Chapter-5 The Muse

By the time I reach the Grassmarket, my lungs are burning with the taste of wet wool and terror. I take the stairs to my flat two at a time, my mind a kaleidoscope of some certain man’s face and that million-dollar brand on the check.

I reach for my keys, but the door is already ajar.

Panic, sharp and cold as a razor, slices through my chest. I push the door open, expecting a shadow, a gun, a ghost. Instead, I find Mr. Henderson, my landlord, standing in the center of my "run-down sanctuary" with a clipboard and a face like curdled milk.

"You’re late with the milk bottles, Elena," he says, his voice a gravelly rasp. He doesn't look at me. He is looking at the peeling floral wallpaper as if calculating the cost of stripping it.

"Mr. Henderson? What are you doing in here?" My voice is thin, reedy. I keep my hand on the doorframe, measuring the distance to the stairs. Rule one: never get cornered in a room with only one exit.

"Management changed," he says, finally turning his watery eyes toward me. "New owners. They’re clearing the block for 'structural redevelopment.' You’ve got forty-eight hours."

The air leaves the room. "Forty-eight hours? My lease says six months' notice. I’ve paid through December."

"The lease has a 'Force Majeure' clause, lass. And the new owners have a lot of force." He steps toward me, his presence oily and intrusive. "Don't make this difficult. I don't care where you go. Just be out by Friday morning, or your sticks of furniture will be on the cobbles."

"Why?" I demand, my heart hammering that familiar, hunted rhythm. "Why now? Who bought the building?"

"A holding company. Baltimore something-or-other. Based in Mexico." He shoves past me, his shoulder clipping mine. "Two days, Elena. Tick-tock."

I stand in the silence of my drafty flat, the floorboards groaning under the weight of a secret that is no longer mine. I sigh and curse my fate. This place was suggested by Kyle five years ago. He said this was the only place where he could make sure I was safe, and that under any circumstances, I was not to leave. But what am I now? A ghost whose haunt has been sold.

Well, fuck my life.

*****

The next morning, St. Jude’s feels less like a refuge and more like a gilded trap. I move through the halls with the mechanical grace of a clockwork doll.

Run. Stay. Hide. Fight. Every option feels like a different way to die.

I spend an hour in the art room, watching the children smear bright yellows and blues onto paper. I force myself to laugh when Leo accidentally paints his nose, but the sound feels hollow, like a bell with a crack in it. My mind is weighing the logistics of a midnight bus to London versus the reality of a man who can wire a million dollars to a Scottish charity without breaking a sweat.

"Elena?"

I jump, nearly knocking over a jar of murky water. Mrs. Higgins is standing in the doorway, her expression a mix of exhaustion and forced professional excitement.

"The benefactors are here early," she whispers, smoothing her skirt. "They want to discuss the new playground design. Since you’re our Art and Nature lead, I need you in the boardroom. It’s a formality, really, but the Baltimore Group requested the 'creative staff' be present."

Requested.

"I... I have things to finish here, Mrs. Higgins. Surely Sarah—"

"Elena, please. This donation is the only thing keeping our doors open." Her eyes are pleading. She doesn't know she is asking me to walk into a lion’s den; she thinks she is asking for a favor.

"Of course," I say, the lie sliding out of my mouth with practiced ease. "Give me ten minutes to wash the paint off my hands."

I don’t wash my hands. I scrub them until the skin is raw, staring at my reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror. You are a ghost, I tell myself. Ghosts don't bleed. Ghosts don't flinch.

As I walk toward the boardroom, Mairi stops me in the hall. She is pushing a small, high-tech wheelchair. In it sits a boy.

"New arrival," Mairi murmurs, her usual cheer dimmed. "Carl Thorne. Four years old. Spinal injury from a 'car accident' in the States, according to the file. He’s... a quiet one."

I look down, and the world stops spinning.

The boy, Carl, has eyes the color of a winter sea, steel grey and impossibly old. His face is a mask of pale, gloomy indifference. He doesn't look like a four-year-old; he looks like a soldier who has seen the end of the world and found it boring.

"Hello, Carl," I say, kneeling so I am at his eye level.

He doesn't blink. He just stares through me, his small hands gripping the armrests of his chair so tightly his knuckles are white.

"I’m Elena," I continue, reaching out instinctively to pat his knee.

The moment my fingers brush his trousers, he flinches. It isn't a small movement; it is a violent, full-body recoil, his breath hitching in a sharp, jagged gasp. The terror in his grey eyes is so raw, so familiar, that it feels like a physical blow to my stomach.

He’s not just disabled, I realize, my heart breaking in real-time. He’s been broken. He’s been hunted, just like me.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, pulling my hand back. "I'm so sorry, Carl."

He doesn't answer. He just turns his head away, staring at the damp stone wall with a hollow, haunting silence.

"He doesn't talk much," Mairi sighs. "Poor lamb. The 'benefactors' specifically requested we take him in. Said they’d cover all his medical expenses personally."

The ice in my veins turns to liquid nitrogen.

"Go on, Elena," Mairi prompts. "They’re waiting for you in the boardroom."

I look at Carl one last time. He looks so small in that expensive, cold chair. I see the frost in his eyes, and for the first time in five years, the "hunted" rhythm in my chest changes. It isn't fear anymore. It is a cold, quiet rage.

I stand up, smooth my long skirt, and adjust my knit sweater. I will go into that boardroom. I will smile.

"Keep him safe, Mairi," I say, my voice steady for the first time all day. "I’ll be back for him."

I turn the handle to the boardroom. Desperately wanting to see who this Baltimore group belongs to.