both.
Mine.
Hers.
Ours.
Emily stared at the rabbit offered to her.
Then took one ear gently.
"Thank you, Boo."
Our daughter released it and leaned back against me.
Satisfied.
Emily's eyes filled.
I said nothing.
I was learning.
She locked the door behind me.
Chain.
Bolt.
New temporary latch the security man had fitted while I was gone.
Then she turned.
"Jen called."
My stomach dropped.
"What now?"
Emily's face changed.
Not panic.
Not fear.
Something colder.
"She traced the sender pattern. Burner numbers, yes, but one message came through badly routed. Location ping isn't exact."
I held Eleanora tighter.
"How close?"
Emily looked towards the rear of the flat.
"Close enough that police are searching the lane behind Clara-Bellas."
The room seemed to tilt.
I looked at the back windows.
Curtains closed.
Safe.
Maybe.
Then from downstairs, a radio crackled.
Footsteps moved fast.
Officer Grant's voice rose, muffled through the floor.
"Rear lane. Now."
Emily's eyes met mine.
Eleanora went still in my arms, sensing the shift.
Then the intercom buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Not the front gate.
The rear entrance.
Emily's face went white.
On the tiny screen by the door, the rear camera flickered.
Static.
Rain.
Brick wall.
Then a hooded figure stepped close enough for the lens to catch a mouth.
A smile.
Ava's voice crackled through the speaker.
"Miss me?"