Chapter 2 - Behind the Rusted Door
The pounding echoed through the hollow interior of the duplex, followed instantly by a sharp scramble of footsteps inside.
The shouting stopped. Then came the rattle of a chain lock sliding free, and the door swung open just a few inches, held back by a heavy brass security guard.
Through the narrow gap, the cousin’s face appeared—the fresh, jagged cut near his hairline stark against his pale skin, his eyes wide and bloodshot. When he saw Julian standing under the flickering porch light, with me hovering just behind him clutching a bloodstained washcloth to my cheek, the color drained completely from his face.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here,” the cousin spat, his voice trembling despite his attempt at bravado. He tried to slam the door shut, but Julian anticipated the move, driving the heel of his boot hard against the bottom panel.
The wood splintered, the security chain snapped from the frame with a violent shriek of tearing metal, and the door flew wide open, crashing back against the drywall inside.
“Open your mouth and start explaining, right now,” Julian demanded, stepping across the threshold with a terrifying, controlled fury.
I slipped in right behind him, my eyes quickly adjusting to the dim interior. The living room was a disaster zone—empty pizza boxes stacked knee-high, overflowing ashtrays, and clothes strewn across a sagging foam mattress pushed against the wall. But what caught my attention wasn’t the filth; it was a small, locked metal filing cabinet sitting beside a folding card table in the corner.
The cousin stumbled backward, tripping over a discarded duffel bag and sprawling onto the dirty carpet. He raised his hands defensively, wincing as he touched the fresh scab near his temple.
“I didn't mean any harm!” he cried out, scrambling back until his spine hit the baseboard. “It was just a favor! I swear!”
“A favor?” Julian stepped forward, towering over him, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were bone-white. “You broke into my house, you hovered a knife over my daughter’s stomach, and you hijacked her medical records! Whose favor were you running?”
“I had to!” the cousin sobbed, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. “They said if I didn't get the paperwork verified under a neutral address, they’d release the photos—the debt collection notices, the eviction filings from my old apartment, all of it! They own me, Julian!”
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“Who is they?” I demanded, stepping into the light, letting him get a clear, unobstructed look at the swollen, purple bruise and cut beneath my eye that his fist had caused.
The cousin swallowed hard, his throat bobbing nervously as he stared at my face. “The adoption agency. The private broker downtown. They’re buying placements... and they needed an infant with a clean slate, away from your primary residence, to bypass the state registry audit.”
