The morning after my return from the hospital arrives wrapped in April mist that clings to Blackwood's towers like ghosts reluctant to leave. I wake to find Devon sitting at the foot of my bed, his dark eyes—Vlad's eyes—fixed on me with an intensity that makes him seem ancient despite his six years. He's wearing his school uniform already, pressed and perfect, but there's something hollow in his expression that breaks my heart.
"You've been asleep for fourteen hours," he announces, his voice carefully neutral, like he's reporting scientific data. "Dr. Winters says that's normal for recovery from emotional trauma combined with medical intervention. Uncle Leo says you're just avoiding reality. Dad hasn't said anything, but he's been playing Chopin's Funeral March on repeat in the music room."
"Uncle Leo says too many things," I manage, my voice rough from sleep and the lingering effects of having my stomach pumped.
"That's what Dad says too." Devon shifts closer, careful not to jostle the bed, treating me like I might shatter. "Mom, why did you try to leave us?"
The question hangs between us like morning mist, delicate and impossible to grasp. How do you explain to a six-year-old that sometimes the weight of not being enough becomes heavier than the will to keep carrying it? That the voices in your head—you're not good enough, you're ruining their lives, they'd be better without you—can drown out logic and love?
"I got lost," I tell him simply, reaching out to smooth his dark hair—so like Vlad's. "Sometimes adults get lost in their own heads, baby. The thoughts become so loud we can't hear anything else."
"But you found your way back?"
"You all brought me back. You, your father, even Uncle Leo." I pause, remembering Leo's tear-streaked face, his desperate anger. "Especially Uncle Leo, actually."
Devon considers this, then pulls out his phone—since when does my six-year-old have a phone?—and shows me the screen. "This came to Dad's private number this morning. He doesn't know I've seen it yet."
The message makes my blood freeze: The sins of the father will be visited upon the son. Watch your back, Dickenson. What was taken will be reclaimed.
"Devon Alexander Dickenson," I use his full name, sitting up straighter. "Why do you have access to your father's messages?"
"Uncle Leo taught me how to clone phones. For emergencies." He looks pleased with himself, no remorse whatsoever. "He said information asymmetry is the key to survival in hostile environments. This seemed like a hostile environment."
"Your uncle is corrupting you."
"He's educating me in practical survival skills. There's a difference." The words are too mature, too practiced—definitely Leo's influence.
Before I can respond, the door opens and Vlad enters, carrying a breakfast tray laden with more food than three people could eat. He stops when he sees Devon's phone in my hand, his face darkening like a storm rolling in off the sea.
"You saw it," he states, not a question.
"Our six-year-old son hacked your phone and showed me, so yes."
"I didn't hack it, I cloned it. There's a technical difference in the methodology," Devon corrects with the precision of someone who's been thoroughly coached by Leo.
"Leo is corrupting you," Vlad mutters, setting down the tray with more force than necessary. The china rattles—expensive, antique, probably worth more than I made in a month at the diner. "This is the third message this week. Always untraceable, always vague threats, always referencing taking back what's theirs."
"Third?" I push myself up straighter, ignoring the way my body protests. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"You were recovering from a suicide attempt," his voice is too controlled, too careful. "I didn't want to add stress—"
"I'm not glass, Vlad. If someone's threatening our family, I need to know. Keeping secrets is what got us into this mess in the first place."
He sits on the bed's edge, and I notice the shadows under his eyes, deeper than before, the tension in his shoulders that speaks of sleepless nights. His shirt is the same one from yesterday—Vlad, who's usually impeccable, is falling apart at the seams.
"Theodore's been too quiet since the restraining order. These messages started right after the board meeting. They're escalating."
"You think it's him?"
"Who else wants to hurt us that badly? Who else references sins of the father?" He runs a hand through his hair, messing it further. "He's planning something. I can feel it."
Devon climbs into Vlad's lap, and for a moment we look like what we are—a family under siege, bound by blood and choice and the constant threat of separation.
"I can help," Devon offers, his small face serious. "Uncle Leo's been teaching me about digital forensics, IP tracking, metadata analysis—"
"Absolutely not," we both say simultaneously, the first thing we've agreed on all morning.
"But I'm really good at it! Yesterday I traced Uncle Leo's browsing history and found out he's been reading romance novels under a pseudonym—"
The door slams open. Leo appears, looking unusually disheveled for someone who usually treats appearance like armor. "Family meeting. Now. We have a situation."
"Another message?" Vlad asks, already tensing.
"Worse." Leo's usual smirk is completely absent, replaced by something cold and dangerous. "Theodore's hired Marcus Braum."
The name means nothing to me, but Vlad goes rigid, his arms tightening around Devon instinctively. "No. He wouldn't."
"Who's Marcus Braum?" I ask, though the way Vlad's face has drained of color tells me I don't want to know.
"Former KGB. Current problem solver for the ultra-wealthy." Leo's voice is unusually serious, all traces of his usual theatrical flair gone. "Specializes in making custody disputes resolve in his client's favor. Permanently."
"He means kidnapping," Devon says matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather. "I googled him last night. Seventeen confirmed cases of children disappearing and reappearing in Swiss boarding schools with new identities. No convictions because the evidence always mysteriously disappears."
"When did you—never mind." I pull Devon closer, my heart racing. "We're leaving. Tonight. We'll go to my mother's, or abroad, or—"
"Running makes us look guilty," Leo interrupts, beginning to pace—a habit he shares with Vlad when stressed. "Like we have something to hide. Like we're admitting we're unfit."
"We do have something to hide. The fact that I nearly—" I stop, glancing at Devon.
"That you were sick," Devon finishes calmly. "I know, Mom. I'm not stupid. The pills, the hospital, the way everyone looks at you now like you might evaporate—I understand what happened."
"Besides," Leo continues, pulling out his phone to show us something, "there's a gala tomorrow night. The Spring Fundraiser. Five hundred guests, full security, press coverage, the social event of the season. If we don't show—"
"We look weak," Vlad finishes, understanding immediately.
"Exactly. But if we do show, unified, strong, with Devon performing his new composition—"
"Absolutely not." The words tear from my throat. "We're not using our son as bait."
"We're not using him as bait. We're showing Theodore that he can't break us." Leo's eyes glitter with something like anticipation. "Besides, I've been preparing for this. I have contingencies."
"You always have contingencies," Vlad observes.
"It's my most attractive quality." Leo pulls out a folder, thick with documents. "Marcus Braum. Age 47. Former KGB psychological operations. Three ex-wives, all of whom received massive settlements to stay quiet about his... methods. A daughter in London he hasn't seen in five years. Gambling debts in Monaco. An apartment in Prague under an assumed name where he keeps his real files."
"How do you—"
"I'm very thorough when it comes to threats to my family." The admission hangs in the air, surprisingly sincere from someone who usually hides behind sarcasm.
"The gala's tomorrow," Devon says, straightening in Vlad's lap. "I've been practicing my piece for months. If I don't perform—"
"Your safety is more important than any performance," I insist.
"But that's exactly what Grandfather Theodore wants—for us to hide, to be afraid." Devon's jaw sets stubbornly, purely Dickenson. "I won't let him win."
"It's not about winning—"
"Isn't it?" Devon looks between all of us. "Everything with this family is about winning. Who has custody, who has control, who has the money, who has the power. Well, I choose us. I choose to show everyone tomorrow night that we're not afraid."
"Out of the mouths of babes," Leo murmurs, but there's pride in his voice.