The first thing Erica notices is the smell. Not foul, not dirty - just... still.
The air carries the stale bite of bleach, layered over something older - like fear that never quite aired out.
Curtains are drawn tight over the windows.
Light filters in only through the cracks, cutting across the dusty hardwood like blades.
Christine’s apartment is small, a railroad-style unit with the kitchen straight ahead and a narrow hallway snaking toward the back.
A fold-out couch remains half-open, blanketed in a tangle of sheets and an old hoodie.
A laptop glows dimly on the coffee table, surrounded by takeout containers and half-drunk cans of soda.
On the wall above the couch, sticky notes are clustered like warnings - reminders, maybe affirmations: "Breathe." "You are not crazy." "Stay inside."
Her work setup - a collapsible table shoved against the wall - looks like it hasn’t been touched in days.
A headset rests atop a keyboard like a forgotten relic.
The chair sits slightly off-center, there’s unopened mail and bags with trash she may have wanted to take out but couldn’t get herself to actually doing it.
Her hands buried deep in the kangaroo pocket of her oversized hoodie, Christine moves through the space without urgency, without apology.
She doesn’t offer Erica a seat.
Erica doesn’t press. She understands this kind of space.
Trauma lingers here - in the corners, in the clutter, in the quiet.
No vanity – only survival.
She knows she’ll have to tread carefully.
This isn’t just a woman who was hurt.
It’s a woman still bleeding, even if the wounds aren’t visible.
She can tell by Christine’s eyes darting around, even here in her own place, her hunched shoulders.
~~~
“I’m not… good with people right now,” Christine mutters, pulling the hoodie tighter around her face. “So, just say what you came to say.”
“I understand,” Erica says gently.
She doesn’t move to sit.
Doesn’t scan the place.
Her voice stays low, steady. “Thank you for letting me in.”
Christine’s arms wrap around her as if trying to hold herself together.
Her gaze flicks to the side, not quite meeting Erica’s eyes.
“I’m not here to force anything,” Erica continues. “But I wanted to tell you about someone. Her name’s Lucy Arden.”
The name seems to hang in the room for a moment.
Christine gives a slight, almost imperceptible flinch.
“She’s a client of mine,” Erica says. “A regular girl, 24 years old, works at a grocery store. She met Gary Loudon at a bar a couple of weeks ago. They talked, laughed, he was charming. Funny. Smart.”
Christine doesn’t speak, but her breathing has changed - quieter, tighter.
“He texted her if she’d like to hang out and she agreed. He picked her up in his cool car, took her to a cool place. Made her feel important.” Erica takes a quick look at Christine. She’s listening, biting the inside of her cheek.
“He asked her if she’d want to continue the night at his place. She said yes and went along, but she didn’t expect to be locked in.”
She pauses.
Christine blinks slowly.
Her jaw clenches.
“At first it went as she figured it would. Then he started to get rough. She cried, he took her phone. Then - over the next two days - he kept her there. Tied her up, gagged her. He…”
Erica stops herself.
Her voice catches, not from emotion, but from the weight of what she knows must be said.
“He forced himself on her. Multiple times over the course of the weekend. Hurt her. Humiliated her. And when he finally let her go, she was lucky that a cop took her to the hospital.”
Erica lets the silence stretch.
Christine’s shoulders are trembling.
She exhales like it hurts.
“He said she made it up. That it was just a messy hookup. That she was bitter.”
Erica takes a step closer, slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal.
“But her injuries didn’t lie. She pressed charges, but then… when the police talked to Loudon… he called her. Threatened her. She withdrew.”
Christine’s eyes glisten.
Her hands have moved - wrung tightly together, thumbs rubbing each other raw.
“I didn’t come to ask you for a statement,” Erica says. “I came because I think you know what it feels like. To be silenced. To be told that your pain is a lie.”
Christine gasps - a sound that’s halfway to a sob - and covers her mouth.
“That’s what he did to me,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “That’s exactly what he did to me.”
She backs away from the wall, one hand bracing against the table.
Her whole body is shaking now.
Christine trembles.
Her spine curls inward, breath hitching as though her lungs just remembered what it felt like to scream.
“He… he invited me over after dinner. Said he liked my art. Said he wanted to commission something. I thought… I thought it was real.”
Erica stays rooted, listening.
“He was so charming at first. So careful. And then it turned. So fast.” Christine’s voice cracks. “He locked the door. He called me names... like I should be grateful he picked me.”
Tears stream down her face now. She doesn’t wipe them away.
“I said no. I said stop. But he didn’t…” Her voice rises. “And when it was over, he made me stay. All weekend. Like it was some twisted game.”
Erica’s throat tightens.
She doesn’t say anything, lets Christine get the pain out of her system.
“I pressed charges. I did. The detective said they’d talk to him. And then - then he called me.” Christine’s hands ball into fists. “He said if I didn’t drop it, his lawyers would butcher me in court. That no jury would believe a crazy woman who paints in her pajamas and takes antidepressants.”
Erica’s breath hitches, but she still doesn’t interrupt.
“So I dropped it. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go through that. I barely made it through the first time.”
Christine sinks onto the edge of the sofa, the couch groaning under her weight.
Her face is pale, eyes wide, haunted.
Erica kneels beside her, slow and steady.
“You did survive it,” she says. “And you’re not alone.”
Christine meets her gaze.
And in that instant, something breaks - not in a way that shatters, but in a way that lets the light in.
~~~
Christine wipes at her face with the sleeve of her hoodie, hands trembling. “I didn’t think anyone would believe me. I thought maybe... maybe I imagined parts of it. That I was weak.”
Erica’s voice is calm but firm. “You weren’t weak. You were targeted. Just like Lucy.”
Christine looks up, something flickering behind her eyes. “Is she okay?”
Erica hesitates for a breath.
Then: “She’s alive. But she’s not okay. Gary Loudon tried to do the same thing again. Only this time, he wanted to hurt someone she cared about. A friend of hers named Gio. So Lucy fought back.”
Christine stares, her body tense.
“She shot him,” Erica says gently, “Gary Loudon can’t hurt you again. He’s dead.”
The words seem to echo.
Christine’s eyes widen.
“He… what?” she whispers.
Erica nods. “Lucy shot him. In self-defense. To stop him from doing to her friend what he did to both of you.”
Christine collapses onto the couch.
Not crying - just silent.
Shaking.
“He’s gone,” she murmurs, voice breaking. “He can’t find me again.”
She exhales sharply - more like a sob than a breath.
Her hands fly to her mouth, teeth gnawing at her knuckles, and for a moment she looks horrified.
Then a slow, stunned silence falls over her before she starts crying - openly now, messily.
But there’s something different about these tears.
Something looser, like a shackle being unlocked inside her. “He can’t hurt me anymore,” she chokes out. “He can’t find me. He can’t call. He can’t… he’s gone.”
Erica moves closer but still gives her space. “He can’t hurt you. Not ever again.”
Christine sobs into her hands, shoulders shaking. “Oh God... I prayed he’d go away. That he’d disappear. That he’d leave women alone. I never thought - never thought he’d actually…”
“I know,” Erica says softly. “No one wanted it to come to this. But it did.”
Christine’s breathing starts to steady, and after a long pause, she looks up at Erica, hollow-eyed but clear. “So... what happens to Lucy?”
“She’s charged with murder,” Erica says. “They’re calling it premeditated. They’re painting him as a philanthropist. A misunderstood man. He comes from money. Influence. People are already lining up to defend his legacy.”
Christine’s mouth tightens.
“She’s going to trial,” Erica says. “And without someone else - without you - his lawyers will make Lucy look like she snapped. Like she imagined everything. You know the playbook. You’ve lived it.”
Christine stares down at her hands, at the pale impressions left where she’s been clenching her fists.
Erica leans in slightly, her voice quiet. “I won’t push you. But if the court hears only their version of him... Lucy might go to prison for surviving. You could help change that.”
Christine’s eyes brim again.
She doesn’t speak, just looks away for a long time.
Her whisper is barely audible: “He used to say no one would ever believe me. That my voice didn’t matter.”
Then she opens her eyes, and for the first time, there’s steel in them.
“Maybe it’s time to prove him wrong.”
~~~
