προσοχή μην αφήσετε τον anev-orwv να σας μιλήσει. θα συνεχίσει να σας παρενοχλεί ακόμα κι αν του πείτε να σταματήσει επανειλημμένα, αλλάζει ονόματα και συνεχίζει. δεν με νοιάζει αν θα φάω κράξιμο για το public shame που του κάνω αυτήν την στιγμή αλλά έχω μιλήσει με άλλες δέκα κοπέλες και μου έχουν πει παρόμοια πράγματα κι ακόμα χειρότερα για την πάρτη του. προσοχή λοιπόν.
she knows the details of her case from what she watched on the news, what she read on the internet, what she heard from shilah and from elliot, though they were both often sparse in detail and unwilling to say much outside of what she already knew. there’s a sort of detachment to it, she thinks; not digging deeper into an event that you were at the very center of, but maybe it’s better if she doesn’t. elliot had told her when she first came back to new york that she couldn’t go looking for things that were no longer there, that she couldn’t touch parts of her old life because they’d died with her and, unlike josephine, had to stay dead.
she’s never read her own file, despite the number of times she’s hacked into the department’s database for one reason or another, and she guesses it’s buried at the bottom of a cabinet somewhere, with all the other cold cases and unsolved crimes, the poor girls who end up dead in the river or washed up with the trash. maybe that’s where she’s meant to stay.
when she finds it at roman’s apartment instead, she’s surprised. it doesn’t belong here most of all, but there it is, hidden away with the other secrets he keeps from her. she tugs it free, sees the crisp lettering of her name along the tab of the folder and it is – larger than she’d expected, but still small. full of leads that ran cold and interviews that got nowhere. (she knows, from the news and from the way shilah said it when she asked, that they stopped looking. they let her case go cold because of who she was. she could only be the pretty blonde for so long before everyone remembered that she was the pretty blonde who was also a monster.)
she sits on the floor of his living room and spreads it all out – the interviews, the notes, the photographs from the crime scene. it’s startling, seeing herself there in glossy color; her coat soaked with blood and her eyes open and empty, reflecting the flash of the camera. her hair had been across her face – had she tried to roll and push herself up? had she tried to yell for help?
(when she thinks about it, she knows she had. she’d screamed and nobody had heard her, there alone in the park.)
she doesn’t hear the door open or his footsteps into the living room and it isn’t until he says her name that she turns to look at him at all.