I couldn't shake what Lucian had said to me in the kitchen last night.

The words kept replaying. Not because they scared me, exactly, but because they felt... wrong coming from a twelve-year-old.

"I'll run you over with that car."

I wasn't afraid he might actually do it. Not really.

But the hate in his eyes, the way it burned cold and practiced, made me realize this kid wasn't just spoiled or angry. He needed help.

Real help.

Therapy.

Someone to talk to who wasn't his mother feeding him poison or his father too busy to see how deep the damage went.

The problem was how to tell Mateo. How...