Unless Ilse did something about it.

Ilse felt iron behind her words now as she spoke, one hand still resting on the comforter, near Samantha’s trembling foot beneath the blanket. “I’m going to help you, Samantha,” Ilse said. “I swear it. You have my word. I’m going to help.”

“Help?” Sam said the word with a rasping croak, as if she couldn’t quite believe it. Her eyes fluttered, half closed. Clearly, she was exhausted. “That’d be nice,” Sam murmured, her voice growing more faint.

“I promise,” Ilse said, nodding. The promise wasn’t so much for Sam as it was for Ilse herself. She meant it.

Sam needed help, and Ilse was determined to give it. No matter how long it took.

“Dr. Beck,” Sam said, quietly. “Is it—is it okay if I leave the light on? Just for a bit.”

“That’s fine, Sam. You should get some rest. The doors are locked. The killer is behind bars. You’re safe. I promise you.”

“Thanks.”

Ilse smiled at Samantha, but the gesture didn’t quite come from her heart. Mostly, she only felt grief and sadness. Sometimes old wounds went so deep they caused pain decades later. Crippling, isolating pain.

It wasn’t fair.

But Ilse was going to help. At least she knew that much. She patted the blanket, still not quite making contact with Sam’s foot, and then moved slowly, cautiously toward her bedroom. First a shower, then another… Then some fresh clothes.

She sighed, feeling a shiver of delight. Then, mercifully, she’d finally be able to get some sleep.

***

As much as she wanted to, Ilse found it difficult to fall asleep. Her hair was damp, following the long, half-hour shower. It was nice to feel clean for the first time in two days. She had changed into another sweatshirt with sweatpants. Now, as she lay in her bed, staring up at the motionless fan on the ceiling, she could feel her heart flutter in her chest.

The darkness was oppressive, and it came with friends.

Ilse gritted her teeth, wincing against the deluge of memories playing across her flitting subconscious. Every time her mind seemed to try and dip into rest, the memories would return, like burglars pouncing at the opportunity. Ilse’s fists clenched, one hand bunched and caught up in the covers. The house seemed smaller than she remembered, her bedroom tiny.

She shifted a bit, and felt something lumpy brush her cheek. Were those feathers?

She yelped, and twisted sharply.

But it was just her pillow, pressed up next to her face. Trembling, she pushed at the pillow, her fingers probing, just to make sure it was only bedding.

She could remember, could still feel the warmth of the dead pigeon, could still hear the crack of its bones—the pain in her finger. Could still smell her father’s stale and warm breath against her cheek. Could still hear his voice grating and rasping in her ear.

She reached up in the dark, embraced by the bed, her fingers probing at her ear, gently touching against the missing lobe on the right side; with the same fingers she traced that horrible scar, trailing down to her chin.