Page 119 of Nyx

"I would never hurt my daughter," she says, her voice a growl.

"Kayla," I say, running my hands over my face and resisting the urge to crack my neck because I know just how harmful it can be. "No one is saying you would outwardly hurt her. You have to know, just from the groups we've had since you've arrived, that sometimes we pick up behaviors, mannerisms, and things like that from our abusers, and we don't even know it. The supervisors are trained to watch and point out any of those issues they observe before they grow into a bigger problem."

"Okay," she says. "Fine."

I watch as she gets up to walk away, feeling like I'm doing her a huge disservice by not stopping her and trying to work through the issue another way. But some people just need to take a breath and sit with their emotions before they're ever going to be able to see the issue.

I work on case notes and meet with Dana and the kids. This week is a break week for them, and they seem excited not to have to sit in a classroom for several hours a day.

Lunch comes and goes, and Kayla doesn't come out of her room. She grumbles a thank you when I tell her I made her a plate and put it in the fridge for whenever she's ready to eat, but she doesn't show her face again until just after two, when it's time for her to leave for her supervised visitation.

By a quarter to three, Victoria arrives, looking flustered and agitated.

"Whatever I can do to help," I offer when she comes into the office.

"All of this planning. All the money, energy, and coordination that have gone into this fundraiser, and there's a forty percent chance of rain tomorrow," she growls.

"It'll burn off," I assure her. "And if it doesn't, then we add some sort of rainy-day activities that the kids will love."

She gives me a sad smile.

"I want it to be successful."

"It will be."

"I have been so busy. I haven't even explained what it is."

"I was told a little about it in my interview, but sit down for a minute, take a breath, and tell me all the things. I want to help."

She drops into the chair across from my desk with a heavy sigh, the stack of folders in her arms landing on her lap.

"It's supposed to be fun," she says, sounding as if she's trying to remind herself more than explain it to me. "That's the whole point. A day in the park. Food trucks. Kids running around. Music. Booths. People laughing. People realizing that community resources aren't these scary things tucked away in the shadows. We've included so many organizations because we don't want it to appear like an event for only those in need. We figured that the stigma of it only being for needy families would lower attendance."

"That sounds amazing," I tell her honestly.

"It could be," she says, pinching the bridge of her nose. "It will be if the weather cooperates."

"And if it doesn't, we'll reevaluate," I assure her again.

Her hand drops from her nose, and she looks at me. "You say that like you're not terrified of every single variable."

I open my mouth to deny it, but the look on her face tells me not to bother. She's been in the business too long not to notice when someone is lying or deflecting.

"I'm terrified of most variables," I confess. "But rain feels like one of the least terrifying things that could happen tomorrow."

She laughs, and the sound eases some of the tension sitting tight in my chest.

"Fair enough," she says. "The fundraiser has grown bigger than we expected when we first came up with the idea."

"That's good, right?"

"It's wonderful," she says, but the word comes out with exhaustion wrapped around it. "It's also a logistical nightmare."

I lean back in my chair.

"Tell me what it is. Not the stressed-out version that makes you regret setting it into motion in the first place. I want to know about the version you would've told me before you started worrying about the possibility of rain."

She smiles, but this one is different. Softer. Prouder.