She looked at her reflection in the rearview mirror. The woman looking back was older, her face etched with lines that told a story of endurance rather than peace. But her eyes were clear. She put the car in gear and drove away from the courthouse, away from the townhouse, and away from the life of “good china” and hidden blood.
She was heading toward a small apartment across the city, a place with mismatched plates and peeling paint, where the only voice she would hear in the morning would be her own.
It was a modest beginning, but as the city skyline shifted beside her, Elena realized that for the first time in thirty years, she was the one holding the map.
