Thirty minutes later, her black Mercedes-Benz crept through uneven streets scarred with potholes and rainwater. Children played barefoot on cracked sidewalks. Laundry hung from porches like tired flags. Stray dogs slept in the shade of rusted fences. Curious eyes followed the car as if something unnatural had invaded the neighborhood.
Victoria stepped out, her heels sinking slightly into the soft ground. Her watch caught the sunlight, gleaming sharply against the dull surroundings. She felt the stares, the distance, the discomfort—but masked it with a lifted chin and steady stride.
The house was small. Faded pale blue paint. A wooden door split by age. The numbers “214” barely visible.
She knocked firmly.
Silence.
Then chaos—children whispering, hurried footsteps, the sharp cry of an infant.
The door opened slowly.
The man standing there barely resembled the spotless employee she passed every morning in the lobby. Miguel held a baby against his chest with one arm. He wore an old gray T-shirt and a stained apron. His hair was uncombed. Exhaustion clung to his face, dark circles carved deep beneath his eyes.
“Ms. Caldwell…?” he whispered, fear trembling in his voice.