Emily Freedman P.O.V.

It was way too cold out for a summer night. I mean sure, it was nearing the end of August and school would start up again in a few weeks, but there was no reason for me to be shivering. I pulled my worn sweater around myself as I hurried down the dark streets toward my apartment building.

I grew up in the warehouse district of Detroit. While it certainly wasn't the safest place to be, I stopped being afraid to walk alone at night years ago. There were far scarier things always waiting for me inside. Which is why I wasn't that surprised to see the usual crowd of people outside my apartment building. Sometimes calling them people felt like an overstatement. They were simply shells. They had injected themselves with heroin and seen the bottom of a bottle too many times to care about anything else except feeding the habit.

But I always said hi to them. After all, these were my people. At age sixteen, I was hardly any better than they were. At least not yet. Whenever I see them, I think about this plan I made when I was five. I always dreamed that I would go to a college far away from here. When I was younger the dream was Harvard, but as I got older, anywhere outside of the state of Michigan seemed appealing. At college I would meet a boy who was also studying to be a doctor, or a lawyer, or something fancy and we would fall in love and he would take me away from this horrible place and save me. But that was the dream when I was five.

When I grew up, I realized three major flaws with my plan. The first, I was broke. No one in my family had ever gone to college, and it wasn't likely that I would be the first generation. Not with The Asshole spending all of our money on whiskey. The second flaw was my lack of grades. While I had been a bright child, school got harder and I stopped trying. It was hard to care about things like the respiratory system and covalent bonds when I had to worry about food and rent. And the final problem, a man will never save me from anything. As my life has proved so far, they're the things I need to be rescued from.

"Hi Franny," I say, as I pass the burnt out woman on my left. Her skin is withered and spotted, and her hair is frizzy and grey. The funny thing is, if my mother were still alive, she'd be about Franny's age, so she's not nearly as old as she looks. I can almost remember a time when she looked like a person.

"Emily," Robert grumbles on my right, his arm snaking around my waist. I nearly jump out of my skin as I free myself. I can smell the beer on his breath.

"Don't touch me," I hiss at him, running up the stairs towards my apartment.

Robert is nearly 50, but that has never stopped him from coming onto me. He's supposedly a recovering alcoholic, but I don't think anything about him has recovered.

Our building always smells like cat piss and cigarette smoke, and it's especially worse in the summer months. It's like the sun bakes us all in and makes everything stink. But these are all things I've grown accustomed to. When I finally reach the third floor landing, I see that the door to my apartment is wide open. How strange, I know I closed it before I left. And it's not like The Asshole would have gotten up off the couch long enough to open it. Unless…he knew someone was dropping something off.

I nearly feel my blood boil at the thought. The Asshole, or my father, only ever opened the door for his deale… who he claimed to cut off contact with after he promised to quit for the 9th time. Whatever. As soon as I get to the door, I know something is wrong. The air is too heavy, like no one has inhaled it in hours.

As I step inside and flick on the light, I realize that's because no one has. My father is passed out on the couch, and I can just tell by looking at him that he is dead. His needle lays on the floor beside him.

Christian Grey P.O.V.

It's my second day back at work after my honeymoon, and I'll admit that I feel out of sorts. Between being away for long and everything that's happened with the arsonist, I feel as if I'll never catch up. I stare at the wedding picture of Ana and I on my desk. God, I don't think I could ever love anyone as much as I love her. I'm tempted to go to her now and –

"Mr. Grey?" Andrea's voice brings me back to reality. Her head is poked through the door and she looks extremely uncomfortable with whatever she's about to say.

"What?" I snap. If she's going to come into my office unannounced it better be with good reason.

"I'm sorry to bother you, I know you don't have anything scheduled until 2, but that man named Kevin Bore from Child Protective Services is here to see you. He's the one that's left you several messages and he's insisting that it's extremely urgent that he meet with you," she says, pleading for me to understand with her eyes.

"Andrea, if he's looking for a donation then you know to send him down to the third floor. He doesn't need to meet with me directly," I say, rolling my eyes.

It's not that I have anything against CPS. I mean, I was once in their care about 24 years ago. But this guy can't seriously just waltz in here and expect me to personally hand him money. That's not how this works.

"Um, sir, he's insisting that it's an extremely urgent personal matter and that he can't wait any longer," she explains, exasperated.

"Fine," I snap, "Send him in. Tell him he has 20 minutes. And send Taylor in with him."

When Kevin Bore walks in the room, I have to stifle a laugh. The last name could not be more appropriate for this guy. He's in a brown suit that looks like it came straight out of 1975, has a receding hairline though he can't be older than me, and slightly resembles the brother from Napoleon Dynamite. I roll my eyes thinking about all the times that Elliot made us watch that movie.

"I'm sorry to show up so abruptly Mr. Grey, but you weren't taking any of our calls," Bore says, sitting at the chair in front of my desk.

I want to roll my eyes. No shit, I was on my honeymoon and I have no interest in whatever you're about to tell me.

"I've been rather busy the past few weeks," I say nonchalantly, hiding my smirk. This guy is taking this way too seriously.

"Well I have some information that may come as a shock to you Mr. Grey, so please try and be patient," he explains, already seeming bothered by my arrogance. "You have information on your birth mother, but I understand you never had a relationship with your birth father –"

I cut him off immediately. "I would hardly count being neglected for the first four years of my life as having a relationship with my birth mother."

"My apologies, Mr. Grey. But as I was saying, your birth father's name was Neil Freedman. He died four days ago from a heroin overdose in his apartment in Detroit," he says, eyeing my carefully.

This bothers me. I have never once sought out a relationship with my birth father, and I don't need this man to show up and try to make me feel bad about his death.

"Now I'm sure you're wondering what that's got to do with CPS, but that's the reason I'm here. Your father had another child and – "

"NO." I interrupt him so quickly, I almost don't even realize I'm doing it. I'm out of my chair in seconds, starring down at him. "I have no interest in meeting some half-sibling who I have absolutely nothing in common with just because he's interested in getting a couple grand from me. They are NOT my family."

"Well…um…actually Mr. Grey, she has no idea you exist. Well I mean, she seems like a bright girl, so maybe she does, but she has no idea she's related to you. Your father left behind a 16-year-old daughter, your half sister. Her name is Emily Freedman," he explains, waiting for me to react.

"She's sixteen?" I breathe out so quickly, I feel like I could faint. I know exactly what he is about to ask of me.

"Now I know this may be an imposition, but we have nowhere else to put her for now. This doesn't have to be for the long-term, but she needs somewhere to stay until we can find a suitable home for her. The girl has been through a lot, and I can't see how putting her in a group home would benefit her in anyway. Her life has been far from stable Mr. Grey, and I think that maybe you could give her some of that security the poor kid so desperately needs."

"She's not a puppy. I can't just temporarily take in a teenager from the streets that I know nothing about," I say, but my words are flowing together.

I'm picturing my mother on the floor. Not Grace, but my birth mother. I'm remembering the awful apartment and the carpet that smelled like cat piss and how traumatic those four years of my life were and how awful it must have been to have lived like that for 16.

"Please, Mr. Grey. I know this is asking a lot. But this girl is your sister," Bore says, stressing the last word.

I'm suddenly furious. How did I not know about my father, or about this sister? How do I know this isn't some sort of scam, playing on the weakness of my past.

"Don't call her that. I already have a sister and I have absolutely no interest in having another. There has to be another family that you can place her with for the time being. I'm sure I can even give you some names," I say, almost pleading with him.

I can't meet this girl with a connection to my birth father. I can't surround myself with my past anymore.

"By law we need to place her with her next of kin, which is you. Please Mr. Grey, it will only be for a few days. And I think you might really like to meet her," he says, almost condescendingly.

There's a part of me that yearns for this. I just want to see what she looks like. Did the copper hair come from my birth father's side of the family? And she has 16 years worth of memories of him. She can at least tell me about his health and physical appearance, which are things I have always wondered about.

I sigh as I run my hands through my hair, nodding quickly.

"Please Mr. Bore, if you'll just give me time…I…I…God damn it, I just need to talk to my wife."

Please let me know what you think! If you like it, I'll keep uploading. I know it may have seemed a little slow, but I was just getting things rolling.

-Jen