Chapter 3 - The Boy in Room 4B: A Broken Toy and a Face That Looked Too Familiar
The hallway of Saint Anne’s smelled of floor wax, old wool, and institutional disinfectant. Our footsteps echoed sharply against the cold linoleum floor as the matron hurried ahead of us, her keys jangling frantically at her waist. Julian walked directly behind her, his stride long and purposeful, carrying an aura of absolute authority that made even the creaking doors seem to bow in submission.
“Room 4B,” the matron whispered nervously over her shoulder, stopping in front of a heavy wooden door with a small wired-glass window at eye level. “He hasn’t been sleeping much, sir. None of them do before a transfer. Everything they own has to fit into a single plastic garbage bag.”
Julian looked through the glass. I stood a step behind him, holding a sleeping Ivy in my arms.
Inside the small, sparsely furnished room, a single metal-framed cot stood against the wall. Sitting cross-legged on top of a thin blue mattress was a boy who couldn't have been more than six years old. He was wearing oversized gray pajamas that swallowed his thin frame. His knees were pulled up to his chest, and his small hands were busy ripping the stuffing out of a ratty, earless teddy bear.
My breath caught in my throat.
Even in the dim, sickly yellow light of the overhead bulb, the resemblance was undeniable. The boy had the exact same sharp jawline, the same raven-dark hair, and the same intense, piercing gray eyes that stared out from the glossy Forbes cover frames lining Julian’s penthouse hallway.
Julian’s hand went out. He gripped the polished brass doorknob so hard his knuckles turned stark white.
“Open it,” Julian commanded.
The matron fumbled with a heavy iron key, slipping it into the lock with a soft click. The door swung open.
The boy looked up at the sound, instantly dropping the torn bear. He didn’t cry out or shrink back. Instead, he stared at Julian with a guarded, defensive maturity that broke my heart. No six-year-old child should ever look at a stranger with that kind of calculated self-preservation.
“Are you the new case worker?” the boy asked, his voice clear, steady, and completely devoid of childish warmth. “I already packed my bag. I’m ready.”
Julian stepped into the room. He didn’t kneel this time. He stopped right beside the metal cot, looking down at the child as if he were staring at a ghost rising from the dead.
“What is your name?” Julian asked, his voice trembling ever so slightly—a tremor I had never heard in the five years I had worked for him.
The boy tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. “Thomas. But everyone here just calls me Toby.”
Julian closed his eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. When he opened them again, there was a dark, dangerous fire burning in his gaze.
May you like
“Thomas,” Julian repeated, testing the name on his tongue like a secret he thought he would never be allowed to speak again. “Thomas what?”
The boy’s small chin jutted out defiantly. “I don’t have a last name. The ladies here said I only have a file number: 884-Delta.”
Related Stories
