“Closer,” he grows, and I feel the way the syllable wields power like a baton.
The guard shifts, but he’s not stepping between us. Maybe he’s under orders. Maybe he cares less about the ritual of this scene and more about following the script. I stand a breath from the bed, and he reaches up with one hand—skin papery from the bruises—and tangles his fingers in my hair.
The grip is hard enough to make my scalp sting. He pulls until the sting becomes a white hot line across my skull.
“Dad—” The word is unbearable.
“Listen to me,” he hisses, breath warm and metallic with disinfectant. “You find the accountant. He knows where the money is. You get him—get the numbers—get whatever you need. You get me out, or I’m dead in here.”
His voice is not pleading. It’s not bargaining. It’s a command that folds me down into the small girl who learned to make apologies and hold things together. The metal taste of fear clings to the back of my tongue.
“What accountant?” My voice comes out smaller than I want.
He yanks my hair a fraction harder, making me wince. “You are not stupid. Are you?”
“No sir.”
“You heard me. Don’t screw this up.” His eyes are fever-bright. He looks every part the man who built our life on edges and threats. “You understand me?”
I nod because the alternative is watching him truly lose control, and the seat of him turning into something I can’t restrain terrifies me more than anything.
For a second—just a second—relief softens his face. “Good girl,” he mutters, and his voice is a crooked compliment. He releases my hair, letting my head thud back a little in my skull. “Now act like it.”
I let out a whimper. My head throbs.
The guard clears his throat like a cue. “Ma’am, please step back.” He doesn’t shout. There’s procedure in his tone, too.
He’s watching both of us like he’s reading a script he’s read a dozen times before. I can see the lines in his face—what he’s seen, what he’s trained for. The guard is an apparatus of control in a room full of people who think they’re above it.
My father’s face rearranges in a breath. Anger flakes off like dandruff and the old smooth, glib charm slithers back, slick and contemptible. “Officer, my daughter worries herself stupid,” he says smoothly—with that same voice that used to make officials smile and hands open. “We’re fine. She’s dramatic.”
My skin crawls. He can flip that switch and set the world to melt in his favor, it always worked on everyone else. Does it still work on me? Does it ever? I feel something inside me split in two—the part that wants to spit in his face and the part that remembers what his threats cost if disobeyed.
The cop nods, satisfied by the performance, and gestures toward the doorway like a shepherd moving a stray. “Step back now, ma’am.”
I step back.
My father says, “That’s all.”
As soon as I reach the door, my dad says, “Did you talk to your mother?”
I pause, not turning back to look at him. “Yeah.”
I leave him with that and walk into the hallway where he can’t see me. Outside the room the light feels too bright. My hands shake so hard the phone dances against my palm as I type to Mr. Cadwell.
He’s hurt. I saw him. Do whatever you can to get him out. Thank you for everything.
I hit send and my finger hovers a beat too long over the names of the people who live in my phone underMilesandJamie.There is a throb of foolishness in me—I was supposed to never get involved with them, and I don’t know whether to be brave or stupid.
I want to thank them for driving me here. For an unforgettable night. For all of it. But I’m too much of a coward to say any of that.
I pick the safest, most required message.It’ll be a while. Catch up later.
That should get them off my back. And then I sit in the waiting room to wait for them to leave.
It takes three wrong turns, one melted latte, and half a dozen panicked Google searches before I find the building. I stand on the curb staring up at the name stenciled in brushed steel—Marano & Associates, Financial Consulting—and wonder if it’s possible for a nameplate to look smug.
My reflection in the revolving doors looks worse than I feel. My hair’s frizzed from humidity, a T-shirt half-tucked into jeans that don’t quite fit right, dark circles under my eyes that no amount of concealer could fix. I smooth a hand over my hair anyway and push inside.
