Delaney pulled up to her parents' house at 3:47 PM on a Thursday.
She'd been avoiding it. Had sent texts instead of visiting, made excuses about work deadlines and impossible schedules. But her mother's latest message had been pointed: Victor asks about you.
Which was impossible, because Victor didn't speak.
But the guilt had worked anyway.
She sat in the car for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, staring at the house she'd grown up in. Same peeling paint. Same overgrown hedges. Same feeling of wrongness that had followed her since childhood.
She got out. Locked the car. Walked to the door.
Her mother answered before she could knock.
No hug. Just a look—assessing, measuring, finding her lacking as always.
Her mother grabbed her purse, keys already in hand.
But she was already out the door, leaving Delaney standing in the entryway of her childhood home with a child she barely knew.
Victor sat on the couch, legs tucked under him, holding that same worn stuffed animal. He looked up when Delaney entered—those old, careful eyes tracking her movement.
No response. Just watching.
She sat in the armchair across from him. Not too close. Giving him space.
Victor's gaze moved to the window. To the front yard. To anywhere but her face.
Same time. Delaney's apartment.
Delaney stood in her kitchen, staring at the boy sitting at her table.
Victor. Eleven years old. Bulgarian. Barely spoke English.
Her sister Amore's latest crisis dumped on her doorstep with zero warning. "Just for a few days," Amore had said. "His mom's in the hospital and I can't take him right now. You're the only one without kids."
Victor stared at the plate of toast she'd made him. Hadn't touched it. Just sat there, shoulders hunched, eyes down.
No response.
He looked up. Dark eyes. Unreadable.
He went back to staring at the toast.
Victor's expression didn't change. Maybe he understood. Maybe he didn't. Maybe he was just choosing not to respond because he knew it pissed her off.
Her phone buzzed.
A crash.
She spun around.
Victor had knocked his glass of water onto the floor. It shattered. Water spreading across tile.
He looked at her. Still blank. Still unreadable.
He didn't move.
He blinked slowly. Then bent down and started picking up glass with his bare hands.
He pulled away from her touch. Kept picking up glass.
Delaney closed her eyes. Counted to five. Opened them.
She stepped over the water and went to her laptop. Pulled up the surveillance feeds.
Behind her, she heard Victor stand. Heard him walk to the trash can. Drop the glass. Then nothing.
She glanced back.
He was standing by the window. Staring out. Still as a statue.
No response.
Nothing.
Delaney turned back to her laptop. Typed a response to Marshall:
A sound behind her. Soft. Almost imperceptible.
She turned. Victor's shoulders were shaking slightly. His hand pressed against the window glass.
He didn't look at her. Just kept staring out the window.
Delaney stood there, awkward, useless. She didn't do this. Didn't comfort. Didn't know how to comfort.
Victor turned to look at her. His eyes were wet but his expression was pure contempt.
He stared at her for another long moment. Then walked past her, deliberately stepping through the water she'd told him to clean up, tracking wet footprints across her floor.
The door to the guest room slammed.
Delaney stood in her kitchen, water soaking into her socks, and felt rage bubbling up her throat.
She grabbed her phone and called Amore.
She hung up.
Looked at her laptop. At the surveillance feeds. At the Cut Ties folder with all her files.
She sat back down. Refocused.
She typed another message to Marshall.
She turned up the volume on her laptop.