He tilts his head at me like I’m a hopeless case, then shuts the office door and sits down.
“Don’t tell anyone I’m showing you this,” he says, spinning his monitor around.
He types something fast, and a file opens on screen. Dark lines of text, then a thumbnail video.
“Rowen came to our attention when he was just six. A viral video showed his mother falling asleep at a bus stop. He caught her purse before it hit the ground. Held her phone.Sat next to her. Waited. Sweet, right? People loved it. Kid looking after his tired mom. Reality is his mother took drugs and passed out, leaving the child unattended in a very public space. He was simply accustomed to caring for his mother when she used drugs.”
He presses play.
On screen, a little boy sits coloring while a woman off camera asks questions.
“Rowen, do you want to live with your mom?”
“Yes.”
“She’s not taking care of you. You said you cook, clean. Do chores for neighbors to help pay rent. You’re just a boy. That’s a lot.”
He shrugs. “Dad left. She needs me.”
“Why does she need you?”
“Mom says if it weren’t for me, she’d have a boyfriend, so it’s the least I can do.”
The woman tries again. “Is your mother taking medicine, like pills—?”
He stops coloring, and his cute face twists into a scowl. “I don’t wanna talk anymore.”
Nevin pauses the video. “He shut down after that. Wouldn’t say another word. Happens a lot with kids like him. Protecting their own. Parenting their parent. Loyalty runs deep, even in hell.”
He clicks open another file. “There’s more. Want to see the high school footage?”
My heart sinks as the second video begins. This time, I do recognize him.
Much bigger. The clenched jaw. The rage simmering in his teenage eyes. Yep, he’s younger, but unmistakable. One of my high-school bullies. The same guy that, years later, became my boyfriend. My sadist. My Grayson.
Only now, I see the storm that built him.
The social worker’s voice is soft. “Rowen... losing a parent is hard on anyone.”
“It’s fine,” he mutters, arms crossed tight, eyes fixed on the wall. “I haven’t lived with her for two years.”
“Yes, but you still spoke to her. Your foster parents said you stole money for your mom. Is that true?”
His jaw ticks. “Yeah. I gave it to my mom. Thought she’d use it for rehab so I can go home. She didn’t. Bitch lied. Like all women do. Bought more drugs.”
“She was sick. Addiction isn’t—”
“She didn’t give a fuck about losing me. Is that addiction or just being a selfish cunt?”
“Rowen,” she scolds, but speaks lower to calm him. “The State of Florida is worried you have an unhealthy perception of women. They are concerned you may need time in a correctional facility for juveniles. For example, your foster mom is a kind lady, but you pushed her down the stairs.”
“She wouldn’t shut up.”
“So you spat on her face?”
“She gave me a look,” he retorts matter-of-factly, like it’s reasonable.
“Do you think your mother—”
