There was a staticky pause and then, “You have a collect call from Florence McClure Women’s Correctional Center. To accept, please press one.”
I pressed one and waited.
“Sledge.” That voice, brittle and tinny, was familiar.
Anger pumped through me as I gripped the phone tighter. “What the fuck do you want Trish?” She had a lot of goddamn nerve calling my house, using that syrupy voice that only pissed me off.
She hesitated, regrouping to try another angle. “I wanted to… I wanted to talk to Zoya.”
“No fucking way.”
“Come on,” she whined. “It’s been years.”
“Not enough fucking years. You did enough damage, don’t you think?” I looked over my shoulder and saw Eliana push away from the table, grabbing Zoya to get her out of earshot of this conversation. “Thank you,” I mouthed to her.
“She’s my daughter too.”
I laughed but there was no humor in that shit. “It’s too fucking bad you couldn’t remember that when she was with you.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Why are you calling, Trish, and don’t fucking lie to me.” She wanted something. She always had a fucking angle.
“I got married,” she said as if that was supposed to get a reaction out of me.
“And?”
“And…” she sighed heavily. “I’d like to see my daughter. I want her to meet her stepfather.”
I barked out a loud, angry laugh. “I guess you still got access to drugs in prison because you must be fucking high if youthink that’s ever gonna happen. You signed away your rights, remember?”
“She’s still my child.”
“Legally, she’s not. You gave up your rights Trish, and you will never fucking see my daughter again. You have no fucking clue what you’ve done.” I sighed, shaking my head. “Is that the only reason you called?”
She sniffled for about thirty seconds, until it was clear I wasn’t falling for her shit. “I just want to talk to her. I know I fucked up, Sledge but I want to make things right.”
“If you want to make things right, get your shit together. Do your time, get clean and maybe when you get out, we can talk about visitation. That’s if she wants to talk to you.” Zoya would be nearly twenty when Trish got out of prison.
“You want me to—”
“I don’t give a fuck what you do, Trish. What I’m telling you is that you or whatever cum stain you conned into marrying you, won’t ever see or talk to my daughter. Period.”
“I’m married now,” she began. “I could petition for custody.”
“From prison?” I laughed again. “You do what you have to do, Trish. Don’t call her again. Or else.” I slammed the receiver back onto the cradle, which made me feel a little better but not much.
Trish was playing at something, I knew it, but I had no fucking clue what. Not yet.
But when I found out, I’d make the bitch regret the day she was born.
But first I needed more intel. I found my cell phone and called Slate. “Hey man, I got something else I need you to look into.”
He sighed. “This is becoming a habit, Sledge.”
I laughed. “Trish got married.”
He was silent. “Isn’t she doing more than a decade behind bars?”
“Yep,” I answered, amusement growing with every second. “I need to know who this fucker is and if he knew Trish before prison.”
“I’ll add it to the list.” He ended the call before I could thank him, because he knew I always did.
