"Ingrid, the lights were on. Are you still?—"
He stops.
I can't see him from here, but I hear the sharp intake of breath.
The sound of him moving, fast, toward the massage room.
Then he's there.
In the doorway.
Looking down at me.
His face goes white.
"Ingrid. Oh god—Ingrid?—"
"Daddy." The word comes out broken. Childlike. "Daddy, he took my ring. He took my ring and he said—he said?—"
"Don't talk. Don't move." He's on the floor beside me, hands hovering, afraid to touch me and make it worse. "I'm calling for help. You're going to be okay. Do you hear me? You're going to be okay."
He's pulling out his phone.
Dialing.
Talking to someone—I can't follow the words.
Everything is fuzzy now.
Distant.
His hand finds mine.
Squeezes.
"Stay with me, baby girl. Stay with me. Help is coming."
"Tell Gunnar," I manage. "Tell him—tell him I love him. Tell him I'm sorry about the ring."
"You're going to tell him yourself. You're going to be fine."
"The man—he said—message?—"
"Don't talk. Save your strength."
"Keep out of their business. Or else." I cough. Taste blood. "That's what he said. Keep out or else."
Dad's expression shifts.
From fear to rage.
Cold, lethal rage.
"He's dead," Dad says quietly. "Whoever did this to you is dead. I swear it."
I want to respond.
Want to tell him to be careful.
