A woman stands when we enter. Mid-thirties, professional, carrying the weight of too many failed cases. "Mr. Vance? Jennifer Brooks, Child and Family Services."
"Where's Traci?"
"Next room. I need to brief you first." She gestures to chairs. I stay standing. She understands, stays standing too. "Traci's been severely traumatized. She doesn't speak. Communicates with head movements, occasionally writes when necessary. She needs stability and long-term commitment. Are you prepared for that?"
Fair question. I've spent years isolated because I couldn't handle being around people. Taking responsibility for a traumatized teenager seems like the worst tactical match possible.
"I'm here."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting. She's family. I'm taking guardianship."
Jennifer studies my face. "The marshals mentioned you have Delta Force background. That you understand security."
"I do."
"The trafficking network is still active. If they view Traci as a threat, they'll come for her."
"Let them try."
Her expression changes. She gets it. I mean what I said. "Guardianship paperwork will take a few hours. Legal aid is standing by. Once it's processed, you can take her wherever you think is safest."
"I want to see her first."
She leads me to a smaller room. Less formal setup. Couch, chairs arranged to feel less like an interrogation. A woman sits in one chair. She has a kind face, notepad in hand. Victim advocate.
Traci sits on the couch.
Gray sweatshirt swallowing her whole. Hair pulled back tight showing bones where there should be softness. Skin pale enough to see veins beneath. Hands folded in her lap, fingers locked together. Staring at the floor. Shoulders curled inward. She's making herself smaller, trying to disappear.
Tactical read runs automatic. Underweight by too much. Defensive posture. Watching everything while pretending not to. Breathing shallow and controlled. Someone who's learned to be quiet to stay safe.
She doesn't look up when the door opens. Doesn't react to voices. Just waits for the next bad thing.
"Traci," Jennifer says quietly. "Your uncle's here."
Traci's head comes up.
Recognition flashes. Matching memory with reality. Breath catches. For half a second hope breaks through before she kills it. Hope gets you hurt.
I move forward. Deliberate steps. Hands visible. No sudden moves. "You're coming with me."
She's family and I'm extracting her from this situation.
She stares at me. What she's seen doesn't fade just because you survive it.
The victim advocate, Rebecca Macintosh based on the nameplate, speaks up. "Traci, your uncle has agreed to guardianship. That means you'd leave foster care and live with him. It's your choice."
She hasn't looked away. Searching. Calculating. Deciding if I'm real or just another adult who'll disappear when things get hard.
I crouch down. Eye level. Close enough she knows I'm not bullshitting her. "I wasn't there when your dad died. Wasn't there when you needed someone. I'm sorry, but I'm here now. You're not staying in the system."
Her throat works. Tears well up but don't fall. She's cried herself out already.
For a second I think she'll refuse. Decide I'm not worth the risk.
Then she gives a sharp nod. She's made her choice.
