Savannah Alias

Mia's alias life is made of careful poverty. A drawer of fake IDs. one emergency envelope of cash. two jobs under names that can be dropped like skins. She shows us the attic room above the motel office where she has lived for three years and points to the panic route through the fire stairs before she points to anything sentimental. That tells me almost everything I need to know about what survival cost her.

On the back wall she has pinned a small calendar of escape anniversaries: dates she changed phones, motels, hair color, cities. One square six years ago is circled three times. Lake night.

"Why stay in Savannah?" I ask.

"Because rich people expect girls like me to run loud," she says. "I went boring instead."

Nico secures emergency witness status while Tessa helps Mia pack only what matters. I watch the two of them move around each other and understand why Nina trusted this arrangement once: Tessa has always been best with damaged velocity. She does not ask women to become soothing before she believes them.

Before we leave, Mia hands me one small spiral notebook from under the mattress. "I wrote down the parts I was told to forget," she says. "In case I started listening."

The entries are sparse and devastating. donor names. room numbers. one assault description. one note about Celia Weller promising Mia she'd never find work again if she told the wrong version. At the bottom of the last page: Owen not surprised at dock. angry, not surprised.

That distinction matters more than any scream. If Owen arrived shocked, maybe he is the clean-up coward he prefers to be. Angry means he knew enough in advance to have expectations. Another little door closes.

As Nico gets Mia into the transport SUV, she grabs my sleeve. "If Poppy is with you now, don't let anyone say her lines for her. That's how it starts." Then she looks past me at Tessa. "And don't let the pretty one leave again."