“You should go back. We really can’t help. Alfie has school tomorrow. Please stop shouting.”
Cecily looked at me, frowning.
“Finch, don’t you think you’re being a bit too paranoid? He’s just a kid, and he can’t even walk. What could he possibly do?
“It’s just one night. Tomorrow morning, I’ll take him to the police department. We can find him a new home or send him back to the orphanage.”
She reached for the lock again—I shoved her back a good two meters.
“Did you even think about this? If his legs don’t work, how did he find our place? And how the hell did he get to the 15th floor?! There’s no wheelchair ramp downstairs!”
Cecily froze.
It hit her instantly.
Outside, Tyrell’s cries got louder, drawing attention.
He started tearing his clothes, showing off all the bruises and injuries.
The neighbors began whispering.
“Whose kid is that? Poor thing looks beat up… Didn’t this family just get back this afternoon? Why won’t they open the door?”
Tyrell, looking pitiful, told them he was an orphan, that we used to help him, and now he had nowhere else to go but our place.
Hearing that, the neighbors started knocking on our door too.