Website Migration Update
I moved the website to a new host, which I think will be more tolerant of the content this website hosts. Nevertheless, I do want to take a moment to remind everyone that the stories and content posted here MUST follow website rules, as it it not only my policy, but it is the policy of the hosts that permit our website to run on their servers. We WILL continue to enforce the rules, especially critical rules that, if broken, put this sites livelihood in jeapordy.
Erica Sinclair - The Haven (M/F)
Dear @Caesar73, then without further adieu, let's dive back into the story.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Erica pulls the Volvo to a smooth stop at the curb of West 72nd Street, just outside Mr. Leslie's corner store. The sleek black car hums quietly, its polished exterior reflecting the bustle of pedestrians and the movement of the city. Central Park looms behind them, a gentle green oasis barely two blocks away, its leafy trees lining the sidewalks. Erica glances at the store, its modest glass front showing customers moving about inside, while Helena works the register behind the counter, temporarily filling the void left by Mr. Leslie’s absence.
“This is the place.†Erica says, her tone measured, nodding toward the shop. She turns to Megan, gesturing with her hand to encompass the surroundings. “Look around.â€
Megan does, her eyes wide as she takes in the neighborhood. This part of the Upper West Side is anything but gritty. The buildings around them are a mix of stately brownstones and luxury
high-rises, each more immaculate than the last. Even the air feels cleaner, somehow. Stylish,
well-dressed professionals hurry past, and a woman in workout gear jogs by with a tiny dog in tow. Nearby, the faint sound of children’s laughter drifts over.
Up ahead, Broadway is just a short walk away, a strip of activity and life where boutique shops, cafes, and upscale restaurants dot the landscape. The streets are wide and lined with trees, and despite the usual New York City energy, there’s a tranquility here that marks this as a place for those who can afford a life of comfort and safety. At the far end of 72nd Street, Riverside Park stretches out, an open, inviting space, home to the Eleanor Roosevelt Memorial, where locals gather to unwind.
Megan shakes her head slowly, still taking it all in. She’s grown up in a nice part of the city herself, but there’s something about this area - so polished, so upscale - that makes the crime from the night before feel all the more jarring.
“I didn’t expect it to be like this.†she says quietly, more to herself than to Erica. “It’s so...nice. You’d think nothing bad could happen here.â€
Erica gives a small, sardonic smile, turning to look at the store again. “That’s exactly what I thought.†she says, her voice soft but tinged with the weight of reality. “Till yesterday evening, I never imagined something like that could happen here.†She pauses, then gestures toward the neighborhood with a sweeping motion. “Now we know why people move into gated communities.â€
Megan absorbs the words, her brows knitting together. It’s unsettling, this contrast between the elegance of the surroundings and the violent event that happened just last night. The idea that this kind of crime - an armed robbery, a shooting - could shatter the peace of a place like this shakes her view of the world. This is the kind of neighborhood that people move to for safety, for the promise of an untouchable bubble away from the chaos of the city. And yet...
She bites her lip and glances back at the store. “What might drive a young person - you said he was eighteen, tops - to do something like this?†she asks, her voice hushed. There’s genuine curiosity in her question, but also a hint of confusion. Megan has grown up in comfort, shielded from the kind of violence and desperation that leads someone to pick up a gun and make reckless choices. She’s not naive, but there’s a trace of innocence in her words, as if trying to make sense of something that doesn’t fit her understanding of the world.
Erica is quiet for a moment, considering Megan’s question. She’s seen more of the city’s underbelly, the messier, less polished parts that someone like Megan might never have encountered up close. Turning her eyes back to the store, she sighs. “There are a lot of reasons.†Erica says, her voice thoughtful. “Desperation, maybe. Money problems. Drugs. Or maybe it’s just anger - feeling like the world owes you something and you take it, no matter who gets hurt.â€
Megan frowns, her brows furrowing in deep thought. “But here, of all places?†she asks, casting another glance around the pristine neighborhood. “Why would someone target a corner store in a place like this?â€
Erica shrugs lightly, though her eyes are serious. “Sometimes it’s just about opportunity. They might see this neighborhood as an easy target. People with money, who aren’t used to being on guard. Someone like Mr. Leslie - an older man running a store, not expecting a kid with a gun to walk in and change his life.â€
Megan’s face softens with understanding, though her frown remains. “It just feels...wrong. That someone could do that, hurt people for no real reason.â€
Erica looks at her, a flicker of something like respect in her gaze. Megan’s reaction - her shock, her indignation - is a reminder of how the world should feel to all of them. “It is wrong.†Erica says quietly. “But that’s why we’re here - to do what we can about it.â€
Megan meets her eyes, and in that moment, she sees the weight of Erica’s own experiences. This neighborhood, this polished facade of safety and privilege, is not as untouchable as it seems. And Erica, with all her sharp edges and resilience, knows that better than anyone.
As they stand there, the sun casting long shadows across the street, the gravity of what happened last night hangs in the air. The corner store, with its simple glass windows, feels like a quiet witness to the violence that momentarily pierced through the bubble of comfort in this neighborhood.
Erica pulls into a parking spot along Riverside Drive, the quiet hum of the engine cutting off as she parks near the edge of Riverside Park. She gestures towards the expanse of greenery across the street, the trees glowing with early autumn colors.
“There.†Erica says, pointing ahead. "That basketball court. We’ll start there."
Megan steps out of the car, her shoes hitting the pavement with a soft crunch. This part of the city, so close to Mr. Leslie’s store, feels different from what she expected - an upscale neighborhood with well-kept buildings, clean streets, and families walking their dogs. It’s nothing like the gritty,
crime-riddled areas she’s seen in movies. But there’s an undercurrent of tension here too, a reminder that not even the nicest places are immune to violence.
As they walk past the dog park, Megan glances inside. Nicely dressed people chat casually while their dogs run and play. A woman in designer leggings and a sleek jacket throws a ball to her golden retriever. An older man sits on a bench, barely looking up from his phone. They’re absorbed in their own worlds, insulated from the harshness Megan has only just begun to glimpse.
“They’re not going to help.†Erica mutters under her breath, catching Megan’s glance toward the dog park. “They all think it’s none of their business.â€
Megan frowns but stays quiet, realizing how quickly people can close themselves off from anything that disturbs their comfort.
Further ahead, the basketball court comes into view. A group of teenagers loiter by the fence, their clothes oversized, their faces hard. One kid, tall and lanky, dribbles a basketball lazily, but it’s clear they’re not interested in playing. They glance up as Erica and Megan approach, their eyes narrowing with suspicion. These boys - who should be in school - look tough, streetwise, ready to challenge anyone who gets too close.
“Stay close.†Erica says quietly, her tone sharp and wary.
As they approach, a man steps forward from the side of the court. He’s older than the teens, maybe in his mid-thirties, dressed in practical, worn-out clothes - a jacket that’s seen better days, jeans that have clearly taken a beating. His face is lined, not just with age but with a kind of weariness that comes from seeing too much. He approaches them with a casual stride but keeps his distance.
“This is the place.†Erica says, her tone measured, nodding toward the shop. She turns to Megan, gesturing with her hand to encompass the surroundings. “Look around.â€
Megan does, her eyes wide as she takes in the neighborhood. This part of the Upper West Side is anything but gritty. The buildings around them are a mix of stately brownstones and luxury
high-rises, each more immaculate than the last. Even the air feels cleaner, somehow. Stylish,
well-dressed professionals hurry past, and a woman in workout gear jogs by with a tiny dog in tow. Nearby, the faint sound of children’s laughter drifts over.
Up ahead, Broadway is just a short walk away, a strip of activity and life where boutique shops, cafes, and upscale restaurants dot the landscape. The streets are wide and lined with trees, and despite the usual New York City energy, there’s a tranquility here that marks this as a place for those who can afford a life of comfort and safety. At the far end of 72nd Street, Riverside Park stretches out, an open, inviting space, home to the Eleanor Roosevelt Memorial, where locals gather to unwind.
Megan shakes her head slowly, still taking it all in. She’s grown up in a nice part of the city herself, but there’s something about this area - so polished, so upscale - that makes the crime from the night before feel all the more jarring.
“I didn’t expect it to be like this.†she says quietly, more to herself than to Erica. “It’s so...nice. You’d think nothing bad could happen here.â€
Erica gives a small, sardonic smile, turning to look at the store again. “That’s exactly what I thought.†she says, her voice soft but tinged with the weight of reality. “Till yesterday evening, I never imagined something like that could happen here.†She pauses, then gestures toward the neighborhood with a sweeping motion. “Now we know why people move into gated communities.â€
Megan absorbs the words, her brows knitting together. It’s unsettling, this contrast between the elegance of the surroundings and the violent event that happened just last night. The idea that this kind of crime - an armed robbery, a shooting - could shatter the peace of a place like this shakes her view of the world. This is the kind of neighborhood that people move to for safety, for the promise of an untouchable bubble away from the chaos of the city. And yet...
She bites her lip and glances back at the store. “What might drive a young person - you said he was eighteen, tops - to do something like this?†she asks, her voice hushed. There’s genuine curiosity in her question, but also a hint of confusion. Megan has grown up in comfort, shielded from the kind of violence and desperation that leads someone to pick up a gun and make reckless choices. She’s not naive, but there’s a trace of innocence in her words, as if trying to make sense of something that doesn’t fit her understanding of the world.
Erica is quiet for a moment, considering Megan’s question. She’s seen more of the city’s underbelly, the messier, less polished parts that someone like Megan might never have encountered up close. Turning her eyes back to the store, she sighs. “There are a lot of reasons.†Erica says, her voice thoughtful. “Desperation, maybe. Money problems. Drugs. Or maybe it’s just anger - feeling like the world owes you something and you take it, no matter who gets hurt.â€
Megan frowns, her brows furrowing in deep thought. “But here, of all places?†she asks, casting another glance around the pristine neighborhood. “Why would someone target a corner store in a place like this?â€
Erica shrugs lightly, though her eyes are serious. “Sometimes it’s just about opportunity. They might see this neighborhood as an easy target. People with money, who aren’t used to being on guard. Someone like Mr. Leslie - an older man running a store, not expecting a kid with a gun to walk in and change his life.â€
Megan’s face softens with understanding, though her frown remains. “It just feels...wrong. That someone could do that, hurt people for no real reason.â€
Erica looks at her, a flicker of something like respect in her gaze. Megan’s reaction - her shock, her indignation - is a reminder of how the world should feel to all of them. “It is wrong.†Erica says quietly. “But that’s why we’re here - to do what we can about it.â€
Megan meets her eyes, and in that moment, she sees the weight of Erica’s own experiences. This neighborhood, this polished facade of safety and privilege, is not as untouchable as it seems. And Erica, with all her sharp edges and resilience, knows that better than anyone.
As they stand there, the sun casting long shadows across the street, the gravity of what happened last night hangs in the air. The corner store, with its simple glass windows, feels like a quiet witness to the violence that momentarily pierced through the bubble of comfort in this neighborhood.
Erica pulls into a parking spot along Riverside Drive, the quiet hum of the engine cutting off as she parks near the edge of Riverside Park. She gestures towards the expanse of greenery across the street, the trees glowing with early autumn colors.
“There.†Erica says, pointing ahead. "That basketball court. We’ll start there."
Megan steps out of the car, her shoes hitting the pavement with a soft crunch. This part of the city, so close to Mr. Leslie’s store, feels different from what she expected - an upscale neighborhood with well-kept buildings, clean streets, and families walking their dogs. It’s nothing like the gritty,
crime-riddled areas she’s seen in movies. But there’s an undercurrent of tension here too, a reminder that not even the nicest places are immune to violence.
As they walk past the dog park, Megan glances inside. Nicely dressed people chat casually while their dogs run and play. A woman in designer leggings and a sleek jacket throws a ball to her golden retriever. An older man sits on a bench, barely looking up from his phone. They’re absorbed in their own worlds, insulated from the harshness Megan has only just begun to glimpse.
“They’re not going to help.†Erica mutters under her breath, catching Megan’s glance toward the dog park. “They all think it’s none of their business.â€
Megan frowns but stays quiet, realizing how quickly people can close themselves off from anything that disturbs their comfort.
Further ahead, the basketball court comes into view. A group of teenagers loiter by the fence, their clothes oversized, their faces hard. One kid, tall and lanky, dribbles a basketball lazily, but it’s clear they’re not interested in playing. They glance up as Erica and Megan approach, their eyes narrowing with suspicion. These boys - who should be in school - look tough, streetwise, ready to challenge anyone who gets too close.
“Stay close.†Erica says quietly, her tone sharp and wary.
As they approach, a man steps forward from the side of the court. He’s older than the teens, maybe in his mid-thirties, dressed in practical, worn-out clothes - a jacket that’s seen better days, jeans that have clearly taken a beating. His face is lined, not just with age but with a kind of weariness that comes from seeing too much. He approaches them with a casual stride but keeps his distance.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
“You two lookin’ for someone?†he asks, his voice calm but with an edge of streetwise skepticism. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a worn ID card and showing it to Erica. “Shane Burton. I’m a streetworker with the city.â€
Erica gives him a nod, recognizing the authority behind his badge. Megan watches him with curiosity, taking in his rough appearance. Shane’s presence feels worlds apart from her own reality, like he belongs to a side of the city she’s only now beginning to understand.
“We’re looking for a kid.†Erica says, cutting straight to the point. She gives a brief description of the young man who robbed Mr. Leslie. “No more than 18.â€
Shane listens, his brow furrowing slightly, and then he laughs, a short, dry sound with no real humor in it. “That description? That could be any one of the kids I work with.†he says, gesturing to the teenagers leaning against the fence and the wider city beyond. “Eighteen and in trouble? It’s not a rare story.â€
Megan, wanting to understand more, steps forward. “Why aren’t they in school?†she asks, her voice laced with a genuine concern that betrays how foreign this situation is to her. Growing up in a protected, well-off environment, skipping school just never happened.
Shane turns his sharp gaze toward her, reading her expression. “Not every kid has the luxury of growing up in a nice home, in a safe part of the city.†he says, his voice steady but filled with quiet intensity. “Some of these kids have been out here on their own for a while. A lot of ‘em are homeless, got kicked out, or they just stopped going. Maybe they’re running with the wrong crowd, maybe they got into trouble and figured school wasn’t an option anymore.â€
His words hit Megan harder than she expects, and her stomach tightens as she glances at the kids on the court. They lean against the chain-link fence, eyeing her and Erica like they’re intruders, outsiders who don’t belong.
Shane looks at the boys over his shoulder. “They’re not bad kids, not deep down. But when you’re young, broke, and trying to survive in a city like this, you do what you gotta do. Some join gangs because they think it’ll protect them. Some steal ‘cause it’s the only way they know how to get by. You’d be surprised how quickly a kid can lose his way.â€
Megan’s throat tightens. It’s hard to reconcile the image of kids just a few years her junior being forced into crime just to survive.
“Girls too?†she asks, her voice faltering slightly as if the mere thought seems unthinkable.
Her question draws a smirk from Shane, a bit sarcastic, but his answer is sobering.
“Yeah, girls too,†he says, sighing. “Some of ‘em are barely out of their teens, and they’re already getting exploited. Forced into the sex trade just to make ends meet. Boys - well, they’re either slinging drugs or acting as muscle for the gangs. It’s a tough life, and most people around here don’t wanna see it. It’s easier to look away.â€
Megan’s expression tightens, and for the first time, she realizes just how sheltered her life has been. She’s always known about crime, in the abstract - but hearing it from someone like Shane, someone who deals with it daily, makes it hit differently. It feels closer, more real.
“Kicked out from home?†she asks hesitantly. “Where do they live now?â€
Shane nods toward the north. “Some live on the streets and over on 96th, there’s a youth shelter. It’s a rough place. A lot of the kids there are just trying to find somewhere to sleep, to stay safe for a night. Others...well, they’ve been in the system for a while. You get some really tough cases in there. They’ve already seen things you wouldn’t want to imagine.â€
He pauses, glancing back at the basketball court, and then adds, “You might find your kid there. But if he’s already in with the wrong crowd, don’t expect him to be easy to get to. These kids don’t trust outsiders. And if he’s caught up in something bigger, well... good luck getting him to talk.â€
Megan shivers slightly, despite the warmth of the afternoon sun. The idea that someone barely younger than her could be caught up in something so dangerous - so hopeless - makes the city feel colder, more threatening. She’s only ever known privilege and safety. This? This is something else entirely.
“What now?†Megan whispers, her voice small but clear.
Erica, her eyes still on Shane, nods once. “Thanks, Mr Burton. We appreciate the insight.â€
Shane shrugs, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t thank me yet. This city... it’s a tough place. If you’re serious about finding this kid, you’ll have to wade through some rough waters. The shelter’s just up on 96th by the school. But be careful. Not everyone in there wants to be found.â€
Megan feels the weight of his words settle on her shoulders, a stark reminder of how much she’s been shielded from the city’s darker side. She glances back at the basketball court, the kids still watching them from a distance, their faces hardened by a life she can’t even imagine. The world she’s stepped into feels so much darker, so much more dangerous than she could have imagined.
Erica meets her gaze, her own thoughts hidden behind a carefully measured calm. They’ve crossed a line today - stepped into a world neither of them can easily walk away from.
As they walk back towards Erica’s Volvo with the roughness of the kids at the basketball court and Shane Burton's explanation about the harsh realities of their world lingering over them, the polished black car gleams like it belongs in another world, Erica glances at her intern. “This is not what you signed up for, right?â€
Megan doesn’t answer at first. Her youthful features are clouded with uncertainty and the weight of everything she’s just learned presses down on her. “I didn’t expect that.†she admits after a moment. This isn’t what she thought her internship at Sinclair & Associates would be like. She’s realizing now how naive that thought was.
They reach the car, and Erica unlocks it, the beep cutting through the quiet tension between them. They climb in, the luxurious leather seats under them feeling almost obscene after what they’ve just seen and heard. For a moment, there’s only silence, the contrast between the two worlds they’ve been walking through feeling heavier than ever.
Erica starts the engine, the low purr of the Volvo almost soothing in its familiarity. She looks over at Megan. “Office or shelter?†she asks, her tone matter-of-factly, but the meaning of her question is obviously laced with concern.
“What we’re doing here isn’t exactly work-related. We can still turn away, send Mr. Leslie some flowers and a card, and call it a day.â€
As she says it, Erica is acutely aware of how she might sound - like someone trying to talk her intern out of a tough decision. She knows the dangers that lurk in the shadows of the city, the kinds of people they might encounter at the shelter. But as she watches Megan bite her lower lip, weighing the potential consequences of her response, a flicker of recognition ignites within her.
“This girl is braver than I gave her credit for.†Erica thinks. “She’s stepping into a world she barely understands, and it takes guts to face that. But turning away now? It feels wrong.â€
“If you go to the shelter, I’d like to go, too.†Megan says finally, her voice steadier than she feels. “96th Street, right?â€
Erica nods, a faint smile tugging at her lips, but under her mask of coolness, her heart is beating slightly faster as she considers the path ahead. “What am I doing? Am I really going to drag her into this?â€
She turns the engine over, the soft rumble of the car enveloping them both in a cocoon of safety, if only temporarily. “But she needs to know - this is real life, not just a legal case. It’s messy, unpredictable, and sometimes dangerous. If she’s going to make it in this field, she has to learn that truth.â€
“Next stop, 96th Street.†she says, her voice steady as she pulls back into traffic.
Erica gives him a nod, recognizing the authority behind his badge. Megan watches him with curiosity, taking in his rough appearance. Shane’s presence feels worlds apart from her own reality, like he belongs to a side of the city she’s only now beginning to understand.
“We’re looking for a kid.†Erica says, cutting straight to the point. She gives a brief description of the young man who robbed Mr. Leslie. “No more than 18.â€
Shane listens, his brow furrowing slightly, and then he laughs, a short, dry sound with no real humor in it. “That description? That could be any one of the kids I work with.†he says, gesturing to the teenagers leaning against the fence and the wider city beyond. “Eighteen and in trouble? It’s not a rare story.â€
Megan, wanting to understand more, steps forward. “Why aren’t they in school?†she asks, her voice laced with a genuine concern that betrays how foreign this situation is to her. Growing up in a protected, well-off environment, skipping school just never happened.
Shane turns his sharp gaze toward her, reading her expression. “Not every kid has the luxury of growing up in a nice home, in a safe part of the city.†he says, his voice steady but filled with quiet intensity. “Some of these kids have been out here on their own for a while. A lot of ‘em are homeless, got kicked out, or they just stopped going. Maybe they’re running with the wrong crowd, maybe they got into trouble and figured school wasn’t an option anymore.â€
His words hit Megan harder than she expects, and her stomach tightens as she glances at the kids on the court. They lean against the chain-link fence, eyeing her and Erica like they’re intruders, outsiders who don’t belong.
Shane looks at the boys over his shoulder. “They’re not bad kids, not deep down. But when you’re young, broke, and trying to survive in a city like this, you do what you gotta do. Some join gangs because they think it’ll protect them. Some steal ‘cause it’s the only way they know how to get by. You’d be surprised how quickly a kid can lose his way.â€
Megan’s throat tightens. It’s hard to reconcile the image of kids just a few years her junior being forced into crime just to survive.
“Girls too?†she asks, her voice faltering slightly as if the mere thought seems unthinkable.
Her question draws a smirk from Shane, a bit sarcastic, but his answer is sobering.
“Yeah, girls too,†he says, sighing. “Some of ‘em are barely out of their teens, and they’re already getting exploited. Forced into the sex trade just to make ends meet. Boys - well, they’re either slinging drugs or acting as muscle for the gangs. It’s a tough life, and most people around here don’t wanna see it. It’s easier to look away.â€
Megan’s expression tightens, and for the first time, she realizes just how sheltered her life has been. She’s always known about crime, in the abstract - but hearing it from someone like Shane, someone who deals with it daily, makes it hit differently. It feels closer, more real.
“Kicked out from home?†she asks hesitantly. “Where do they live now?â€
Shane nods toward the north. “Some live on the streets and over on 96th, there’s a youth shelter. It’s a rough place. A lot of the kids there are just trying to find somewhere to sleep, to stay safe for a night. Others...well, they’ve been in the system for a while. You get some really tough cases in there. They’ve already seen things you wouldn’t want to imagine.â€
He pauses, glancing back at the basketball court, and then adds, “You might find your kid there. But if he’s already in with the wrong crowd, don’t expect him to be easy to get to. These kids don’t trust outsiders. And if he’s caught up in something bigger, well... good luck getting him to talk.â€
Megan shivers slightly, despite the warmth of the afternoon sun. The idea that someone barely younger than her could be caught up in something so dangerous - so hopeless - makes the city feel colder, more threatening. She’s only ever known privilege and safety. This? This is something else entirely.
“What now?†Megan whispers, her voice small but clear.
Erica, her eyes still on Shane, nods once. “Thanks, Mr Burton. We appreciate the insight.â€
Shane shrugs, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t thank me yet. This city... it’s a tough place. If you’re serious about finding this kid, you’ll have to wade through some rough waters. The shelter’s just up on 96th by the school. But be careful. Not everyone in there wants to be found.â€
Megan feels the weight of his words settle on her shoulders, a stark reminder of how much she’s been shielded from the city’s darker side. She glances back at the basketball court, the kids still watching them from a distance, their faces hardened by a life she can’t even imagine. The world she’s stepped into feels so much darker, so much more dangerous than she could have imagined.
Erica meets her gaze, her own thoughts hidden behind a carefully measured calm. They’ve crossed a line today - stepped into a world neither of them can easily walk away from.
As they walk back towards Erica’s Volvo with the roughness of the kids at the basketball court and Shane Burton's explanation about the harsh realities of their world lingering over them, the polished black car gleams like it belongs in another world, Erica glances at her intern. “This is not what you signed up for, right?â€
Megan doesn’t answer at first. Her youthful features are clouded with uncertainty and the weight of everything she’s just learned presses down on her. “I didn’t expect that.†she admits after a moment. This isn’t what she thought her internship at Sinclair & Associates would be like. She’s realizing now how naive that thought was.
They reach the car, and Erica unlocks it, the beep cutting through the quiet tension between them. They climb in, the luxurious leather seats under them feeling almost obscene after what they’ve just seen and heard. For a moment, there’s only silence, the contrast between the two worlds they’ve been walking through feeling heavier than ever.
Erica starts the engine, the low purr of the Volvo almost soothing in its familiarity. She looks over at Megan. “Office or shelter?†she asks, her tone matter-of-factly, but the meaning of her question is obviously laced with concern.
“What we’re doing here isn’t exactly work-related. We can still turn away, send Mr. Leslie some flowers and a card, and call it a day.â€
As she says it, Erica is acutely aware of how she might sound - like someone trying to talk her intern out of a tough decision. She knows the dangers that lurk in the shadows of the city, the kinds of people they might encounter at the shelter. But as she watches Megan bite her lower lip, weighing the potential consequences of her response, a flicker of recognition ignites within her.
“This girl is braver than I gave her credit for.†Erica thinks. “She’s stepping into a world she barely understands, and it takes guts to face that. But turning away now? It feels wrong.â€
“If you go to the shelter, I’d like to go, too.†Megan says finally, her voice steadier than she feels. “96th Street, right?â€
Erica nods, a faint smile tugging at her lips, but under her mask of coolness, her heart is beating slightly faster as she considers the path ahead. “What am I doing? Am I really going to drag her into this?â€
She turns the engine over, the soft rumble of the car enveloping them both in a cocoon of safety, if only temporarily. “But she needs to know - this is real life, not just a legal case. It’s messy, unpredictable, and sometimes dangerous. If she’s going to make it in this field, she has to learn that truth.â€
“Next stop, 96th Street.†she says, her voice steady as she pulls back into traffic.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
For Megan it seems especially hard to be confronted with the reality these Kids have to face on a daily basis. What the Social Worker. Shane says. “Not every kid has the luxury of growing up in a nice home, in a safe part of the city.†hits the nail on the Head. And as he adds later: Exploited before being 18 or around 18 is not seldom in this World. We see Erica indeed exploring a different Environment as in the Cases before. So far it is a captivating Journey. As always @Jenny_S
Dear @Caesar73, I'm glad this story strikes a chord with you. Erica grew up in a good neighborhood and so, apparently, did Megan. Both know - academically - that there are homeless kids, but knowing and seeing are two very different things.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Young Megan is seeing a world she never even knew of. But she seems willing to meet the challenge. That takes real guts!
Dear @LunaDog, and so far they have only met a couple of toughs at the basketball court...
There might be a lot more in store for our two ladies.
There might be a lot more in store for our two ladies.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Erica merges onto the bustling streets, the city morphing around them as they head north on Riverside Drive toward West 96th. The sleek lines of her Volvo glide past rows of upscale boutiques and cafes, but soon give way to simpler storefronts, the veneer of affluence peeling slightly away like paint from an old wall. The atmosphere shifts subtly, a reminder that not all stories end in luxury.
Megan leans against the window, her reflection blending with the cityscape as they pass walls and neon signs on their way.
“Are you okay?†Erica asks, glancing at her, concern creeping into her voice.
Megan swallows hard, the lump in her throat palpable. “It’s just...I didn’t know things could be like this for young people.†Her voice is barely above a whisper, as if she’s afraid the words might shatter the fragile bubble of safety around them.
“It’s easy to forget.†Erica replies, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. “Most people choose to look the other way. But you can’t change what you don’t see.â€
As they take a right turn into 96th Street, Megan is surprised that this is not the ghetto she had expected, but she can tell that it looks not as upscale as 72nd Street. Yet it is crowded with shops, apartment buildings, street vendors and people on the sidewalks, but also a massive concrete block, one half of it an Elementary school, the other half signposted as „The Haven“ - the city-run youth shelter they have been looking for. While the school looks like any school Megan has seen, friendly and inviting, the shelter seems to be a grim reminder of the stories contained within, with barred windows and heavy doors. The facade has been slathered with paint, but the graffiti underneath is bleeding through nonetheless.
“Are you ready for this?†Erica asks, her tone shifting to something more serious. She parks the car and turns off the engine, the silence enveloping them both.
Megan nods, though her heart races. Ready? She’s not sure what that even means anymore. She’s scared, but the desire to understand pulls her forward. “Yeah.†she replies, her voice steadier than she feels.
As they step out of the car, the noise of the city swells around them. Erica adjusts her blazer, exuding an air of confidence that Megan wishes she could mirror. They walk toward the shelter, the pavement beneath their feet feeling both solid and precarious, as if it could give way at any moment.
The scent of street food wafts through the air, mingling with the less pleasant odors of the city. Megan catches sight of a group of teens loitering nearby, their laughter ringing out, but their eyes are watchful, wary. It’s a reminder that every street corner holds a story, some darker than others.
Near the entrance of The Haven a group of young people, male and female, hang out, eyeing Erica and Megan, both dressed in their business suits, with unveiled suspicion as they walk purposefully towards the entrance.
As they reach the heavy door, Erica hesitates, her hand hovering over the handle. “Just remember, this isn’t like the office. It’s a different world in here.â€
Megan nods, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “Understood.â€
Inside, the atmosphere shifts immediately. The bustling noise of the outside world fades, replaced by a heavy silence punctuated by muted conversations. The walls are painted in dull colors, and the lighting is harsh, casting long shadows that seem to swallow the space whole.
A worn-out reception desk greets them, manned by a tired-looking woman with glasses perched on her nose. She glances up as Erica approaches, her expression unreadable.
“Can I help you?†the receptionist asks, her tone clipped.
“We’re here to talk to someone about a kid,†Erica replies, keeping her voice steady despite the weight of their mission. “A teenager – he might be staying here.â€
The receptionist raises an eyebrow, skepticism etched across her face. “You’ll need to fill out a visitor’s form. And I’ll need to see some ID.†She gestures toward a clipboard resting on the desk.
Megan feels a rush of anxiety, her palms beginning to sweat. She fumbles for her wallet, watching as Erica smoothly produces her business card, sliding it across the desk with practiced ease.
“Erica Sinclair of Sinclair & Associates.†she explains, her tone firm and authoritative.
The receptionist glances at the card, her expression softening just a fraction. “We don’t give out information easily. You’ll have to understand - privacy is important here.â€
Erica nods, her professionalism unwavering. “Of course. We just want to help him. He might be in trouble.â€
The receptionist studies them for a moment longer, then gestures toward the clipboard. “Fill this out, and I’ll see what I can do.â€
Megan takes the clipboard, her hands trembling slightly as she writes down their information. What if he isn’t here? The thought gnaws at her, feeding her growing anxiety. She’s already invested so much of herself in this mission.
As they wait, Megan’s gaze drifts around the room. She spots a small group of teens sitting at a table, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. They look so ordinary, yet there’s a heaviness in the air that feels palpable, the unspoken stories hanging over them like a storm cloud.
Just then, the receptionist finishes scanning the form and looks up. “Alright. I'll call Director Peters if he's got time for you. Give me a moment.â€
The receptionist nods curtly, disappearing into a back room. The heavy silence in the lobby stretches, amplifying the soft murmur of voices and the distant echoes of laughter from the youth mingling in the common area. Megan shifts her weight from one foot to the other, anxiety swirling in her stomach like a tempest.
“Do you think he could help?†Megan asks quietly, glancing at Erica, who leans against the reception desk, her calm facade a stark contrast to the turmoil around them. “This Director Peters?â€
Erica eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Maybe. He’s likely the one who knows this place best.†she replies, her tone suggesting a cautious optimism.
Megan nods, contemplating the complexities of the situation. The shelter’s grim exterior is just the beginning. She catches sight of a boy, maybe sixteen, standing by the window, his expression distant. He looks like he’s holding onto heavy thoughts, lost somewhere between the hope of a better future and the despair of his current reality.
“Look at him.†she whispers, nodding toward the boy. “What kind of life has he had to lead?â€
“Too many stories left untold.†Erica replies, her voice low and contemplative, as she scans the room. A weight of sadness hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken struggles.
A moment later, the receptionist returns, her expression a mask of neutrality. “Director Peters will see you now. Follow me, please.â€
Megan’s heart races as they follow her down a narrow hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The walls are plastered with posters advocating for change and understanding, their bright colors seeming almost garish against the somber backdrop of the shelter. Each message feels like a reminder of the struggles faced by the kids inside these walls.
They reach a door at the end of the hallway, and the receptionist knocks lightly before pushing it open. “Director Peters, these are the visitors I mentioned.†she says, stepping aside to let Erica and Megan enter.
The office is cramped and cluttered with papers, photographs, and a whiteboard filled with names and plans. A man in his forties sits behind a battered desk, his hair tousled and his shirt wrinkled, as if he’s just stepped in from a long day of work rather than a meeting. He looks up, his blue eyes piercing yet weary, as if he’s been fighting an uphill battle for far too long.
“Welcome to The Haven.†he says, standing to shake Erica's hand, his grip firm but gentle. He turns to Megan, offering a nod. “I’m Director Marvin Peters.†The formality of his title feels like a weight, underscoring the importance of his mission.
“Have a seat.†he invites, motioning to the two chairs opposite his desk. Leaning back slightly, his expression shifts to one of guarded curiosity. “What can I do for you?â€
Erica takes the lead, her tone professional yet urgent. “We’re looking for a teenager who might have passed through here. We believe he could be in trouble.â€
Peters raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “What kind of trouble?â€
“A robbery.†Erica explains, watching for his reaction. “Yesterday evening, at West 72nd and Columbus. We're not here to prosecute; we just want to help.â€
A flicker of recognition crosses Peters' face, but he quickly masks it. “I'm sorry, but I don’t think I can help you, Miss Sinclair.â€
Erica nods, her silence a calculated move, allowing the weight of their situation to settle. She knows that sometimes, a moment of quiet opens the door to further conversation.
Peters studies her for a moment, his expression softening slightly. “You see, it’s complicated. Many of these kids come from troubled backgrounds. Some have been involved with gangs. Others are running from their past. We only control what happens within these four walls: providing a safe, clean place, regular meals, and if the kids want to talk, an open ear.â€
Leaning forward in his chair, fingers steepled in thought, Peters continues like it’s a well-rehearsed speech. “The City does what it can, but with the ever-increasing number of homeless youths we have here in Manhattan, it's a constant uphill struggle we face.â€
Erica’s gaze drifts to the whiteboard, its floor plans covered with names. Each one a story, a life.
“Do you think we could talk to some of your kids?†Erica asks. “The ones who see this place as an opportunity for a fresh start?â€
“I can introduce you to some of the older kids here,†Peters replies, leaning back again. “They might have information about the one you’re looking for. Just be aware - trust is hard-earned in this environment. Many of these kids are wary of outsiders and often feel trapped in their circumstances. If you really want to help, you’ll need to connect with them on their level.â€
Erica nods, her resolve hardening. “We’re willing to do whatever it takes.â€
“Good.†Peters replies, still weary, as if he’s heard that promise a million times before. “But know that it’s not an easy path. You’ll be stepping into a world that’s dangerous and unpredictable.â€
Megan feels a rush of adrenaline at the thought, the weight of the challenge igniting something inside her. “We’re ready.â€
“Alright then.†Peters says, standing up behind his desk, reaching for a massive bunch of keys. “I'll show you around so you’ll get an idea of what The Haven is like.â€
Megan leans against the window, her reflection blending with the cityscape as they pass walls and neon signs on their way.
“Are you okay?†Erica asks, glancing at her, concern creeping into her voice.
Megan swallows hard, the lump in her throat palpable. “It’s just...I didn’t know things could be like this for young people.†Her voice is barely above a whisper, as if she’s afraid the words might shatter the fragile bubble of safety around them.
“It’s easy to forget.†Erica replies, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. “Most people choose to look the other way. But you can’t change what you don’t see.â€
As they take a right turn into 96th Street, Megan is surprised that this is not the ghetto she had expected, but she can tell that it looks not as upscale as 72nd Street. Yet it is crowded with shops, apartment buildings, street vendors and people on the sidewalks, but also a massive concrete block, one half of it an Elementary school, the other half signposted as „The Haven“ - the city-run youth shelter they have been looking for. While the school looks like any school Megan has seen, friendly and inviting, the shelter seems to be a grim reminder of the stories contained within, with barred windows and heavy doors. The facade has been slathered with paint, but the graffiti underneath is bleeding through nonetheless.
“Are you ready for this?†Erica asks, her tone shifting to something more serious. She parks the car and turns off the engine, the silence enveloping them both.
Megan nods, though her heart races. Ready? She’s not sure what that even means anymore. She’s scared, but the desire to understand pulls her forward. “Yeah.†she replies, her voice steadier than she feels.
As they step out of the car, the noise of the city swells around them. Erica adjusts her blazer, exuding an air of confidence that Megan wishes she could mirror. They walk toward the shelter, the pavement beneath their feet feeling both solid and precarious, as if it could give way at any moment.
The scent of street food wafts through the air, mingling with the less pleasant odors of the city. Megan catches sight of a group of teens loitering nearby, their laughter ringing out, but their eyes are watchful, wary. It’s a reminder that every street corner holds a story, some darker than others.
Near the entrance of The Haven a group of young people, male and female, hang out, eyeing Erica and Megan, both dressed in their business suits, with unveiled suspicion as they walk purposefully towards the entrance.
As they reach the heavy door, Erica hesitates, her hand hovering over the handle. “Just remember, this isn’t like the office. It’s a different world in here.â€
Megan nods, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “Understood.â€
Inside, the atmosphere shifts immediately. The bustling noise of the outside world fades, replaced by a heavy silence punctuated by muted conversations. The walls are painted in dull colors, and the lighting is harsh, casting long shadows that seem to swallow the space whole.
A worn-out reception desk greets them, manned by a tired-looking woman with glasses perched on her nose. She glances up as Erica approaches, her expression unreadable.
“Can I help you?†the receptionist asks, her tone clipped.
“We’re here to talk to someone about a kid,†Erica replies, keeping her voice steady despite the weight of their mission. “A teenager – he might be staying here.â€
The receptionist raises an eyebrow, skepticism etched across her face. “You’ll need to fill out a visitor’s form. And I’ll need to see some ID.†She gestures toward a clipboard resting on the desk.
Megan feels a rush of anxiety, her palms beginning to sweat. She fumbles for her wallet, watching as Erica smoothly produces her business card, sliding it across the desk with practiced ease.
“Erica Sinclair of Sinclair & Associates.†she explains, her tone firm and authoritative.
The receptionist glances at the card, her expression softening just a fraction. “We don’t give out information easily. You’ll have to understand - privacy is important here.â€
Erica nods, her professionalism unwavering. “Of course. We just want to help him. He might be in trouble.â€
The receptionist studies them for a moment longer, then gestures toward the clipboard. “Fill this out, and I’ll see what I can do.â€
Megan takes the clipboard, her hands trembling slightly as she writes down their information. What if he isn’t here? The thought gnaws at her, feeding her growing anxiety. She’s already invested so much of herself in this mission.
As they wait, Megan’s gaze drifts around the room. She spots a small group of teens sitting at a table, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. They look so ordinary, yet there’s a heaviness in the air that feels palpable, the unspoken stories hanging over them like a storm cloud.
Just then, the receptionist finishes scanning the form and looks up. “Alright. I'll call Director Peters if he's got time for you. Give me a moment.â€
The receptionist nods curtly, disappearing into a back room. The heavy silence in the lobby stretches, amplifying the soft murmur of voices and the distant echoes of laughter from the youth mingling in the common area. Megan shifts her weight from one foot to the other, anxiety swirling in her stomach like a tempest.
“Do you think he could help?†Megan asks quietly, glancing at Erica, who leans against the reception desk, her calm facade a stark contrast to the turmoil around them. “This Director Peters?â€
Erica eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Maybe. He’s likely the one who knows this place best.†she replies, her tone suggesting a cautious optimism.
Megan nods, contemplating the complexities of the situation. The shelter’s grim exterior is just the beginning. She catches sight of a boy, maybe sixteen, standing by the window, his expression distant. He looks like he’s holding onto heavy thoughts, lost somewhere between the hope of a better future and the despair of his current reality.
“Look at him.†she whispers, nodding toward the boy. “What kind of life has he had to lead?â€
“Too many stories left untold.†Erica replies, her voice low and contemplative, as she scans the room. A weight of sadness hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken struggles.
A moment later, the receptionist returns, her expression a mask of neutrality. “Director Peters will see you now. Follow me, please.â€
Megan’s heart races as they follow her down a narrow hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The walls are plastered with posters advocating for change and understanding, their bright colors seeming almost garish against the somber backdrop of the shelter. Each message feels like a reminder of the struggles faced by the kids inside these walls.
They reach a door at the end of the hallway, and the receptionist knocks lightly before pushing it open. “Director Peters, these are the visitors I mentioned.†she says, stepping aside to let Erica and Megan enter.
The office is cramped and cluttered with papers, photographs, and a whiteboard filled with names and plans. A man in his forties sits behind a battered desk, his hair tousled and his shirt wrinkled, as if he’s just stepped in from a long day of work rather than a meeting. He looks up, his blue eyes piercing yet weary, as if he’s been fighting an uphill battle for far too long.
“Welcome to The Haven.†he says, standing to shake Erica's hand, his grip firm but gentle. He turns to Megan, offering a nod. “I’m Director Marvin Peters.†The formality of his title feels like a weight, underscoring the importance of his mission.
“Have a seat.†he invites, motioning to the two chairs opposite his desk. Leaning back slightly, his expression shifts to one of guarded curiosity. “What can I do for you?â€
Erica takes the lead, her tone professional yet urgent. “We’re looking for a teenager who might have passed through here. We believe he could be in trouble.â€
Peters raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “What kind of trouble?â€
“A robbery.†Erica explains, watching for his reaction. “Yesterday evening, at West 72nd and Columbus. We're not here to prosecute; we just want to help.â€
A flicker of recognition crosses Peters' face, but he quickly masks it. “I'm sorry, but I don’t think I can help you, Miss Sinclair.â€
Erica nods, her silence a calculated move, allowing the weight of their situation to settle. She knows that sometimes, a moment of quiet opens the door to further conversation.
Peters studies her for a moment, his expression softening slightly. “You see, it’s complicated. Many of these kids come from troubled backgrounds. Some have been involved with gangs. Others are running from their past. We only control what happens within these four walls: providing a safe, clean place, regular meals, and if the kids want to talk, an open ear.â€
Leaning forward in his chair, fingers steepled in thought, Peters continues like it’s a well-rehearsed speech. “The City does what it can, but with the ever-increasing number of homeless youths we have here in Manhattan, it's a constant uphill struggle we face.â€
Erica’s gaze drifts to the whiteboard, its floor plans covered with names. Each one a story, a life.
“Do you think we could talk to some of your kids?†Erica asks. “The ones who see this place as an opportunity for a fresh start?â€
“I can introduce you to some of the older kids here,†Peters replies, leaning back again. “They might have information about the one you’re looking for. Just be aware - trust is hard-earned in this environment. Many of these kids are wary of outsiders and often feel trapped in their circumstances. If you really want to help, you’ll need to connect with them on their level.â€
Erica nods, her resolve hardening. “We’re willing to do whatever it takes.â€
“Good.†Peters replies, still weary, as if he’s heard that promise a million times before. “But know that it’s not an easy path. You’ll be stepping into a world that’s dangerous and unpredictable.â€
Megan feels a rush of adrenaline at the thought, the weight of the challenge igniting something inside her. “We’re ready.â€
“Alright then.†Peters says, standing up behind his desk, reaching for a massive bunch of keys. “I'll show you around so you’ll get an idea of what The Haven is like.â€
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
It's a whole new world for young Megan. She seems willing to enter, if slowly and half-scared to do so. Erica, of course, as part of her job may have seen this sort of thing before, as usual she's playing it beautifully.
"But you can’t change what you don’t see.â€
Very true, what Erica says here, as she and Megan are entering a unknown World. Finally we learn, where the Title of the Story comes from. And indeed: A Haven it is, what many of the troubled Kids in this World do need.
Erica handles the Receptionest and Director Peters quite well. Making clear why they are here: Not for Trouble, but to help a troubled Kid. I have the Feeling we get a very authentic Picture of the Haven and its Surroundings. I think in the next Chapter we will learn even more, when the Director gives Erica and Megan the Tour.
Very true, what Erica says here, as she and Megan are entering a unknown World. Finally we learn, where the Title of the Story comes from. And indeed: A Haven it is, what many of the troubled Kids in this World do need.
Erica handles the Receptionest and Director Peters quite well. Making clear why they are here: Not for Trouble, but to help a troubled Kid. I have the Feeling we get a very authentic Picture of the Haven and its Surroundings. I think in the next Chapter we will learn even more, when the Director gives Erica and Megan the Tour.
Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73, I'm not sure if "The Haven" is what Erica and Megan think it would be, but we'll see more of it tonight.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
I guess, at this Stage many Things are possibleJenny_S wrote: 1 month ago Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73, I'm not sure if "The Haven" is what Erica and Megan think it would be, but we'll see more of it tonight.
Maybe "The Haven" is something entirely different ... Maybe some of the Staff are involved in shady Dealings? But as you say, we will see!
As they step outside the office, the atmosphere feels charged with possibility, a reminder that they’ve entered a realm where the stakes are high, and every decision counts. As they move back into the common area, a group of teens huddles around a table, their eyes flicking toward Erica and Megan with a mixture of curiosity and cautious interest.
Megan glances at Erica, determination blooming within her. This is just the beginning.
Director Marvin Peters leads Erica and Megan out of his cramped office and into the dimly lit hallway. The stark white walls are scuffed, bearing the weight of countless hands and years of wear. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker slightly, casting an uneasy glow over the narrow passageway.
“This way.†Peters says, his voice steady but laced with exhaustion. “I’ll show you what we’re working with here.â€
They pass a series of doors on either side, each labeled with faded numbers. “These are the dorm rooms. Some two to a room.†Peters explains as they walk. “It’s not much, but it’s better than the streets. Most of these kids have never had a room to themselves, so they don’t mind the small quarters.â€
He pauses, opening a door to one of the rooms. The space is bleak. Twin beds sit on either side, the mattresses thin, the sheets plain and utilitarian. A small dresser between the beds holds the few personal items the kids have. There are no posters on the walls, no signs of individual expression - just survival.
Erica steps inside, glancing around. The air feels heavy with a sense of impermanence. The kind of place you stay when you have nowhere else to go.
Peters sighs, closing the door as they move on. “The city pours money into the program, but money only gets us so far. Just feeding them isn’t enough. They need perspective. They need a future.â€
Megan listens intently, her brows furrowed as they continue down the hallway. “So what do you do for that? Beyond food and shelter?â€
Peters gestures to the next set of rooms. “We try to offer structure. Guidance. Most of these kids never had anyone teach them how to live a productive life.†He leads them into a larger space - the dining facility. It’s stark, with long, communal tables and an adjacent kitchen. Several teenagers move about, preparing food for lunch.
“We run it like a community. They take turns cooking, cleaning. It teaches responsibility.†Peters says, folding his arms. “But it’s not enough. They need more than chores. They need education, jobs, purpose. And with the number of kids coming through, it’s a challenge to give each one what they really need.â€
Erica surveys the scene. The kids move through the motions - chopping vegetables, stirring pots, setting plates - but their eyes are downcast, their movements mechanical. It’s clear that survival is the main focus, not thriving.
“They look so young.†Megan whispers, her heart aching for them.
“They are.†Peters replies softly, his voice grim. “Most of them have had to grow up fast. The streets will do that to you.â€
They move on, entering a larger room that serves as the recreation area. The space is filled with mismatched furniture - tattered couches, a ping-pong table with a missing net, and shelves holding worn-out board games and books. A few teens sit together in a corner, playing cards. Their eyes flicker toward the newcomers with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.
“This is the lounge.†Peters says, gesturing around the room. “It’s not much, but it’s a place to unwind. We have a small library in the next room, too. Some kids like to read or study, but most are more interested in getting through the day without trouble.â€
Erica scans the faces of the teens, trying to see if she recognizes any of them from the robbery the previous night. Her heart quickens, but none of them stand out. Frankly, they all look the same to her - ragged, tired, and worn down by life. She has to admit to herself, with a pang of frustration, that even if the boy from the robbery was here, she probably wouldn’t recognize him.
They continue down another hallway until Peters stops in front of a group of teens huddled around a chessboard in the recreation room. “This.†he says, pointing to a tall, haggard-looking kid with sharp cheekbones and sunken eyes, “is Slick.â€
Slick glances up from his game, his expression cool and detached. His clothes hang loosely on his lanky frame, and his posture is one of quiet defiance, as if the world has already thrown its worst at him, and he’s still standing.
“Slick’s one of our oldest residents.†Peters says, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Eighteen. He’s been here on and off for a couple of years. Despite the nickname, he’s one of the most promising kids we’ve got. Smart. Streetwise. He’s been through more than most, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders.â€
Slick nods, his eyes flicking to Erica and Megan briefly before returning to his chessboard. He doesn’t seem particularly interested in their presence, but there’s a quiet intensity in his demeanor.
Erica steps forward, offering a friendly smile. “Nice to meet you, Slick. Director Peters here seems to think highly of you.â€
Slick shrugs, his voice low and rough. “He’s gotta say that. It’s his job.†There’s a faint smirk at the corner of his lips, but it fades quickly.
Peters chuckles, clapping Slick on the back. “He’s modest. But if you’re looking for someone to talk to, someone who knows how things work around here, Slick’s your guy.â€
Erica studies Slick, sensing there’s more to him than the tough exterior he presents. “We’re just here to understand, to see if anyone knows something about a boy we’re looking for.â€
The boy doesn’t answer right away. His eyes remain on the chessboard as he makes his next move. “People come and go.†he mutters, “Hard to keep track.â€
Before Erica can ask anything further, Peters checks his watch - a sleek, expensive-looking timepiece that seems out of place in his otherwise worn-out appearance. “I’m sorry, ladies.†he says, suddenly looking distracted. “I’ve got a video call with a possible sponsor scheduled in a few minutes. But if you need anything else, Miss Sinclair, don’t hesitate to call.â€
He gives a parting nod to Slick, then turns and strides back toward the office, leaving Erica and Megan standing in the midst of the shelter’s chaotic order.
Erica watches Peters go, her mind swirling with questions and doubts. She knows the stakes are higher than they appear, and the answers she needs are likely hidden somewhere within these walls.
Erica glances back at Slick, who remains engrossed in his game, seemingly indifferent to their presence. She pulls up a chair, motioning to Megan to do the same. They sit down near the kids clustered around Slick, who’s absorbed in his chess game against another boy. The decision to sit down rather than stand feels calculated - Erica wants to level with them, to strip away any semblance of authority that might make them close off.
“Listen.†she begins, her voice steady and calm, void of the edge of command she often carries into a room. "Last night, around 10, I was in the corner store at 72nd and Columbus when a kid walked in with a gun. He wanted the money from the register. The store owner wouldn’t give it to him, so the kid shot him."
The kids continue their game as if she hasn’t spoken, their focus never straying from the chessboard or their conversation. The soft tap of chess pieces hitting the table is the only sound that punctuates the silence. Erica presses on.
"The old man nearly died." she adds, her voice dropping slightly. “He’s worked hard his whole life, and now he might never walk again.â€
Slick, whose attention had seemed elsewhere, finally turns his head just enough to meet Erica’s eyes, his expression impassive. “Lady, why are you telling us your little sob story?â€
His tone is dismissive, bored even, and Erica can see the wall he’s putting up.
“Because I was hoping…â€
Slick cuts her off sharply. "We don’t know anything.†he rasps, his voice rough and cold. “And if we did, no one here would be telling you.â€
A girl sitting to Slick’s left puts down her Pepsi can and burps loudly, drawing snickers from the group. The air feels charged with a tension that has nothing to do with Erica’s story, and everything to do with their world being so far removed from hers.
Without warning, Slick swipes his hand across the chessboard, sending the pieces clattering to the floor. His sudden burst of anger feels like a storm breaking open, his eyes gleaming with fury as he glares at Erica. Megan flinches at the harsh reaction, nearly tipping out of her chair, but Erica stays perfectly still.
“That’s all you’re gonna get from us, lady. Get back in your nice car, go back to your fancy office, and spend the evening in your perfect little home with your perfect little life.†He rises abruptly to his feet, sweeping his arms in a wide arc as if he’s casting off the weight of her presence. His voice grows louder, more bitter with each word. “This is the best we have. You live in some rich world, and you drop crumbs down here like we’re ducks in a pond or something. You have no idea what it’s like for us.â€
His words hang in the air, heavy and charged, the anger burning behind them undeniable. The other kids watch, their faces closed off but attentive, as if they’ve all silently agreed that Slick speaks for them.
Erica rises slowly to her feet. There’s a tightness in her chest, a realization that this conversation is hitting a dead end. But she doesn’t argue with him. There’s nothing to say right now that would change the reality of their situation.
“You’re right.†Erica finally says, her voice measured, controlled. “I don’t know what it’s like. But thanks for your time.â€
She turns to Megan, giving her a small nod. “Time to go, I think.â€
Megan stands up, still visibly shaken by the outburst. They make their way toward the exit, the eyes of the kids following them, cold and hard, as if they’re watching Erica leave not just the room, but an entire world she will never truly understand.
Megan glances at Erica, determination blooming within her. This is just the beginning.
Director Marvin Peters leads Erica and Megan out of his cramped office and into the dimly lit hallway. The stark white walls are scuffed, bearing the weight of countless hands and years of wear. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker slightly, casting an uneasy glow over the narrow passageway.
“This way.†Peters says, his voice steady but laced with exhaustion. “I’ll show you what we’re working with here.â€
They pass a series of doors on either side, each labeled with faded numbers. “These are the dorm rooms. Some two to a room.†Peters explains as they walk. “It’s not much, but it’s better than the streets. Most of these kids have never had a room to themselves, so they don’t mind the small quarters.â€
He pauses, opening a door to one of the rooms. The space is bleak. Twin beds sit on either side, the mattresses thin, the sheets plain and utilitarian. A small dresser between the beds holds the few personal items the kids have. There are no posters on the walls, no signs of individual expression - just survival.
Erica steps inside, glancing around. The air feels heavy with a sense of impermanence. The kind of place you stay when you have nowhere else to go.
Peters sighs, closing the door as they move on. “The city pours money into the program, but money only gets us so far. Just feeding them isn’t enough. They need perspective. They need a future.â€
Megan listens intently, her brows furrowed as they continue down the hallway. “So what do you do for that? Beyond food and shelter?â€
Peters gestures to the next set of rooms. “We try to offer structure. Guidance. Most of these kids never had anyone teach them how to live a productive life.†He leads them into a larger space - the dining facility. It’s stark, with long, communal tables and an adjacent kitchen. Several teenagers move about, preparing food for lunch.
“We run it like a community. They take turns cooking, cleaning. It teaches responsibility.†Peters says, folding his arms. “But it’s not enough. They need more than chores. They need education, jobs, purpose. And with the number of kids coming through, it’s a challenge to give each one what they really need.â€
Erica surveys the scene. The kids move through the motions - chopping vegetables, stirring pots, setting plates - but their eyes are downcast, their movements mechanical. It’s clear that survival is the main focus, not thriving.
“They look so young.†Megan whispers, her heart aching for them.
“They are.†Peters replies softly, his voice grim. “Most of them have had to grow up fast. The streets will do that to you.â€
They move on, entering a larger room that serves as the recreation area. The space is filled with mismatched furniture - tattered couches, a ping-pong table with a missing net, and shelves holding worn-out board games and books. A few teens sit together in a corner, playing cards. Their eyes flicker toward the newcomers with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.
“This is the lounge.†Peters says, gesturing around the room. “It’s not much, but it’s a place to unwind. We have a small library in the next room, too. Some kids like to read or study, but most are more interested in getting through the day without trouble.â€
Erica scans the faces of the teens, trying to see if she recognizes any of them from the robbery the previous night. Her heart quickens, but none of them stand out. Frankly, they all look the same to her - ragged, tired, and worn down by life. She has to admit to herself, with a pang of frustration, that even if the boy from the robbery was here, she probably wouldn’t recognize him.
They continue down another hallway until Peters stops in front of a group of teens huddled around a chessboard in the recreation room. “This.†he says, pointing to a tall, haggard-looking kid with sharp cheekbones and sunken eyes, “is Slick.â€
Slick glances up from his game, his expression cool and detached. His clothes hang loosely on his lanky frame, and his posture is one of quiet defiance, as if the world has already thrown its worst at him, and he’s still standing.
“Slick’s one of our oldest residents.†Peters says, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Eighteen. He’s been here on and off for a couple of years. Despite the nickname, he’s one of the most promising kids we’ve got. Smart. Streetwise. He’s been through more than most, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders.â€
Slick nods, his eyes flicking to Erica and Megan briefly before returning to his chessboard. He doesn’t seem particularly interested in their presence, but there’s a quiet intensity in his demeanor.
Erica steps forward, offering a friendly smile. “Nice to meet you, Slick. Director Peters here seems to think highly of you.â€
Slick shrugs, his voice low and rough. “He’s gotta say that. It’s his job.†There’s a faint smirk at the corner of his lips, but it fades quickly.
Peters chuckles, clapping Slick on the back. “He’s modest. But if you’re looking for someone to talk to, someone who knows how things work around here, Slick’s your guy.â€
Erica studies Slick, sensing there’s more to him than the tough exterior he presents. “We’re just here to understand, to see if anyone knows something about a boy we’re looking for.â€
The boy doesn’t answer right away. His eyes remain on the chessboard as he makes his next move. “People come and go.†he mutters, “Hard to keep track.â€
Before Erica can ask anything further, Peters checks his watch - a sleek, expensive-looking timepiece that seems out of place in his otherwise worn-out appearance. “I’m sorry, ladies.†he says, suddenly looking distracted. “I’ve got a video call with a possible sponsor scheduled in a few minutes. But if you need anything else, Miss Sinclair, don’t hesitate to call.â€
He gives a parting nod to Slick, then turns and strides back toward the office, leaving Erica and Megan standing in the midst of the shelter’s chaotic order.
Erica watches Peters go, her mind swirling with questions and doubts. She knows the stakes are higher than they appear, and the answers she needs are likely hidden somewhere within these walls.
Erica glances back at Slick, who remains engrossed in his game, seemingly indifferent to their presence. She pulls up a chair, motioning to Megan to do the same. They sit down near the kids clustered around Slick, who’s absorbed in his chess game against another boy. The decision to sit down rather than stand feels calculated - Erica wants to level with them, to strip away any semblance of authority that might make them close off.
“Listen.†she begins, her voice steady and calm, void of the edge of command she often carries into a room. "Last night, around 10, I was in the corner store at 72nd and Columbus when a kid walked in with a gun. He wanted the money from the register. The store owner wouldn’t give it to him, so the kid shot him."
The kids continue their game as if she hasn’t spoken, their focus never straying from the chessboard or their conversation. The soft tap of chess pieces hitting the table is the only sound that punctuates the silence. Erica presses on.
"The old man nearly died." she adds, her voice dropping slightly. “He’s worked hard his whole life, and now he might never walk again.â€
Slick, whose attention had seemed elsewhere, finally turns his head just enough to meet Erica’s eyes, his expression impassive. “Lady, why are you telling us your little sob story?â€
His tone is dismissive, bored even, and Erica can see the wall he’s putting up.
“Because I was hoping…â€
Slick cuts her off sharply. "We don’t know anything.†he rasps, his voice rough and cold. “And if we did, no one here would be telling you.â€
A girl sitting to Slick’s left puts down her Pepsi can and burps loudly, drawing snickers from the group. The air feels charged with a tension that has nothing to do with Erica’s story, and everything to do with their world being so far removed from hers.
Without warning, Slick swipes his hand across the chessboard, sending the pieces clattering to the floor. His sudden burst of anger feels like a storm breaking open, his eyes gleaming with fury as he glares at Erica. Megan flinches at the harsh reaction, nearly tipping out of her chair, but Erica stays perfectly still.
“That’s all you’re gonna get from us, lady. Get back in your nice car, go back to your fancy office, and spend the evening in your perfect little home with your perfect little life.†He rises abruptly to his feet, sweeping his arms in a wide arc as if he’s casting off the weight of her presence. His voice grows louder, more bitter with each word. “This is the best we have. You live in some rich world, and you drop crumbs down here like we’re ducks in a pond or something. You have no idea what it’s like for us.â€
His words hang in the air, heavy and charged, the anger burning behind them undeniable. The other kids watch, their faces closed off but attentive, as if they’ve all silently agreed that Slick speaks for them.
Erica rises slowly to her feet. There’s a tightness in her chest, a realization that this conversation is hitting a dead end. But she doesn’t argue with him. There’s nothing to say right now that would change the reality of their situation.
“You’re right.†Erica finally says, her voice measured, controlled. “I don’t know what it’s like. But thanks for your time.â€
She turns to Megan, giving her a small nod. “Time to go, I think.â€
Megan stands up, still visibly shaken by the outburst. They make their way toward the exit, the eyes of the kids following them, cold and hard, as if they’re watching Erica leave not just the room, but an entire world she will never truly understand.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
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A different world? Bit of an eye opener here. Erica is old enough and wise enough to understand, but this must have been a bit of a shock for young Megan.
Dear @LunaDog, seems they have set foot into a world of its own, but we shall see how the story unfolds further when I'm back Sunday evening. Hope y'all can wait till then when the next part of "The Haven" drops. I can promise you that this is far from over.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
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As Erica and Megan walk down the dimly lit corridor of The Haven, the weight of their failed mission presses heavily on Erica’s shoulders.
She pauses at the reception desk, flipping the pen absentmindedly in her fingers before signing out. The receptionist’s flat question hangs in the air.
“Did you find the kid you were looking for?â€
Erica sighs, shaking her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. “No.†she says quietly. “Would’ve been too easy, wouldn’t it?â€
Before the receptionist can respond, a small boy appears at Megan’s side like a ghost, his presence barely perceptible. He leans in, his voice a whisper only Megan can hear.
“Don’t come here again.†he murmurs, his eyes darting nervously. “Stay away from Slick. He’s dangerous.â€
Megan barely has time to react before the boy disappears back into the shelter’s shadows. She turns to Erica, her pulse quickening, but before she can speak, Erica gestures toward the door, her expression set.
“Are you coming?†Erica’s voice is calm, steady, but there’s an underlying tension to it. She is not happy how the visit to the shelter went and her mind is already racing ahead figuring out another approach.
As they step outside into the unforgiving daylight, Megan tries to tell Erica about the boy who gave her the advice about Slick, but her words are cut off as they are immediately surrounded by the group of kids they had passed earlier. The atmosphere shifts instantly, charged with menace.
Erica’s eyes scan the group quickly. They’ve moved with purpose, closing in like wolves, cutting off any escape. Six, seven kids, all staring at them with cold, unfeeling eyes. The tension is palpable, and Erica can feel Megan’s fear radiating beside her.
A boy steps forward - a heavy-set kid, no older than sixteen, but broad-shouldered and angry. His expression is one of hardened defiance. He pulls out a switchblade from his pocket, flicking it open with a sharp “clickâ€. The blade gleams in the sunlight.
"Get lost." The boy growls, his voice low and dangerous, though his eyes never leave Erica’s.
Erica instinctively steps in front of Megan, shielding her. In that moment, everything seems to be happening in slow-motion, and a familiar surge of adrenaline pulses through her veins. She’s been threatened before – twice with a gun. First, when Tony Maze had shot her in the shoulder, and then again during the robbery just last night.
But she’s not thinking about those moments now. Instead, her father’s voice echoes in her mind, as clear and steady as ever.
“When you get ambushed, don’t lie low. Grab the initiative. Counterattack. It’s the last thing they expect.â€
It wasn’t just battlefield advice. It was how her father had lived his life. The same man who had taught her that knowing the law wasn’t enough - you had to have a moral compass strong enough to guide you through the murky grey areas. On the day she graduated from Harvard Law, he had given her a Rolex dive watch, a symbol of that guidance. Engraved on the back of its case were the words she now lived by: Stand for something or fall for anything, a constant reminder of her father’s legacy.
She inhales deeply, steeling herself, her resolve showing.
“I’ve had guns pointed at me before.†Erica says, her voice calm, but with a definitive edge. “Twice, actually. So don’t you dare threaten me.â€
Her eyes lock with the boy’s, unblinking. She knows she’s taking a risk, but she feels the weight of her father’s words pushing her forward. Counterattack. Show no fear.
The boy falters, just for a second. He wasn’t expecting this elegant lady to stand her ground, and Erica can see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
Without breaking eye contact, Erica reaches for Megan’s arm, pulling her gently. Slowly, deliberately, she pushes through the circle of kids, her movements controlled, exuding a confidence she doesn’t entirely feel. Every step is a gamble, and she knows it. Her pulse pounds in her ears, but her face betrays nothing.
The boy watches them go, his eyes still hard, but he doesn’t move. The others don’t either. They just let them pass, their presence a silent threat that lingers in the air.
Erica and Megan reach the car. Erica unlocks the doors with a smooth, practiced motion, though her hands feel heavy with the weight of everything that just happened. Megan circles the car, her breaths coming fast and shallow, and slips into the passenger seat.
Once inside, the tension is almost unbearable, but Erica holds onto the calm she’s cultivated for years - an emotional armor forged by her father’s teachings and her own experiences.
As Erica starts the engine, Megan speaks, her voice barely a whisper.
“That boy…back inside. He told me not to come back. Not to get near Slick. He said… he’s dangerous.â€
Erica doesn’t respond immediately. Her eyes remain fixed on the road ahead as they pull away from the shelter, but her mind is racing. She knows that something dark is festering beneath The Haven’s surface, and probably Slick is at the center of it, but she remembers the values she was raised with: justice, strength, and the courage to stand for something, even when it means facing danger.
Without a word, she takes the Volvo into the traffic knowing that this isn’t over. Far from it.
She pauses at the reception desk, flipping the pen absentmindedly in her fingers before signing out. The receptionist’s flat question hangs in the air.
“Did you find the kid you were looking for?â€
Erica sighs, shaking her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. “No.†she says quietly. “Would’ve been too easy, wouldn’t it?â€
Before the receptionist can respond, a small boy appears at Megan’s side like a ghost, his presence barely perceptible. He leans in, his voice a whisper only Megan can hear.
“Don’t come here again.†he murmurs, his eyes darting nervously. “Stay away from Slick. He’s dangerous.â€
Megan barely has time to react before the boy disappears back into the shelter’s shadows. She turns to Erica, her pulse quickening, but before she can speak, Erica gestures toward the door, her expression set.
“Are you coming?†Erica’s voice is calm, steady, but there’s an underlying tension to it. She is not happy how the visit to the shelter went and her mind is already racing ahead figuring out another approach.
As they step outside into the unforgiving daylight, Megan tries to tell Erica about the boy who gave her the advice about Slick, but her words are cut off as they are immediately surrounded by the group of kids they had passed earlier. The atmosphere shifts instantly, charged with menace.
Erica’s eyes scan the group quickly. They’ve moved with purpose, closing in like wolves, cutting off any escape. Six, seven kids, all staring at them with cold, unfeeling eyes. The tension is palpable, and Erica can feel Megan’s fear radiating beside her.
A boy steps forward - a heavy-set kid, no older than sixteen, but broad-shouldered and angry. His expression is one of hardened defiance. He pulls out a switchblade from his pocket, flicking it open with a sharp “clickâ€. The blade gleams in the sunlight.
"Get lost." The boy growls, his voice low and dangerous, though his eyes never leave Erica’s.
Erica instinctively steps in front of Megan, shielding her. In that moment, everything seems to be happening in slow-motion, and a familiar surge of adrenaline pulses through her veins. She’s been threatened before – twice with a gun. First, when Tony Maze had shot her in the shoulder, and then again during the robbery just last night.
But she’s not thinking about those moments now. Instead, her father’s voice echoes in her mind, as clear and steady as ever.
“When you get ambushed, don’t lie low. Grab the initiative. Counterattack. It’s the last thing they expect.â€
It wasn’t just battlefield advice. It was how her father had lived his life. The same man who had taught her that knowing the law wasn’t enough - you had to have a moral compass strong enough to guide you through the murky grey areas. On the day she graduated from Harvard Law, he had given her a Rolex dive watch, a symbol of that guidance. Engraved on the back of its case were the words she now lived by: Stand for something or fall for anything, a constant reminder of her father’s legacy.
She inhales deeply, steeling herself, her resolve showing.
“I’ve had guns pointed at me before.†Erica says, her voice calm, but with a definitive edge. “Twice, actually. So don’t you dare threaten me.â€
Her eyes lock with the boy’s, unblinking. She knows she’s taking a risk, but she feels the weight of her father’s words pushing her forward. Counterattack. Show no fear.
The boy falters, just for a second. He wasn’t expecting this elegant lady to stand her ground, and Erica can see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
Without breaking eye contact, Erica reaches for Megan’s arm, pulling her gently. Slowly, deliberately, she pushes through the circle of kids, her movements controlled, exuding a confidence she doesn’t entirely feel. Every step is a gamble, and she knows it. Her pulse pounds in her ears, but her face betrays nothing.
The boy watches them go, his eyes still hard, but he doesn’t move. The others don’t either. They just let them pass, their presence a silent threat that lingers in the air.
Erica and Megan reach the car. Erica unlocks the doors with a smooth, practiced motion, though her hands feel heavy with the weight of everything that just happened. Megan circles the car, her breaths coming fast and shallow, and slips into the passenger seat.
Once inside, the tension is almost unbearable, but Erica holds onto the calm she’s cultivated for years - an emotional armor forged by her father’s teachings and her own experiences.
As Erica starts the engine, Megan speaks, her voice barely a whisper.
“That boy…back inside. He told me not to come back. Not to get near Slick. He said… he’s dangerous.â€
Erica doesn’t respond immediately. Her eyes remain fixed on the road ahead as they pull away from the shelter, but her mind is racing. She knows that something dark is festering beneath The Haven’s surface, and probably Slick is at the center of it, but she remembers the values she was raised with: justice, strength, and the courage to stand for something, even when it means facing danger.
Without a word, she takes the Volvo into the traffic knowing that this isn’t over. Far from it.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
It certainly isn't over. Erica handles herself very well. What does she do next?
Dear @LunaDog, I guess, we will find out tonight. She won't roll over easily, I suspect.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
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Incredible intense Tale - the Tension in the last two Chapters mounting, as Erica and Meghan navigate in uncharted Waters. One of my Highlights? Slick´s Outburst. This Guy is Danger - as the little Boy confirms who tells Meghan to stay clear of Slick.
Then the Confrontation with Knife-Guy. A real gripping Showdown. But Erica keeps her Ground.
As she concludes at the End of this Chapter? This is far from over ....
Then the Confrontation with Knife-Guy. A real gripping Showdown. But Erica keeps her Ground.
As she concludes at the End of this Chapter? This is far from over ....
Dear @Caesar73, let's see how this unfolds further. Something smells fishy in The Haven.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
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The car engine hums to a stop as Erica pulls up to a small, tucked-away café just off Riverside Drive. It’s a far cry from the concrete jungle they just escaped, with its warm wood-paneled facade and cozy interior. A refuge from the chaos. Erica steps out first, scanning the street as Megan hesitates, still shaken by the menacing crowd they had just navigated. The calm exterior belies the tension still simmering between them.
"Come on, we could both use a break." Erica says, motioning Megan to follow.
Inside, the scent of freshly brewed coffee hangs thick in the air, soothing in a way. Erica orders two mugs and leads them to a quiet corner away from the lunchtime bustle. As they sit, Megan can’t help but glance nervously toward the door, as if expecting to see Slick and his gang storm in at any moment.
Erica, sensing her unease, gives a half-smile. “Relax. They’re not coming here.â€
Megan nods, but the tension still clings to her. “I can’t believe that just happened.†she murmurs, her hands cupping the warm mug like an anchor. “You didn’t even flinch when he pulled the knife. How…how do you stay so calm?â€
Erica takes a slow sip of her coffee, the warmth spreading through her, soothing the adrenaline still buzzing beneath the surface. Her father’s voice echoes in her mind: “When you get ambushed, don’t lie low. Counterattack.â€
“Oh, I was scared.†Erica admits, setting her cup down gently. “But fear doesn’t get you out of a bad situation. You have to take control. They weren’t expecting me to push back, so that’s what I did.â€
Megan shakes her head, still in awe. “I thought for sure he was going to…do something.â€
“Most of those kids, they’ve been pushed so far they only know how to push back. Still, they’re not as tough as they want you to believe. Not all of them at least.†Erica says, her voice steady.
“But Slick… he seemed different. Like he wasn’t bluffing at all.†Megan's brow furrows. “That boy in the hallway, the one who warned me about Slick… he wasn’t lying, Miss Sinclair. There’s something off about him.â€
Erica leans back in her chair, fingers tracing the rim of her cup as her mind works through the pieces. “Correct.†she says after a pause. “And Peters? He’s not being straight with us either.â€
Megan looks up, surprised. “You think he’s hiding something?â€
Erica nods slowly. “He gave us the polished speech just to get rid of us quickly, but something felt rehearsed, like he’s keeping us at arm’s length. Almost too eager to paint himself as the savior of those kids, but not quite willing to let us get any closer. He’s trying to keep us from upsetting his applecart.â€
“So what do we do now?†Megan asks, her voice a mix of curiosity and frustration. “How do we get more out of him?â€
Erica’s expression sharpens, the lawyer in her coming to the forefront. “Sometimes, Megan, you don’t wear yourself down with people like Peters. You drop the bomb on them from above.â€
Her fingers already glide over her phone, quickly pulling up the City’s website. She scrolls through names and departments until she finds the one she’s looking for: the City’s Children and Youth Services Committee.
Megan watches her, wide-eyed with anticipation. “What are you doing?â€
“Finding the big boss.†Erica replies, her focus unwavering. She taps on a link, revealing the head of the committee: Councilwoman Amanda Lee.
“This is who we need.†Erica says, dialing the number listed for Lee’s office. “She’s responsible for shelters like The Haven, which means she’s way above Peters. Let’s see how she feels about what’s really going on there.â€
Megan stares at Erica as the phone rings on the other end. She’s in awe of her boss’s calm resolve and ability to act so quickly. “You’re really going for the top, aren’t you?â€
“Sometimes, that’s the only way to get answers.â€
The call connects, and Erica’s voice shifts, adopting the warm, authoritative tone she reserves for important conversations. “Hello, this is Erica Sinclair. I was wondering if I could speak with Councilwoman Lee. It’s about a youth shelter in the city - I think I might be able to help with some of the kids.â€
There’s a brief pause before she’s transferred, and moments later, Amanda Lee’s voice comes through the line, crisp and professional. “This is Amanda Lee.â€
“Councilwoman Lee, it’s an honor. My name is Erica Sinclair, I’m a lawyer here in Manhattan, and I’ve recently been looking into The Haven shelter on 96th Street. I live nearby and wanted to see if there’s a way I could get involved to support the kids there.â€
The warmth in Amanda’s response is immediate. “We’re always looking for passionate advocates. A professional like you could really make an impact on their lives. I’d love to discuss how we can work together.â€
Erica flashes a knowing glance at Megan, who’s leaning forward eagerly, hanging on to every word. “I’d be happy to come by and talk about it in person, if that works for you.†Erica offers. She’s clearly not letting the Councilwoman off the hook now.
“Absolutely.†Amanda Lee agrees. “I’m at my office all day today. Come by at your convenience, I’ll make time for you.â€
“Wonderful.†Erica replies smoothly. “How about in 45 minutes?â€
“That works perfectly. I look forward to meeting you.â€
The call ends, and Erica slips her phone back into her pocket, draining the last of her coffee. She glances down at her Rolex.
Time for the counterattack.
Megan, still wide-eyed, stares at her in disbelief. “We’re meeting Amanda Lee, a Councilwoman?â€
Erica smirks, the edge of determination creeping into her smile. “Within the hour.â€
Megan exhales, her hands resting on the table, still trying to catch up with the whirlwind of events. First they left the shelter, figuratively with their tails between their legs and now…
“You just… made that happen, like it was nothing.â€
Erica stands, her chair scraping softly against the floor as she gathers her things. She gives Megan a steady, confident look, one that’s earned after years of navigating tough situations. “It’s something you learn as you go, Megan. You’ll pick it up, too. Trust me.â€
As they make their way toward the door, Megan shakes her head, still reeling from how quickly everything had changed. The tension from The Haven still lingers, but now there’s an undercurrent of excitement. “I don’t know how you do it. You make it look so...easy.â€
Outside, the fresh air hits them, but Erica pauses, turning to Megan. Her gaze softens as she takes in the younger woman - so eager to help, so full of promise, yet still grappling with the weight of everything they'd just faced. “Megan, it's not easy. There are moments you’ll feel like the whole world is against you, like you're pushing a boulder uphill. But that’s when you have to be persistent. Think outside the box. Never give up. When people shut doors, find a way to open them or how you can find a back door.â€
She hesitates for a beat, then steps closer, sizing Megan up not with the critical eye of a superior, but with the hope of someone seeing a reflection of herself years ago. She sees the raw potential in Megan - the same spark she had, the same hunger for justice.
“Listen, Megan.†Erica says, her tone gentler now, almost tender. “This morning, when I asked if you wanted to come with me, you didn’t hesitate. You saw Mr. Leslie and those kids, and you didn’t accept the status quo. You saw something wrong, and you decided to change it. That’s not a small thing. Most people would’ve walked away. You could have gone back to the office shuffling papers, but you chose not to.â€
Megan listens, her wide-eyed expression softening into something more thoughtful. Erica’s words are sinking in, and that wall of fear she felt at the shelter seems to break apart just a little.
Erica continues, her voice firm but encouraging. “Now you realize that the path to helping people isn’t always straightforward. It’s rough and sometimes dangerous. But we’re in this together. You have to grit your teeth and push through the obstacles - people like Peters, like Slick - they’re going to try to block you or scare you off. But that’s when you hold your ground. The world needs people like you, Megan. People who care, who won’t take no for an answer.â€
She rests a hand on Megan’s shoulder, offering a small but genuine smile. “You’ve got what it takes to make a difference.â€
Megan nods, her gaze steadying, her shoulders relaxing just a little as she absorbs Erica’s words. There’s a new resolve in her eyes now, the kind that comes from knowing someone believes in you, especially someone like Erica.
Erica straightens up, the warmth in her smile still lingering. “Let’s go meet Councilwoman Lee. We’ve got work to do.â€
"Come on, we could both use a break." Erica says, motioning Megan to follow.
Inside, the scent of freshly brewed coffee hangs thick in the air, soothing in a way. Erica orders two mugs and leads them to a quiet corner away from the lunchtime bustle. As they sit, Megan can’t help but glance nervously toward the door, as if expecting to see Slick and his gang storm in at any moment.
Erica, sensing her unease, gives a half-smile. “Relax. They’re not coming here.â€
Megan nods, but the tension still clings to her. “I can’t believe that just happened.†she murmurs, her hands cupping the warm mug like an anchor. “You didn’t even flinch when he pulled the knife. How…how do you stay so calm?â€
Erica takes a slow sip of her coffee, the warmth spreading through her, soothing the adrenaline still buzzing beneath the surface. Her father’s voice echoes in her mind: “When you get ambushed, don’t lie low. Counterattack.â€
“Oh, I was scared.†Erica admits, setting her cup down gently. “But fear doesn’t get you out of a bad situation. You have to take control. They weren’t expecting me to push back, so that’s what I did.â€
Megan shakes her head, still in awe. “I thought for sure he was going to…do something.â€
“Most of those kids, they’ve been pushed so far they only know how to push back. Still, they’re not as tough as they want you to believe. Not all of them at least.†Erica says, her voice steady.
“But Slick… he seemed different. Like he wasn’t bluffing at all.†Megan's brow furrows. “That boy in the hallway, the one who warned me about Slick… he wasn’t lying, Miss Sinclair. There’s something off about him.â€
Erica leans back in her chair, fingers tracing the rim of her cup as her mind works through the pieces. “Correct.†she says after a pause. “And Peters? He’s not being straight with us either.â€
Megan looks up, surprised. “You think he’s hiding something?â€
Erica nods slowly. “He gave us the polished speech just to get rid of us quickly, but something felt rehearsed, like he’s keeping us at arm’s length. Almost too eager to paint himself as the savior of those kids, but not quite willing to let us get any closer. He’s trying to keep us from upsetting his applecart.â€
“So what do we do now?†Megan asks, her voice a mix of curiosity and frustration. “How do we get more out of him?â€
Erica’s expression sharpens, the lawyer in her coming to the forefront. “Sometimes, Megan, you don’t wear yourself down with people like Peters. You drop the bomb on them from above.â€
Her fingers already glide over her phone, quickly pulling up the City’s website. She scrolls through names and departments until she finds the one she’s looking for: the City’s Children and Youth Services Committee.
Megan watches her, wide-eyed with anticipation. “What are you doing?â€
“Finding the big boss.†Erica replies, her focus unwavering. She taps on a link, revealing the head of the committee: Councilwoman Amanda Lee.
“This is who we need.†Erica says, dialing the number listed for Lee’s office. “She’s responsible for shelters like The Haven, which means she’s way above Peters. Let’s see how she feels about what’s really going on there.â€
Megan stares at Erica as the phone rings on the other end. She’s in awe of her boss’s calm resolve and ability to act so quickly. “You’re really going for the top, aren’t you?â€
“Sometimes, that’s the only way to get answers.â€
The call connects, and Erica’s voice shifts, adopting the warm, authoritative tone she reserves for important conversations. “Hello, this is Erica Sinclair. I was wondering if I could speak with Councilwoman Lee. It’s about a youth shelter in the city - I think I might be able to help with some of the kids.â€
There’s a brief pause before she’s transferred, and moments later, Amanda Lee’s voice comes through the line, crisp and professional. “This is Amanda Lee.â€
“Councilwoman Lee, it’s an honor. My name is Erica Sinclair, I’m a lawyer here in Manhattan, and I’ve recently been looking into The Haven shelter on 96th Street. I live nearby and wanted to see if there’s a way I could get involved to support the kids there.â€
The warmth in Amanda’s response is immediate. “We’re always looking for passionate advocates. A professional like you could really make an impact on their lives. I’d love to discuss how we can work together.â€
Erica flashes a knowing glance at Megan, who’s leaning forward eagerly, hanging on to every word. “I’d be happy to come by and talk about it in person, if that works for you.†Erica offers. She’s clearly not letting the Councilwoman off the hook now.
“Absolutely.†Amanda Lee agrees. “I’m at my office all day today. Come by at your convenience, I’ll make time for you.â€
“Wonderful.†Erica replies smoothly. “How about in 45 minutes?â€
“That works perfectly. I look forward to meeting you.â€
The call ends, and Erica slips her phone back into her pocket, draining the last of her coffee. She glances down at her Rolex.
Time for the counterattack.
Megan, still wide-eyed, stares at her in disbelief. “We’re meeting Amanda Lee, a Councilwoman?â€
Erica smirks, the edge of determination creeping into her smile. “Within the hour.â€
Megan exhales, her hands resting on the table, still trying to catch up with the whirlwind of events. First they left the shelter, figuratively with their tails between their legs and now…
“You just… made that happen, like it was nothing.â€
Erica stands, her chair scraping softly against the floor as she gathers her things. She gives Megan a steady, confident look, one that’s earned after years of navigating tough situations. “It’s something you learn as you go, Megan. You’ll pick it up, too. Trust me.â€
As they make their way toward the door, Megan shakes her head, still reeling from how quickly everything had changed. The tension from The Haven still lingers, but now there’s an undercurrent of excitement. “I don’t know how you do it. You make it look so...easy.â€
Outside, the fresh air hits them, but Erica pauses, turning to Megan. Her gaze softens as she takes in the younger woman - so eager to help, so full of promise, yet still grappling with the weight of everything they'd just faced. “Megan, it's not easy. There are moments you’ll feel like the whole world is against you, like you're pushing a boulder uphill. But that’s when you have to be persistent. Think outside the box. Never give up. When people shut doors, find a way to open them or how you can find a back door.â€
She hesitates for a beat, then steps closer, sizing Megan up not with the critical eye of a superior, but with the hope of someone seeing a reflection of herself years ago. She sees the raw potential in Megan - the same spark she had, the same hunger for justice.
“Listen, Megan.†Erica says, her tone gentler now, almost tender. “This morning, when I asked if you wanted to come with me, you didn’t hesitate. You saw Mr. Leslie and those kids, and you didn’t accept the status quo. You saw something wrong, and you decided to change it. That’s not a small thing. Most people would’ve walked away. You could have gone back to the office shuffling papers, but you chose not to.â€
Megan listens, her wide-eyed expression softening into something more thoughtful. Erica’s words are sinking in, and that wall of fear she felt at the shelter seems to break apart just a little.
Erica continues, her voice firm but encouraging. “Now you realize that the path to helping people isn’t always straightforward. It’s rough and sometimes dangerous. But we’re in this together. You have to grit your teeth and push through the obstacles - people like Peters, like Slick - they’re going to try to block you or scare you off. But that’s when you hold your ground. The world needs people like you, Megan. People who care, who won’t take no for an answer.â€
She rests a hand on Megan’s shoulder, offering a small but genuine smile. “You’ve got what it takes to make a difference.â€
Megan nods, her gaze steadying, her shoulders relaxing just a little as she absorbs Erica’s words. There’s a new resolve in her eyes now, the kind that comes from knowing someone believes in you, especially someone like Erica.
Erica straightens up, the warmth in her smile still lingering. “Let’s go meet Councilwoman Lee. We’ve got work to do.â€
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Erica shows her total professionalism here.
Exciting Conversation between Meghan and Erica at the Chapter´s beginning: That Meghan was shocked and shaken is no wonder. And Erica explains to her how to act in such a Situation. Even if one is scared.
That Slick is not the Top Dog but more a middle class Enforcer seems clear now.
The Meeting with the Council Woman will tell us more!
That Slick is not the Top Dog but more a middle class Enforcer seems clear now.
The Meeting with the Council Woman will tell us more!
Dear @LunaDog, thanks for your praise. I know that Erica will be happy to hear about your impression of her.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Dear @Caesar73, something is rotten in the state of Denmark - and in The Haven. Let's see if Erica and Megan can get a foot in the door.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing