Page 68 of Victorious

They stood there, like that, watching until it was gone, until the dust settled in its wake, until Syd began to feel a little silly, for ever being worried.

But then Mitch swore under his breath.

“Pack your bags,” he said. “We’re leaving.”

“Wait,” she said as Mitch piled their things on the kitchen table. “Slow down.”

“You know the drill, Syd. Go get your stuff.”

She crossed her arms. “I don’t want to leave.”

“Neither do I. But staying isn’t worth the risk.” He emptied the cupboards, filling a bag with anything that would keep. When he started for the fridge, Syd put herself in front of it, blocking his way.

“Don’t you think you might be overreacting?”

He crossed his arms. “You know the rule: better safe than sorry, and it’s my job to keep you safe.”

“Says who?” she snapped. “Victor? Last time I checked, he’s gone.”

“Sydney—” he warned.

“Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.”

She searched his face as she said it.

In truth, it was a suspicion, nothing more. An assumption, born from hope as much as logic, that Victor wouldn’t—couldn’t—abandon them completely. Not because he loved them, but because doing so would mean surrendering control.

But Mitch didn’t look like a man keeping secrets.

He just looked—tired.

“Syd,” he said, resting his hands on her shoulders, “I’m not doing this because Vic told me to. I’m doing it because your life matters to me. More than anything else. You look after me, and I’ll look after you. That was the deal.”

“But you can’t,” she said, annoyed by the weight of the words on her chest. “You can’t protect me from everyone and everything. You don’t have any special powers, Mitch. If you get hurt, you stay hurt.” She swallowed. “If you die—”

“Then you’ll be there to bring me back.” He tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re right. I’m not an EO. I can’t control people’s bodies, or their minds, or bring them back from the dead. But I don’t have to do any of those things.” He knelt, so they were eye to eye. “I just have to look after you. So let me do that. Okay?”

Syd felt the fight bleeding out of her. “Okay.”

And when he gave her a gentle shove in the direction of her room, she went.

XNOW. THEN.

2.25 YEARS AGO

DOWNTOWN PORTSMITH

“WE’RE sorry, the number you’re trying to reach…”

Victor swore under his breath.

Xavi’s phone was dead, had been for more than a week—Victor knew because that was when he’d first messaged, telling the kid it was time for a trip to the chemist. A small red x had shown up beside the message, saying it could not be delivered. He’d hoped it was an error, the kid failing to pay his bill, but the days went by, and Xavi failed to reappear. As Victor’s supply continued to dwindle, his annoyance darkened to anger.

He’d texted June for an update, but all he’d gotten back was a picture of a kitten clinging to a tree, along with puffy white text telling him to Hang in there.

Which was asinine enough, but earlier that day, he’d seen the news.

Local man Charles Fontaine found dead of a suspected aneurysm.