Page 56 of Nyx

"They aren't allowed?"

"They will speak back, can answer questions and such, but they don't want to make you feel uncomfortable," I explain. "They will not be the ones to start a conversation with anyone here. Staff included."

"Who do they work for?" she asks.

"A third-party company," I answer. "Ready to get started?"

She nods again.

"How was your stay at the emergency shelter?" I repeat, trying to get us back on track.

"It was okay," she says. "Not as nice as this place seems."

"We have a lovely home. I think you'll like being here."

"How many other people live here?"

"We currently have four women. You'll be the fifth, and two children. A boy aged six and a girl who is nine. Siblings."

"How many rooms?"

"Eight," I answer, knowing she's curious and trying to get her footing. I'd be concerned if she didn't ask so many questions. It's hard to trust you're safe when you don't know what kind of situation you're getting into.

Her eyes snap back to mine. "There are over a dozen women in that emergency shelter."

The accusation in her voice makes me want to smile, but I know now isn't the time, and it wouldn't be well received given the current situation. She cares for the others she was around, and that is a very good trait to have. It's hard for some to care about what others are going through when they're living a horrible part of their own story.

"I work for Juniper House," I explain. "I have no control over how selections are made as to who goes where."

Victoria has said that their census has been lower than normal after an incident, but I have to wonder whether their vetting process is so strict that it leaves some women without a more stable place to live other than an emergency shelter.

"I can tell some of the women I was with to ask for this place," she says, reaching into her bag.

I hold my hand out when she pulls out her phone.

"I'd caution against sharing any information about your location with anyone. I don't know your full history or much information about your abusive partner, but he could use others to track you down."

She freezes, her eyes meeting mine and holding them for the longest time. I don't know if it is fear or some other realization that makes her pause.

"I didn't even think about that," she whispers, putting her phone back in her purse.

"We want you to be safe," I tell her. "The other women will get the services they need. Let's focus on you for now."

"I can't focus on just me," she says, a waver in her voice as her chin trembles. "I have a daughter."

"Aleah, right?" I recall from going over her paperwork prior to her arrival. "Four years old?"

"Yes," she says, taking a tissue from the box when I hold it up for her. "They took her from me."

"That had to have been a scary situation."

"I asked for help, reported my husband's abuse, and they took my kid," she says, anger coating her sorrow-filled words.

"Have you met with a CYFD caseworker yet?"

"I have," she says. "Nice lady, but I still get the feeling that they're just out to steal my kid."

"I promise you they aren't. They just have to make sure that she's going to be safe. Was she placed with a foster family? Have you had the chance to meet them?"