The phone vibrated on the mattress. Daniel looked at the glowing screen.
Leo: Where are you? Two plainclothes just tossed your locker. What the fuck did you do?
Downstairs, a heavy knock struck the front door.
Daniel stood in the center of his bedroom. He listened as his mother's footsteps hurried down the hall. The deadbolt clicked open.
"Mrs. Carter?" a woman's voice asked, calm but sharp. "Detective Reyes. This is Detective Corillo. Mind if we step inside for a moment?"
"What is this about?" his mother asked. Her voice was steady, but Daniel could hear the faint, rapid thud of her heart.
"It's about Daniel," Elena said, stepping into the entryway. "He's been absent for two days. We just came from the school."
"He wasn't feeling well. He went to stay with his aunt."
"Mrs. Carter," Elena said, her tone dropping a register. "There was a multiple homicide at a warehouse on Fisk Street. Night before last. We found Daniel's backpack near the center of the scene. It was soaked in his blood." Elena paused, her gaze locked on the mother. "And whoever left it there didn't walk out like a normal kid. If he's hurt, you need to tell us."
Silence stretched in the hallway.
"I don't know what you're talking about," his mother said coldly. "He's fine."
Footsteps walked further into the house. Corillo, the older, balding detective, wandered toward the open kitchen.
"You sure he's not home?" Corillo asked, bending over the kitchen trash. He pulled out a crushed cardboard box for a frozen dinner, revealing a stack of five others jammed beneath it. He pressed his bare thumb against the cardboard. It was still cold.
Corillo slowly stood up. He didn't say a word. He dropped the box back into the trash and just looked at Mrs. Carter.
"I have a stress eating problem," his mother said sharply. "Are you charging my son with a crime?"
"We're trying to find a missing kid. There was a lot of blood at that scene—" Corillo started.
"Do you have a warrant?" she cut him off.
"No, ma'am," Elena said quietly, pulling Corillo back.
"Then get out of my house."
The detectives didn't argue. They walked out. The front door slammed shut.
Daniel moved to the top of the stairs and sat down on the top step. He closed his eyes and focused.
The front door hadn't fully latched. Through the gap, Daniel caught fragments of their voices moving away down the front steps.
"She's lying." Corillo, already halfway down.
"I know." Elena's voice dropped lower. "Call dispatch. I want an unmarked car on this house."
A car door shut. An engine turned over.
Daniel opened his closet and pulled out a faded duffel bag. He shoved two oversized hoodies inside.
The bedroom door opened. His mother stepped inside. The fierce defiance she had used to force the cops out was gone. She just looked exhausted.
"You can't stay here," she said. "Your grandfather has that old cabin upstate. No one goes up there this time of year."
She turned and headed back downstairs.
Daniel zipped the duffel bag.
Then the scent hit him. The same combination he remembered from the warehouse — gun oil, cigarette smoke, and sweat.
He dropped the bag. He moved to the top of the stairs and stopped. He waited.
Crack. The back door frame splintered. Heavy boots hit the linoleum.
Two men in black raincoats swept into the kitchen. His mother was at the bottom of the stairs. One of them lunged, grabbing her hair and clamping a gloved hand over her mouth. The other pulled a suppressed pistol from his waistband.
"Where is the freak?" the man with the gun hissed.
Daniel dropped from the top of the stairs. He came down fast, clearing the last few steps entirely, and landed on the first man before the sound registered. He drove him straight into the linoleum. One fist. Two. The man's face caved in and went still.
The second man shoved Mrs. Carter hard against the wall and spun, raising his pistol.
He fired twice.
Both rounds hit Daniel in the back. Daniel didn't go down. He didn't even step forward — he was already turning.
The man fired again. The shot went wide.
Daniel closed the distance in one stride. He caught the man's wrist and snapped it sideways. The pistol clattered to the floor. His hand found the man's throat.
One sharp twist.
He let the body down onto the linoleum.
The kitchen went silent.
Daniel stood over the bodies, breathing hard.
He looked at his mother.
She was already moving toward him.
"You were shot," she said, her voice cracking. Her hands went straight to his shoulders, turning him around before he could speak. Her fingers found the holes in the back of his jacket, pressing against the fabric, searching for blood. "Danny. How many times. Tell me."
"I'm fine—"
"That's not what I asked." She peeled the collar back, her hands shaking.
Then she stopped.
The skin was moving.
She watched the tissue close. The flesh crept inward over the wounds, slow and deliberate, until there was nothing left but two faint marks and the slugs sealed somewhere underneath.
"Danny—"
"I know."
She grabbed his arm. "Sit down. Let me get something to—"
"The cops are outside," he said quietly, his eyes focused on the front window. "They heard the back door splinter. They're getting out of the car."
She stopped.
She looked at him. Then she looked at the two bodies on the floor.
She let go of his arm.
She reached into the ceramic jar and pulled out a thick wad of cash. She grabbed his hand and pressed the money into his palm, folding his fingers over it herself.
"Go out the back window," she whispered. "Over the neighbor's fence. Stay in the alleys."
"Mom, the cabin—"
"No." She looked up at him. "They know where you live. They'll know about the cabin." Her voice was tight but steady. "Just run."
She gripped the front of his jacket and gave it a firm tug. "Just… come back when it's safe."
Daniel nodded once. He slung the bag over his shoulder, opened the back window, and dropped silently into the rain.