My phone buzzes on the counter, knocking me from the stare I couldn’t otherwise shake.
Phones must be answered.
I get a gnawing feeling when they ring and ring and ring. It’s the same with my mail. It must be opened. Even though it’s mostly all junk. Except for this charity that keeps mailing me nickels. I don’t understand that logic. Sending me money first, if they want money in return.
My home screen flashes:Private Line.
My throat goes tight as I answer it. I can nevernotanswer calls from this number. I tried blocking that number once for a few weeks, and the punishment for that was something I’ll never forget.
Still, I must count the rings. One. Two. Three. On the third, I swipe and answer the phone.
“Hello?”
A female’s clipped voice greets me. “Hold for Elias Black.”
Daddy’s full name spoken out loud with menace and authority always gives me the shivers. He’s a security specialist and likes to remind me that he’s an important man to a lot of powerful people.
He must also have dangerous enemies because Daddy had someone change all my identification to Fallon Nova, my middle name, after my mother was tortured and killed many years ago.
His deep voice filters through the line, deep and resonant. “Hello, daughter.”
My lungs seize, hearing him call medaughter,like I’m one of his possessions.
I tense, thinking I’m in trouble. But I’ve been good.Okay, swinging a shovel at someone and dating an assassin for the Irish Mob isn’t exactly being a good girl.
I swallow hard, pushing away the anxiety. “Hello, Daddy.”
“How are you?” His polite question throws me for a second. He doesn’t usually ask.
My heart lurches with stupid hope that he actually cares.
“I’m fine,” I answer quickly. Too quickly. “The garden is coming in strong this year. I planted rosemary for Mama. Remember how she?—”
“Are you taking your medication?” He cuts me off, his tone slicing clean through me.
“Mostly,” I murmur, tapping my nails on the counter. One. Two. Three. “Those new ones make me throw up. I prefer?—”
“I don’t care what you prefer.” He hums with disapproval. “You need to take those pills.”
My stomach knots, and I swallow hard, the truth clawing my throat, but I shove it down.
“Yes, Daddy.” I think about this month’s nasty bottles sitting unopened on my nightstand.
There’s a pause. He’s listening for cracks in my voice.
I press my nails into my palm. Lying should splinter me, but it doesn’t. Not anymore. Trauma scoured me hollow years ago.
“I’m fine, Daddy,” I whisper, my throat burning. “I promise.”
That wordfinecracks inside me like glass, and I can feel the shards starting to cut through the skin.
“Good.” Daddy exhales like this call just checks off a box for him.
That nearly kills me. He’d rather believe the lie than understand my truth. What I really want from him. Love. Acceptance.
“You need your strength,” he adds.
A burn rises in my throat. Strength for what?
