Page 153 of Savage Surrender

At the refuge, we stretched every donation until it tore. A broken furnace meant moving six omegas in a safe house before dark. One prescription could swallow the grocery budget. Ezra could turn this kind of money into years people didn’t have to spend looking over their shoulders.

Leah pulls a thinner file from the back of her briefcase. “There is one dependent matter requiring immediate attention. Dr. Montgomery’s adopted daughter, Whitney.”

The photograph clipped inside shows a building in Switzerland, pale stone against snow. Whitney’s medical summary begins beneath it. Paralysis. Neurological damage. A list of psychiatric diagnoses long enough that I stop reading.

“She remains under medical care there,” Leah says. “The trust owns the facility, and you now have the authority to approve its leadership.”

“It says secure, but she had outside access. She isn’t safe, and she isn’t well.”

That makes Leah sit back. “Then I would recommend an immediate access and staffing audit. You can replace personnel, rotate her point of contact, and restrict unsupervised technology while an independent physician reviews her care.”

A signature could move Whitney somewhere worse and call it treatment. The power sits in front of me, neat and legal, and I don’t want it. I don’t even want her dead anymore. I want her unable to reach us, and then I want to move on with my life.

“Do the audit,” I say. “No private devices, no one person handling everything, and suspend anyone that’s been working with her while they’re investigated. Implement a rotation where she isn’t with the same person for longer than a day or two. But her medical care stays in place.”

Leah removes one final document and turns it toward me.

I sign.

Bianca Quinn

EPILOGUE

BIANCA

After a month of soft shirts and gray sweatpants, Weller comes home wearing a tie.

Today he’s back in a dark suit with his hair perfect and a leather folder tucked beneath one arm. He closes the front door quietly behind him.

From the kitchen, Freddie is telling Megan that putting hot peppers in peach cobbler would not improve it. Clara has taken over one end of the table with bowls and foil, and Winston is moving the chairs she told him not to move. My parents are supposed to be here in twenty minutes with the last of the things from my old room.

I go to Weller.

“How bad?”

“It wasn’t bad.” He bends to kiss my forehead. “The documents are drafted. The attorney wants independent review before anything becomes irrevocable.”

“That sounds responsible.”

“I thought you might approve.”

His voice is even, but the folder edge is bending beneath his thumb.

I slide it out of his grip before he permanently bends whatever’s inside. Weller watches me flip through the first pages like they might become self-explanatory if I glare hard enough.

“Which part gives us the evil mountain lair?”

“There is no mountain lair.” The corner of his mouth pulls up.

“The assets my father inherited and controlled will go into three separate structures,” he says. “One for legal defense and emergency relocation, one for medical and housing support, and one for direct grants administered by survivor-led organizations. The boards overlap as little as the attorney could make them. Neither I nor anyone related to me can hold a majority appointment.”

He says it like he’s discussing drainage around the house. Tiny black numbers march down the pages, but behind them are women leaving home with one bag, omegas sitting across from attorneys they didn’t have to beg for, and furnaces that can break without six people being moved before dark.

“What about your money?” I ask.

“The money I earned separately remains mine.”

“And your mother?”