~𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙽 𝙳𝙰𝚈 𝙱𝙾𝙽𝙽𝙸𝙴 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙲𝙻𝚈𝙳𝙴~

𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕪-𝕥𝕨𝕠

May 1994

The call came on an unremarkable afternoon. Clay Morrow was nursing a whiskey at the bar in the SAMCRO clubhouse when the phone rang. Chibs grabbed it first, his brows furrowing as he listened. A moment later, he waved Clay over.

"Something you need to hear, brother," Chibs said, handing him the receiver.

Clay frowned, taking the phone. "This is Clay Morrow. Who's callin'?"

"Mr. Morrow," said a measured, Southern voice on the other end. "This is Pamela Dupree with New Orleans Child Protective Services. I'm calling regarding a child named Bellatrix Eileen DuBois."

Clay's heart skipped. That name—DuBois—cut through him like a blade. "What about her?"

"Sir, I regret to inform you that Bellatrix's mother, Wylene Odette DuBois, passed away from an overdose earlier this week. The New Orleans Police Department discovered Bellatrix after neighbors reported a child screaming for several days in an apartment complex in New Orleans East. When officers arrived, they found Bellatrix alone, severely malnourished and hoarse from screaming. She's four years old, and you are listed as her father on her birth certificate."

The world went silent for a moment. Clay gripped the bar to steady himself. "Four?" he repeated.

"Yes, sir. Born October 31st, 1990."

Clay's voice hardened. "And what's her condition now?"

"She's physically stable," Pamela replied. "But severely traumatized. Bellatrix has no verbal language skills, though she can echo sounds she hears. From what we understand, her mother neglected her educational and developmental needs entirely. She needs immediate stability and care. As you're listed as her father, we're contacting you first."

Clay's knuckles whitened around the phone. Memories of Wylene surged—her bright smile in the beginning, her descent into addiction, and the final argument that had sent him storming away from New Orleans. He had no idea she'd been pregnant, let alone that she'd given birth to a child.

"You're sayin'... I'm her only shot?" he muttered.

"Yes, Mr. Morrow," Pamela said firmly. "If you decline, Bellatrix will enter the foster care system. But given her unique challenges, finding a suitable placement may be difficult."

Clay exhaled sharply. "I'll be there. Give me two days."

—

Two days later, Clay found himself standing outside a dilapidated apartment building, the air heavy with humidity and the faint stench of decay. Pamela Dupree met him in the parking lot, clipboard in hand.

"She's inside," Pamela said, her voice low. "We've been keeping her in familiar surroundings while we worked through the initial steps. She doesn't understand much of what's happened, but she knows her mother isn't coming back."

Clay followed her into the dingy apartment. The place was a wreck—trash piled in corners, the carpet stained beyond recognition. Bellatrix sat in the middle of the living room, clutching a small, ragged stuffed cat. Her wild curls framed her pale, round face, and her wide blue eyes stared up at Clay with suspicion and curiosity.

She didn't make a sound, just watched him.

"She doesn't speak," Pamela explained softly. "Her vocal cords are damaged from the screaming, but even when they heal, we believe she never learned to talk. However, she has a knack for mimicking sounds. It's her only form of communication right now."

Clay crouched down, meeting Bellatrix's gaze. "Hey, kid," he said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

Bellatrix tilted her head, gripping the stuffed cat tighter. She made a soft sound—a low rumble like the purr of a cat.