Chapter 4

Back to now.

After the thing at the police station, I went home.

I opened the door. The apartment was spotless — I'd mopped before I left that morning.

The kitchen counter was wiped clean. The fridge was stocked with three days' worth of groceries.

Six years of habit.

I walked into my room — the guest room, to be exact. Victoria had the master.

In six years of marriage, we'd never shared a bed.

The guest room was small. A twin-size bed. A wardrobe.

I opened the wardrobe. There wasn't much inside.

Being a stay-at-home dad didn't require a wardrobe. A few worn-in T-shirts and jeans were more than enough.

I pulled out a suitcase and packed.

Clothes. Two books. An old watch — my dad's, the only thing he left me.

Fifteen minutes, done.

Six years of living, compressed into a single carry-on bag.

Unbelievably light.

I set the house keys on the shoe rack and took one last look around.

The family photo on the living room wall didn't have me in it.

Jack's growth wall had a few shots where you could catch my profile — I'd been caught in the frame while wiping his mouth, the kind of angle they couldn't crop out without cutting him too.

I laughed once, quietly. Grabbed my suitcase and walked out.

The door shut behind me with a soft click.

Clean. Final.

In the elevator, I pulled out my phone.

Victoria had texted back.

"I picked up Jack. What is your problem? Why are you being like this?"

"Tell me when you want to go tomorrow. I'll make it work."

Ten seconds later:

"Are you serious?"

"Never been more serious."

A long silence. Then she called. I picked up.

"Balder, are you out of your mind? You're actually taking what a kid says literally?"

"Victoria Hills." I used her full name. My voice came out steadier than I expected. "Every single word he said — you put it there."

"I never—"

"He called me 'the guy who lives in their house.' He drew me as the babysitter in his family portrait. His birthday wish was for me to disappear. Today at the station, he said he didn't know me."

I leaned against the elevator wall.

"Once is just kids being kids. Twice is picking things up at home. Three times, four times — Victoria, you might as well have carved 'Balder isn't family' into his forehead."

Silence from her end.

I kept going. "I owed Falcon my life. I didn't owe you anything. Six years — debt paid, with interest. From today, you and I are done."

"You—"

"Tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock. We're filing for divorce." I hung up.

The elevator opened on the ground floor. Outside, full sun.

March sunlight hit my shoulders. Warm in a way that almost didn't feel real.

I wheeled my suitcase out of the building.

Three steps out, my phone rang again. Clara.

"Balder! You get back here right now! You think you're too good for us now?!"

I held the phone a few inches from my ear. Her voice still rattled my skull.

"Six years you ate Victoria's food, slept under Victoria's roof, and now you just walk out?! What is wrong with you?!"

I took a slow breath.

"First — the house was Falcon's. Not Victoria's."

"Second — I never spent a dollar of her money. Everything in that house came out of my own savings."

"Third—" I smiled a little. "Your daughter hasn't said a kind word to me in six years. And today her son told the police I was a kidnapper."

"So I'd love for you to tell me — who exactly is the one without a conscience?"

I hung up and blocked the number.

Like stepping out of a long, hot shower.

I flagged down a cab. "Riverside Inn, on Carlton Street."

Small place I knew. Clean, quiet, around a hundred a night. More than enough.

For the first time in six years, I didn't have to arrange my day around what time Victoria came home or when Jack needed to eat.

That whole afternoon, I lay on the hotel bed and stared at the ceiling.

The ceiling was white. There was a water stain in one corner. I stared at it for two hours.

My head was empty. Not sad. Just — empty.

For six years, every minute of every day had been full. Wall-to-wall, no gaps.

Now, without warning, there was nothing. I didn't know what to do with my hands.

I rolled over and picked up my phone. Scrolled through my contacts.

Friends? Haven't talked to any of them in six years.

Old coworkers? Quit six years ago.

Family? Both parents gone. Only child.

I stared at the barren contact list. Almost laughed.

Twenty-eight to thirty-four. The best six years of a man's life.

I gave them to a woman who never loved me and a kid who never claimed me.

Stupid? Incredibly.

But I don't regret it. Falcon shoved me out of that car with his life on the line. That was real.

These six years — that debt is cleared.

From right now, Balder's life belongs to Balder.

I put down the phone and closed my eyes.

Slept better than I had in six years.