He looked like one of the men Daddy sometimes fought at work, except Daddy would never fight a kid. Never.

“Is that why you tried to rob me?” Daddy asked, and my eyes widened.

The boy shrugged a shoulder.

“I’m a patient man. I can stand here all night. I can also call the police and have you thrown into jail. Would you like that? Or, you can get to talking and I can get to feeding you. It’s your choice.”

Pressing against the wall, I watched the boy glare up at my daddy mutinously. He was crazy! I would never look at my daddy like that. Several moments passed and he demanded, “Why would you not call the police?”

“I’ve seen you around, hanging outside the Academy for a while. You didn’t look like this last time. You also never tried to rob me before, so I’m figuring something about your situation has changed. That you’re not a bad kid about to embark on a life of crime.”

The boy was quiet again.

“I was once in your position,” my daddy said after a moment. “Having to fight and steal food just to survive. I know what it’s like to try to survive on the streets.”

The boy’s wary eyes closed and he seemed to shudder. “I left home a couple of nights ago. Couldn’t deal with it any longer. My father . . .”

“He do that to your face?”

He didn’t answer, but my daddy seemed to know what that meant, because he barked a bad word I was never supposed to use. Then he knelt in front of the boy, speaking too low for me to hear. I had no idea what he was saying, but then my father spoke louder, “Come on. Let’s see what we have in the kitchen.”

As my father turned, the boy with the bruised face looked up, looked right at the stairway, and saw me. I didn’t understand how, because in a house often filled with voices and people and even when it was silent and nearly empty, no one really saw me.

But this boy did.

I dragged myself out of the memory, shaking the image of the scared and lost boy he’d been, because he wasn’t that boy anymore, just like I wasn’t that girl.

As much as I tried not to learn anything about Brock, it was hard not to know what was going on with him. I could resist the urge to internet stalk him all I wanted, but whenever I visited my family, at some point, someone would inevitably bring him up.

I knew Brock owned a home outside of Philadelphia, not too far from Plymouth Meeting. According to my uncle Julio, he had it built to his specifications, and included a home gym. I assumed his fiancée lived with him there, and I tried not to think about his fiancée.