Page 19 of Client Privilege

I pulled out my wallet, counting what remained of my cash. After the subway fare and yesterday’s meal, I had $327 left. My fingers trembled as I counted out bills.

“I’ll take it for a week,” I said, sliding $200 through the slot in the barrier.

The man finally looked up, eyebrows raised. “Week? Most people don’t stay past morning.”

“I need a week,” I repeated, hating the desperation in my voice.

He shrugged, took the money, and pushed a registration card toward me. “ID?”

My stomach dropped. My wallet, which was locked in Marcus’s safe, still held my driver’s license. If Marcus started calling motels…

“Lost it,” I lied. “Got mugged last week.”

He gave me a long look, then glanced at the security camera in the corner. “Look, I don’t care what you’re running from, but I need a name for the registry.”

I hesitated, then wrote “James Smith” on the card, along with a fake address.

“Room twenty-three,” he said, sliding a key attached to a plastic fob across the counter. “End of the hall, away from the street. No refunds, no visitors after 11, no drugs in the common areas.”

The implication that drugs in the room were acceptable wasn’t reassuring.

Room twenty-three was exactly what I expected—a sagging double bed with a bedspread I didn’t want to examine too closely, stained carpet, a TV heavily bolted to the wall, and a bathroom with cracked tiles and a shower that dripped continuously. But it had a deadbolt, a chain lock, and a small window too high for anyone to climb through easily.

I wedged the room’s single chair under the doorknob, then sank onto the edge of the bed, exhaustion hitting me like a physical blow. I’d spent $200 of my remaining cash. That left $127 for food for the week. About $18 a day.

My phone buzzed. A text from Damian. I stared at the message, guilt washing over me. He was trying to help, and I’d run without a word. I texted back:

Three dots appeared immediately:

I hesitated. If I told him where I was, he might insist on coming here, to this dangerous neighbourhood,this disgusting room. Or worse, try to convince me to go somewhere else, somewhere that would leave a paper trailMarcuscould follow:

The three dots appeared and disappeared several times before his reply camethrough:

I set my phone to silent and curled up on the bed, not bothering to get under the covers. I’d stopped turning it off, now that Damian would reach out to me directly. I didn’t want to miss his messages or calls when they came through, as important as they were. The distant sounds of traffic, arguments, and sirens filtered through the thin walls. So different from the penthouse I’d shared with Marcus, with its soundproofed rooms and Egyptian cotton sheets.

My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since morning. There was a vending machine in the hallway I’d passed, but I couldn’t waste money on overpriced chips. I’d need to find the cheapest food possible to stretch my $127.

As I lay there, I realized I’d left my sketchbook at the shelter. The thought sent a wave of loss through me more acute than I expected. That book contained the only pieces of myself I’d managed to preserve during the past three years—sketches done in secret when Marcus was away, hidden between mattress and box spring.

Now Marcus probably had them. Another piece of me in his possession.

I pulled the thin pillow over my head, trying to block out both the external noise and my own thoughts. Tomorrow I’d figure out food. Tomorrow I’d contact Damian about the case. Tomorrow I’d worry about what came next.

Tonight, I just needed to disappear.

THE MEDICAL RECORDSread like a horror story.

I stared at the sterile hospital reports spread across Damian’s polished conference table, each page another chapter in the destruction of my body. Clinical language described my injuries with detached precision:

“Multiple contusions in various stages of healing, indicating repeated trauma over time.”

“Hairline fracture of the seventh rib, left side.”

“Defensive wounds on forearms consistent with victim shielding face from blows. Evidence of sexual assault, patient refused rape kit.”

My stomach churned as I forced myself to continue reading. The most recent hospital visit—the night I finally ran—was documented in excruciating detail. Internal bleeding. Concussion. Three broken ribs. Ruptured spleen. The attending physician had noted “patient exhibits signs consistent with long-term physical and sexual abuse” and had recommended a psych consult and social services intervention.

I’d fled before either could happen.

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