“No…” The sound came apart as it left my mouth. My heart was a drumbeat in my ears, too fast, too loud, drowning everything else.
I fumbled for my phone. It slipped through my fingers, slick with sweat. I caught it on the second try and stabbed at the screen until her name filled it. And hit call.
Seconds stretched while I waited for the call to connect.
My mouth tasted like metal.
“You have reached my voicemail. You know what to do.”
I exhaled through clenched teeth and tried again. Only to be met with the same fate. Her voicemail clicked in quicker this time. But I didn’t give up and tried again.
Voicemail.
And again.
Voicemail.
“M-Mom—hey, it’s me. I saw the news. Please, please pick up. Just… call me back. Let me know you’re okay.”
My voice broke into pieces, but I didn’t care. Without regard for the repercussions or what Madeline would think of me, I bolted for the back door. Cold rain slammed into me like thrown gravel, but I barely felt it. My hands frantically fought the inside of my pocket for my keys. My fingers didn’t feel like they belonged to me anymore.
I got into the truck like my body was moving ahead of my mind. Like some kind of out-of-body experience. The engine roared, and the heaters blew cold air. I barely noticed it. My mind singularly focused on hearing Mom’s voice.
Once my phone connected to the bluetooth, I hit redial. Praying this time would be different.
“You have reached?—”
“Please,” I whispered after the beep, tears blurring the world. “Please, just be somewhere else. Please be safe.”
I stared at the screen, willing it to light up. To flash with her name. To undo every worst case scenario that was running through my mind. But nothing happened. I swallowed down another wave of bile and tried Dad. If anyone would know, he would. She was his entire world.
It rang once.
Then voicemail.
“Fuck.”
My hand smashed down on the steering wheel. Pain shot up my arm—sharp, bright—and vanished under the roar in my chest. My foot slammed the gas and the truck lurched forward, tires screaming against slick asphalt as the wipers fought a losing battle against the downpour. Every second felt like a scream in my ribs. Every raindrop sounded like gunfire echoing in my skull.
My throat was closing up. My skin felt too tight, like it didn’t fit anymore, like I was going to split open along invisible seams. The roads blurred and merged into one. I didn’t remember the turns. Didn’t remember stopping at lights. Didn’t remember driving at all.
I only remembered leaving work.
And then I was pulling up at the house.
Dad burst out the front door like a man already halfway to hell. No jacket. Top button ripped open. His tie hanging loosely around his shoulders. His white shirt was the same pale color as his skin where it clung to him, soaked through with rain and sweat.
His gray eyes were red and wild, and unfocused. He looked straight through me when his head turned in my direction. Didn’t even register my truck when I banked the curb onto the grass.
He just stormed toward his car with singular focus. I threw open my door and slid on wet pavement as I ran.
“Dad—”
“Get in!” he barked. The sound of his voice—sharp and cold and wrong—made my heart stutter.
I rounded the car and climbed in, chest heaving. “Is she—? Do we know?—?”
“Get in the car, Elliot!” he snapped. The crack in his voice. That tiny fracture beneath the anger was when I knew.
