I can feel that Elle is not okay, but she's not telling me anything. She has bruises on her wrists and ankles—I spotted them when she reached for her seatbelt. I don't say anything, not because I don't care. I do. I care. A lot.
Maybe it's her sexual preference? Maybe she feels pleasure through pain? I don't know about that, but I'm obviously going to find out.
She's been acting strange for the past month. Refusing to sleep at my place every single time, which is unusual because she normally stays over at least twice a week. We have movie nights. Late-night conversations. Sometimes we just exist in the same space, her reading case files while I grade papers or prepare lectures.
But for the past month? Nothing. Just excuses.
"I have an early meeting."
"I need to prepare for court."
"Caspian wants me home."
Always Caspian. Always that man inserting himself between us.
She has dark circles under her eyes despite the expensive concealer I know she uses. I can see them because I know her face better than my own. Every expression. Every microexpression. Every tell when she's lying or hurting or hiding something. I can tell when someone is fighting her demons. First, I'm a therapist. And second, I have my own bigger demons.
And today—today she's wearing a turtleneck with long sleeves. In February. In Nairobi where it's warm enough that most people are in t-shirts and sundresses.
Usually when we are going for vacations, she wears lacy tops and clothes that make me wonder if they're actually supposed to be worn in public. Bright colors. Bold patterns. Clothes that show off her curves and her confidence. Elle has always been the sunshine of our trio—the extrovert who lights up every room, who knows everyone, who wears her heart on her sleeve.
But this? This turtleneck and long sleeves? This is wrong. This is hiding.
I keep my eyes on the road, but my peripheral vision tracks every movement she makes. The way she keeps tugging at her sleeves, pulling them down over her wrists. The way she adjusts her collar every few minutes, making sure it's covering her neck completely. The way she winces when she shifts in her seat, like something hurts.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel.
If Caspian is hurting her—if that smug, arrogant bastard has laid a hand on my best friend—I will destroy him. Slowly. Painfully. Creatively.
But I need to be sure first. I need evidence. I need her to tell me, or I need to see for myself.
So I wait. I observe. I catalog every small detail.
We arrive at MarCo Hotel in under two hours—one of my dads' properties. The hotel is named after them: Mark and Collin, combined into MarCo. Papa loves Dad so much that they had to give their hotel empire their combined names. There are MarCo hotels in five cities now, each one more luxurious than the last.
This one is my favorite. Smaller than the flagship property in Nairobi's city center, but more intimate. More personal. The staff here has known me since I was a child, when Papa would bring me to "work" and let me play in the executive offices while he managed the property.
The employees bow when they see us. I've told them a thousand times not to, but they don't listen. Old habits from when my family first established their reputation, I suppose. When people learned that the Muriithi family was part of the Big Five, they started treating us like royalty.
Sometimes I hate it. The bowing. The difference. The way people look at us like we're different from them.
But today, I barely notice.
I'm too focused on Elle.
"We'll be taking two VIP rooms," she tells the front desk staff.
"What? Why?" I turn to her, confused.
"You're an introvert. I'm trying to give you some space."
I stare at her. When did she start "giving me space"? I literally schedule entire days each month where I disappear from everyone—including her and Darcy. They know about my "me days." They respect them. I don't need her to manufacture space for me.
This is weird. This is wrong.
But I don't argue. Not yet. Because pushing Elle when she's not ready to talk only makes her shut down harder. I learned that years ago when we first became friends.
"Okay," I say simply, taking the key card the receptionist hands me. "Two rooms."
Elle looks relieved. Which only confirms my suspicion that something is very, very wrong.
We head up to our rooms on the top floor—the VIP suites that Papa keeps reserved for family. They're identical: floor-to-ceiling windows with views of the countryside, king-sized beds with Egyptian cotton sheets, marble bathrooms with soaking tubs, and sitting areas with plush couches.
"Rest for a bit?" Elle suggests. "Then we can go for a drive?"
"Sure," I agree. "Meet you downstairs in an hour?"
She nods and disappears into her room.
I stand in the hallway for a moment, staring at her closed door. Every instinct I have is screaming that she needs help. That she's in danger. That I should kick down that door right now and demand answers.
But I force myself to walk to my own room instead.
Because Elle is smart. Elle is strong. Elle is a defense attorney who has faced down murderers and rapists and abusers in court. If she's hiding something, she has a reason. And if I push too hard, too fast, I might make things worse.
So I'll wait. I'll watch. I'll be ready.
And when she's ready to tell me—or when I have enough evidence to confront her—I'll act.
I try to rest, but I can't. My mind won't stop racing.
I pull out my phone and text Darcy.
Me: Have you talked to Elle lately?
Darcy: Not really. Why? Everything okay?
Me: Not sure. She's acting weird.
Darcy: Weird how?
Me: Covering up. Flinching. Dark circles. Won't stay over anymore.
There's a long pause. Then three dots appear, disappear, appear again.
Darcy: Fuck. You think Caspian?
Me: I don't know yet. But I'm going to find out.
Darcy: Let me know if you need me. I can be back in the country in 48 hours.
Me: I will. Enjoy your volunteer work. Save some lives.
Darcy: Always. Love you, Moon.
Me: Love you too.
I set my phone down and walk to the window. The view is beautiful—rolling hills, scattered acacia trees, a sky so blue it hurts to look at. Peaceful. Serene. The opposite of how I feel.
I've always had good instincts about people. It's part of what makes me a good therapist. I can read microexpressions, body language, tone shifts. I can tell when someone is lying, when they're in pain, when they're hiding something.
And right now, every instinct I have is telling me that Elle is in serious trouble.
I think about Caspian. I've never liked him. From the moment Elle introduced us two years ago, something felt off.
He smiled, but it never reached his eyes. He held Elle's hand too tight, his fingers wrapped around her wrist like a shackle. He answered questions for her before she could speak. He positioned himself between her and other people, controlling who she talked to, how long conversations lasted.
At first, I thought maybe he was just possessive. Some people are like that in relationships—overly protective, overly involved. It's not healthy, but it's not necessarily abusive.
But then I started noticing other things.
The way Elle would check her phone constantly when we were out, like she was afraid of missing his messages. The way she'd make excuses to leave early, cutting our dinners short, canceling plans. The way her smile became more forced, more performative.
The way she started wearing more makeup. More concealer. More foundation.
I mentioned it to Darcy once, about six months ago.
"Do you think Caspian is good for Elle?" I'd asked.
Darcy had paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. "What do you mean?"
"I mean... she's different since she started dating him. Quieter. More anxious. She cancels plans. She's always checking her phone. And he's always there. Always watching her."
"You think he's controlling?"
"I think he might be."
Darcy had set down her fork, her expression shifting from casual to serious. "Have you seen any bruises? Any signs of physical abuse?"
"No. Not yet. But that doesn't mean—"
"I know." Darcy had leaned back, thinking. "Keep watching. Document anything suspicious. And if you see anything concrete, anything at all, we act immediately."
"Agreed."
But months passed, and I didn't see anything concrete. Just... feelings. Instincts. Suspicions.
Until today.
Today I saw the bruises. The ones she tried to hide under her sleeves. The ones on her wrists that looked like fingerprints. Like someone had grabbed her. Hard. Hard enough to leave marks that lasted for days.
And if there are bruises on her wrists, there are probably bruises elsewhere.
A knock on my door interrupts my thoughts.
"Moon? You ready?" Elle's voice, bright and cheerful. Fake.
I plaster on a smile and open the door. "Ready."
Elle insists on driving this time, and I let her take the wheel of my Mercedes 280SL. It's one of my favorite cars—a classic, beautifully maintained, with a smooth ride and enough power to make driving fun.
This side of the country is gorgeous. Wide-open roads, minimal traffic, scattered villages with small shops and cafes. The kind of peaceful landscape that usually makes me feel calm.
But today, I can't relax.
I watch Elle as she drives. She's good at it—confident, skilled, comfortable behind the wheel. She's singing along to the radio, some pop song I don't recognize, and for a moment she looks happy.
Really happy.
Like the old Elle. The Elle from before Caspian.
And my heart breaks a little because I realize how much I've missed this version of her. How much she's been hiding. How much he's taken from her.
"You okay?" she asks, glancing at me.
"Yeah. Just thinking."
"About?"
"Nothing important." I force myself to smile. "Just enjoying the drive. It's nice to get away from the city."
"It really is." She turns up the music. "We should do this more often. Just us. No work. No obligations. Just driving and talking and existing."
"I'd like that."
We drive for another hour, stopping at a small roadside cafe for lunch. Elle orders a salad and barely touches it. I order ugali and sukuma wiki and finish every bite while watching her push lettuce around her plate. That's what I do when my eating disorder is at it's peak.
"Not hungry?" I ask casually.
"Not really. I had a big breakfast."
Liar. I know she didn't have any breakfast this morning.
But I don't call her out. Not yet.
We get back in the car and drive until the sun starts setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink and purple. It's beautiful. Elle pulls over at a scenic viewpoint, and we both get out to watch.
"This is perfect," she says softly. "Thank you for this. For the trip. For being here."
"Always," I say. "You're my best friend, Elle. My sister. I'd do anything for you."
She looks at me then, and for just a second, I see it—the pain, the fear, the desperation. Like she wants to tell me something but can't find the words.
"Moon—"
"Yeah?"
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Shakes her head. "Never mind. Let's head back. I'm getting cold."
She's wearing a turtleneck and a jacket. It's not cold.
But I don't push.
We drive back to MarCo Hotel in silence. The easy, comfortable silence we've always shared. Except now it feels heavy. Weighted with everything she's not saying.
After dinner—where Elle again barely eats—we return to our separate rooms. I shower, change into my lacy nightgown, and try to sleep. I can't.
All I can think about is Elle. About those bruises. About Caspian. About what might be happening when she's alone with him.
About how I'm going to fix this.
Because that's what I do. I fix things. I solve problems. I help people.
And Elle is not just "people." She's my best friend. My sister. The person who's been by my side since high school, who's defended me against bullies, who's celebrated every victory and mourned every loss with me.
If someone is hurting her, I will end them.
I pull out my phone and look at the time. 10:47 PM.
Then I call her.
She answers on the second ring. "Moon?"
"Hey, my love. Can you come to my room?"
There's a pause. "Yeah. Let me come."