After His Mistress Had Me Beaten, I Disappeared

I spent three weeks becoming a ghost.

I showed up to lectures. Took notes. Nodded when professors called on me. But I wasn't really there. I was somewhere else. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere I could breathe.

I researched pharmaceutical licensing requirements at two in the morning. Sent my resume to a recruiter in Seattle who specialized in career transitions. Started selling my furniture on Craigslist. A lamp. A bookshelf. The coffee table Atticus helped me pick out sophomore year.

I didn't tell anyone.

Josie knew something was different. She'd look at me across the table at our usual coffee shop and tilt her head. "You okay?" she'd ask.

"Yeah," I'd say. "Just tired."

She didn't push. That was the thing about Josie. She waited until you were ready.

I avoided Atticus completely. Changed my route to class. Ate lunch off campus. Left the library the second I saw his navy sweater.

Katalina noticed.

I caught her watching me in the hallway outside the lecture hall one afternoon. Her eyes tracked me like I was something she needed to categorize. I kept walking. She smiled.

Two days later, I got an email about a pharmaceutical company hosting an informational session at Mount Sinai. Entry-level sales positions. No medical degree required. Just drive and a willingness to learn.

I signed up immediately.

The session was on a Thursday evening. I wore a gray blazer I'd borrowed from Josie and the one pair of professional heels I owned. The hospital was busy. People in scrubs rushed past. Visitors clutched flowers and balloons. I followed the signs to Conference Room B on the third floor.

There were maybe twenty people in the room. A woman in a pantsuit talked about quotas and territory management. I took notes. Asked questions. Felt something like hope for the first time in weeks.

When the session ended, I stayed behind to talk to the recruiter. She handed me her card. Told me to send my resume. I thanked her and walked out into the corridor.

The hallway was empty. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. My heels clicked on the linoleum.

I turned the corner toward the elevator.

Two men stepped out of a supply room.

I didn't recognize them. Both wore jeans and jackets. One was tall with a shaved head. The other was shorter. Stocky. They didn't look like hospital staff.

I kept walking.

The tall one moved in front of me. "Gracelyn Hamilton?"

I stopped. "Yes?"

"You need to come with us."

My heart kicked hard against my ribs. "I don't—"

The shorter one grabbed my arm. His grip was tight. He pulled me toward the supply room. I tried to yank free. "Let go—"

He shoved me through the door.

I stumbled. My shoulder hit a metal shelf. Boxes of gauze and syringes rattled. The door slammed shut behind us.

The tall one stepped closer. "You've been told to stay in your lane."

"I don't know what you're talking about." My voice shook.

"Katalina Ford says otherwise."

My stomach dropped.

The shorter one shoved me again. Harder this time. I fell. My knees hit the tile. Pain shot up my legs.

"Stay away from things that don't belong to you," the tall one said.

I tried to stand. The shorter one kicked me. His boot connected with my ribs. The air left my lungs in a rush. I curled onto my side. Gasped.

Another kick. This one to my back.

I reached for the shelf. Tried to pull myself up. My head cracked against the metal edge. White light exploded behind my eyes. Something warm ran down my temple.

Blood.

The men stepped back. The tall one looked down at me. "Remember this."

They left.

The door clicked shut.

I lay on the floor. My ribs screamed. My head throbbed. Blood dripped into my eye. I blinked. The room swam.

My phone was still in my blazer pocket.

I pulled it out. My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped it. I unlocked the screen. Scrolled to Atticus's name.

I pressed call.

It rang three times.

Then his voice. "Yeah?"

Background noise. Laughter. Music. Somewhere warm. Somewhere safe.

"Atticus." My voice came out as a whisper. "I'm hurt. I need help."

Silence.

Then he laughed.

It wasn't nervous. It wasn't uncertain. It was the sound of someone who had already decided I was lying.

"Stop being dramatic, Gracelyn. I'm busy."

The line went dead.

I lay there. Phone pressed to my ear. Listening to the dial tone.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeped.

I closed my eyes.

And something inside me went quiet.

Permanently quiet.