“I wish I’d been that someone. I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry. For the money. For the lies. For all the little ways I taught you not to trust the people who loved you. I need you to live a life that isn’t about cleaning up my messes.”
The tape crackles. One last exhale.
“My Phoenix…I know you’ll burn every debt they try to tie you with…every name they try to brand you with… I love you, my girl. No more debts. Not for you.”
A soft click, then static, and the recorder eats its own silence.
I don’t move. I don’t blink.
It’s the second time I’m hearing it, and my body still does the same stupid things. My jaw clenches so hard it pops, and my hands curl like I’m holding a railing on a bridge I didn’t choose to cross. The words don’t hit in one clean blow; they splinter and keep finding new places to lodge—guarantor, collateral, debt.
I’m so sorry, Nixie. I had to give himyou.
I want to hate him. I do.
The kind of hate that would be easier if I hadn’t memorized the shape of his shoulders when he cooked eggs, or the way he used to tuck receipts into books.
My father loved me. He also sold me. Both things can be true, and neither of them cancels out the other.
I press two fingers to the STOP button like I’m pinning a moth, and the quiet that follows isn’t quiet at all. I hear the floor beneath me hum with energy.
You are not what I did.
Then why am I here in a box with my name on it and a pretend toilet to piss in?
I set the recorder down before I throw it. I breathe in through my nose until the salt stops burning my eyes, out through my teeth until the shake in my hands becomes small enough to hide. It doesn’t matter that I heard it already. It still rearranges the room.
Outside, the metal locks click, forcing my head up and my gaze to train sharply on the door. One…two…three locks tumble and groan. They need oil.
I’m already moving, shifting my weight, timing it, looking for an angle where I can turn my body into a weapon within a six-foot radius. It’s not enough space, but I’ve survived in less.
The door opens a hand’s breadth, then all the way, light from outside spilling in like a cold slap.
He fills the threshold: the protector’s uniform without the protector’s soul, shirt stretched over a belly that comes from sitting too much in a patrol car. Salt and pepper stubble scrapes a jaw that wants to be squared and isn’t. His hair is cut regulation-short, and his eyes are the wrong kind of pale—boiled-egg whites around pig-blue irises.
Danner.
The corrupt cop who leered at me once in our kitchen and saw a girl-shaped opportunity.
He looks me over like I’m inventory he ordered from some store, and not a human.
“Well, hey there, sweetheart,” he drawls, his Savannah accent trying to flirt with his pathology. His teeth are too small for his mouth. “Welcome aboard.”
I don’t give him the flinch he’s fishing for.
I don’t give him anything.
He steps in, dragging the smell of cold coffee and aftershave with him. The door scrapes shut behind him, and the locks nestle back into place, one after another. He does it without looking, the gesture practiced.
The thought settles uncomfortably. I don’t like that it’s second nature for him to be so careful with the locks, to shut the doors behind him without even thinking about it.
“You look cozy,” he says, leering like I’m sprawled out before him with my legs open and a smile on my lips. His gaze slides to the mattress, then back to my face, slow as syrup. “We try to make our guests comfortable.”
“Is that what I am? A guest?” I tilt my chin at the toilet. “I reckon this is the Hilton? I preferred the Titan-Wynn.”
He grins. It lands like a thumb on a bruise. “That mouth. I remember that smart mouth.”
He reaches, slow and deliberate, like he’s granting me the favor of anticipation. Two fingers aim for a lock of my hair. I jerk away,and he tracks the movement, amused. “I told the boys you had a little fight in you. They like that. I like that.”
