Chapter 6 6

Erich walked down the stairs, using the towel to dry the back of his neck. The smell of burnt toast and cheap, acidic coffee filled the hallway.

He stepped into the kitchen.

Brenda was leaning over the small dining table, both hands planted flat on the surface. She was staring at a crumpled, brightly colored flyer for the New York Youth Art Grand Prix. Her entire body was vibrating with nervous energy.

When Erich entered, she snapped her head up.

"Is it true?" she asked, her voice breathless. "Keyla said you want to go to New York."

Erich pulled out a wobbly wooden chair and sat down. He reached across the table, grabbed a piece of blackened toast, and took a bite. The dry, burnt taste grounded him.

He nodded once.

Brenda let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. She pressed her hands to her face. "Thank God. Oh, thank God. You're finally coming back to us."

Keyla was leaning against the kitchen counter, her arms crossed defensively. She let out a loud, mocking snort.

"Yeah, great miracle," Keyla sneered. "But how are we paying for this? Bus tickets to New York, a hotel room, food? We don't have a dime, Mom."

Brenda's joyful expression shattered. The harsh reality of their poverty crashed down on her. She nervously wiped her hands on her apron.

"I... I can ask the bank for an overdraft," Brenda stammered, her eyes darting around the room. "Or I can take my grandmother's necklace to the pawnshop downtown."

Erich stopped chewing. He swallowed the dry toast. A surge of disgust hit him-not at Brenda, but at the situation. He refused to let this woman sell her dignity for him.

He reached across the table and tapped his finger sharply against the flyer. "The grand prize is fifty thousand dollars," Erich said, his voice cutting through her panic. "That would stop the foreclosure and cover your medical bills. It's an investment, not a vacation."

He looked at Keyla. Beneath her sarcastic armor, he saw the subtle way her eyes kept darting to the New York flyer. She wanted to go.

Erich set his toast down. He looked directly at Keyla.

"You're coming with me," he said flatly.

Keyla jumped, her elbow knocking into the toaster. "What? Why me?"

"I haven't left the house in six months," Erich lied smoothly, weaponizing the original host's social anxiety. "I can't handle crowds. I need someone to manage the logistics and keep people away from me."

It was the perfect excuse. It was bulletproof.

Brenda's eyes lit up. She spun toward Keyla, grabbing her daughter's arm. "Keyla, please. It's a great opportunity for you to see the city. And I'd feel so much better knowing you're watching him."

Keyla groaned loudly, dragging her hands down her face. "Mom, I have shifts at the diner! I have midterms! I can't babysit a grown man!"

Erich reached into the pocket of his sweatpants. He pulled out two crumpled twenty-dollar bills-the last of the original Erich's money. He smoothed out and slid them across the table toward Keyla.

"Advance payment for the tour guide," Erich said, his voice dropping into a low, authoritative register. "I'll make the rest of the money when I sell my painting."

Keyla stared at the money, then looked up at Erich. The sheer, unshakeable confidence radiating from him made her skin prickle. This wasn't the brother who used to cry in his closet.

She reached out and pushed the money back toward him.

"Keep your garbage money," she muttered, her cheeks flushing slightly. "But I get the bed by the window in the hotel."

Erich's lips twitched into a microscopic smirk. He had her.

Brenda clapped her hands together. "Okay! I'll figure out the bus tickets. Keyla, start looking up cheap motels in Brooklyn."

Keyla rolled her eyes, but she immediately pulled her phone out of her pocket and started typing rapidly.

Erich watched her thumbs fly across the screen. A strange sense of warmth spread through his chest. It was the feeling of a team. A family. Erik Patton had isolated him from everyone, convincing him he was worthless. Here, he was the center of gravity.

He stood up and carried his plate to the sink.

"Make sure you book my haircut for three o'clock," he said over his shoulder.

The rapid tapping on Keyla's phone stopped instantly. The kitchen went dead silent.

"You're actually going through with it?" Keyla asked, her voice laced with genuine shock.

Erich turned on the faucet to wash his hands. "I can't go to New York looking like a homeless drug addict."

Keyla didn't argue. She tapped her screen a few more times. "Three o'clock. Old Joe's Barbershop on Main Street."

Erich dried his hands and walked out of the kitchen. He could feel their eyes burning into his back. The first piece of his armor was about to be stripped away.