#Chapter 93 - People like us

Layla In the week since Vanessa’s attack, I’d been to visit her every day after work. I’d nestled her into a one-bedroom condo in Aldo’s safehouse, just a few blocks from the hospital. It was fully equipped and furnished, but the first night, I’d still brought back takeout. The way she’d dug in, I knew she hadn’t had a square meal in a long time. But after she’d looked up from her scraped-clean plate to regard me with still-hungry, haunted eyes, I’d opted to cook for her instead. She didn’t just need a meal. She needed a home-cooked meal. Something wholesome and sustaining, made with care and intention. She needed someone to show her she truly wasn’t alone in the world anymore. So, the second night, I made a stir fry. Cracked open a bottle of wine, and set a glass before her while I cooked. “I’m originally from Upstate,” I told her, sipping on my own glass of chardonnay. “Moved out to Alaska for a bit, then came back here for my residency. Got sucked into the fast-paced