Page 49 of Ruin

I stopped, considering his words, while also realizing I had been within five seconds of death for days on end. “I guess that’s true, but it doesn’t exactly make me feel safe being with someone who could kill me in five seconds if he felt like it.”

Sam laughed softly. “I guess you have a point.”

I looked down at my body as I lay in the bed, before turning my attention back to Sam. “And who put me in these pajamas?” My hand brushed over the flannel sleep shirt that hung from my frame.

Sam looked down at his feet, his voice coming in a mumble. “Arik.”

My eyes shot up at him, burning with intensity as my voice dripped venom. “So he was alone with me, naked, while I was unconscious? After what he did to me?”

Sam’s eyes widened as he shook his head violently. “No. Absolutely not. I turned away, but I was in the room when he changed your clothes. I swear to you, he was shattered.” His voice broke. “It…it was respectful.”

After a second of silence between us, he stood and collected the empty tray and plastic bottle before turning toward the door. “I’ll leave you to rest.”

I touched the aching spot on my head, feeling the sharp threads sting beneath my fingers. “So, you aren’t letting me go then?” I asked, my voice resonated.

Sam smiled faintly and exited the room quickly—the echo of the lock bouncing off the concrete walls—leaving me alone with my swirling thoughts and the silence that followed.

How the fuck did I end up here?

Chapter Seventeen

Claire

With Sam gone, the room was silent once again. I lay my head against the pillow slowly as the medication began to numb the edges of the pain. The only thing that my mind seemed to be stuck on was how all of this started a mere eight days ago…

The lines of bold, unread emails in my inbox blurred as my mind wandered to contemplating potential choices for today’s lunch. In my hurry to catch the M15 bus, I forgot to grab one of the bags of Trader Joe’s chopped salad kits that I kept stocked within my refrigerator. Nothing screams “single woman in Manhattan” quite like a fridge stocked entirely with Trader Joe’s. Still, I was proud of it. After a month of letting delivery apps know more about my habits than my own family, seeing actual groceries felt like a win—a small but solid one.

Ever since things officially ended with Alex, I’d spent too many nights curled up alone in my apartment. Most nights, I stayed on the phone with Sarah, listening as she juggled between calling Alex every name in the book, making dinner, giving baths, and warning her kids not to repeat the bad words about “former Uncle Alex.” She ranted for what felt like hours, calling him every name in the book, especially considering everything going on with our parents. I wished I could trade just a sliver more of my sadness for her righteous anger.

My relationship with Sarah had its strains, especially when it came to our parents, but I always knew I could call her and she would come to my defense. That’s just Sarah—my feisty, ride-or-die little sister. I could murder someone in cold blood, and she would find a way to make me the victim and help me hide the body. And then she’d probably take me for a stroll around Target with Starbucks in hand.

I grabbed my tote bag from the filing cabinet beside my desk and stepped out of my small office nestled within the expansive co-working space. Conveniently located on 42nd Street between Second and Third, it was an easy commute from my apartment on the Upper East Side. Four days a week, I enjoyed the comfort of working from home. I could take breaks on my fire escape with an iced coffee in hand and watch the neighborhood below as I caught my breath between Zoom calls. From that vantage point, I’d observe in silence as people strolled past, usually with a fluffy dog or overpriced stroller, or both.

Still, company policy demanded at least one obligatory day per week spent in the office, a requirement that seemed increasingly absurd, especially now. The office itself was nothing more than a modest rental with a flexible month-to-month lease, a metaphorical checkbox masquerading as strategy. And yet, despite being the only employee based in New York City, my physical presence was inexplicably deemed essential to maintaining our competitive edge in Manhattan and the surrounding boroughs. No one ever explained how that math worked. Especially considering no one seemed to notice that I hadn’t been in the office for a month.

If that isn’t proof that the policy is useless, I didn’t know what is.

As I looked through the frosted glass walls separating the office suites, I scanned the neighboring cubicles for signs of life.

Nothing. Not even a stray jacket or the hum of an idling laptop.

Typical Monday.

The open-plan layout meant to “foster collaboration” gave me a clear view of the empty expanse beyond my personal glass cube. Rows upon rows of carbon-copy, humanless glass cubes stared back at me, their polished surfaces reflecting the minimal light coming through the windows.

As I made my way through the empty corridor, I glanced at the communal areas, lifeless with the scent of stale coffee wafting through the air. Once in the elevator, the real age of the building showed in its gold-hued mirror walls and chipped art deco tile floor. My reflection stared back at me as the doors slid shut, an echo of effort wasted on a day no one would see me.

Today’s outfit feels entirely miscast.

A white, short-sleeved summer dress with delicate lace trim around the neckline and hem just past my knees, something meant for strolling through a seaside town in New England, not trudging through Midtown on a Monday. My dark brown hair waved gently as it approached my collarbones, giving it that perfect beachy look. However, I had the delicate pale skin of a woman who doesn’t spend her summers sunning or doing anything remotely beachy. Even if I did have the time, or the money, or even friends to go to the beach with, I would only burn under the harsh rays. I would return to NYC as a ruby-red lobster, complete with peeling regrets.

Exiting the elevator and making my way through the once-grand lobby, I pushed through the heavy glass doors to emerge onto 42nd Street. The sounds of the city hit me like a cymbal crash deep into my core—sharp, relentless, and vibrating straight through my chest. Stepping into Midtown after a morning of complete silence was practically an assault on my eardrums.

And then came the air.

Hot and thick with humidity, it wrapped around me like a damp blanket and clung to my skin. It carried the familiar scents of a New York City summer: car exhaust from the passing droves of yellow cabs, smoke from hot dog carts and spices from gyros vendors, and the sharp, steamy scent of concrete baking under the sun.

No matter how long I live here, New York City still finds a way to shock me. Constantly lurching back and forth between overstimulating noise and crowds, to complete silence and isolation, feels like trying to shower in my aging apartment. The water is either scalding hot or ice-cold—never just right. That is New York City in a nutshell: always too much or never enough. I’m forever adjusting the knob, chasing a middle ground that doesn’t seem to exist.