So, this is a chapter that I've written a few years ago now for an idea I had when I rewatched all seasons of Jessica Jones (I have 6 chapters written in total for this story). I love Daredevil as a whole but I think season 1 of Jessica Jones is even better than season 2 and 3 of Daredevil (not season 1 though). And I've always wondered what it would be like for Matt Murdock to be in the first season of Jessica Jones (especially given his connection to the Purple Man in the comics) and it's very easy to introduce him as the lawyer defending someone accused of murder, so taking Jeri Hogarth's place in the story in a way. And from there, I thought about Hope Shlottman and what the story would be like with a character like her, who was a victim of Kilgrave, but had powers like Jessica and was taken because of that, exactly like Jessica, well...that's how this story was born.
Hope you like it, tell me what you think!
Chapter 1: The Return
The cheap whiskey burned Jessica's throat as she downed another glass in the darkness of her office. The digital clock on her desk blinked 3:17 AM, its red light the only illumination besides the neon signs filtering through her cracked blinds. Sleep was a luxury she couldn't afford—not when it brought him back every time she closed her eyes.
She grabbed her phone as it lit up with an incoming call, squinting at the unfamiliar number.
"Alias Investigations," she answered.
"Are you Jessica Jones?" The woman's words tumbled out in a rush. "The private investigator?"
Jessica pinched the bridge of her nose. "Yeah, that's me. Who's asking?"
"Andrea Hartley. My sister is missing, and I need your help."
"Missing adults aren't usually missing," Jessica replied flatly. "They're avoiding someone, or they're with someone, or they just needed a break from their life."
"No, you don't understand. Amelia—Amy—she's been gone for two days. I went to the police, but they think I'm overreacting. They said she probably ran off with some guy or left town for a few days without telling me." Andrea's voice cracked with frustration. "But something's wrong. She's been acting strange for weeks—buying expensive things, staying out all night, missing work shifts."
Jessica sat up straighter. "Any history of drug use? Mental health issues?"
"God, no. Amy is the most responsible person I know. Or was, until a month ago. She started changing, like someone flipped a switch. Please... I don't know what else to do."
Jessica hesitated, but she needed the money. "My fee is $200 a day plus expenses."
"That's fine. Whatever it costs."
"Come to my office tomorrow morning. 485 West 46th Street, third floor."
Andrea Hartley was younger than Jessica expected—late-twenties with dark hair pulled into a practical ponytail and worry etched into her face. She perched on the edge of the chair across from Jessica's desk, clutching a worn leather backpack.
Jessica's office looked worse in daylight—broken door, peeling paint, and the lingering smell of whiskey that even the open window couldn't dispel. She'd picked up the most obvious mess, but housekeeping wasn't her strong suit.
"Tell me about Amelia," Jessica said, notepad in hand.
Andrea pulled out a photograph—she and a woman with striking blue eyes and shoulder-length blonde hair, both smiling broadly at the camera. "This is Amy." She traced her sister's face with a finger. "We're all each other has since our parents died in a car accident ten years ago. We grew up in Omaha, but moved to New York when I turned 18. I've been taking care of Amy ever since." A raw edge of desperation crept into her voice. "She's in law school at Columbia, and works as a waitress at The Daily Grind, this little café in Hell's Kitchen, to help pay for college. Recently she started missing shifts, calling in sick or just not showing up, even missing classes or not showing up for exams."
"When did you first notice changes in her behavior?"
Andrea's shoulders slumped. "About a month ago. She came home with shopping bags from places she could never afford. Gucci, Prada—she's a waitress, for God's sake. When I asked about it, she got defensive. Then she started staying out all night, being secretive about where she was going."
"When's the last time you heard from her?" Jessica asked, making notes.
"Two days ago. She sent a text saying she'd be 'out late.' Then nothing. Her phone goes straight to voicemail now." Andrea hugged her arms around herself. "I'm really worried. This isn't like her."
"I'll need a key to your apartment to check her things," Jessica said. "By the way, how did you find me?"
"I went to the police. They said there was no evidence of a crime being committed, and someone there recommended that we contact you."
Jessica paused. "The police referred you to me?"
"Why? Would that be unusual?" Andrea looked confused.
"Not at all," Jessica lied smoothly. "Has Amy had any problems in the past?"
"God, no. Amy has always been incredibly stable. Reliable to a fault."
The apartment in Hell's Kitchen was small but clean—two bedrooms separated by a narrow living area with a kitchenette against one wall. Andrea hovered in the doorway as Jessica examined Amy's room.
"Has she ever disappeared without letting you know?" Jessica asked, opening drawers and scanning the contents.
"Never. That's why I know something's wrong."
Jessica ran her fingers along the edge of a dresser, noting the lack of dust. "Nice place."
"We keep it clean. Amy is actually kind of a neat freak."
In the closet, Jessica found shopping bags from high-end stores with recent timestamps on the receipts. She pulled out a red designer dress, the price tag still attached. $1,200.
"She would never spend that much on a dress," Andrea confirmed, eyes wide. "She's always been frugal. We both have student loans, and she's been working so hard to pay for law school."
Jessica continued searching, finding more evidence of a sudden lifestyle change—expensive makeup, designer shoes, and a receipt from La Perla, a high-end lingerie store. There was also a receipt from Thomas Pink, a men's clothier.
"She's buying men's clothes too?" Andrea asked, peering over Jessica's shoulder.
"Not for herself," Jessica muttered, pocketing the receipts. "Either she's buying gifts for a boyfriend, or someone else is using her card."
Before leaving, Jessica checked Amy's bathroom, finding prescription medication for migraines and birth control pills, but nothing unusual.
The next morning, Jessica sat in her office going through what she'd learned.
Amy is going overboard to make her boyfriend happy,Jessica thought as she headed out.
At a high-end men's store, a salesman with an oily smile confirmed that a blonde woman matching Amy's description had bought an expensive suit last week. "For her special man," he'd said with a knowing wink.
She's either an idiot in love, or she's being conned. Which amount to pretty much the same thing.
Jessica's next stop was a restaurant in Midtown with a sign reading "Niku." She froze on the sidewalk, staring at the building.
"No. No way."
She entered, tension building in her chest. The interior had been completely redesigned with red and gold decor, paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling. A host approached with a polite smile.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, we're not open for dinner yet."
"Didn't this used to be Il Rosso?" She asked, her mouth suddenly dry.
"Yes. Niku opened eight months ago. May I make a reservation for you?"
Jessica pulled out her phone, showing him Amy's photo. "Have you seen this woman?"
"May I ask why?"
"I'm a private investigator."
The man shifted nervously. "I don't want any more trouble."
"Any more? So she was here."
"Last Tuesday."
"Was she alone?"
"You should really speak to my manager—"
"Just tell me what happened," Jessica demanded.
"Her companion wanted a particular table in the back. There was a couple already seated there. But I lost my mind or something. I told them to leave."
"That's not possible..." Jessica whispered.
As the man talked, Jessica's mind travelled back in time. She could see herself sitting at that same table, across from Kilgrave, in the restaurant's previous incarnation.
"What's not possible is our sommelier comping him a $500 bottle," the host continued. "And when he ordered his favorite dish, from Il Rosso, our chef actually hunted down the recipe from Il Rosso's old chef."
In her mind, Kilgrave raised his glass. "To our anniversary. You'll love it."
"I will love it," her past self responded mechanically.
"Then smile."
Jessica snapped back to the present. The host was still talking.
"I can't imagine why he came to a Chinese restaurant to order classic Italian pasta."
"Amatriciana," Jessica said, the word catching in her throat.
"Yes! That's it. How did you know?"
Jessica didn't answer, instead she bolted from the restaurant, her heart hammering.
"You know him? He's not coming back, is he? Ma'am?" The waitress kept shouting but Jessica ignored him.
On the sidewalk, she braced herself against a lamppost, fighting the rising panic.
"Birch Street, Higgins Drive... Shit."
She began walking, then running. She raced back to her office to call Andrea. When the call connected, Jessica didn't wait for a greeting.
"Who gave you my name? Which police officer told you about me?"
"What's going on? Did you find Amy?" Andrea asked, alarm evident in her voice.
"Is she okay?"
"Did you get the name of whoever referred me to you?"
"It wasn't a police officer."
"You said someone at the station—"
"He was... filing a complaint? Or paying a ticket. What does it matter?"
"What did he say?" Jessica pressed.
"He said he overheard my conversation with the desk sergeant about Amy, and suggested I come to you."
"Did he have an accent?"
"Yes. British. English, I think."
Jessica's blood ran cold. "Pack a bag. Get out of town. Get the hell out of here."
"What? Why? Who is this guy?"
Jessica paced her office, ignoring Andrea's questions.
"Does he have Amy?"
"Don't let anyone near you, just go!"
"Are you going to find her?"
Jessica hung up, her hands shaking. She sat at her desk and pulled up flight schedules on her laptop—Hong Kong, Sydney, anywhere far away.
Jessica called an airline, reserving a ticket to Hong Kong using Amy's credit card, but it was declined—likely maxed out by Kilgrave's extravagant spending. She needed cash, fast.
After a failed attempt to get an advance from Hogarth, Jessica found herself on Trish's balcony, sixteen stories up. Through the glass, she could see Trish in the middle of a meeting with her assistants. Jessica hesitated, then knocked on the glass. Trish glanced up, surprise flashing across her face before she quickly made excuses to dismiss her team.
Once Trish's assistants had filed out, she stepped onto the balcony where the night air carried the constant hum of city traffic.
"You could've used the door," Trish said, arms crossed over her chest, her voice a mixture of concern and irritation.
Jessica shifted uncomfortably, avoiding Trish's direct gaze. "I wasn't sure you'd answer. It's important."
"It must be," Trish replied, eyebrow arched skeptically.
Jessica's fingers tapped nervously against her thigh. "It's for a case."
"Right." Trish leaned against the doorframe. "You became a... private eye."
"You've been keeping tabs on me?"
Trish's shoulders tensed. "Making sure you weren't dead, since you never called." The hurt beneath her controlled voice was evident.
Jessica took a deep breath. "I need money."
"Wow." Trish's expression hardened, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I don't even know what to say."
"It's important," Jessica repeated, more quietly this time.
Trish stepped closer, her voice rising. "You said. But I don't hear from you for months, six months, actually." She counted off on her fingers for emphasis.
Jessica looked down at the concrete beneath her boots. "I needed breathing room."
"You shut me out," Trish said, her voice cracking slightly. "And now you show up here asking for money?"
"This was a bad idea." Jessica turned toward the balcony ledge, ready to disappear as quickly as she'd come.
"No." Trish grabbed her arm, fingers digging in with surprising strength. "You talk to me. You tell me what the hell is so important."
Jessica's eyes met Trish's, and something in her posture collapsed. "He's back," she whispered, the words nearly carried away by the wind.
The color drained from Trish's face. "It's been a year, Jess. You saw him die. You saw his death certificate." Her voice softened with concern. "This is just your PTSD—"
"It's not my goddamn PTSD!" Jessica snapped.
Trish took a step back, studying Jessica's face. "Are you still having nightmares? Flashbacks?" She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "You need to go back to that therapist."
Jessica let out a bitter laugh. "That quack that had me reciting street names from back home?"
"A proven method for managing PTSD," Trish countered, her voice taking on the practiced tone she used on her radio show when citing experts.
"Two hundred bucks for, 'Birch Street, Cobalt Lane, Bullshit Drive!'"
Trish's expression softened. "I told you I'd pay for it."
Jessica paced the small balcony, her movements like a caged animal. "Jesus Christ, Trish! He's back." Her voice dropped to an urgent whisper. "He sent a client to me—this woman from Hell's Kitchen. He took her sister."
Trish's brow furrowed. "Why her? Is she gifted?"
"I don't know." Jessica shook her head, her dark hair falling across her face. "But remember I told you he had that one month anniversary night? And now one month from the day he took Amy, he's doing the lingerie, the gift, the restaurant."
"The hotel?" Alarm flashed across Trish's face as she reached for her phone. "I'm calling the police."
Jessica moved with blinding speed, snatching the phone away. "They can't help, Trish." Her knuckles whitened around the device. "You know what he can do. You know what he made me do."
Trish's eyes narrowed. "So you're running?"
Jessica looked away. "Yeah, I sure as hell am. If he gets a hold of me again..." She couldn't finish the sentence, her breath catching.
"Trish—"
"If you leave that girl with him—"
"What would you have me do?" Jessica's voice rose. She didn't like the accusation mixed with disappointment in Trish's voice. "What exactly should I do?"
Trish stepped closer, her voice lowering to an intense whisper. "We'll figure out a way to protect you."
Jessica's laugh was hollow. "We? He's coming for me, not you."
"I know."
"You don't," Jessica shot back.
Trish grabbed Jessica's shoulders, forcing her to make eye contact. "I know one thing. You are far better equipped to deal with that animal than some innocent girl." Her voice softened. "You're still the person who tried to do something."
Jessica's shoulders slumped under Trish's hands. "Tried and failed," she whispered, her voice raw. "That's what started this. I was never the hero that you wanted me to be."
Trish held her gaze for a long moment before letting go. "I'll get your money."
She disappeared into her bedroom, the sound of a safe being unlocked barely audible. When she returned, she held out an envelope, her expression unreadable.
Jessica took it, the weight of the cash inside somehow heavier than it should be. She knew Trish was giving her what she asked for while silently hoping she'd make a different choice than running.
In the cab heading to the airport, Jessica couldn't stop seeing Andrea's desperate face, couldn't stop thinking about Amy trapped with Kilgrave, being used and violated the way she had been.
"I need to make a stop uptown," she told the driver. "59th and Fifth."
The cab drove up to a hotel and dropped her off. The doorman outside recognized her immediately.
"Miss Jones? I thought that was you. Welcome back. Will you be staying with us again?"
Jessica pushed past him, entering the ornate lobby. She knew exactly which suite Kilgrave would choose—the penthouse on the top floor, the same one where he'd kept her.
In the elevator, Jessica's hands shook as memories flooded back—being dressed like a doll, smiling on command, the feeling of her body moving against her will.
She exited on the penthouse floor, staring down the long hallway at the suite door.
Without hesitation, she pulled the fire alarm. As people evacuated their rooms, Jessica advanced down the corridor, fighting flashbacks with each step.
At the suite door, she paused, listening. No voices inside. She broke the lock with a sharp twist and entered.
The suite was dark, the curtains drawn against the city lights.
Jessica moved silently through the sitting room, past the dining area where she once sat motionless for hours when Kilgrave commanded her not to move, and into the bedroom.
A woman lay on the massive bed, staring at the ceiling. She had blonde hair fanned across the pillows, her face pale and drawn. She wore an expensive nightgown, completely still as though frozen in place by an invisible force.
"Is he here? Is Kilgrave here?" Jessica demanded.
"No," the woman answered flatly.
"How long? When did he leave?"
"Five hours and twenty-one minutes."
In the dim light, Jessica could see Amy more clearly—strikingly beautiful with delicate features, blue eyes now dull and vacant, and a slender build.
"We have to get you out of here. Let's go. Get dressed."
"I can't."
"He told you not to move, didn't he?"
"I wet the bed," Amy whispered, her vacant expression momentarily flickering with shame.
Jessica called Andrea, keeping her eyes on Amy. "I found her. Meet me at my office. Don't tell anyone where you're going."
"Is that Andrea?" Amy asked, a hint of emotion creeping into her voice.
"Yes. She's been looking for you. We're getting you out of here now." Jessica grabbed clothes from the closet and approached the bed. "Come on."
"No, I can't!" Amy cried, her body rigid with resistance.
"Yes, you can. His control wears off with distance."
"I can't leave! He told me to wait for him!" Amy's voice rose to a panicked scream as Jessica tried to pull her from the bed. "No! No! Put me down!"
Amy thrashed wildly as Jessica lifted her, scratching and clawing with a strength born of terror. She knocked a lamp to the floor, tore at the wallpaper as Jessica carried her through the suite.
"I can't leave! I can't! No! Let me go!" Amy sobbed, fighting with every ounce of strength.
Left with no choice, Jessica struck her temple with precise force, rendering her unconscious.
Back in her apartment, Jessica paced as Amy sat motionless on the couch, dressed in clothes Jessica had grabbed from the hotel. The woman's eyes were clearer now, though haunted.
"His control wears off with time and distance," Jessica explained. "The further away you are, the weaker it gets."
"He made me do things that I didn't want to do, but I wanted to," Amy whispered, tears welling in her eyes.
"What street did you live on as a kid? What was the name? Picture the sign," Jessica said.
"Harrison. Harrison Street."
"And the next block over?"
"Florence."
"Listen to me," Jessica said firmly. "None of it is your fault."
"You don't know."
"I know. Okay? I know. I want you to say it. 'None of it is my fault.' Say it back to me."
"It's not my... It's... It's not my fault," Amy repeated, her voice trembling.
A knock at the door made them both jump. Jessica opened it to find Andrea, her face tight with worry.
"Oh my God, Amy!" Andrea rushed to her sister, engulfing her in a hug. "I've been so worried."
Amy stared at her sister with glassy eyes. "It's not my fault."
"I know, sweetie." Andrea looked to Jessica. "What happened to her?"
Jessica stepped forward. "She'll be okay. You just have to keep her away from the man who took her."
"Took her?" Andrea asked.
"He escaped. And right now your only concern is putting Amy in a car and driving west, and don't stop until you're far, far away from here."
"I'll take care of her. Thank you, Ms. Jones," Andrea added.
"It's fine."
Amy embraced Jessica suddenly. "You saved my life."
"Go! I'm right behind you."
Jessica watched them walk to the elevator. As the doors opened, she noticed Amy's expression change—her face going blank and then twisting into a smile that wasn't her own.
"No!" Jessica shouted, sprinting toward them.
The elevator doors closed just as Amy reached into her purse. Gunshots echoed in the hallway.
Jessica raced down the stairwell, taking whole flights in single leaps. She reached the ground floor just as the elevator doors opened.
Andrea's body tumbled out, blood pooling beneath her. Three bullet holes marked her chest. Inside the elevator, Amy stood still, the gun in her hand clicking on empty chambers as she continued pulling the trigger. She looked up at Jessica with a vacant smile.
"Smile," she said in a hollow voice.
Then, like a switch had flipped, awareness flooded back into her eyes. She looked down at Andrea's body, at the gun in her hand, and crumpled to the floor with an agonized scream.
"Andrea! No! Oh God, what did I do? Help me!"
Tenants emerged from their apartments as sirens wailed in the distance. Jessica backed away, nausea rolling through her.
She staggered outside, a taxi pulling up as if on cue.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
Jessica stared back at her building, where police cars were now arriving, their lights painting the night in red and blue. Amy would be arrested for murder. Another innocent life destroyed because of Kilgrave.
Because of her.
"Nowhere," she told the driver, shutting the door.
Knowing it's real means you gotta make a decision. One: Keep denying it. Or two: Do something about it.
Jessica squared her shoulders and walked back toward the building, toward the nightmare she'd been running from for a year.
The phone at Nelson and Murdock rang with a shrill tone that echoed through the small office. Karen Page reached for it, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.
"Nelson and Murdock, how can I help you?" she answered, her voice shifting into professional mode. "Oh, hi Brett."
Matt, who had been reviewing case notes at his desk, tilted his head slightly, his enhanced hearing easily picking up both sides of the conversation.
"Hey Karen," Brett Mahoney's voice came through the line. "Foggy around? Got something he might find interesting."
"Sure, he's right here." Karen glanced over at Foggy's desk. "Foggy, it's Brett Mahoney."
Foggy looked up from the file he was reviewing, raising his eyebrows in interest. He reached for the phone.
"Sergeant Mahoney, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Foggy answered, leaning back in his chair. "Is my mom's lasagna wearing off already? Time for another bribe?"
Matt could hear Brett's exasperated sigh through the phone.
"Very funny, Nelson. Listen, we got a weird one last night I thought you might want to know about."
"Weird how?" Foggy perked up.
"Woman shot her sister in an elevator over in Hell's Kitchen. Claims she was mind-controlled by some British guy."
"Mind-controlled?" Foggy repeated, his voice loud enough that both Matt and Karen turned toward him. "That's a new one."
"Yeah. Says this 'Kilgrave' guy told her to shoot her sister and she couldn't stop herself from doing it. Obviously looking at an insanity defense, but figured Nelson and Murdock specialize in lost causes."
"That we do," Foggy replied, though Matt could hear the skepticism in his voice. "What's the woman's name?"
"Amelia Hartley, 26. Columbia law student. Sister was Andrea Hartley, 28. Amelia had been missing for a couple of days. Sister hired a PI to find her."
"And then got shot for her trouble?" Foggy whistled. "That's rough."
"It's getting attention. Columbia law student murders her sister in an elevator, claims mind control made her do it. DA's office thinks it's an easy win." Brett's voice lowered. "The woman's terrified though. Keeps saying he'll come for her."
"Sounds like she needs a psych eval more than a lawyer," Foggy remarked.
"Maybe. But I've seen a lot of perps fake insanity, and this one... I don't know. She seems genuinely traumatized, like she believes what she's saying."
"Has she been assigned counsel yet?" Foggy asked, glancing over at Matt, who was listening intently.
"Public defender. Some kid fresh out of law school who looks terrified every time she mentions mind control. Arraignment's tomorrow morning."
"Well, thanks for the heads up, Brett. I'll, uh... pass it along."
After Foggy hung up, he turned to Matt and Karen, who were both watching him expectantly.
"So," Foggy began, "that was strange. Brett just called about a case involving a woman who claims she was mind-controlled into murdering her sister."
"Mind control?" Karen's eyes widened.
"Yep. Says some British guy named Kilgrave commanded her to shoot her sister and she couldn't stop herself." Foggy laughed, though it sounded forced. "Points for creativity, I guess."
Matt remained silent, his expression thoughtful.
"You're not actually considering this, are you?" Foggy asked, noticing Matt's contemplative posture.
"It's certainly unusual," Matt replied carefully.
"Unusual? It's insane," Foggy countered. "Matt, we're barely making rent as it is. We can't afford to be the laughingstock of the New York legal community."
"I'd like to talk to her."
"You can't be serious." Foggy's voice rose in disbelief. "Matt, come on. We've got actual, legitimate cases that need attention. Cases that might someday pay us in something other than fruit baskets or apple pies."
"I didn't say we'd take the case," Matt clarified. "I just want to hear what she has to say."
Foggy groaned. "I knew it. You've got that look. That 'I'm about to do something noble but possibly very stupid' look."
"He does have a look," Karen confirmed, amusement in her voice.
Foggy sighed dramatically. "Fine. Go talk to the loony lady if you want, but don't drag me into this particular brand of crazy. And don't you dare commit us to anything without consulting me first."
Matt stood, reaching for his cane. "Thanks for understanding, Foggy."
"I don't understand," Foggy called after him as Matt headed toward the door. "For the record, I think this is nuts. You're going to listen to a woman who claims she was mind-controlled into committing murder?"
Matt paused at the doorway, a faint smile on his lips. "Foggy, we live in a city that was attacked by aliens coming through a hole in the sky. After the Incident, does mind control really sound that impossible?"