Miss Vivian rose slowly from the couch, still smiling — that same lingering, unreadable smile that made Andre slightly uneasy.
She sauntered to the window, drew the curtain aside, and peered outside as if checking whether someone had followed him. Then, turning back toward Andre with suspicion flickering in her eyes, she asked quietly,
"Are you with the police?"
Her tone carried both fear and defiance. Before Andre could answer, she continued, her words rushing out like a dam breaking.
"Yes, I admit what my boy did was wrong," she said, her voice trembling slightly, "but what do you expect from a child who's been bullied? He was only defending himself. And now they say he's possessed by the devil—" she let out a sharp, humorless laugh, "—my child would never hurt anyone intentionally."
Andre remained silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. The thick mixture of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume in the air made him wince slightly. He stood up, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve, more to escape the smell than anything else.
As he turned, something on the nearby shelf caught his attention — a framed photograph. It showed Miss Vivian and a man standing close together, but the man's face had been violently scratched out, leaving only ragged white marks where his features should have been.
Andre glanced at it, then looked back at her. "I'm not with the police, Miss Vivian," he said calmly.
She froze mid-step.
"I'm a psychologist — Doctor Andre Maxwell," he continued, his tone gentle but firm. "I'm here to make sure your child is safe… and well."
Miss Vivian's lips parted slightly, her eyes softening just a little, as if the weight of the past few months finally caught up to her. For a moment, the room was silent — only the faint ticking of a clock filling the space between them.