the underground parking garage, the b

a pale-faced woman with vacant eyes who di

urtain walls and steel buildings of the financial dist

images were already projected

s, her father's company, was decimated by creditors afte

ding. A nauseating silence fell before the fall. Crimson blood

died two months later in a car accide

lmer than it had been in the past two months. She said, "Finally, someone is willing to tell me the truth." Ava asked who she was going to see,

s, her short nails embedding themsel

ctor's gentle, compassionate voice explained "selective mutism." It was a

on" to quell the ugly rumors surrounding the acquisi

, a flawed object, given to

d solemn. There was no media, no family members other

oath. His gaze remained fixed on her shoulders

skin for a second longer than intended. That was the only second. Then he withdrew his hand, as if burned. At the time, she tho

d. The driver cursed the taxi that had cut him

led out her phone and, out of an ominous habit, ope

es. He provided for her "basic needs" through a family account managed by his employees

an old brick building in Brooklyn. This

of the car, and was greet

rs gradually dissipated. This place, despite its peeling paint and worn-out floor, w

wearing an old suit, holding a sign that read "Community Arts Fund Donor," smiling like an ordinary person. She would stop every time she passed thi

o calm her expression, and then

sk waved enthusiastically to

d the changing room, her steps muc

ook out an old pair of blac

r, and tied her hair into a tight, high ponytail. This movem

er sketches and ideas scribbled on every page. Clutching the no

que on the wall-she hadn't been there, but someone had taken a picture. He had no documents, no contracts, only a hamme