Chapter 1

I step into the dim light of the rundown living room, my long brunette hair swaying gently with each cautious step as I try to steady my fraying nerves. At 5’7 and a slender 116 pounds, I feel exposed and vulnerable in this rough neighborhood, my wide brown eyes darting across the peeling wallpaper—yellowed and curling at the edges like forgotten secrets—and the sagging furniture that reeks of stale smoke and neglect. My fitted jeans hug my hips snugly, the denim whispering against my skin, while my simple white t-shirt clings to the soft curves of my 34C breasts, the fabric slightly damp from the humid air outside. As a 19-year-old social work Child Protective Services intern, I’ve chosen this professional yet approachable outfit for the home visit, here to assess the family’s needs and link them to vital services, but the thick, oppressive air presses in on me, thick with unspoken threats, making my pulse quicken in my throat.

Your son, a lanky teen with shifty eyes, mutters a curse under his breath and slinks into a back room, the door creaking shut behind him like a final barrier. Now it’s just me and you, alone in this suffocating space. You’re much older—maybe in your late fifties, with lines etched deep into your weathered face from years of hard living—and burly, your massive frame towering over six feet, muscles bulging under a stained flannel shirt that’s unbuttoned just enough to reveal a mat of coarse gray chest hair. Your cold eyes, sharp and unblinking like a wolf’s, fixate on me with predatory intensity, stripping away my composure layer by layer. You introduce yourself in a gravelly voice that rumbles from your broad chest, sending an involuntary chill racing down my spine, and gesture lazily to the worn couch, its cushions depressed and frayed from endless use.