The burner phone was inside my coat.
Not the one I'd surrendered. The other one—the backup I'd sewn into the lining of a black wool coat three months ago, back when some quiet, surviving part of me had known that a day like this was coming. I'd never told anyone. Not even Indy.
Collin had cut my regular phone off the same night he locked me in. He'd done it with the casual efficiency of a man canceling a subscription. I'd watched the screen go dark and felt nothing except a cold, practical clarity.
I waited four days before I touched the coat.
Four days of Anastasia moving through the penthouse like she was already redecorating. Four days of Collin's footsteps in the hall, pausing sometimes outside my door, never knocking. Four days of bleeding slowly into pads I hid at the bottom of the bathroom trash, covered with tissue, like evidence I needed to destroy.
On the fifth morning, I got up before dawn, went to the closet, and felt along the coat's inner lining until my fingers found the small hard rectangle. I pressed it into my palm. Just held it for a moment.
Then I sat on the bathroom floor, turned the phone on, and typed.
I kept it short. Location. Status. The confinement. The cut phone. I sent it to the relay number Jace's network had given me, then powered the phone off and hid it again inside the lining.
The response came the next morning. I retrieved the phone, read it once, and then sat very still on the cold tile for a long time.
*Take your time. I will be ready whenever you are.*
Eight words. No urgency. No conditions. No price attached.
I pressed my thumbnail into my palm and breathed.
Outside the bathroom window, New York was waking up without me.
---
Anastasia moved against Indy on a Tuesday.
I didn't know it was happening. I found out later, in pieces, the way you find out about things that happen while you're locked in a room with no phone and no windows that open.
What I know is this: she went to Collin with her voice at that particular trembling frequency and told him that Indy Warren—my Indy, who had tended bar in the East Village for six years and told me every truth I'd been too afraid to say to myself—had been encouraging me to leave him. That she'd overheard Indy say something contemptuous about him at her bar. That Indy was a problem.
Collin solved problems the way he solved everything. Completely.
Indy was fired by the end of the day. By the end of the week, every bar and restaurant in New York that mattered had quietly been informed she was not to be hired. His reach in this city was total and he used all of it. When the blacklist still didn't feel like enough—when Indy didn't disappear quietly the way she was supposed to—he found her brother. A junior at NYU. A scholarship that could be revoked with one phone call to the right person.
Indy went silent.
But she didn't comply. Those are two different things, and Indy had always understood the difference.
---
The message came through Jace's relay eleven days into my confinement.
I retrieved the phone in the early morning dark, sat on the bathroom floor with my back against the cold tub, and read it.
It wasn't long. It didn't need to be.
*I'm still here. I'm still fighting.*
No signature. She didn't need one. I knew her voice in six words the way I knew my own heartbeat.
I sat there for a long time with the phone in my hands and the message on the screen. The penthouse was quiet around me. Somewhere down the hall, Collin was asleep. Anastasia was asleep. They were sleeping in the same bed in the same room where I had once waited up until four in the morning for a man who never came home.
I didn't cry for myself. I had already done that, in a recovery room with a paper pillow and no one holding my hand. I had already spent that grief.
I cried for Indy. For what my friendship had cost her. For the scholarship threat hanging over a boy who had nothing to do with any of this. For the six years of her life she had spent telling me the truth when I wasn't ready to hear it, and the way Collin had taken even that from her without a second thought.
I pressed my thumbnail into my palm. Felt the small sharp sting.
Then I powered the phone off, hid it back inside the lining of the coat, and stood up.
The bathroom mirror showed me my own face in the dark. Thirty-two years old. Quiet. Still.
Indy was still fighting from the shadows. Jace was building something I couldn't yet see. And I was standing in a locked room in a penthouse that had never been mine, bleeding less than I had been yesterday, breathing steadily, waiting.
I was still here too.
