Layla
In the week since Vanessa’s attack, I’d been to visit her every day after work.
I’d nestled her into a one-bedroom condo in Aldo’s safehouse, just a few blocks from the hospital. It was fully equipped and furnished, but the first night, I’d still brought back takeout.
The way she’d dug in, I knew she hadn’t had a square meal in a long time.
But after she’d looked up from her scraped-clean plate to regard me with still-hungry, haunted eyes, I’d opted to cook for her instead.
She didn’t just need a meal. She needed a home-cooked meal. Something wholesome and sustaining, made with care and intention. She needed someone to show her she truly wasn’t alone in the world anymore.
So, the second night, I made a stir fry. Cracked open a bottle of wine, and set a glass before her while I
