Lucia sat curled on the end of the cream linen couch, legs tucked beneath her, a glass of Malbec resting on the side table beside her novel. The house was quiet—just the rhythmic ticking of the antique wall clock and the occasional creak of the old floorboards. She wore a soft charcoal robe cinched neatly at the waist, her dark hair draped over one shoulder, still slightly damp from her evening shower. The solitude, rare and treasured, wrapped around her like a second robe.

Victor was working late again. A meeting downtown that would stretch into the night, something about quarterly numbers and board politics. Lucia didn't mind. The quiet suited her. She needed the space.

But the moment shattered as the phone rang.

It wasn't her cell—it was the landline. A relic. It only rang when something was wrong. She stiffened. Her eyes narrowed, spine straightening as she reached for it, a creeping chill slipping under her skin.

"Mrs. Gibson?" The voice was calm but firm. A woman. Authority threaded into every syllable. "This is Officer Jameson. I'm calling about your stepdaughter."

Lucia's breath stilled. Of course.

She didn't ask what happened. Didn't need to. Her stepdaughter had a gift for drawing chaos like moths to flame.

Her hand clenched around the receiver as she listened. Words like "disturbance,""reckless behavior,""lucky no one got hurt," floated into the living room. The officer was polite, measured—perhaps a touch weary. Lucia stared ahead, not really seeing the book now closed in her lap. Her thumb traced the spine, pressing against the edge.

When she hung up, the silence returned. But it was different now—charged, fraying.

She didn't move for a long moment. Her jaw was tight. Her chest, tighter. A thousand thoughts sprinted through her mind—some bitter, some terrified, some tired to the bone.

Lucia finally stood, slowly. Walked to the kitchen. Poured the rest of the wine down the sink. She looked out the window into the night.

She reached for her coat. No drama. No muttering. Just the practiced efficiency of a woman who'd done this too many times already. She took the keys of her car and stepped out into the dark.

The precinct parking lot was nearly empty, lit by flickering streetlamps that cast long shadows across the cracked pavement. Lucia pulled into a spot near the entrance, cut the engine, and sat still for a moment, fingers drumming softly against the steering wheel. She exhaled through her nose. Then, as always, she gathered herself—back straight, chin lifted, coat smoothed and stepped out into the wind.

Inside, the air was colder than she remembered. The same sharp scent of bleach, the same squeaking of chairs behind the front desk, the same stifling atmosphere of waiting and weariness.

The officer at the desk looked up and gave her a subtle nod. "Lucia Gibson?"

"Yes."

"She's in the back. Didn't resist, but didn't cooperate much either. Officer Jameson will walk you through."

Lucia nodded once, lips pressed in a tight line. She followed the uniformed woman down another hallway—different from last time, but the same indifferent beige walls, the same buzz of tired fluorescent lights above.

They turned a corner, and there she was—her stepdaughter. Sitting on a bench just outside one of the holding rooms. Lucia stopped just a few feet away. They locked eyes for a fraction of a second—just enough for tension to spike, before Lucia looked away.

"Sign here," the officer said, holding out a clipboard.

Lucia did, her signature fluid, practiced. She didn't look at the girl. Not yet.

"She's released into your custody," the officer said. "You're lucky it wasn't worse."

Lucia didn't say thank you. Just gave a small nod and turned toward her stepdaughter.

"Let's go," she said quietly, not a request, not a command. Just a statement of fact. She walked ahead, giving her stepdaughter space to follow, but not too much.

The air outside was colder than before. A storm might've been coming. They got into the car in silence. Lucia started the engine, headlights cutting across the lot, her jaw clenched tight.

Halfway down the block, she finally spoke.

"I need you to listen to me," she said finally, her voice low but edged. "And not just hear me. Listen."

Lucia wasn't expecting a dialogue—she'd long stopped hoping for that.

"I'm not doing this for Victor," she continued. "I didn't come tonight because I had to. I came because that's what people do when they give a damn—even when they're exhausted..."