Before I can speak, Callie is already on her feet.
“That was them,” she says. Voice tight. “The new place?”
“Yes.”
She swallows. Hard. “Can I… can we go?”
That flicker of hope, she tries to kill it, but I see it anyway. I feel it.
I nod.
Her breath leaves her like she’s been holding it since dawn. But before the relief can settle, I make my boundaries clear.
“You stay beside me. You don’t speak to anyone unless I say. You don’t run.”
Her jaw clenches. “You’re ridiculous,” she spits, then when my expression doesn’t change, she adds, “I won’t run.”
And she believes that. Right now, she believes she won’t. But panic turns hope into mistakes.
“I will hold you to your word,” I say, stepping closer, a silent warning.
Her chin lifts. “Fine.”
God, she tests me.
I gesture toward the elevator. “Let’s go.”
She moves stiffly, like her skin is too tight. I press the button for the private garage, watching her in the mirrored wall as the doors close.
She wraps her arms around herself. Protective. Fragile. But her eyes remain steady, terrified, yes, but also determined. Loyal.
Not to me. Not yet. To her grandmother.
The elevator opens and I guide her toward the car, matte black, windows smoked, engine silent as death. A machine built for disappearing in the night.
Today, in the bright light of day, I use it to take her to what matters most to her.
She slides into the passenger seat but keeps her hands fisted in her lap, as if touching anything of mine might make the situation sharper.
I slide in beside her and then we’re sealed off from the world.
The strip blurs past, neon dreams, artificial lights, everything loud and false. She watches it all as if she’s been gone for years instead of hours. Within a few minutes we’re in her neighbourhood, and then pulling up outside her small house.
I park the car on the short driveway and she jumps out. I’m out and around the car in seconds, standing right behind her, close enough she can feel me.
She opens the door and walks straight through to what is a bedroom. I stay alert, poised to move fast if I suspect she is climbing out of a window or making a call. After a couple of minutes she reappears, having changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a thin sweater the colour of honey.
“Ready?” I ask and she nods, heading back to the front door.
I don’t comment about how sparse the house is. How the furniture is ancient and threadbare. How it looks as though ithasn’t been decorated since before I was born. How the yard looks sad and neglected even though there is evidence that there were once flower beds and maybe even a rockery. I just follow her out, making sure to pull the door closed behind me.
We’re back in the car, heading out of the neighbourhood when she finally speaks again.
“She doesn’t have anyone else,” she says quietly, voice fraying. “Sometimes the confusion is worse in the mornings. If she thought I abandoned her—”
“She won’t,” I cut in. “They know to tell her you’re coming.”
She nods, but it doesn’t ease the shaking in her hands.
