Page 71 of Broken Princess

It’s nothing like Sinclair’s command-centre-style office. There’s a high-backed leather Chesterfield chair behind a dark wood desk with leather inlay. It’s so traditional. There are two tall bookcases behind him, full to the brim and each one neatly arranged by what looks like genre and author. I want to walk over and mis-shelve a few of them. Although taking a second look at the titles, I may also want to borrow a few.

There are no other chairs in here, only a small two-seater sofa off to the side. I perch myself on the arm of it, not knowing how to broach this subject. I return to tracing the scars on my wrist as I search for the words. Thankfully, he doesn’t push me.

Eventually, without looking up, I get up the courage to say, “I need you to show me the file you have on my sister, Zo. I’ve never seen it and I think I need to understand exactly what happened. My dad told me some of it, but I want to help you track down her killer. To do that, I need to know everything.”

I don’t look up, but I don’t need to. I can hear him take a deep breath as he takes in my request. This can’t be easy for him.

“If you’re asking me privately, I’m going to assume Sinclair told you about Gianni?” I nod.

“How much did he tell you?”

I finally look up and lock eyes with him. He’s stoic as ever, refusing to let his façade crack so I take a deep breath and spare him from having to say it out loud. “That Gianni and Isa were in love, and that when no leads were found in her murder, he took his own life.”

He swallows hard but doesn’t look away. “Did you know I was the one who found her?”

“No. My father never told me. Any details I have, I got from listening in at his door.” The memories of sneaking around my own house, listening at keyholes, running away at the slightest creek of the floorboards come flooding back. The hurt at being forever protected and never trusted is still there, buried deep.

“You were so young; you can’t blame him for trying to protect you.” He’s right, but that doesn’t help me now.

“I know, but I need to know what you know. Why the marks we found on the bodies at the morgue are so important. I need to see for myself if her killer is still out there. When no one was found, I just assumed it was some junkie, a robbery gone bad and hoped more than believed her killer was long since dead—overdosed and long forgotten.”

He opens his bottom desk drawer and pulls out a far too thin, manilla envelope and slides it across the desk to me. “This is everything that was in Isa’s autopsy report.”

I stand and cross over to his desk, picking it up, and hugging it to my chest, not ready to open it in front of him. I feel my heart thudding in my chest, the file feeling heavy in my arms, like I’m holding Pandora's box. The contents are a mystery and threaten to unravel me.

I peer into the still open drawer and see another file.

“What’s that one?”

“My brother’s file. I don’t even know why I have it, but all suicides are investigated by the Medical Examiner’s office, and it felt wrong not to keep it,” he rasps out, the words forced and obviously painful to him.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Enzo.” It’s the only thing I can think of to say.

“And I yours, Aurora.”

He’s a man of so few words, but they’re always so meaningful to me. My heart breaks for him, to the extent that I feel a palpable ache in my chest. I nod and turn to leave but pause at the door. I don’t face him as I say, “Just because I don’t need monitoring anymore doesn’t mean you can’t still hang out, you know.”

No response.

“I only see you when you need coffee these days.”

Nothing.

“No one else will let me watch period dramas.”

I hear a soft chuckle behind me that I take as an acceptance of my invitation and leave without another word.

When I get down to my room, I see that not only has Sin brought down the many bags from today’s little excursion, but the sofa has been moved away from the wall and behind it there’s a dresser and a freestanding wardrobe. He’s also put a mirror on top of the dresser.

I approach it carefully and stand in front of it. It’s been so long since I’ve really looked at myself in a mirror that it feels alien to me.

When I take in the reflection before me, I don’t see the new clothes and the vibrant hair. I see the bruises on my jaw and cheek that refuse to fully fade. They’re more like subtle hints of yellow now, but to me, they are as noticeable as the day they appeared.

I start to unbutton the shirt and expose my collarbone and the dozens of tiny pink slashes decorating my skin. One day, they’ll fade and blend with the silver streaks of my previous scars, integrating themselves into this map of my indelible and inescapable history.

I unhook the corset and expose my abdomen. While everything else on my body is fading, the incision from my stab wound is still angry and announces itself jarringly. The corset is the first thing I’ve worn that has supported the wound site and helps me feel less of an invalid when I move. It’s also the first time my breasts have been supported in what feels like an eternity.

When I stand here exposed and look at the catalogue of injuries so obvious in the reflection, I feel like a victim. It’s so different from when I’m naked in front of Nico and Benny, or Sinclair. I didn’t feel weak or broken; I didn’t feel exposed or vulnerable. I felt like a fucking goddess.

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