To him, they were an inconvenience.
A problem to be removed.
When he saw Oliver wearing the enormous leather vest, his expression hardened.
“Well, look what we have here.”
Oliver tried to explain.
Miller didn't listen.
He ripped the vest away.
“Stealing from bikers now?”
Oliver clutched the silver lighter in his pocket.
“I'm waiting for Silas.”
Miller laughed.
“Sure you are.”
Oliver was thrown into the back of a police cruiser.
But Miller didn't take him to the station.
Instead, he drove toward the ridge overlooking Blackwood.
Toward a large Victorian house surrounded by an iron fence.
Toward Gregory Hayes.
On paper, Hayes was a respected foster provider.
In reality, he was something far worse.
The House on the Ridge
Gregory Hayes received money from the state to care for difficult children.
He had learned how to make the system profitable.
He fed children as little as possible.
He forced them to work.
He intimidated them into silence.
And whenever someone complained, Hayes used his friendships with powerful people to make the problem disappear.
Oliver already knew the house.
He had escaped three weeks earlier.
He remembered the screaming.
He remembered the locked doors.
He remembered a teenage boy being beaten for dropping a plate.
He had promised himself he would never return.
Now Miller dragged him through the front door.
Hayes smiled.
“Found your runaway.”
Miller tossed Silas's vest onto the porch.
Hayes looked at it.
“Interesting.”
“He was sleeping behind Sullivan's Hardware.”
Miller lowered his voice.
“Figured you'd want him back before the state starts asking questions.”
Hayes handed him an envelope.
Miller smiled.
Then he left.
The moment the cruiser disappeared, Hayes grabbed Oliver's arm.
“Three weeks,” he whispered.
Oliver tried to pull away.
“You cost me money.”
“I didn't do anything.”
Hayes's expression became cold.
“You ran.”
He dragged Oliver down the hallway.
Then he opened the cellar door.
Oliver screamed.
Hayes shoved him down the stairs.
The boy struck the concrete floor hard.
The door slammed.
The lock clicked.
Darkness swallowed him.
Oliver curled into himself.
His knees hurt.
His stomach was empty.
He reached into his pocket.
The silver lighter was still there.
He opened it.
A tiny flame appeared.
Oliver stared at it.
“Silas promised.”
He whispered the words again.
“Silas promised.”
The Empty Alley
Twenty miles away, Silas returned to Elm Street.
He expected to find Oliver waiting.
Instead, there was only rain.
Silas searched behind the dumpsters.
Nothing.
He called the boy's name.
“Oliver!”
Silence.
Then he saw something near the curb.
His vest.
It had been thrown into a trash can.
Silas picked it up.
His face became expressionless.
He examined the street.