She hesitated, then looked down at her brother’s sleeping face. “Okay.”
He lifted Elijah carefully, cradling the baby in his arms like he’d done it a thousand times. Anna followed beside him, silent and small, her hand wrapped tightly around the fabric of his coat.
This time, he didn’t take them to a motel. He took them home.
The elevator opened directly into Jerome’s penthouse with a quiet chime. Anna stepped in cautiously, her eyes impossibly wide as she took in the gleaming floors and the endless walls of glass. Elijah whimpered in his sleep, still held securely in Jerome’s arms.
“This is where you live?” she asked, her voice hushed.
“Yes,” Jerome said. “And for now, it’s where you’ll live too.”
She looked at the massive kitchen, at the long leather couch, at the framed black-and-white photo on the mantle of Jerome and a woman with kind eyes. “Do you have a bedroom?”
“Three of them,” he replied. “But you’ll get the one with the big window.”
Anna’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ve never had my own bed.”
Jerome smiled softly. “Then it’s about time.”
He laid Elijah gently on the couch and pulled a soft throw blanket over him, then turned back to Anna. “We’ll figure it out,” he said. “You, me, and your mom. But we start with this. Tonight, you are safe.”
Anna nodded, and for the first time since they had met, she let herself cry. Not with noise or panic, but with quiet, grateful tears that streamed down her dirty cheeks.
Outside, the city lit up with headlights and sirens, but inside, a door had finally opened wide enough to let hope walk in.
Jerome didn’t sleep much that night. He sat in the leather armchair near the window, watching the city glow and flicker beneath him like a restless sea of stars. Behind him, the soft hum of the heater filled the penthouse, blending with the occasional rustle from the guest bedroom where Anna and Elijah were finally resting—warm, safe, and fed.
But Sarah was still out there. He kept picturing her face—wary, proud, and burdened with too many years of watching people come and go. Jerome didn’t doubt that she’d meant to come back to MacArthur Park that afternoon, but hours had passed. The sun had set. The police reports on his laptop offered nothing. No arrests. No hospital intakes matching her description. Just silence.
At 3 a.m., he called an old friend, Michael Sandler, a retired LAPD detective who now ran a private investigation firm.
“Mike, it’s Jerome.”
“Jerome? You calling me in the middle of the night? Someone dead?”
“Not yet. But I’m afraid someone might be if I don’t act.”
Mike was silent for a beat. “I’m listening.”
“I need to find a woman. Sarah. Early 30s. Thin, dark hair, possibly struggling with her mental health. Last seen at MacArthur Park, possibly looking for medication for her infant son.”
“Homeless?”
“Yes. And this woman means something to you?”
“She means something to a little girl who’s sleeping in my guest room.”
Mike whistled softly. “Alright. I’ll put my team on it as soon as the sun’s up.”
“Thanks,” Jerome said. “Bill me whatever it takes.”
“You got it.”
When Jerome finally drifted off, it was near dawn. He awoke to the smell of toast and the soft clink of dishes. Groggy, he stepped into the kitchen and found Anna standing on a stool, carefully watching bread in the toaster like it was a rare performance.
She turned when she saw him. “Good morning, Mr. Carter.”
“Morning, Anna,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “You didn’t have to make breakfast.”
She shrugged. “Mama says if someone gives you a roof, you better give them a reason not to regret it.”
Jerome smiled, more deeply than he had in months. “Well, consider this toast a reason.”
They sat together at the kitchen aisle, Jerome with coffee, Anna with orange juice. Elijah was in a bouncer seat Jerome had ordered hours earlier and had delivered before sunrise. Jerome kept the conversation light, asking about her favorite color, her favorite book, if she liked animals. She answered carefully at first, then with more ease. By the time she told him about a stuffed raccoon she’d once found in a trash bin and named “Buttons,” he was laughing.
But as soon as he asked about Sarah, her shoulders stiffened. “She always comes back,” Anna said quietly.
“Do you remember where she went yesterday?”
“She said the corner pharmacy on Wilshire. But I don’t think she made it. Sometimes… sometimes she gets stuck.”
“Stuck?”
Anna looked down at her juice. “She gets scared. Her head starts to buzz, and she can’t breathe right. Then she runs.”
Jerome’s heart ached. “Has that happened before?”
Anna nodded. “Last year, she disappeared for two days. Came back with cuts on her hands. Said she ‘fought shadows’.”
He reached over and gently covered her small hand with his. “I’ve got someone helping me look for her. A good man. He used to be a cop. We’ll find her.”
She blinked hard, but her voice stayed steady. “You promise?”
“I do.”
Later that morning, Mike called. “Jerome, we might have something. A woman matching Sarah’s description was seen wandering near a closed clinic on Temple Street. She was confused, barefoot, and asking for baby aspirin.”
“Did anyone call emergency services?”
“Yeah. A store clerk got worried and called in a wellness check. But by the time responders arrived, she was gone.”
Jerome paced the living room, his jaw tight. “Where would she go next?”
Mike was quiet for a moment. “If she’s scared and avoiding hospitals, she’s probably going somewhere she thinks is safe. A shelter, maybe. Or back streets near old hangouts.”
Jerome thought for a moment. “Check the alley behind the old Korean church on Wilshire. Anna mentioned it once. She said they used to sit there on Sundays because the choir music made her mom smile.”
“I’ll send someone.”
An hour later, Mike called again. “We found her.”
Jerome’s chest clenched. “Is she okay?”
“Physically? Yes. Mentally? She’s rattled. Was sitting against the side of the church, crying, holding a broken baby bottle. Wouldn’t speak to anyone.”
“Where is she now?”
“We convinced her to come to my clinic. My wife’s there. She works with trauma cases. She got her calm enough to rest.”
“I’m coming.”
The clinic was small, tucked behind a florist shop and a coffee house. Discreet. Private. Inside, Jerome found Sarah curled up on a vinyl couch, wrapped in a donated blanket, her shoes placed neatly beside her. She looked up as he entered, and for a moment, she didn’t recognize him. Then her eyes widened.
“Where’s Anna?”
“She’s safe. With Elijah. At my place.”
Her body sagged with relief, but then the panic returned. “I didn’t mean to leave her. I was trying to find… he had a cough. And I didn’t have the medicine.”
“I know,” Jerome said gently. “You don’t have to explain. You were doing your best.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I didn’t think you’d still be looking.”
“I promised Anna I would.”
Sarah looked down at her hands. “Why do you care? Why are you doing this for us?”
Jerome sat beside her. “Because I can. And because I believe people deserve more than just survival.”
She nodded slowly, the tears still coming. “I want help. But I’m scared. What if I mess this up?”
“You probably will,” Jerome said, and her head snapped up in surprise. “We all do. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve another shot.”
She laughed, a watery, broken sound. “You’re not what I expected.”
He smiled. “Neither are you.”
They sat in silence for a while. Then Jerome said, “Come home.”
Sarah stared at him. “To your place?”
“For now. Until we figure out the next step. You have a daughter waiting. And a son who slept through the night for the first time in weeks.”
She hesitated. Then, finally, she nodded.
And for the second time in two days, Jerome Carter brought a piece of the broken world into his home and held it safe.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, and Sarah stepped tentatively into Jerome’s penthouse, like someone crossing a threshold into another world. Her clothes were different—clean, donated by the clinic—but the way she moved was still cautious, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes darting to every corner.
Anna spotted her first. “Mama!” she cried, bolting from the hallway, her bare feet padding against the polished floor.
Sarah dropped her bag, kneeling just as Anna crashed into her arms. They held each other tightly, and for a moment, nothing else in the world existed, just mother and daughter, clinging together like two halves of a soul.
“I was so scared,” Anna whispered into her shoulder. “I thought something bad happened.”
“I’m here now,” Sarah murmured, rocking her. “I didn’t mean to go. My mind, it… it got loud.”
Jerome stood quietly by the kitchen island, giving them their space. He felt something crack open in his chest watching them, something old and hollow that had been sealed off for a long time.
When Elijah stirred from his nap and started fussing, Sarah rushed to him. She scooped him up, holding him to her chest like it was the only way to keep herself from floating away. “I forgot how heavy he’s gotten,” she said, with a small, sad smile.
“That means he’s been eating.”
“Twice a day, and more if Anna talks me into it,” Jerome said.
Anna grinned. “I told him Elijah likes mashed bananas.”
“We even bought a bouncer chair,” Jerome added.
Sarah looked around the penthouse now with new eyes. The gleaming surfaces, the soft lighting, the floor-to-ceiling windows. She was still on edge, but the tension was slowly draining from her. The weight of her children in her arms grounded her.
Jerome gestured toward the dining table, where he’d set out lunch. Grilled cheese, tomato soup, and apple slices—the kind of simple comfort food he hadn’t made since college. He’d burned the first sandwich and undersalted the soup, but the second batch had come out okay.
“It’s not fancy,” he said, “but it’s warm.”
Anna’s eyes lit up. “We never sit at a real table. Not since we lost Grandma’s house,” Sarah said softly.
She eased Elijah into his new chair and helped Anna into hers. Jerome poured three glasses of water and sat down with them. They ate mostly in silence, but it was the good kind of silence, the kind that feels like healing.
Halfway through the meal, Sarah looked up. “This won’t be forever, right?”
Jerome nodded. “Just until you’re ready.”
“Because I want to earn it. I don’t want to be a charity case.”
“I understand,” he said. “I’ve already started looking into transitional housing programs. Safe places, private, with support services.”
Sarah nodded slowly. “That would help.”..
