Page 76 of Client Privilege

This wasn’t Marcus. This was Sandra, who’dhelped gather my meagre belongings after Marcus’s attack, who’d brought me tea during trial preparation and never once made me feel like I owed her anything. I replied, and she messaged backquickly:

I named an inexpensive student brand, fighting the urge to apologize for asking.

With the corner arranged to my satisfaction, I returned to the bed and opened my sketchbook again. The blank page stared back at me. I closed my eyes, remembering how drawing used to feel—the flow, the connection between mind and hand, the way the world disappeared when I was truly immersed in creating something.

I began with simple shapes, not thinking too much about what I was drawing. Just letting my hand remember its old patterns. Curves became a face—my mother’s, I realized, as her features emerged from the paper. I hadn’t drawn her since before she died, before I met Marcus. The grief rose unexpectedly, a wave I thought I’d outrun long ago.

I let it come, let the pencil capture the softness around her eyes, the slight upturn of her mouth when she was about to laugh at one of her own terrible jokes. I drew until my hand cramped, until the sketch became something real and alive on the page.

“She’s beautiful.”

I startled, nearly dropping the sketchbook. Damian stood in the doorway, his suit jacket draped over one arm. I hadn’t heard him return.

“Sorry, I forgot to mention the alarm system code I programmed for you in case you need to go out” he said. “I knocked, but you seemed…” He gestured vaguely.

“Lost in it,” I finished for him. “I used to get like that, before.”

He nodded, understanding without my having to explain. “Your mother?”

“Yeah.” I turned the sketchbook so he could see it better. “She died right before I met Marcus. I never told him specifics about her, though he guessed the broad strokes. It felt… safer, keeping her separate from him.”

Damian crossed the room and sat carefully on the edge of the bed, maintaining a respectful distance. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to the sketchbook.

I handed it to him, watching his face as he studied the drawing. His expression was serious, focused, like when he reviewed case documents, but with a softness around his eyes I rarely saw in the office.

“You’re incredibly talented,” he said finally, handing the book back. “I know enough about art to know when someone has a genuine gift.”

I felt my cheeks warm at the simple, direct compliment. No elaborate praise like Marcus would offer, designed to remind me of my dependence on his opinion. Just straightforward appreciation.

“I rearranged some things,” I said, gesturing to the corner. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course. This is your space while you’re here. Make it work for you.”

Damian left again for the office and Sandra arrived an hour later with more than I’d asked for—watercolours, yes, but also a proper set of drawing pencils, brushes, and heavyweight paper. She waved away my thanks.

“The firm keeps a petty cash fund for case expenses,” she explained. “This counts.”

After she left, I arranged the new supplies in the corner studio. I opened the new watercolours, mixing a wash of pale blue. The brush felt foreign in my hand after so long, but as I made the first stroke across the paper, something unlocked inside me. I painted until the light changed, until shadows stretched across the floor, until Damian called up that dinner was ready if I wanted to join him.

I looked down at what I’d created—not a masterpiece, just a simple study of light through leaves. But it was mine. Something Marcus had never touched, never controlled, never tainted with his possession. I’dmade something that belonged only to me.

I JOLTED AWAKEwith a scream caught in my throat, sheets twisted around my legs like restraints. The nightmare clung to me—Marcus’s fingers around my throat, his voice whispering “puppy” as he squeezed tighter. In the dream, the motel door had splintered open and Damian never answered his phone. No one came.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I untangled myself from the sheets. The digital clock on the nightstand read 2:37 a.m. I fumbled for the bedside lamp, flooding Damian’s bedroom with light that failed to chase away the panic.

Every shadow looked like Marcus. The creak of the house settling became footsteps. The tap of a branch against the window transformed into knuckles rapping glass. I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to separate reality from the nightmare, but my brain refused to cooperate.

“He’s in jail,” I whispered to the empty room. “He can’t get to you.”

But Marcus had money. Connections. People who owed him favours. What if he’d already posted bail again? What if—

A soft knock at the door sent me scrambling backward until my spine hit the headboard.

“Alex?” Damian’s voice, rough with sleep. “Are you alright? I heard—”

The door opened slowly, revealing Damian in flannel pyjama bottoms and a faded McGill t-shirt, hair mussed from sleep. The sight of him—solid, real, safe—broke something loose in my chest.

“Nightmare,” I managed, embarrassed by how my voice shook. “Sorry if I woke you.”

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