Chapter 4

Mireille's POV I had to get out of there. Years ago, when I first brought Zion to the city, I had an escape plan. A Go Bag sat by the front door, always ready. A roll of cash hid in the freezer, untouched and waiting. Then Zion learned to crawl. His favorite game? Unpacking the Go Bag and stuffing its contents between the couch cushions. The money lasted longer—until last year, when he needed tubes in his ears to stop the endless infections. Then the air conditioner broke, and the landlord wouldn’t replace it. I had no choice. Now, I had nothing. No Go Bag. No cash. Just an instinct to run and a five-year-old who loved his school, his friends, and the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling. He was going to hate me for tearing him away. That morning, my horoscope had told me to “be decisive and confident.” What it had failed to mention was that someone from my past was about to ruin everything. “Mommy, where are we going?” Zion bounced beside me, buzzing with excitement. I had never picked him up in the middle of the day before. He had been heading to lunch when he spotted me, grinning ear to ear. I had almost broken down right there. I needed to feed him before his good mood crashed into a full-blown meltdown, but there was no time. He tugged my arm. “Mommy? You’re not listening.” “I know, baby. I’m sorry.” I squeezed his hand as we pushed through the school’s double doors. The street looked normal. No one paid us any extra attention. But my pulse was a hammer in my throat as I scanned every face. The dogwalker. The stooped Hasidic grandmother. The hot dog vendor. The man hawking pirated DVDs on the corner. I used to love that neighborhood—the park, the Hudson, the idea of ice cream after school. Now, I just saw threats. Zion yanked his hand free. My heart slammed into my ribs as I spun, stomach plummeting. “Mommy!” he shrieked, arms crossed, feet planted. “Where are we going?” I exhaled shakily and knelt in front of him. “Sorry. I-I’m sorry, baby. Mommy’s distracted.” He pouted. “Where are we going?” “We’re grabbing lunch—” “The one with the special drinks?” His ice-blue eyes shone. I blinked hard, chasing away the image of the man he got them from. “The one with the special drinks,” I confirmed. A juice box could fix almost anything. “Then we’re going home to pack for a trip.” His gasp cracked me in half. “What trip?” I couldn’t do this to him. He didn’t deserve this. I tapped his nose. “You’ll find out when we get there.” The plan was simple: Get home. Pack essentials. Then… I didn’t know. The future was a gaping void. Zion bounced as I unlocked the apartment door. "What kind of trip?" "You'll see." "Swimming? Can I wear goggles?" "It’s too cold for swimming. Grab your favorite jackets. And a stuffy." He frowned, arms crossed. "I don’t have favorites. They’re all my favorite." I swallowed my frustration, forcing patience into my voice. "There’s only room for one. Pick fast. We need to leave." I planned to grab the folder of documents from the junk drawer. Pack snacks, water, and enough clothes to fit in one suitcase. Every move was mapped out in my mind, each second accounted for. "I’m not going!" Zion’s voice wobbled, high and thin with distress. His eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and my heart clenched. I reached for his hair, a familiar soothing motion, but he jerked away, his small arms crossing in stubborn defiance. My stomach twisted, bile rising in my throat. "I’m sorry," I whispered, my voice thick. "I wish we didn’t have to go, but we do. We have to—" "You said it was a trip," he accused, his lip trembling. "It is," I tried, but even I could hear the weakness in my own words. "But it’s a trip we have to take." His whole body tensed, his little fists clenched at his sides. He knew something was wrong, even if he didn’t understand what. I didn’t have time to explain, didn’t have time to make this okay. Taking a steadying breath, I knelt to his level, keeping my voice gentle but firm. "Zion, we have to go. Now." "I’m not going!" he shouted, his tiny frame trembling with the force of his resistance. Then, before I could react, he spun and bolted for the coat closet by the front door. "I’m staying here!" The door slammed shut, and I dropped my face into my hands. It wasn’t even noon, and this day already felt endless. I inhaled sharply, forcing myself to stay calm, then crossed the room and knocked lightly. "I’m coming in, okay?" Cracking the door open, I found Zion curled in the farthest corner, his small body wedged between a pile of jackets and the wall. He had tucked himself so deep inside I couldn’t reach him without climbing in. I didn’t hesitate. Crawling into the closet, I squeezed his knee. "Honey, I wish we didn’t have to leave. I wish you could have all your stuffies with you all the time." "Then let’s do it," he whispered, swiping at his nose with the back of his hand. "We can’t," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I’m sorry." His expression darkened. "This isn’t a trip! Trips are supposed to be fun!" My throat tightened, my mind racing, tangled in a haze of panic I couldn’t push away. "You’re right," I admitted, my voice raw. "I wanted you to be excited, so I might have… fibbed a little." His eyes widened. "You lied?" I managed a tight, humorless smile. "Mommies make mistakes too." And mine were piling up. We were drowning in them. "Are you sorry?" The lump in my throat became unbearable. "So, so sorry." He hesitated—just for a second—then threw his arms around me, his small body pressing into mine. "I forgive you." The weight on my chest eased, just a little. I could finally breathe. I squeezed him tight until he squirmed, then pressed a lingering kiss into his soft curls. "I love you, Zee. You’re my favorite person in the world." "I know," he said, completely sure of it. "Do we still have to go?" "Yeah," I admitted, stroking his hair. "I’m sorry. I wish we didn’t, but—" "Donny," he interrupted, his voice steadier now. "I’ve had him the longest. He’s the fluffiest. I’ll take Donny with me." I hugged him again, peppering kisses over his giggles, then let him go. While he grabbed Donny, I threw whatever I couldn’t bear to leave behind into a bag. One last sweep of the apartment, and I snagged the framed photo of Zion and me on the carousel. It landed on top of the bag, the glass cool beneath my fingertips. Zion met me at the door, his tiny PJ Masks backpack strapped tight, Donny tucked under his arm. "You ready, baby?" I ruffled his hair. He ducked away, one hand already on the doorknob. "I’m gonna beat you down the stairs!" He didn’t know it was our last race. That we were never coming back. That by tomorrow, the landlord would toss whatever was left onto the curb. I wanted to pull him close, hold him in the doorway, and weep. But that wouldn’t help. Zion needed me steady. He darted outside, and I forced a chuckle. "Okay, but wait for me at the mailb—" Movement. Out of the corner of my eye, a shadow shifted. I reached—too late. Zion ran straight into the figure standing at the top of the stairs. "Oh." Zion stumbled back, startled. My pulse slammed into overdrive. I yanked him behind me, my fingers locking around his tiny wrist. But it was already over. It had been over the second I heard Laziel’s voice in the hallway this morning. The last few hours—just a delusion. A desperate grasp at control that was never mine. Laziel’s gaze moved past me. To the little boy peeking from behind my back. The boy with the same ice-blue eyes. The same golden-brown hair. Laziel knew. And now—there was nowhere left to run.