Chapter Eight: What we choose to burn
Izzy:
The hotel room reeked of sex, regret, and a hint of cologne I didn't recognize.
I left before the man in the bed stirred, grabbing my heels and clutching my coat to my chest like it could still shield me from the choices I had made. I didn't know his name, Didn't care, I just needed to be somewhere else, Anywhere else but not home.
The thought of walking into that apartment, of seeing Carl, the ghost of Eddie's perfume on his shirt, and the sheets I hadn't touched since yesterday—made my skin itch.
So I went to the one place that still made sense.
The office was empty when I unlocked the door, early enough that even the sun hadn't made up its mind about rising. The light above my desk flickered as I turned it on, casting long, thin shadows across the room. I poured stale coffee from yesterday's pot and sat down without removing my coat.
For a while, I just stared.
In the Anderson file.
At the blinking cursor on my screen.
At the dozen missed calls from Carl.
I shut off my phone.
By the time the courthouse doors opened, I was already there, heels clicking against marble as I moved like a specter through the corridors. I didn't stop at the mirror. I didn't want to see what kind of woman stared back.
The courtroom smelled like old wood, coffee, and nerves.
My body moved on instinct, the way it always did when I stepped into a trial. The gallery disappeared. The voices hushed. The lies started flowing.
I stood before the bench, composed, spine rigid, every word a scalpel as I carved into the testimony.
"You say you acted in self-defense," I said, circling the witness stand like a slow-moving shark. "And yet, the victim was shot in the back. Twice. From less than four feet away."
The defendant flinched. "I—I panicked."
"You panicked," I repeated, my tone flat. "But you had time to retrieve the gun, aim, and fire again after he was already running away?"
Objection.
Sustained.
Didn't matter. I'd planted the seed. I saw it in the jury's eyes. Doubt.
I finished the cross and returned to my seat, hands steady. Mind not.
Because beneath the cold confidence, the courtroom composure, I could still feel him—last night's stranger. His hands are on my hips. His teeth were against my neck. The sound I made when I let go of everything except the weight of his body holding mine to the wall.
"Nice cross," Erin, my boss, muttered as she slid into the seat beside me, all sharp edges and tight bun. Her blazer looked vacuum-sealed.
"You're late on the Anderson report," she added before I could answer. "I need it by tonight. Not midnight. Tonight."
"I'll get it done."
"You look like hell," she said, and it wasn't cruel—just the truth. "Don't let it bleed into the case. You're better than that."
"I didn't respond but
I wanted to snap at her. I wanted to say I was engaged yesterday and I found a silk thong on my bathroom sink that wasn't mine and I let a stranger take me apart against a wall because I couldn't stand my own skin, and how I caught my husband with our family friend on our wedding anniversary day "
But I said nothing.
Just nodded again.
The rest of the day blurred—legal briefs, fluorescent lights, a dozen silent elevators between the courtroom and the office. I didn't eat. I barely drank. I just kept going. Because if I stopped, even for a second, the pain would catch up.
Carl's name flashed on my screen again and again.
Missed call. Missed call. Voicemail. Another call.
I didn't answer.
By then, I was still at my desk, the city glowing beyond the window like a universe I couldn't touch. The office had emptied out hours ago, leaving behind only the whir of the air conditioner and the ticking sound of my own unraveling.
My phone buzzed. Again.
Carl.
I flipped it face down and stared at the ceiling.
Then, finally, I texted Pat.
Izzy: You up?
Pat: Girl, it's 10pm. Of course, I'm up. What's wrong?
Izzy: I did something really stupid.
Pat: Do you need bail money or tequila?
Izzy: Both?
I smiled. Barely.
Then:
Izzy: I don't want to go home.
Pat: Then don't. I can come to get you.
Izzy: No. I'm fine. I just… needed to tell someone I'm not.
Pat: I love you. Call me if you need me. Or if you don't. I'm here either way.
I set the phone down and stared at the Anderson report again, rewriting the same paragraph for the fifth time.
That's when I heard it.
The elevator.
Doors opening.
Footsteps.
I froze.
They were slow. Heavy. Familiar.
"Izzy."
His voice hit like a punch to the sternum.
I didn't turn.
Didn't breathe.
He stepped into the doorway like a ghost I'd conjured from guilt and memory. Tie loosened. Sleeves rolled. Eyes rimmed with exhaustion—and something more dangerous.
Hope.
"Jesus," Carl said quietly. "You've been here all night?"
I didn't look at him. "You don't get to show up here."
"I called. I left messages. I didn't know what else to do."
"Take the hint."
"Izzy—"
"No," I snapped, standing now, something brittle in my bones. "You don't get to say my name like it still means something."
"I know I hurt you. But I never stopped loving you."
I laughed. It sounded more like a sob with its neck snapped. "You have a funny way of showing it. Was it love when you slept with Eddie? On our anniversary day"
His face collapsed. "It wasn't like that."
"Then what was it, Carl? Explain it to me. Enlighten me. Because I can't stop seeing it. Her body in your arms. Her tongue in your mouth. Her lipstick on your skin."
"I made a mistake—"
"No," I cut in. "You made a choice."
He took a step forward. I stepped back.
"I'm not ready to forgive you. I'm not even ready to hate you properly yet. So just… leave."
He hesitated, eyes locked on mine like he was still hoping for a door to open.
But it didn't.
And when he finally turned and walked away, I waited until I heard the
elevator again.
Only then did I sit down.
Reopen the document.
And start typing.
Because it was easier to build a case than rebuild myself.