CHAPTER 2: THE BOY AT THE DOOR

---

Rain had become a language of its own. It whispered in Yvette’s ears as she moved through the days half-awake, a low, constant murmur that filled the silence left behind by her mother’s absence and the heaviness of everything that had followed. It clung to her skin like a second weight, and to her soul like grief that refused to be named.

She sat by the living room window, coffee gone cold in her hand, watching the street below. Third day in a row that same gray sedan parked near the corner hadn’t moved. She’d noticed it. She knew they were watching.

Cara sat on the rug nearby, tongue poking from the corner of her mouth, intensely focused on another drawing. Her little fingers moved quickly, guided by something she couldn’t explain. There were no cartoons playing, no music humming from the old radio. Just the sound of pencil scratching paper and rain tapping glass.

Yvette finally broke the silence.

“What are you drawing, love?”

Cara looked up, blinking as if waking from a trance. “Him.”

Yvette set the mug down slowly. “Who’s ‘him’?”

“The man who came before the boy at the door.”

Her chest tightened. “What boy at the door?”

Cara shrugged. “You opened it. He had sad eyes.”

Yvette’s blood ran cold.

She hadn’t told Cara about the man who gave her the USB. She hadn’t even mentioned him. But Cara was describing him with eerie precision.

“Did you see him in your dreams?”

“No,” Cara said simply. “He was watching. From the stairs.”

---

Yvette waited until Cara was napping to check the stairwell. She crept down each step like she was the one trespassing, her breath shallow, heart hammering. Nothing out of place. No sign of him.

She returned upstairs and bolted the door.

That evening, as the storm raged harder and wind howled through the broken window seals, another knock echoed through the apartment.

Once.

Twice.

Yvette froze.

She crept to the peephole. Her stomach clenched.

Tristan.

Same dark coat, rain slick on his shoulders, eyes rimmed with exhaustion.

She opened the door slowly.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.

“I know. But you didn’t call. You watched it, didn’t you?”

Yvette hesitated. Then stepped aside.

He entered, quiet as a shadow. For a moment, they just stood there, the air between them thick with the weight of unspoken questions. He looked around at the peeling wallpaper, the flickering overhead light, the blanket on the couch still warm from where Cara had been curled.

“I didn’t come to take her,” Tristan said finally. “But Delilah will.”

Yvette stiffened. “She’s gone. We’re not her concern anymore.”

Tristan reached into his coat and pulled out a small envelope. He placed it on the kitchen counter.

“She’s making a move. She filed a motion last week to contest your guardianship. Claims emotional instability, unsafe conditions, negligence.” He paused. “She has photos, Yvette.”

Yvette’s breath left her.

“How—?”

“She’s always watching. Always has been.”

The envelope held copies. Surveillance shots. Blurred but damning: Yvette asleep with pills nearby. Cara unattended on a sidewalk. The rusted lock on the building’s front gate.

Yvette sat heavily at the table, hands trembling.

“She’s going to use this to take them from me.”

“Yes,” Tristan said gently. “Unless we stop her first.”

---

The next day, Yvette did something she swore she wouldn’t.

She called her older half-brother, Mauro.

Voicemail.

She tried again. And again.

Nothing.

When he finally returned her call later that evening, his tone was clipped, almost annoyed.

“I told you, Yve. I cut ties with her. She’s your stepmother now, not mine.”

“She’s trying to take Cara.”

A pause. Then a sigh. “She always gets what she wants.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“I can’t help. I’m not on the deed. I was written out of everything. Just like you were.”

“What about Dad’s share?”

“You really think she didn’t already get rid of that? It’s Delilah. She plays long games.”

---

Later that night, Yvette opened Cara’s sketchbook while she slept.

The latest drawing made her stomach twist.

A building. Burned. Charred. Windows shattered.

Three figures stood outside.

One was clearly Cara — tiny, with her bunny plush in hand.

Another looked like Yvette — scribbled hair, narrow shoulders.

But the third figure…

He had no face.

Just two white circles for eyes.

She closed the sketchbook quickly.

---

The following afternoon, Tristan returned.

He didn’t knock.

He was already inside when she came out of the bathroom, and for a heartbeat, Yvette nearly screamed.

“I didn’t break in,” he said, hands raised. “You left the latch undone.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it keeps being true.”

She looked at him — really looked — and for the first time saw the fatigue carved into his features. The bruised shadows under his eyes. The way his shoulders seemed heavier.

“You look like hell,” she muttered.

He offered the ghost of a smile. “That’s fair.”

They sat. No lights. Just the dim gray of the window and the low hum of the city outside.

“She had a plan,” he said.

“My mother?”

Tristan nodded. “She tried to buy back the land through a private buyer. Anonymously. But Delilah sniffed it out. She’s been targeting people connected to your mother’s work. Cutting off leads. Killing the trail.”

Yvette felt sick. “So the house… the land—she wants it back now?”

“She never wanted to lose it. She just needed the right leverage. Now she thinks she has it.”

Yvette’s voice broke. “She’s going to take my sister.”

Tristan leaned forward, voice low. “Not if I do something first.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he said slowly, “that I still have access to parts of the network. If I tell them Cara is dangerous—not gifted—they’ll flag her as unstable. Untouchable. Not worth the investment.”

Yvette stared. “That’s sick.”

“It’s survival.”

“She’s a child.”

“She’s a target.”

---

The argument that followed was brief but brutal.

Yvette demanded he leave.

He did.

But before he walked out, he turned back and said, “If she has the land, she’ll come for the blood next. She always does.”

Then he was gone.

---

The next day, a letter arrived.

Hand-delivered.

No return address. Gold-embossed seal.

It read:

“You can keep the girl, Yvette. Just give me what is mine. The land. The legacy. The silence. — D.”

Yvette crushed the paper in her hand.

That night, Cara had another dream.

She woke up screaming, tears pouring down her cheeks, sobbing into Yvette’s shirt.

“He was inside,” she whispered. “This time, he was inside.”