Mia sat stiffly in the backseat of the state vehicle, her arms folded so tightly across her chest it almost hurt. She pressed her forehead to the window, watching the trees blur past in smears of green and gold. The silence in the car wasn't comforting, it was loaded, like a stretched rubber band waiting to snap.
Up front, Ms. Douglas drove with steady hands and a calm expression. The social worker's voice finally cut through the tension like a smooth blade.
"You're not being punished, Mia."
Mia didn't move.
"This is about safety. For you. For others. The court needs to understand how you're doing without the influence of the old environment."
Mia let out a harsh, bitter scoff.
"Audrey lies to everyone and gets what she wants. She said she didn't want to go back, and now she gets to stay with some perfect strangers and be the victim."
Her voice cracked slightly, but she kept going, venom sharp in her throat.
"And me? I tell the truth. I want to go home, and I'm the one getting dumped in prison? How is that fair?"
Ms. Douglas didn't turn her head, but her voice stayed calm, measured.
"I know it feels unfair right now. But this isn't about choosing favorites, Mia. It's about safety. About giving everyone space to be seen for who they really are."
Mia bit the inside of her cheek, staring out the window again. She didn't want to hear about fairness, not from someone who thought Audrey deserved to be believed and she didn't.
Ms. Douglas's tone didn't waver.
"Haven Ridge isn't prison. It's a group home. Structured, yes, but not a punishment. It's a place to stabilize. To observe. To help."
Mia snapped her head away from the window, her voice sharp.
"I told you already, I want to go home."
Ms. Douglas gave a small nod as if acknowledging, not agreeing.
"And that's something the judge will consider. But only after we've had time to understand what's safe and what's not."
Mia didn't answer. Her throat felt tight, her stomach twisted. She turned back to the window and shut her eyes against the rising sting. She didn't cry, not with Ms. Douglas watching. But her mind churned. She hated the life of constant fear at the Joneses… and yet, leaving them felt like a punishment too. Like being exiled from a stage she'd spent years learning to control.
The car turned into a long driveway. A low, tan building sat at the end of it, unremarkable but clean. A small, fenced garden ran along the front, where a few teenagers sat on benches, talking. The building wasn't ugly. It didn't scream institution the way she'd imagined. That made her stomach twist even more.
The front doors opened automatically as they approached, letting out a waft of lemon-scented air and soft background music. Inside, the lobby was modest but warm, laminated floors, clean couches, a coffee table stacked with worn board games. A bulletin board listed the week's activities in bright markers: Game Night, Journaling Circle, Sunday Movie, Art Club.
A woman stepped forward with a clipboard and a kind, measured expression.
"You must be Mia. I'm Ms. Collins—I supervise here at Haven Ridge."
"Welcome."
Mia offered no response beyond a sideways glance. She didn't smile, didn't reach for the clipboard. Ms. Douglas nudged her forward gently, and they followed Ms. Collins down a well-lit hallway.
The walls were covered in posters with messages like "Respect Is a Two-Way Street" and "Try, Fail, Learn, Grow." Artwork, some messy, some intricate, hung in clusters on every bulletin board.
"Everyone starts at Level One," Ms. Collins explained, her voice low and even. "That means you'll have a roommate, curfew, and a daily routine to follow. It's designed to help you feel grounded."
Mia rolled her eyes.
"So I'm stuck at the bottom until I do what you want."
Ms. Collins stopped, facing her but without hostility.
"No one here will force you to do anything, Mia. Not therapy. Not group. Not even meals, technically. But participation is how you move forward."
Her tone was clear but never cold.
"We're not here to make you be someone you're not. But we are here to help you figure out what kind of life you want, and what it'll take to get there."
Mia's posture stiffened. The defiance was still there, but her voice faltered a little.
"What if I don't care?"
Ms. Collins gave a soft shrug.
"Then you'll stay on Level One. You'll still be fed. Still go to school. Still have safety. But the freedoms, the weekend outings, extra privileges, solo room, that only comes with effort."
Mia glanced at a group of kids passing through the hallway, one of them laughing as he flipped a deck of cards in his hand. Another girl, no older than her, gave Mia a curious glance and a quick smile before vanishing around the corner.
It was… normal here. In a way that made Mia feel even more out of place.
They reached a small room with two neatly made beds, matching dressers, and a calendar on the wall with "ROOM 4A – Mia / Haley" written in dry-erase marker. The other bed had a few books stacked on it and a hoodie hanging from the bedpost.
Ms. Collins handed her a slim rules packet and a blank journal.
"Your roommate's at group THERAPY right now. Dinner is in thirty minutes. Attendance is encouraged but not required."
Then her voice softened one last time:
"You don't have to decide everything today. But we'll be here when you're ready."
Mia stood in the center of the room, her hand tightening around the spiral-bound journal. The silence was strange. Not dangerous. Not cold. Just… unfamiliar.
And that scared her more than anything.
The air inside the Jones residence felt taut, like glass under pressure. The kitchen was immaculate, as always, but the tension cut through the polished surfaces like a crack spreading down the center of a mirror.
Elias paced behind the kitchen island, phone still in hand though the call had ended minutes ago. His tie was loose, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, the collar of his shirt damp with sweat.
"Why is she still not home?" he barked, spinning toward Mr. Sterling, who stood calmly by the dining table with his briefcase resting at his feet. "Why aren't we fighting this?"
Laura lingered nearby, silent, her eyes darting between the two men. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, but she said nothing.
"We should've had THEM back by now," Elias growled. "That's what you said. That this was a misunderstanding. Temporary."
Mr. Sterling's tone remained even, almost weary, but controlled.
"I said we would work with the system to clarify facts and stabilize the situation. That required cooperation from both of you."
Elias slammed a fist down onto the granite counter, making a nearby coffee mug jump.
"You were supposed to handle this. That's why I brought you in."
Sterling didn't flinch.
"You brought me in because no one else would take your case. You wanted someone to fix it quietly. But this was never going to be quiet, Elias."
"We didn't need fixing," Elias snapped. "We needed someone competent."
Sterling took a breath, long and level.
"You needed someone willing to tell you the truth, even when it wasn't convenient. You were given guidance, to comply with CPS, to back off the narrative manipulation, to stop antagonizing Audrey's social worker in court."
He met Elias's glare squarely.
"You ignored every piece of it."
Laura winced but didn't speak.
Elias's face flushed red with anger.
"You're fired."
Sterling didn't even blink. He bent slowly, retrieved his briefcase, and straightened.
"Put that in writing."
He walked to the entryway, pausing briefly at the large family portrait hanging above the hallway console. In it, the Joneses looked perfectly composed, Elias's hand firm on Mia's shoulder, Laura smiling tight-lipped beside them. It was a portrait of order, of performance.
Sterling glanced back once.
"You'll need new representation if you plan to pursue reinstatement. I suspect they'll tell you the same things I did, assuming they agree to take the case."
Then, with finality, he opened the door.
"Good day, Mr. Jones. Mrs. Jones."
And just like that, he was gone, leaving only silence behind.
The soft click of the front door echoed louder than it should have. It was followed by silence, no words, no movement, just the hollow stillness that settles after something breaks.
Elias remained rooted by the counter, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the hallway where Sterling had disappeared. His breath was heavy but quiet, like steam trying to escape a sealed lid.
Laura moved slowly to the dining table and sat down, her hands resting in her lap. She stared at the wood grain without seeing it.
"Well?" Elias snapped, turning to face her. "Are you going to say something? Or do you agree with him too?"
Laura blinked, startled by the sudden accusation.
"I didn't say anything."
"Exactly." Elias stepped toward her, pointing sharply. "That's your problem. You never say anything when it matters. You sat there in court like a statue, no tears, no reaction, nothing. What were they supposed to think?"
Laura's brow furrowed.
"What are you talking about?"
"You didn't look like a mother fighting for her children," he said, voice rising again. "You looked like you were waiting for a verdict on a parking ticket. Do you think that helped? Do you think they saw a family worth preserving?"
Laura stared at him, a flush rising in her cheeks, not from shame, but from something colder.
"So it's my fault now?"
"I'm not saying it's all your fault," Elias said, though his tone suggested otherwise. "But you didn't exactly make us look sympathetic. Sterling was right, we needed someone who could present this the right way, and instead you gave them nothing."
Laura looked down at her hands. They were trembling slightly. She folded them tighter.
"I didn't cry in court because I knew it wouldn't make a difference," she said quietly. "They've already made up their minds. You keep acting like this is about performance."
Elias scowled.
"It is about performance, Laura. That's how these systems work. They need to see remorse, emotion, unity, anything that says, 'we're still a family.'"
"We haven't been a family for a long time," she whispered.
That stopped him. Just for a beat.
Then, with a bitter snort, Elias turned away, grabbing his phone again as if the screen could validate his version of the truth. Laura sat in silence, not crying, not fighting, just still.
And in that stillness was the quiet weight of a woman who no longer believed anyone was listening.