“Do not treat this as custody yet.”
“Understood.”
“I need the child’s legal name, birth date, current placement agency if known, caseworker if known, and every detail about why she left.”
Lucy looked toward Sky.
“That may take time.”
“Take enough to avoid traumatizing her more, not enough to become concealment.”
“Understood.”
“And call the county child-protection intake today. Tell them the truth: a minor arrived at your business seeking help, disclosed she left a group home, is currently safe with an identified adult, and counsel is involved.”
Gregory muttered:
“They’ll take her.”
Martha heard.
“Gregory?”
He leaned toward the phone.
“Yes.”
“If you want to help this girl, stop treating every public agency like an enemy before we know which people are actually involved.”
Gregory frowned.
“The last court called Hollow unfit because of us.”
“Then bring me the order.”
“What?”
“The old custody case.”
“You think that still matters?”
“I think facts matter.”
Gregory looked at Lucy.
“We’ve got records.”
Martha said:
“Good. Bring them.”
That afternoon, Sky moved temporarily into Lucy’s spare bedroom.
She hated it.
Not Lucy.
The bedroom.
It was too normal.
A quilt.
Desk.
Lamp.
Closet.
Photograph of Lucy’s late husband on the hallway wall.
The kind of place Sky had learned not to trust because normal rooms could disappear overnight.
She kept her backpack packed.
Lucy did not comment.
At dinner, Sky ate slowly this time.
Meatloaf.
Mashed potatoes.
Green beans.
“Do I have to stay here?”
Lucy answered honestly.
“For tonight, I’d like you to.”
“And tomorrow?”
“We’re figuring that out.”
“Are you sending me back?”
“I don’t know.”
Sky’s fork stopped.
Lucy continued.
“I’m not going to lie to you because I think lying nicely is still lying.”
Sky watched her.
“We have to contact the people responsible for your placement.”
Sky’s chair scraped backward.
“No.”
“Sky.”
“No.”
She stood.
“I’m leaving.”
Lucy did not block the door.
That mattered.
“Okay.”
Sky stopped.
Lucy remained seated.
“I can’t lock you in.”
Sky stared.
“But before you run again, tell me what you’re afraid will happen.”
Silence.
Lucy waited.
Sky’s hand remained around the backpack strap.
Finally:
“They’ll put me back at Briar County House.”
“Why is that dangerous?”
“I didn’t say dangerous.”
“You looked dangerous.”
Sky looked down.
Lucy softened.
“What happened there?”
The story came in fragments over three nights.
Briar County House was not the dungeon Sky’s fear might suggest.
That almost made the situation harder.
It was a contracted group residence housing adolescents whose foster placements had disrupted or who needed temporary placement while social workers searched for alternatives.
Most employees did their jobs.
A few cared deeply.
Some were exhausted.
One supervisor, Mark Deller, seemed to resent the teenagers themselves.
Rules became punishment depending on his mood.
Phone privileges canceled for minor infractions.
Personal belongings confiscated.
Drawings thrown away.
Music restricted.
Meals delayed.
Nothing spectacular enough to become headline abuse.
Enough to make children feel powerless.
Sky’s sketchbook had become the final breaking point.
She had spent months rebuilding drawings Luther once kept in a red binder.
His motorcycles.
His flame patterns.
The Iron Jaws emblem.
Memories she feared losing.
Deller found the notebook during a room inspection.
He flipped through it.
“What is this?”
“My brother.”
“Gang stuff?”