Chapter 4: The Returning Blood
The cream-colored folder sat on our wobbly coffee table like a block of lead. For nearly an hour after Arthur Vance left, Sarah and I sat in silence, listening to the rhythmic hum of the ancient refrigerator and the soft, steady breathing of one-year-old Leo, who had finally fallen asleep in his crib. Outside our second-story window, the distant whine of sirens cut through the damp evening air, a grim reminder of the world Vance had warned us about.
Sarah reached out with trembling fingers and lifted the heavy cardstock cover. Inside lay a sheaf of legally binding documents: housing transfers, trust account numbers, educational endowments for both of us, and a single, glossy photograph of a sprawling brick townhouse in a quiet neighborhood three towns away.
"We can't trust him, Sarah," I whispered, pulling my green dress tight around my knees. "He's a stranger. He's rich."
"And what's the alternative, Maya?" Sarah's voice cracked, a rare display of vulnerability that frightened me more than her usual sharp anger. She pointed toward the front window, where the first morning light was just beginning to streak the gray sky. "You saw what happened at the grocery store. Someone recorded us. By noon today, every reporter and his brother will be pounding on this door, digging through our trash, turning our misery into a morning talk show segment. Vance is offering us a fortress. Even if the walls are made of ice, they're better than cardboard."
Before Sarah could sign the bottom line, a sharp, frantic hammering echoed against our apartment door.
We both froze. It wasn't the measured knock of a delivery driver or the polite rap of a social worker. It was a heavy, desperate pounding, accompanied by a muffled voice shouting our mother’s maiden name.
"Sarah! Open up! I know you're in there!"
Sarah’s face drained of what little color remained. She stood up so fast her chair screeched against the linoleum tile. "Aunt Brenda," she muttered, her hands curling into tight fists.
The lock rattled violently as someone tried the knob from the outside. Sarah rushed across the small living room and threw the bolt just as the door lurged inward. Standing in the hallway was a middle-aged woman with dyed red hair cascading over a cheap faux-fur coat, clutching a lukewarm styrofoam cup of coffee. Behind her stood Uncle Ray, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot while staring down the empty stairwell.
"Well, it's about time," Brenda snapped, pushing past Sarah without an invitation. She swept into our tiny living room, her eyes darting over the clean counters and finally landing on the cream-colored folder resting on the table. A predatory smile spread across her thin lips. "Oh, honey. Look at you living in squalor while your own blood makes headlines across the entire tri-state area."
"What are you doing here, Brenda?" Sarah demanded, stepping defensively in front of the table. "You haven't called us in four years. Not when the rent bounced, not when the power was shut off."
"That was then, this is now," Brenda said, uninvited, dropping her heavy vinyl purse onto our sofa. She reached out to pick up the Vance Foundation contract, but Sarah batted her hand away with a sharp slap. Brenda gasped, feigning deep injury. "Is that any way to talk to your flesh and blood? We saw the video, girls! The whole internet is talking about the little blonde angel begging for milk while some billionaire throws cash at her feet. Do you have any idea how much money people are making off that clip right now? Lawyers, publicists, agents—they're all looking for you."
"We don't want agents," Sarah said, her voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. "And we certainly don't want you."
Uncle Ray finally shuffled inside, keeping his eyes fixed on the linoleum. "Now hold on, Sarah-girl," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Your auntie just wants to make sure you're taken care of. You're kids. You don't know how these rich corporate types operate. They chew up kids like Maya and spit them out when the cameras stop rolling. You need family representing you. We can set up a GoFundMe, get a lawyer from down at the county courthouse. We take a twenty percent management fee for our trouble, of course, but—"
"Get out," Sarah whispered.
Brenda stopped mid-sentence, her eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"
"I said, get out of our apartment," Sarah said, stepping right up to Brenda's face despite the height difference. "You didn't care when Leo was eating sugar water because we had no formula. You didn't care when I wore shoes with holes in the soles through January. The moment you smell money, you crawl out of the woodwork like cockroaches. If you don't walk out that door right now, I'm calling the police and reporting an attempted break-in."
For a second, the apartment was dead silent. Brenda's face flushed a mottled crimson, her mouth working soundlessly as she searched for a sufficiently venomous retort. Realizing the game was up and that Sarah wasn't the terrified twelve-year-old she remembered, Brenda grabbed her purse with a violent jerk.
"You'll regret this, Sarah Miller!" Brenda shrieked, marching toward the door while Uncle Ray scurried behind her like a whipped dog. "You think some billionaire is going to save you out of the goodness of his heart? He's using you! And when he's done, you'll be right back on the streets, begging for pennies!"
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The door slammed shut behind them, the glass rattling in its old wooden frame.
Sarah let out a long, shuddering breath, her knees finally giving out as she collapsed back into her chair. She looked down at the Vance Foundation contract, her finger tracing the gold embossed seal at the top of the page. Without another word, she reached into the ceramic mug on the counter, pulled out a pen, and signed her name at the bottom line.
