When The Poor Girl Suddenly Became Rich

For the first time in weeks, the house was quiet again.

Gesly was in his room. Bella was sketching in the living room, legs curled beneath a blanket, eating grapes. Alonzo had stayed a little longer that evening, quietly helping Andi wash the dishes while cracking small jokes to make her laugh.

Andi thought—maybe this was it.

Maybe after their conversation, after that raw, quiet breakdown from her brother, things would slowly start going back to normal.

Maybe.

"Do you really think he's okay now?" Alonzo asked, drying his hands with a kitchen towel.

Andi looked down at the plates they'd just finished drying. "I think… he's trying. That counts, right?"

Alonzo didn't answer right away. He leaned against the counter and looked at her.

Not judging. Just honest.

"Andi," he said gently. "You don't fix something like that with one hug and a talk."

She flinched.

"Don't get me wrong," he added quickly. "What you did? That's what he needed—your love, your calm. But I saw his eyes that night. I've seen that look before."

"Where?" she asked, her voice tightening.

"My old group. My roommate's cousin back in college. Same thing. Quiet. Looked well-behaved around his family. But he'd sneak out late at night, get caught in gang fights. They didn't notice it fast enough. Until…"

He stopped.

Andi tensed. "Until?"

"Until he was on the news. In the back of a police van."

The kitchen felt heavier. The air, thick with silence.

Andi slowly sat down, palm pressed to the countertop.

"But Gesly… he's not like that," she said weakly. "He's sweet. He loves Bella. He's just going through something. Maybe it's just a teenage phase—"

"It's not a phase, Andi," Alonzo said softly but firmly. "You heard him talk. Calm. Clear. That wasn't anger. That wasn't drama. It's something deeper. Something building beneath the surface. You saw the bruises. The way he talked about pain—like it was something he needed."

Andi didn't answer. Her throat was tight.

"Look," he continued, "I'm not saying check him into a rehab center or something drastic. I'm saying… someone has to watch him. Quietly. Because if he's still doing things—and he thinks no one's watching…"

Andi closed her eyes. "You think I should hire someone?"

"Someone trustworthy. Lowkey. Not to punish him. To protect him."

She sighed. "Would that make me a bad sister?"

"No," Alonzo said gently. "I think that would make you a brave one."

Later that night, Andi lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

The letter from Mama felt heavier inside her drawer.

The house felt quieter than usual.

And outside her door, just down the hallway, her little brother slept.

But somewhere in the city…

Another version of him was still wide awake.

Still hungry for something Andi couldn't name.

---

The knock came earlier than expected.

It was still dim outside, just past six in the morning. Andi was still in her robe, coffee in hand, when she opened the front door and found Mr. Arlan Cruz standing there—Alonzo's contact, a former investigator turned private surveillance expert.

He wore his usual neutral polo, slacks, and the kind of eyes that had seen far too much.

She let him in without a word.

Bella and Gesly were still asleep. The house was quiet. She led him to the small lanai out back, where a fan hummed and the early morning breeze tried to calm the storm building in her chest.

"Coffee?" she offered, uncertain.

Arlan shook his head. "No, ma'am. Let's go straight to it."

Her stomach dropped.

The man opened a brown envelope and pulled out several printed photos and a simple report.

"I watched Gesly for a month, just like you asked. Lowkey. Unnoticeable. I followed protocol. Took notes. Photos. Videos." His fingers tapped the edge of the paper. "I've seen a lot of teenagers try to act tough, Miss Navarro. Some were rebels. Some were grieving. Some were in trouble."

He paused.

Andi's throat went dry. "And Gesly?"

Arlan looked at her for a long moment before replying.

"Your brother isn't just finding trouble. He's chasing it."

He slid a photo across the table.

It was grainy—Gesly, hoodie up, sitting behind a warehouse in a parking lot. A fight had clearly just ended. There was blood on his shirt. A knife near his hand. His eyes?

Blank. Detached. Too calm.

"He doesn't just fight to defend himself. He waits. Watches. Picks his moment. Sometimes he's not even angry—but he steps in anyway. Like it soothes him," Arlan explained.

Andi slowly shook her head, dread rising.

"You're saying… he enjoys it?"

"Not in a sadistic way," Arlan clarified. "It's more like… he needs it. Like a craving."

He opened the report next.

"There are multiple signs I couldn't ignore. Dissociation under high stress. Risk-seeking behavior. Manipulative charm when he needs an alibi. And the most concerning—zero remorse."

Andi blinked rapidly. "What are you saying?"

Arlan met her eyes. "I'm saying this is beyond me now. What your brother's showing might be symptoms of something deeper—psychotic spectrum disorder, maybe early signs of antisocial personality traits. Could be intermittent explosive disorder. Maybe even developing psychopathy."

The world tilted.

She gripped her mug tightly.

"No," she whispered. "He's just… he's grieving. He's trying. This is a phase—"

"I've seen grief," Arlan said gently. "This is not that. Ma'am, I watched him laugh after breaking another kid's ribs. Walk away whistling. He's hiding it from you. He knows how to hide it."

Andi's mind flashed through every moment she had dismissed:

The fading smile. The way he laughed at pain. The charm he turned on like a switch. The bruises. The silence. The dead calm in his eyes.

No guilt. No shame. Just… nothing.

"You're saying I need to get him help."

"You need to bring in a professional," Arlan said. "Preferably a psychologist with experience in adolescent behavioral disorders. Because if you wait too long—and this escalates—it may be too late to fix."

Andi couldn't breathe.

She stood, walked to the railing of the lanai, and looked at the sky.

It was getting brighter.

A new day.

But to her?

It felt like something had died.

Not Gesly. But the version of him she thought she knew.

She turned back to Arlan, her voice soft—almost not her own. "Do you think… he can still be saved?"

Arlan looked down at the folder. Then back at her. "I think there's still time. But not much."