Chapter Thirty-Nine
House is an odd word to describe this fortress.
It looks like it came straight out of one of my gothic romance books, the ones with ivy running up the walls, dark and gloomy, brick gone dull with age, whispers do not enter in a sinful caress, lacking any feeling of safety.
The lights outside are off; only a single lamp glows behind a curtain on the second floor, soft and yellow, as if comfort is waiting inside.
Cam swore this was the safest place for these kids.
Inside the van, eleven kids are pretending not to stare.
One of the littlest ones is chewing on a sleeve, eyes wide, following my every moment.
The six babies are still in the truck, where it’s warm.
“Everyone, stay put for a second,” I tell them through the van window.
“We’re going to go meet them, then we will bring you in.
No wandering. Got it?” My hand finds the door handle and pauses.
A cramp twists in my stomach. Pending labs and positive tests are looming in the back of my mind.
My future is undecided. Later. I’ll deal with this later.
Right now, we need to focus on them and give them the best possible shot at a normal future, whatever that looks like.
Moving toward the front door, Sterling falls into step beside me, his shoulder a solid presence at the edge of my vision.
Sterling knocks on the door. The sound is dull, swallowed by metal and weather and whatever this place was before it became a way station for other people’s damage.
There’s movement on the other side almost immediately—a scrape of a deadbolt, a chain sliding back.
A small square in the door clicks open with a metallic snap, revealing a slice of warm light and a pair of sharp brown eyes.
“You’re right on time,” a woman’s voice says through the crack in the door. “Sterling and Kiera, right?”
“That’s us.” Sterling stands back so she can see him.
The woman swings open the door. She’s shorter than I thought.
Dark curls pulled back under a bandana, loose sweatshirt, jeans, bare feet.
Early forties, maybe. The kind of face that’s learned how to be soft without ever forgetting how to be hard.
“Cam told me about you,” she says to Sterling.
Then her gaze slides to me, and it’s like being X-rayed.
“And you’re the one Cam warned me about. ”
“Depends on what he told you,” I say. “He can be dramatic at times.”
Her mouth quirks. “Cam said you’re very good at getting people out of hell and very bad at believing they deserve somewhere better afterward. Sounds like you may have some experience in that department.” She steps back to let us in.
The entryway is narrow, and the walls are a shade of color that may once have been cheerful.
There are scuff marks along the wall, just about a kid’s height, and a rack of mismatched shoes by the door.
A bulletin board cluttered with flyers and hand-drawn pictures sits on the far wall.
My stomach rolls to the mix of scents that are wafting through—coffee, laundry detergent, and some kind of dessert.
“I’m Mara. Cam filled me in,” she says as she shuts the door behind us.
“The kids were part of some kind of trafficking program that was running experiments on them. I run this facility for survivors. My family was running it before me. So, needless to say, these kids are in good hands.”
“Trafficking survivors,” I echo. Hearing the words out loud in someone else’s mouth puts this situation into perspective.
“Yeah,” Mara nods, eyes steady. “Not victims. I don’t like the term.
It’s invalidating. The victim mentality doesn’t allow for growth or for becoming the person they were meant to be in a normal world.
And they won’t be victims anymore, not if I have anything to say about it.
They survived. They are survivors.” Her gaze flicks to the van through the door’s narrow window.
“How bad was it for them?” she asks. Not asking if they can be saved, but more like what kind of hell needs to be undone.
“Mixed,” I say softly. “Some are adjusting better than others. Some are struggling with adjusting. The babies- I’m not sure- hoping they never remember this. All of them have earned the right never to see a white coat again.”
Mara nods once, expecting that answer. “Okay,” she says slowly.
“Ground rules. You two can come in with them. You don’t give orders to my staff.
They’re trained medical professionals whom I hired and trust. No weapons are to be visible unless needed.
And if anyone followed you, you deal with it out front.
Not in front of the kids. Are we clear?”
Sterling’s jaw flexes, not liking being bossed around. It’s not fun, is it! “We’re just here to give them somewhere safe,” he says. “And Cam said you keep people alive and unbroken better than anyone else he knows. We would like to check on them from time to time, if that’s okay?”
“I’m sure we can manage that,” Mara says. “We still clear on all that?”
“Crystal,” I answer for both of us before Sterling can say something stupid.
Mara studies me for another beat, then decides whatever she sees is good enough with a simple nod. “All right, Kiera.” She claps her hands. “Let’s meet the reasons Cam needed me. I’ll get my staff in position. You get the kids.”
By the time we step back onto the porch, the kids are already shifting around in the van. Cam is out of his car, standing next to Lila at the van. She has one hand on the doorframe, talking low to the kids closest to her. “Showtime,” Sterling says under his breath as we head for the van.
Eleven pairs of eyes swing toward us like they’ve been tracking every shadow.
“Okay,” I say, pitching my voice so it carries but doesn’t boom.
“Good news. The house is safe. No more needles or clipboards. No men asking you questions.” One of the older boys groans.
“Mara’s inside,” I go on. “She’s in charge of this place and knows the bare minimum of what you’ve been through.
The rest is up to you, what you want to share. You don’t owe her answers.”
A girl near the van door shifts her weight. “Are you coming back?” she asks Lila. “Or is this… it?”
Lila softens, bending down to meet the girl. “We’re not abandoning you.” She smiles at her. “We’ve got other messes to clean up, but you’ll see us again. I promise.”
Sterling starts shepherding his set toward the path, carrying two of the babies.
I fall into stride with mine. “Remember what we talked about,” I remind them.
“You can pick who you want to walk in with. If you want to hang onto one of us, that’s okay.
If you want to walk in alone, that’s fine too.
” A small hand latches onto the back of my hoodie immediately, adjusting my pace so they don’t get dragged.
Mara has the inner hall clear of anyone, with staff hovering out of the kids' direct sight. It’s smart.
Too many strangers at once could make it feel more like an ambush rather than a warm welcome.
She pushes the door wider as we approach.
“Hi.” Mara makes her voice small. “I’m so happy to have you all.
The house rules are on the board in the kitchen.
Nothing major, just to keep chaos down. We’ll go over those later.
For now, I have three questions for each of you; you can answer them in whatever order you like: Are you hungry?
Are you tired? And do you want to be in a room with someone or alone? ”
One of the boys eyes her warily, “Is there a none of the above?” he asks.
“Yes,” Mara says with a small chuckle. “I like to call it sitting on the couch and glaring at me until you decide.” The boy seems to think about it, then he gives a tiny shrug, which might be considered an agreement.
Mara moves on through the entryway, giving them a tour.
“This is the entryway,” she points out. “There’s a shoe rack.
You can take yours off if you want or don’t.
No one will be in trouble.” Mara moves to another room.
“This is the living room—sofas, blankets, and a TV with every channel you can imagine.” She points down the hallway to our left.
“The kitchen’s back there. The Chef will make you anything you ask for. ”
A girl at my side whispers, “What if I can’t sleep?”
“You can talk to Mara, and she can see what she can do to help you. Maybe read or talk to someone. I’m sure you can wander the hall as long as you’re quiet.
” The girl nods, not quite believing me yet, but trying anyway.
Mara’s staff gently peels the kids off, one at a time.
A woman with worry lines and kind eyes crouches to ask a boy if he wants a shower or food first. A tall guy in a faded hoodie points out a table covered in snacks: fruit, crackers, granola bars, nothing in a wrapper that could resemble hospital food. Everything is ordinary on purpose.
One of the littlest, a boy who attached himself to Sterling halfway through the drive, refuses to let go of his sleeve even when they reach the middle of the living room. “You can sit with me,” Sterling offers, dropping onto one end of a couch. “We can judge the decor together.”
The boy’s mouth twitches. “The curtains are ugly,” he says.
“Brutal,” Sterling belts out a laugh. “You’ll do just fine here.”
I end up near the wall, just inside the living room, where I can see as much as possible without blocking anyone’s escape routes. I reach back with my free hand and curl my fingers around a child hanging on to me, not looking down. “How’s it going on the scale?” I ask quietly.
“What scale?” The small voice asks.
“From one to ten,” I say. “One being this is boring, and ten being this is worse than before.”
A beat. “Maybe… three?” The girl whispers. “It’s weird. But it doesn’t feel like… there.”