13. Luca #2
“I’ve eaten some of it.”
“That means you’ve taken two bites, which means it’s not enough.”
A quiet laugh slips out of him as he picks up one half. He takes another bite while holding my gaze, then sets it down and wipes his fingers against the napkin beside the plate. “Satisfied?”
“Not remotely, but I’ll accept progress.”
The teasing fades when he studies my face more carefully. His hand settles against the edge of the table, and his voice softens. “What happened?”
I look toward the consultation-room door before answering. “Someone came in this morning. She’s been through more than she should’ve had to survive.”
Blake doesn’t ask for her name or what she told me. He waits, giving me room to decide what belongs to Philomena and what belongs to me.
“I’m trying not to turn her story into evidence before she decides whether that’s what she wants,” I say. “I know what we need for the investigation, but she’s only been here a few hours.”
“Then let her be safe first,” Blake says. He shifts the phone slightly when Rosalie’s voice rises in the next room, but his attention stays on me. “You don’t have to solve everything she told you today.”
The answer loosens some of the pressure in my chest. I rest my head briefly against the back of the chair and close my eyes.
“I needed to hear you,” I admit.
“I’m here, Cupcake.”
Luther returns without Rosalie and stops behind Blake’s chair. One hand settles on Blake’s shoulder while the other braces against the table, bringing him closer to the screen.
“You okay, sweetheart?” he asks me.
“I will be.”
His gaze remains on me for a moment, steady and patient, before he bends to kiss the top of Blake’s head. Blake reaches up and catches Luther’s wrist, keeping his hand against his shoulder after the kiss ends.
“You should come home when you can,” Blake says.
“I have to speak with her again first.”
“Then call us after,” Luther says. “Even if it’s late.”
Before I can answer, Rosalie appears beneath Luther’s arm and pushes her face into the bottom of the screen. One braid has already started coming loose, and she’s holding a glittery shoe against her chest.
“Papa Luca, I found it.”
I smile despite myself. “Was it missing, baby?”
“Yes. Daddy said it was under my bed, but that still means missing.”
Behind her, Luther closes his eyes while Blake laughs and reaches over to smooth the loose section of her braid.
“You were supposed to be putting it on,” Luther reminds her.
“I had to tell Papa Luca first.”
“I’m glad you found it,” I tell her. “Now put it on before the other one gets lonely.”
Rosalie disappears from the screen as quickly as she arrived, already calling for James. Luther brushes his thumb once over Blake’s shoulder before following her into the next room.
Blake watches me for another quiet moment. The house continues moving around him, full of small voices and footsteps, but he doesn’t rush to fill the silence between us.
“You don’t have to carry the whole day before you come home,” he says.
“I know.”
“Good.” He reaches for the sandwich again and takes another bite without being asked. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I stay on the call until he finishes chewing and promises to eat the rest. Only then do I end it and return to the intake form.
Philomena sleeps for almost two hours.
When Blossom tells me she’s awake, I don’t bring the earlier notes upstairs. I take a blank page and meet her in the small lounge beside her room, where she’s sitting beneath the blanket Blossom gave her.
“I want to explain something before we continue,” I say. “People are investigating an older placement network that used some of the same language you described.”
Her shoulders tighten.
“You’re not in trouble,” I add. “Nothing you’ve told me has been shared.”
Philomena studies my face. “But you want to share it.”
“Only if you agree.”
I explain that Wilson is assisting with the Hearthstone investigation and that my mates are helping trace its remaining financial and legal structures.
I tell her they may compare her description with old contracts and records.
I explain that she can refuse, agree to only part of it, remove identifying details, or wait until she has spoken with a lawyer or advocate.
“Will the police come here?” she asks.
“Not unless you ask to speak with them or there’s a legal requirement we can’t avoid. If that changes, we’ll tell you before anyone contacts you.”
“Will they know my name?”
“Not if you don’t want them to.”
“And if I say no?”
“You keep your room. You keep your care. Nothing changes.”
Her eyes move past me toward the hall.
I follow the direction of her gaze and see Josie standing near the open office door with a stack of supply forms in her hands. She isn’t close enough to hear every word, but she can hear enough.
I turn back to Philomena.
“You can also decide later,” I say. “You don’t owe anyone your story because it may help an investigation.”
Philomena asks who will receive the notes, how they’ll be stored, and whether she can approve the summary before it leaves Ember House.
I answer each question. She agrees to an anonymized account but doesn’t consent to an interview, release of her medical information, or contact with law enforcement.
I write those restrictions at the top of the page and hand it to her so she can read them herself.
When I look toward the hall again, Josie hasn’t moved.
Something shifts across her expression when I repeat that Philomena can refuse without losing her place. The change is brief, little more than her lips parting before she looks down at the forms in her hands.
It could be guilt.
It could be confusion.
It could be recognition that has nothing to do with the network.
Before I can decide, Josie lowers her gaze and continues toward the supply room.
Philomena reads the consent limits twice before signing beneath them.
That evening, Wilson joins us at the house.
The children are already upstairs with Grayson, though their footsteps carry through the ceiling whenever one of them runs down the hall. Philomena’s anonymized account lies on the coffee table with her restrictions clipped to the front.
Wilson reads the terminology twice before placing the pages down. “These phrases came from Hearthstone’s internal placement system. They weren’t used in public donor materials.”
Maceo sits forward, his forearms resting against his knees. “Could someone have copied old records after Ward’s operation collapsed?”
“Possibly.” Wilson taps the sequence with one finger. “But the order matters. Intake category, sponsor review, compatibility match, transfer debt. Whoever built this service understands how the stages worked together.”
Blake rests his cane against the sofa and studies the summary from beside me. His shoulder presses lightly into mine, and his hand remains across my knee beneath the edge of the paper.
“So this isn’t money left sitting in old trusts,” he says.
“No.” I look at the phrases Philomena remembered copying by hand. “Someone is placing Omegas through the method now.”
The room stills around the distinction.