Due to building emotions, something in Aiden just snapped.
"Understand this," he growled, voice shaking with pent-up fury, "my mother never acted like one. She never cared. She never took care of me. The only time I heard from her was when she remembered she had a son—and even then, it was just to send a few bucks. She wasn't my mother. She was just a womb donor. That's all she ever was."
Steve blinked, caught off guard by the sudden outburst.
"No. And if I did hear from her, that fucking whore—" Aiden's voice cracked with rage, "—she doesn't deserve to be called my mother. Did you know she left me when I was five? Alone. With some random crackhead she called a babysitter. Just walked out like I didn't exist. So no—I don't know where she is, I don't care, and I never fucking will. Fuck her."
His chest heaved as years of resentment surged out, leaving him trembling in the silence that followed.
Steve tried to keep calm, his voice low. "I understand what you've gone through, but she's still your mother, and you've got to have some—"
"If you understood," Aiden cut him off, eyes blazing, "then maybe you would've been there. Instead of playing cop up here in the woods."
Steve looked like he had been struck. Whatever response he had withered on his tongue. The rest of the drive passed in strained silence.
Finally, they reached a large metal gate. Steve pressed a button, and it opened with mechanical grace. The cruiser moved up the winding path until it reached a house that looked like something from the future.
Three stories tall, the structure spread out wide like an open book. There wasn't even a visible front door—until Steve tapped a panel, and a hidden garage door silently lifted.
Inside the garage, tools lined the walls in meticulous order. Various motorcycles gleamed under overhead lights—Yamaha, Kawasaki, Honda, and others, Aiden didn't recognize. One bike was disassembled behind glass; its twin, fully built, stood proudly beside it.
"Like motorcycles?" Steve asked.
"I always wanted one," Aiden admitted. "I got the license. Just never had the chance."
They moved to an elevator built into the back of the garage. Steve hit a button, and the doors slid open. Five options glowed on the control panel: Garage, Basement, Level 1, Level 2, Penthouse.
"Bit of a trick house," Steve said. "Garage and basement down low. Level 1's got the kitchen, living room, your bedroom, and the guest room. Level 2 is the fun stuff—library, game room, indoor pool. I live up top in the penthouse."
As the elevator stopped at Level 1 and the doors opened, Aiden stepped out and turned to Steve.
"Mr. Steve... I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I don't blame you for what happened to me. You didn't know I existed, and that must've been a shock. I didn't mean what I said back there. I am sorry."
Steve nodded silently. Aiden didn't wait for a reply. He picked up his bag and walked away.
He followed a softly lit hallway, motion-sensor lights flickering on as he descended the wooden staircase. At the bottom, two elegant double doors stood ahead, but he turned left to the first door, slid it open, and stepped into his room.
He dropped his things by the door and took a slow lap around.
The place was unreal. A full-sized bedroom, walk-in closet, side office, a small patio, and a sleek, modern bathroom—it was nicer than any home he'd ever stayed in.
"We ain't in Philly no more, are we, Will?" he murmured to himself with a smirk.
Finally, he collapsed onto the bed, his body heavy with exhaustion. The memories of the night swirled in his head, but for the first time in a long while, there was something else too.
Hope.
"Maybe Forks won't be so bad after all," Aiden whispered, closing his eyes.