Page 18 of Jagger's Remorse
They file out, but Mel lingers. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "About your father. About... everything."
I catch her hand. "Thank you. You're the first person to say that in five years."
She squeezes back before Tina drags her away.
And now I have an ally.
Or at least, someone who might become one.
Jagger shuts the door, locks it. "That was quite a performance."
"I don't know what you mean."
"The tears. The trembling. The broken bird act." He leans against the door. "Very convincing."
"Maybe because it's not an act." I sit on his bed, pull my knees to my chest. "Maybe I am just a broken girl trying to survive."
"A broken girl who can catalog my weapons by effective range? Who spots my hidden cash in thirty seconds?"
"Trauma makes you observant."
"Trauma makes you careful. Training makes you observant." I let the mask slip slightly. "What do you want me to say? That I spent five years learning to survive? That I know seventeen ways to kill you with items in this room? That the chain on my ankle is decoration because we both know I could leave whenever I want?"
"Then why don't you?"
"Because Pablo didn't sell me. I sold myself." I watch that land, see the confusion in his eyes. "He owes the cartel two million because I made sure he would. Gambling debts to my people. Cocaine habits fed by my suppliers. All leading to this moment."
"You orchestrated your own sale."
"I orchestrated my placement in the one location I needed to be." I stand, move closer to him. "Your room. Your chain. Your protection."
"My protection?"
"You claimed me. That means the others can't touch me without going through you." Closer still, until I can smell his skin. "And you won't let them. Not because you're noble. But because you've been obsessed with me for five years."
"I'm not obsessed?—"
"There's a shrine under your bed." He freezes. "I don't know what?—"
"Newspaper clippings. Photos. The program from my father's funeral."
I reach past him, pull out the box I spotted while cataloging hiding spots. "Obsession, Jagger. Or guilt. Maybe both."
The box contains exactly what I said. Plus things I didn't expect.
My Berkeley ID card—how did he get that?
A pressed vanilla flower from my father's grave.
The obituary, worn soft from handling.
But it's the photos that stop my heart.
Not newspaper photos. Personal ones.
Me at coffee shops. Me at my legal clinic. Me laughing with classmates.
Living my life while he watched from the shadows.
