Chapter 25
The next morning, Amayah watched from her front window as the Crump kids trudged down the sidewalk in a loose line, backpacks bouncing, breath puffing white in the frigid air as they headed to the bus stop.
When she saw the bus pick up the kids and then pull away, her gaze shifted to the house next door.
The Crumps’ house.
A quiet weight settled in her chest.
Don’t let them make us go away.
Clara’s words refused to loosen their grip.
Before she could change her mind, Amayah crossed the narrow stretch of yard and stopped on the small, decaying porch stretching in front of the Crumps’ door.
The boards sagged beneath her weight, softened by years of rain and snow. A mismatched pair of boots sat abandoned near a ratty welcome mat, and the railings leaned inward as if tired of standing. The curtains behind the front window hung unevenly, one side pinned up with a clothespin.
She knocked.
She needed to have a one-on-one conversation with Ms. Crump. This was the most responsible thing she could do. It was the first step, at least.
Nothing.
She knocked again, louder this time.
Still nothing.
Her hand hovered over the knob.
It turned.
Unlocked.
A cold thread of unease slid down her spine as she pushed the door open just a few inches.
“Hello?” Amayah called.
No answer.
She hesitated a moment. Then she stepped inside.
The smell told its own story—stale food, damp fabric, the faint sourness of neglect. Toys littered the floor, some broken, some so worn they barely resembled what they’d once been. Dirty dishes rose in uneven stacks in the sink. A chair lay tipped near the hallway.
And there, on the sagging couch beneath the flicker of a bare bulb, sat something heartbreakingly familiar.
Her small Christmas tree.
The one that had vanished from her living room table.
Its tiny white lights still glowed faintly, several of the wooden ornaments crooked, one dangling by a fraying string. The base had been wrapped clumsily in an old towel, as if someone had tried—in their own imperfect way—to make it feel proper. Festive. Safe.
So that was it.
Her missing things.
The food.
The tree.
Someone hadn’t been threatening her.
Everything had been stolen as a plea for help these kids hadn’t known how to voice.
Suddenly, the fear Amayah had been carrying shifted. It was no longer sharp and biting, but aching and heavy with a kind of sorrow that pressed against her ribs.
Her things hadn’t been stolen for malice.
Some things—like the food—had been taken for survival. And the Christmas tree . . . it had been taken out of desperation for hope.
How the kids had gotten into her house, she didn’t know.
Except . . . she had lost her spare key about a month ago.
She’d assumed it had fallen from her pocket while she was filming somewhere.
And since there were no markings on it to indicate what address the key belonged to, she’d decided not to worry about it.
But what if she dropped it outside her house and these kids had found it?
The pieces fit.
Amayah swallowed hard and glanced around again, her eyes searching for any sign of the children’s mother. A purse. A coat. Anything.
There was nothing.
No sounds of footsteps. No scent of perfume. No trace of an adult having passed through recently.
Had Mrs. Crump gotten a job? Left early? Disappeared?
Then a realization struck with chilling clarity.
I haven’t seen her in at least two weeks.
Amayah pressed a hand to her chest. Was Ms. Crump . . . gone?
She glanced at the ceiling before whispering, “How am I supposed to handle this, Lord?”
Whatever had happened . . . this was far bigger than missing food and a stolen Christmas tree.
At the office Luke ignored the half-written article he was supposed to turn in. Instead, he opened his computer and did some research on the Crumps.
Public records came up in fragments:
A utility shutoff warning filed with the county.
Two noise complaints from the past month.
A welfare check logged three weeks ago—no detailed report, just the initial call entry.
His gut tightened.
Something was definitely going on at that house. But how could he prove it?
What was the right thing to do in this situation?
The questions made his head pound.
As he leaned back in his chair, his thoughts shifted to Amayah.
After a moment of hesitation, he typed in the name of the local community page that had posted the door-judging footage.
There it was.
A video of him and Amayah standing side by side, her smiling as she pointed to a wreath, his head bent slightly toward her. The title underneath read: Christmas Door Contest: Viral Moment?
He clicked.
The video began with drone footage of the decorated street, carolers weaving faintly underneath. Then the camera cut to him and Amayah—walking close, him smiling at something she’d said.
Too close. Too easy. Too natural.
His stomach pulled taut.
There was the moment the young fan ran up to her, nearly bowling into them with excitement. There was Amayah comforting her, promising she mattered, offering that bright, gentle smile that made people lean in.
And there was Luke . . . watching Amayah with something that looked uncomfortably like admiration.
No wonder Linda was on edge.
A slow burn of frustration crept up his neck.
The footage made the whole thing look intimate, cozy—like he and Amayah were partners in something soft and personal rather than a journalist and his subject.
The camera didn’t care that he was analyzing every movement, collecting quotes, studying her interactions.
It cared only that they seemed to fit.
The comments didn’t help:
They look adorable together!
Is this guy her boyfriend?
Find someone who looks at you like he looks at her.
Luke scrubbed a hand over his face.
This wasn’t the image he wanted public, especially when he wasn’t even sure what he felt.
And yet . . . he replayed the moment where Amayah laughed at something he said, her eyes bright, her shoulders relaxing, her hand brushing his coat as she gestured to the garland on a stranger’s door.
Something warm flickered in his chest.
He clicked the browser closed a little too hard and leaned back in his seat, staring at his desk as if answers might appear in the wood grains.
He couldn’t afford distraction or softness.
Not now.
Not with this story.
And definitely not with Amayah.