The apartment in Philadelphia now smelled permanently of stale liquor and fear. Boris Tate paced the living room, rubbing his sweaty hands together. His plan to take over the family’s life was entering its final stage.
He was pleased with himself after sending that email reply to the volunteers. He believed no one could stop him now. Ellen was still in critical condition, and that gave him room to move.
Annie sat in her cold room under a thin blanket, quietly crying into the old teddy bear that still smelled faintly like her dad. She hadn’t eaten properly in more than a day because Boris had forbidden her from going into the kitchen.
Then the buzzer sounded downstairs. Boris hurried to the front door, smoothing his greasy hair with one hand. A suspicious-looking man in an expensive but rumpled gray suit stood outside.
It was a crooked notary named Victor Collins, a man who helped push dirty paperwork through for the right price. He glanced around the cluttered entryway and stepped into the smoky living room. In his leather briefcase were forged documents that could ruin a child’s life.
Boris pulled out a chair and poured the man a glass of decent brandy. Collins sat down, opened the briefcase, and laid a thick folder on the table. The room felt heavy.
“Here’s the temporary guardianship order and the placement paperwork for the residential facility,” he said flatly, sliding the documents over. Boris snatched them up and scanned the pages.
The facility was in a remote rural county several states away, the kind of place no one checked on unless they had to. Boris had chosen it for one reason: once Annie was there, she’d be out of his way for good.
“The death certificate for the property owner should be ready by tomorrow morning,” Collins added. Then he rubbed two fingers together, making it clear he wanted the rest of his money.
Boris pulled a stack of bills from the cash he had stolen from Ellen’s hiding place and handed it over. Collins counted it, tucked it into his inside pocket, and stood up. The deal was done.
As soon as the notary left, Boris headed straight for Annie’s room. He threw the door open so hard it banged against the wall. In his hands were the papers that would decide her future.
“Pack your stuff,” he barked. “You’re leaving.” His face carried the ugly confidence of a man drunk on power. Annie shook her head, tears dropping onto the teddy bear.
“I’m not going with you. I’m waiting for Mom and Dad,” she cried. There was such raw pain in her voice that even the walls seemed to hold still. Boris only laughed.
He grabbed an old backpack and started stuffing in her clothes from the dresser and closet. Dresses, sweaters, coloring books—everything went in together. He did it with the casual cruelty of someone enjoying himself.
Annie tried to save the family photo album, but Boris slapped her hands away. The heavy book hit the floor and opened to a picture of Mike smiling in uniform. Boris stepped on the photo with his dirty shoe, leaving a black mark across Mike’s face.
“Your mother’s probably not coming home anytime soon, and your father’s gone,” he said coldly. Annie covered her face with both hands, refusing to believe him.
He zipped the backpack and dropped it at her feet. Then he checked the time. The transport from social services was due in an hour.
Just then, his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at the unfamiliar number and frowned. Something about it made him uneasy. He lifted the phone to his ear without taking his eyes off the trembling child…
