Chapter 5: The Visitation
The fluorescent lights in the visitation room hummed like trapped insects. They cast a sickly greenish pallor over everything: the scratched linoleum floor, the grimy plexiglass partition, the cold, molded plastic chair Sasha sat rigidly on. The air tasted stale, thick with disinfectant that couldn’t mask the underlying odors of sweat, despair, and cheap cleaning chemicals. It smelled like punishment.
Sasha’s fingers were wrapped so tightly around Zane’s silver pendant the edges dug into her palm. The metal was warm from her skin, a tiny anchor in this suffocating space. She focused on that warmth, on the memory of his hand holding hers in the hospital bed, the fierce desperation of their coupling amidst the bandages and beeping machines. He’s alive. Emily didn’t win.
The metallic clang of the heavy door at the far end of the room made her flinch. It echoed, harsh and final. A guard appeared, then stepped aside.
Emily shuffled in.
The sight was jarring. Gone was the sharp, tailored lawyer, the predator who moved with calculated grace. This figure was diminished, draped in an oversized orange jumpsuit that hung off her lanky frame. Her usually sleek, dark bob was a greasy, tangled mess, plastered to her scalp in places, sticking out wildly in others. Dark circles smudged the hollows beneath her eyes, and a fading yellow bruise bloomed high on her left cheekbone – Sasha’s parting gift. Her knuckles were scabbed. She moved slowly, the chain between her cuffs clinking softly with each step. Her expression? Not fear. Not remorse. A chilling, focused intensity. Like a hunter sighting prey.
The guard guided her to the chair opposite Sasha on the other side of the plexiglass, secured her cuffs to a ring on the table, then retreated to stand impassively against the wall. The distance felt both vast and terrifyingly small.
Emily’s eyes, dark and unnervingly bright, locked onto Sasha’s the moment she sat down. A slow, grotesque grin spread across her face, cracking dry lips. It held no warmth, only a predatory satisfaction that sent a cold shiver down Sasha’s spine. Her voice, when it came, was a raspy whisper, amplified by the speaker grille set into the partition. It scraped against Sasha’s nerves.
"You came."
Sasha didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Her throat felt glued shut. She just stared, her knuckles white around the pendant. Proof, Ruiz had said. Life or death. This felt like the opposite of life.
Emily leaned forward, the cuffs rattling against the metal ring. She pressed her face closer to the grille, her breath fogging the plexiglass slightly. Her eyes bored into Sasha’s, desperate and triumphant all at once. The whisper dropped even lower, almost inaudible over the hum of the lights, yet every syllable landed like a shard of ice in Sasha’s chest.
"He never told you about the night I fucked him first, did he?"
The air rushed out of Sasha’s lungs. The room tilted. The fluorescent hum seemed to swell into a deafening roar. What? The word screamed silently in her mind, ricocheting off the sudden, chaotic void where certainty had been. The pendant in her hand felt suddenly alien, heavy.
Emily saw the impact. Saw the blood drain from Sasha’s face, the way her grip on the pendant spasmed. That awful grin widened, revealing a chipped tooth Sasha hadn’t noticed before – likely from their fight. Emily’s voice, still that intimate, poisonous rasp, continued, dripping with feigned sympathy that curdled into pure cruelty.
"Yeah. Before you. Way before. That dumbass band he used to be in? Played some dive bar downtown… ‘The Rusty Nail’ or some shit." She snorted, a dry, ugly sound. "He was hammered. Off his face. Spilled beer on himself, tripped over his own damn feet trying to climb off the stage. Pathetic." Her eyes glittered. "I was there. Saw him staggering out back. Alone. Looked… lost." The word was a sneer.
Sasha’s mind raced, frantically trying to reconcile this image with the Zane she knew. The focused tech genius, the precise pianist. She remembered the band, vaguely. Zane mentioned it years ago, offhand, a short-lived college thing. He had drunk back then, more than now. But this?
Emily leaned even closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "He barely knew where he was. Could hardly stand. I helped him." She paused, letting the implication hang, thick and vile. "Helped him right into my car. Back seat of my old Jetta." A flicker of amusement crossed her face. "He was… compliant. Confused. Whispered your name a few times, actually. ‘Sasha…?’ Like a fucking question." She chuckled, a low, grating sound. "Didn’t matter. Wasn’t talking to you."
Sasha felt sick. The sterile room closed in. The pendant’s edges dug deeper into her palm, a painful counterpoint to the internal vertigo. The back seat of a car. Just like… like what Emily did to him. The parallel was horrifying.
"He didn’t fight?" Sasha heard herself ask, her own voice sounding thin and far away. Desperate for contradiction.
Emily’s smile turned razor-sharp. "Fight? Couldn’t lift his head. Just… let it happen. Moaned a bit. Maybe thought I was you." She shrugged, the chains clinking. "Lasted about thirty seconds, if that. Then passed out cold. Snoring." She tilted her head, her gaze crawling over Sasha’s face. "Left him there. Figured the alley was as good a place as any for trash."
The word ‘trash’ echoed in the small space. Sasha flinched. The image was grotesque, violating. But was it possible? Zane, vulnerable, incapacitated… Emily, predatory. It fit her pattern. Sickeningly well. And Zane… why wouldn’t he tell her? Shame? Protecting her?
"Liar," Sasha breathed, the word lacking conviction, trembling on her lips. She clutched the pendant harder, seeking the solidity of Zane, but all she felt was cold metal and the phantom scent of stale beer and Emily’s cruelty.
"Am I?" Emily’s whisper was lethally soft. She leaned back slightly, a glint of triumph in her exhausted eyes. "Think about it, Sash. That weekend he ghosted you? Said he had the flu? Couldn’t get out of bed? Remember how weird he acted afterwards? Distant?" She paused, letting the fabricated memory take root. "That was the weekend. After I’d fucked the fight right out of him." She tapped a grimy fingernail against the plexiglass, right where Sasha’s hand rested. "He knew. Knew who I was when he met you later. Knew what I’d done. And he never told you. Too ashamed? Or…" Her voice dropped to a venomous hiss, "…maybe he liked it? Maybe he wanted more?"
The insinuation landed like a physical blow. Sasha recoiled, bile rising in her throat. No. Zane wouldn’t. Couldn’t. But the seed of doubt, meticulously planted by years of Emily’s manipulation, sprouted thorns. The unexplained distance back then… Zane’s occasional, carefully shielded vulnerability about his past partying… His intense hatred for Emily, which had always felt primal, beyond just protecting Sasha…
Emily saw the turmoil. Saw the cracks widening. She pressed her advantage, her voice regaining a sliver of its old, commanding power despite the rasp. "He’s weak, Sasha. Weak and pathetic. He let me take him. Just like he let me take his company files, fuck him over professionally. Just like he let me almost take his life." Her eyes narrowed, filled with a desperate, possessive fury. "He doesn’t protect you. He can’t. He’s nothing. A drunken mistake I tossed back into the gutter."
She leaned forward again, her gaze burning through the plexiglass. "But you… you’re strong. You always were stronger than him. Than this." She gestured vaguely at her jumpsuit, her circumstances. "You came here. Facing me. That’s strength." Her voice softened, turning cloying, intimate. "He lied to you. Hid what he is. What we… shared." The word was a violation in itself. "He doesn’t deserve you. Never did."
Sasha felt paralyzed. The pendant was a cold, heavy stone in her fist. Emily’s words swirled – lies, truths, half-truths twisted into poisoned barbs. The image of a helpless Zane, Emily’s triumphant face above him… it felt horribly plausible. The foundation of her trust, freshly rebuilt in the hospital bed, groaned under the assault.
"So you’re telling me you raped him twice," Sasha whispered, her voice raw. “And in front of these guards. Aren’t you supposed to a top notch lawyer? Why confess to two crimes in public?” Sasha said a sly smile forming on her face.
Emily’s eyes darkened. She wasn’t expecting Sasha to say that but she had to keep playing along. "Think about it," she urged, her voice dropping back to that insidious whisper. "Think about what he kept from you. What I gave you the strength to finally see." She gave a final, chilling smile, all cracked lips and predatory satisfaction. "He’s just another man who used you. Lied to you. I’m the only one who ever showed you the truth. Who ever really knew you."
The guard shifted, a silent signal. Time was up. Emily didn’t resist as he stepped forward to unlock the cuff from the ring. But her eyes never left Sasha’s. That possessive, knowing stare held until the very last second.
"And Sasha?" Emily’s voice drifted back as she stood, a final, cold whisper hanging in the disinfectant-scented air. "You still belong to me. Always will."
“I was never yours. You just beat me until I didn’t have anyone else. You are a weak little girl with no self control. I hope you rot in jail.” Sasha said, her eyes full of determination.
The heavy steel door clanged shut behind Emily, swallowing her orange jumpsuit and leaving only the echo of Sasha’s own harsh words vibrating in the sterile air. Weak little girl. The phrase tasted like ash, yet it pulsed with a truth Sasha hadn’t fully grasped before. She uncurled her fingers. Zane’s pendant lay in her damp palm, the silver warm from her death-grip, the chain coiled like a question mark.
The guard cleared his throat. "Time's up, ma'am." His voice was flat, professional. Sasha stood abruptly, her legs shaky, the plastic chair scraping loudly. She shoved the pendant deep into her jeans pocket, the metal cool against her thigh. She needed air that didn't smell like bleach and despair. Needed Zane.
Outside the detention center, the city air hit her like a slap – exhaust fumes, damp pavement, the distant wail of a siren. Normal sounds that felt alien after the suffocating quiet of the visitation room. Emily’s rasping whisper coiled in her mind: He never told you… Fucked him first… Compliant… Trash. Each word was a barb. She flagged down a cab, the driver glancing at her bruised cheek in the rearview mirror but mercifully silent.
The hospital corridor seemed endless, the fluorescent lights buzzing a monotonous counterpoint to the frantic rhythm of her heart. She pushed open the door to Zane’s room. He was propped up slightly, staring out the window at the grey cityscape, the stark bandage on his shoulder stark against his dark skin. He turned, his weary eyes lighting up the moment he saw her, then instantly clouding with concern. "Sash? Talk to me. What happened? Your face..." He tried to sit up straighter, wincing. "Detective Ruiz said she demanded to see you."
Sasha crossed the room in three strides, the sterile smell of iodine and linen filling her nostrils. She didn't sit. She stood by his bed, her fingers trembling as she pulled the pendant from her pocket. It dangled from her fist, catching the harsh overhead light. She held it out, not quite offering it, just letting him see it. Her voice, when it came, was surprisingly steady, scraped thin. "She told me a story, Zane. About ‘The Rusty Nail’. About you being hammered. Tripping off stage." She paused, watching his face. "About her putting you in the back seat of her old Jetta." The chain trembled slightly in her grip. "She said you were compliant." The last word hung in the antiseptic air, heavy and ugly.
Zane’s reaction wasn't immediate denial or explosive rage. His face paled beneath its natural tone, a sickly greyish cast replacing the warmth from moments before. His gaze snapped from the pendant to her eyes, then darted away, fixing on the thin hospital blanket. His broad shoulders tensed, pulling at the stitches. A muscle jumped violently in his clenched jaw. His hand, resting on the sheet, curled into a tight fist, knuckles whitening. He swallowed hard, the sound audible in the quiet room punctuated only by the steady beep of his heart monitor, which had begun to accelerate. He looked… cornered. Haunted. Shamed. "Sasha..." His voice was a wrecked whisper, cracking on her name. He couldn't meet her eyes. God." He dragged a trembling hand down his face, covering his mouth for a moment. "It wasn't... it wasn't how she made it sound."
"Then how was it, Zane?" Sasha asked, her voice low but insistent, cutting through the beeping monitor. She didn't move, didn't touch him. The pendant felt cold and heavy. "She said you whispered my name. Said you ghosted me that weekend after because… because she fucked the fight out of you." The crude words felt alien, poisonous on her tongue, but necessary. "Did she rape you? Years before she tried to kill you?"
Zane flinched as if struck. He finally looked at her, his dark eyes wells of pain and humiliation so deep it stole Sasha’s breath. "I was wasted, Sash," he rasped, his voice thick. "Wasted beyond anything. Could barely stand. She… she found me. Pushed me into that fucking car." He shuddered, a full-body tremor. "I remember cold leather. Her hands… I remember trying to push her off, but my arms… they wouldn’t work right. Like lead." He squeezed his eyes shut. "I think… I think I did say your name. I was so out of it… I thought… fuck, I don't know what I thought. It was over fast. I passed out. Woke up alone in that alley, freezing, covered in puke… and feeling like…" He opened his eyes, raw anguish radiating from him. "Like I’d been violated. Like something precious had been ripped away. I felt… dirty. Broken." A single tear escaped, tracing a path down his cheek. "I couldn't tell you. How could I? This… this thing that happened? This shame? I buried it. Pretended it didn't exist. Until she showed up in your life." He reached out a trembling hand, not towards the pendant, but towards her. "It wasn't consent, Sasha. It was… taking. Just like the alley. Just like everything she does."
Sasha stared at his outstretched hand, then back at his tear-streaked face, the raw vulnerability laid bare. The pieces clicked horribly into place: his visceral hatred for Emily that always felt deeper than just her abuse of Sasha, the way he sometimes flinched at unexpected touches when deeply tired or stressed, the fierce protectiveness that bordered on desperation. Emily hadn't just attacked him physically in the present; she’d poisoned his past, a violation he’d carried silently. Sasha closed the distance. She didn’t take the pendant. She took his hand. Her fingers laced through his, squeezing tight, anchoring him as the heart monitor continued its frantic rhythm. "Oh, Zane," she breathed, her own anger dissolving into a fierce, protective sorrow. "You carried this alone? All this time?"
He clung to her hand like it was the only solid thing in the world, his grip almost crushing. "I was ashamed," he choked out. "So fucking ashamed. And terrified she'd tell you... twist it... make it sound like I wanted it. Like I betrayed you before we even really began." He looked up at her, his eyes pleading for understanding, for absolution he clearly felt he didn't deserve. "I should've told you. Years ago. Before she ever got her claws into you. I just... I buried it so deep."
The door clicked open. A nurse bustled in, clipboard in hand, her cheerful demeanor instantly evaporating as she took in the scene: Zane’s tear-streaked face, Sasha clutching his hand, the palpable tension. "Everything alright in here?" she asked cautiously, eyeing the spiking heart rate on the monitor. "Mr. Walker, your vitals are elevated. Do you need anything? Pain meds?"
Zane took a shuddering breath, trying to compose himself. "No," he managed, his voice rough. "No meds. Just… processing."
The nurse frowned, unconvinced. "Doctor will be making rounds soon. Try to rest." She gave Sasha a pointed look before retreating.
Silence descended again, thicker now. Sasha released his hand only to gently wipe the tear track from his cheek with her thumb. The pendant still lay on the blanket where she'd dropped it. She picked it up, the chain pooling in her palm. "This is yours," she said softly, closing his fingers around it. "Not hers. Never hers." She looked at him, her blue eyes clear, the confusion replaced by a hard-won certainty. "She took enough, Zane. She doesn't get this truth. She doesn't get to define it." She leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead, her lips lingering against his skin. "We bury her lies. Not your pain." She straightened, squaring her shoulders. "Ruiz said they have her cold on everything. Attempted murder. Assault. Kidnapping. The works. She’s never getting out." Sasha met his gaze, relief spilling over them both.
The sterile hospital air vibrated with their shared relief. For a moment, the incessant beep of Zane’s monitor slowed, syncing with their breathing. Sasha traced the edge of his bandage with a feather-light touch, the stark white gauze a brutal reminder against his dark skin. "Never again," she whispered, the words a vow hanging between them, warm against the lingering antiseptic chill. He turned her hand over, pressing her palm against his lips, his breath shuddering against her skin. "Never."
A sharp rap shattered the fragile peace. The door swung open, revealing Dr. Aris Thorne, clipboard in hand, her gaze immediately snagging on Zane’s elevated heart rate displayed above the bed. "Mr. Walker," she said, her tone crisp, professional, scanning his chart. "Stats are up. Pain spiking?" She glanced at Sasha’s fading bruise, a flicker of recognition in her eyes. "Or just stimulating company?"
Zane managed a weak smile, shifting carefully. "Just… catching up, Doc. Feels like I got hit by a truck. Twice." He winced as he tried to adjust the thin pillow behind his head. "Shoulder’s a fiery bastard."
Dr. Thorne stepped closer, her movements efficient. She peeled back the bandage corner, revealing the angry, stitched wound. "Mmm. Healing clean, but deep. Forget typing for a week. Forget lifting anything heavier than a coffee cup for two." Her eyes flicked to his dreads, matted slightly against the pillow. "Showers are okay, but gentle. No piano sonatas." She flashed a quick smile. "Good news is, you’re sprung. Discharge papers are processing. Just need someone responsible to keep an eye on you for 48 hours. Make sure the concussion symptoms don’t flare – dizziness, nausea, confusion worse than usual." She looked pointedly at Sasha.
"Absolutely," Sasha said instantly, her voice firm. "He’s coming home with me." The word 'home' felt new, significant, free of Emily’s shadow. She squeezed Zane’s uninjured hand.
Zane frowned slightly, a stubborn set to his jaw. "Sash, your place is tiny. That futon is medieval torture. I’ll be fine at mine. Got that fancy adjustable bed."
"And who’s gonna check you don’t faceplant trying to make toast?" Sasha countered, arching an eyebrow. "Your fancy bed doesn’t make soup. Or stop you from trying to code one-handed while concussed. Face it, Walker. You’re stuck with me." She leaned in, her voice dropping playfully. "I’ll even let you pick the takeout. Within reason. No ghost pepper wings."
He chuckled, the sound rough but genuine, easing the tension lines around his eyes. "Deal. But I pick the movie. No sappy architect documentaries about concrete."
Sasha laughed, the sound bright in the sterile room. "Fine. One explosion-filled, physics-defying action flick. Your concussion-addled brain might actually believe it."
An hour later, navigating the hospital wheelchair felt like maneuvering a battleship through a maze of IV poles. Zane gripped the arms, knuckles white, radiating discomfort at the enforced helplessness. "This is excessive," he muttered as an orderly pushed him towards the exit. "I can walk, man. Slowly."
"Policy, Mr. Walker," the orderly said cheerfully. "Don’t wanna see you back here kissing the lobby floor." Sasha walked beside them, carrying a plastic bag with Zane’s few belongings – his torn, bloodstained shirt, his wallet, the silver pendant. The sight of the blood made her stomach clench.
Stepping outside was a sensory overload. The city’s roar replaced the hospital hum – traffic, distant sirens, the hum of life. Sunlight, weak but real, warmed Sasha’s face. She breathed deep, the air tasting of exhaust and damp pavement instead of bleach. Zane squinted against the light, taking his first unfiltered breaths of freedom. Sasha’s small third-floor walk-up felt like a sanctuary after the institutional glare. Sunlight streamed through the large windows overlooking a leafy street, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Her drafting table stood neatly organized near one window, blueprints rolled beside a steaming mug she’d left behind. The scent of vanilla diffuser mingled with the faint graphite smell of her pencils. "Home," she sighed, locking the deadbolt with a satisfying thunk. "Finally."
She helped Zane ease onto her worn but deep sofa, propping pillows behind his back and under his injured arm. "Couch command center established," she announced, trying for lightness. "Orders, Captain?"
"Water," he rasped, sinking back with a grateful groan. "And maybe… just sit? For a sec?" The trip had drained what little color had returned to his face.
Sasha fetched water, then settled beside him, careful of his shoulder. Their fingers brushed as she handed him the glass. Silence settled, comfortable but charged with the day’s weight. The pendant, resting on the coffee table, caught the light. Zane followed her gaze. "That night at the Rusty Nail…" he began, his voice low. "I remembered something else, when she…" He trailed off, swallowing hard before Sasha cut him off.
“you don’t have to explain yourself to me. I get it. I was married to her for years. Trust me I understand. I just want you to focus on you and getting better. Let’s not let that evil woman ruin anymore moments for us.” Sasha said resting her hand on his leg.
“You’re right Sasha. For get about her. I just want to focus on us” Zane said pulling her closer to her so there legs were intertwined. “I love you” he whispered in her ear, softly. I love you too Zane.