Chapter 2 - The House on Willow Street
The high-end Italian leather of Alexander's custom Bentley smelled of rich mahogany and fresh pine, a stark contrast to the damp, metallic scent clinging to Sophia’s worn clothes.
Sophia sat huddled in the front passenger seat, clutching the plastic bag of leftover pastries as if it were a treasure. Her eyes were wide, taking in the glowing dashboard lights, the heated seat beneath her, and the gentle hum of the powerful V8 engine.
Alexander drove through the storm, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. Every pulse of his blood felt like fire.
"Sophia," he said gently, keeping his voice as soft as possible. "What is the address?"
Sophia looked at him timidly. "Willow Street. Number forty-two. We live in the basement behind the laundromat."
Alexander entered the address into the navigation screen. It was in the oldest, most neglected industrial district of the city—a neighborhood he had only ever driven past on his way to the airport.
"Sophia," he asked, swallowing a lump in his throat. "How is Mommy feeling today?"
"She was coughing," the little girl whispered, staring out at the rain wiping across the windshield. "She sat on the floor by the bed because she couldn't get up. She told me to stay inside... but I was hungry. And I wanted to bring her something sweet."
Alexander squeezed his eyes shut for a terrifying second. Aggressive cardiomyopathy. The medical report had given her twelve to eighteen months without treatment. It had been thirty-six months. How was she even breathing?
Ten minutes later, the Bentley pulled up to a dilapidated two-story brick building. The sign for the laundromat was dark, its windows covered in grime and wire mesh. A narrow, rusted iron staircase led down into a dark concrete trench beside the building.
Alexander killed the engine, unbuckled his seatbelt, and rushed around to open Sophia's door. He lifted her down into his arms, refusing to let her feet touch the filthy puddle rising at the curb.
"Is it down there?" he asked.
Sophia nodded, pointing down the narrow trench.
Alexander carried her down the slippery steps. At the bottom stood a heavy wooden door with peeling red paint. Water was indeed seeping underneath the threshold, pooling on the cracked concrete floor.
He didn't knock. He couldn't wait.
Alexander grabbed the rusted brass handle and turned it. The lock was broken; the door swung open with a heavy, wet groan.
The smell hit him first—the damp, suffocating odor of black mold, old damp paper, and metallic rust.
The room was tiny. A single flickering yellow bulb hung from a bare wire overhead. In the corner sat a narrow twin mattress elevated off the wet floor by four wooden shipping pallets.
On the mattress lay a woman.
She was covered in a faded wool blanket. Her chestnut hair, once long and radiant, was thin and spread across a flat pillow. Her skin was a ghostly, translucent pale, and her collarbones pressed sharply against her simple cotton nightgown.
"Lauren?" Alexander’s voice cracked into pieces.
The woman on the bed stirred weakly. Her long eyelashes fluttered open. Her pale green eyes—the eyes Alexander had fallen in love with in college—were clouded with exhaustion.
She looked at the tall figure standing in the doorway, framed by the rain.
"Alexander?" she whispered, her voice barely a rasp. She blinked hard, as if believing her dying mind was playing tricks on her. "No... I'm dreaming..."
"Mommy!" Sophia wriggled out of Alexander's grip, her small split shoes splashing across the damp floor as she ran to the bed. "Mommy, look! I brought bread! And the nice man came!"
Lauren gathered her daughter into her frail arms with the last bit of her strength, her body trembling violently. She looked up at Alexander, terror suddenly replacing her confusion.
"Alexander..." Lauren sobbed weakly, clutching Sophia tight against her chest. "Please... please don't take her. Victoria said... she said if you found us, you’d lock me away and take Sophia... Please, Alexander, she’s all I have..."
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Alexander dropped to his knees beside the low mattress, ignoring the dirty water soaking into his pants. He reached out with trembling hands, gently framing Lauren's hollow, cold face.
"I’m not taking her, Lauren," he wept openly, his tears spilling onto her skin. "I didn't know. God forgive me, I didn't know."
