Page 110 of Brick's Retribution

This young woman who fought her captors, who stayed strong through months of hell, is finally able to release the grief she's been carrying.

Valeria is with Ruby, getting the medical treatment she should have received weeks ago.

Through the partially open door, I can see her on an IV drip, antibiotics and pain medication finally flowing through her system.

The doctor my godfather sent is nearby, explaining in Spanish what the procedure is going to entail and that he normally wouldn’t do it in a setting like this, but she’s gone through enough trauma already.

She's crying, but it seems cathartic—finally able to grieve her loss properly with medical support.

"She'll need surgery." Ruby comes over to me, slipping into the hallway. "The miscarriage was incomplete. She's been in agony for weeks."

"When?"

"Tomorrow morning. He wants to give her the night to rest and some time for the antibiotics to get into her system."

Lashes is sleeping, sedated according to the nurse watching over her.

Even in sleep, her hand rests protectively over her belly.

The bruises on her face are already yellowing, but I know the internal wounds will take much longer to heal.

But it's the sisters I find myself drawn to last.

Kelsey has set them up in what will be their room—twin beds with colorful quilts, soft lighting, a closet already filling with donated clothes from club families.

Someone has even put up posters of butterflies and flowers, trying to make it feel less institutional.

To my surprise, Xiomara is sitting on the floor with Itzel, and between them is a small pile of yarn that someone—probably Astra—must have provided.

Xiomara's fingers move with ease, showing Itzel how to loop and twist the bright threads.

"Our mama taught us," Xiomara says softly when she notices me watching from the doorway. "She said weaving connects us to our ancestors, to our strength. That every thread is a prayer, a memory, a hope."

Itzel doesn't speak, but her fingers follow her sister's movements, creating a simple braid of red and gold.

"Your parents would be proud," I tell them, entering the room slowly so as not to startle them. "You survived. You protected each other."

"They died because they wouldn't pay the bad men," Xiomara says matter-of-factly, her young voice carrying weight beyond her years. "Papa said paying them would be wrong. That it would make us part of the evil. Mama agreed. She said standing for what's right is worth any price."

"Your parents were brave," I say, my throat tight. "And so are you. Both of you."

For the first time, Itzel looks directly at me.

She doesn't speak, but she holds up the small braid she's created—an offer, a gift.

The gesture is so small, so huge.

I take it carefully, this small token of trust from a child who has every reason never to trust again.

"Thank you," I whisper. "It's beautiful. I'll treasure it."

Xiomara translates my words into K'iche', their indigenous language, and I see something shift in Itzel's eyes.

Not quite hope, but maybe the possibility of it.

I find Brick on the roof—his favorite thinking spot.

He's staring out at the city lights, shoulders tense with the weight of everything.

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