Mary jumped in her chair, throwing out her hands and slapping the desk blotter. “Bitty! I didn’t hear you.”

The little girl was standing just outside the open door, her small frame looking even smaller in between the jambs. Tonight, her brown hair was down and curling all around, and she was in another one of her handmade dresses, yellow this time.

Mary was struck by a nearly irresistible urge to get Bitty a sweater.

“Ms. Luce?”

Shaking herself, Mary said, “I’m sorry, what?”

“I was wondering if my uncle has come yet?”

“Ah, no. He hasn’t.” Mary cleared her throat. “Listen, would you come in here for a moment? And shut the door, please.”

Bitty did as she was asked, closing things behind her and coming forward until she was standing in front of the desk.

“These are your files, honey.” Mary touched the manila folders. “Yours and your mahmen’s. I’ve just gone through them again. I’m not . . . I don’t see anything about your uncle. There’s no mention of him in here? I’m not saying he doesn’t exist, I just—”

“My mahmen got in touch with him. So he’s coming for me.”

Crap, Mary thought. Talk about having to tread carefully.

“How did your mother do that?” she asked. “Did she write to him? Call him? Can you tell me how she reached him? Maybe I can follow up with him?”

“I don’t know how. But she did.”

“What’s his name? Do you remember?”

“His name is . . .” Bitty looked down at the desk. At the folders. “It’s . . .”

It was physically painful to watch the girl try to come up with what was probably going to be a made-up name. But Mary gave her the space, hoping against hope that there would be a magic solution to all this, some brother who did in fact live and breathe out in the world, and who would be as good to Bitty as she deserved—

“Ruhn. His name is Ruhn.”

Mary closed her eyes for a moment. She couldn’t help herself. Ruhn was close to Rhym, of course. Just a step over from the intake supervisor’s name, a distance that was very easily crossed by a young mind searching for a rescue from a horrible situation.

Talk about needing to stay professional.

“Okay, well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do.” Mary held up her phone. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll post on a closed Facebook group about him. Maybe someone out there can get in touch with him for us?”

Bitty nodded a little. “Are we done?”

Mary cleared her throat again. “One other thing. Your mahmen’s ashes . . . they’ll be ready to be picked up soon. I was thinking, if you’d like, we could do her ceremony here at the house? I know everyone here loved her very much, and we all love you, too—”

“I would like to wait. For when my uncle comes. And then he and I will do it.”

“All right. Well, would you like to come with me to get them? I want to make sure that you have—”

“No. I want to wait here. For my uncle.”

Crap. “All right.”

“Are we done?”

“Yes.”

As the little girl turned away, Mary said, “Bitty.”

“Yes?” Bitty glanced back. “What?”

“You can talk to me, you know. About anything. And at anytime of the night or day. I’m here for you—and if you don’t want to speak to me, anybody else on staff is here to help you. My feelings won’t be hurt. The only thing I care about is that you get the support you need.”

Bitty stared at the floor for a moment. “Okay. Can I go now?”

“I’m very sorry about the way it . . . about what happened at the clinic last night. I encourage you to talk about it with someone—and if not me—”

“Talking is not going to bring my mahmen back, Ms. Luce.” That voice was so grave, it seemed like it should have come out of an adult’s mouth. “Talking is not going to change anything.”

“It will. Trust me.”

“Can it turn back time? I don’t think so.”

“No, but it can help you adjust to your new reality.” God, was she really conversing like this with a nine-year-old? “You have to let the grief out—”

“I’m going now. I’ll be upstairs in the attic. Please let me know when my uncle comes?”

With that, the girl let herself out and quietly re-closed the door. As Mary lowered her head into her hands, she listened to the little footsteps go over to the stairs and ascend to the third floor.

“Goddamn it,” she whispered.

* * *

As Rhage got up from the kitchen table, he wasn’t worried that whatever was rushing through the dining room and heading his way was the enemy. He was more concerned that someone in the household was in trouble.

Because there was another sound, layered on top of the footfalls.

A baby wailing.

Before he could get even halfway to the flap door, Beth, the Queen, came tearing into the room, her infant son hanging under one of her arms like a sack of potatoes, her free hand held up as she bled all over herself.

“Oh, shit!” Rhage said as he tripped over his bare feet to meet her at the sink. “What happened?”

His sight wasn’t as sharp as it could have been, but there seemed to be a lot of red on the front of her shirt. And he could smell the blood everywhere.