Chapter 221: Nine Years Too Late
Memories surfaced with startling clarity, like photographs spilling from a drawer that hadn’t been opened in years.
The little park near their old apartment.
Sacha trailing a few steps behind, keeping an eye on the two younger children without ever making it obvious. Mia’s bright laugh, the gap where her front tooth had been when they were eight.
The way she always insisted on sharing whatever sweets her parents bought her, even when there wasn’t much to share.
Sacha’s father teaching them how to fly a cheap plastic kite that snapped apart within an hour and was nevertheless mourned like a priceless treasure. And Mia’s parents; kind and warm.
The sort of people who treated Stan and Sacha as though they belonged to the family.
Mia’s mother had fed them more meals than he could count.
Mia’s father had once carried Stan home on his shoulders after he’d scraped his knee badly enough to cry. Ten-year-old Stan had been mortified by the attention, but he’d secretly loved it.
The close friendship between the three children gradually brought their families together as well. Whenever Sacha and Stan’s parents were away, they had complete peace of mind knowing that Mia’s parents would look after the two children as if they were their own. The same was true for Mia’s parents. Whenever they were busy or unavailable, they never worried, confident that Stan and Sacha’s family would care for Mia with the same warmth and attention. Over the years, that mutual trust transformed the three households into something that felt more like one extended family.
Mia’s family had been the brightest part of his childhood. If he was honest, they accounted for nearly eighty percent of his good memories.
The remaining twenty percent was scattered among the fading fragments of his own family life and the time he spent with Sacha. Their parents had rarely been around, and those moments had long since blurred together into indistinct recollections.
Almost every memory that still carried warmth after all these years somehow led back to Mia’s family.
Then Mia’s father had received a better job offer in Velaris City. The family moved away.
Stan had been 10. Sacha had been 12.
Mia had cried. Her parents had promised they would stay in touch. For a little while, they had.
Then Stan and Sacha’s parents vanished, and the world as Stan and Sacha knew it collapsed. Their landlord kicked them out of the house not long afterward because they were unable to pay the bills following their parents’ disappearance.
Survival consumed everything. And somewhere amid the chaos, the correspondence stopped.
For years, Stan had assumed Mia’s family had eventually forgotten them. People moved on. People always moved on.
Apparently, he had been wrong.
"Sacha." His voice sounded strange even to him. "How do you have their address?"
"The worst part?" Sacha said, her voice hardening immediately.
"The worst part is that bastard landlord."
Stan’s jaw tightened. "What about him?"
"Apparently, not long after he threw us out, Mia and her parents came back to visit."
Stan froze. "What?"
"They wanted to surprise us. They went to our old apartment and asked for us. The landlord told them we’d moved away."
A pulse of anger flickered through him. "He told them we’d moved."
"Yes." Sacha’s voice sharpened.
"And they didn’t just accept it and leave, Stan. They kept trying."
His expression darkened. "They sent letters."
The words came out clipped.
"Lots of them."
"They came back multiple times. In person. For years. They begged him to help them find us because they were convinced we were still somewhere in the city."
Stan said nothing.
"He saw us, Stan." Her voice dropped. "He saw us multiple times after he threw us out."
A cold knot formed in Stan’s stomach.
"He saw us sleeping on the street. More than once. He knew exactly who we were."
Every word made the anger worse...
"And he never said anything. Not one word."
Sacha’s laugh held no humor.
"He never mentioned the letters. Never mentioned their visits. Never told us they’d been looking. Nothing."
Stan’s free hand curled into a fist. The skin around his knuckles whitened.
Though already suspecting the reason, Stan still asked, "Why is he telling you now?"
For a moment, Sacha was silent. When she finally spoke, her voice had become flat and cold. The voice she used only when she truly despised someone.
"Because we’re rich now."
Stan already knew where this was going.
"Because you’re famous now." The disgust in her tone was unmistakable.
"A few days ago, he called me. Said he had information about some old neighbors of ours."
Stan closed his eyes. "And?"
"He said he’d give me the address."
A pause.
"Provided I did him a favor."
The words hung between them. Stan’s expression didn’t change, but his heart was raging with anger. Somehow, that made him look even colder.
"He thinks," Sacha continued, "that because we’re successful now, he can leverage what he kept from us. He thinks he can profit from it."
Silence. Several long seconds passed.
Finally, Stan spoke.
"He should go to hell."
His voice was quiet, too quiet.
Of all the people he’d encountered in recent weeks—Quinn Carter, Vivian Reeves, Wade Hollis, Damien, even the Red Serpents—not one of them had touched the particular hatred he reserved for that man.
When their parents disappeared, Sacha had been sixteen and Stan had been fourteen. Two children, abandoned and terrified. Trying to survive.
The landlord had thrown them onto the street. And all the while, he had been sitting on years of letters from the one family that had been searching for them. For nine years.
"What did you tell him?" Stan asked.
A trace of satisfaction entered Sacha’s voice.
"I told him I’d think about it."
"And then?"
"And then I sent someone to recover the letters by other means."
Despite everything, a faint smile touched Stan’s lips.
"Good."
"He doesn’t get anything from us, Stan." Her voice hardened again. "Not him. Not ever."
"Did you get them?"
A shaky breath could be heard from Sacha as she added, "All of them."
Stan closed his eyes.
"All?"
"Yes, boxes of them."
Her composure cracked for the first time.
"Birthday cards from Mia."
Stan swallowed.
"Letters from her mother."
His grip tightened around the phone.
"Photographs. Holiday cards. Years of them sending these."
She paused. When she spoke again, her voice trembled.
"Years, Stan."
Another pause.
"They were sitting in a box while we were..."
She stopped. The sentence refused to come out.
For a moment, neither sibling spoke.
And when Sacha finally continued, her voice was barely above a whisper.
"While I was working three jobs at sixteen to keep us alive."
Stan stared at the far wall.
"While we thought they’d forgotten us."
