“Miss Marrow,” he begins in that infuriatingly calm voice, “I am simply relaying what has been reported to-”
“No,” I cut in. “You are doing what men like you always do. You found the easiest person to blame and decided that was enough.”
Silas is staring at me now. Not interrupting. Not reaching for the phone. Just watching with a kind of stunned intensity that would rattle me under other circumstances. Right now it only fuels me.
“The Andersons can say whatever they want to save themselves from looking negligent,” I continue. “But if you think for one second Silas had anything to do with those drugs, you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.”
The Warden’s voice hardens. “You would do well to watch your tone.”
My laugh comes out sharp.
“You would do well to stop calling a traumatized kid every time there’s a problem and assuming he caused it.”
That lands. I can hear it in the tiny pause that follows.
“You seem very defensive of him,” he says at last, the insinuation in it making my grip tighten on the phone.
“Yes,” I say flatly. “Because unlike you, I was there.”
The dryer thumps behind us. Silas still hasn’t moved. He looks furious, but not at me. At the call. At the accusation. At the fact that even here, even now, the past keeps reaching for him in the exact same shape.
“If you want the truth,” I say, each word careful now, “the truth is that Silas was one of the only people at that party who acted like a human being. So if your next move is to punish him because rich parents need a convenient villain, you can expect my parents to hear about it. In detail.”
The Warden goes quiet again.
This silence is longer.
When he speaks, the smoothness is back, but it has thinned. “I will, of course, be following up through proper channels.”
“Do that,” I snap. “The next time you want to accuse him of something, maybe gather facts before you call.”
I end the call before he can answer.
The kitchen is suddenly very quiet.
Lowering the phone slowly, handing it back to Silas, my chest is rising too fast, adrenaline still climbing through me, but the fear has changed shape again. For the first time tonight it feels less like drowning and more like standing up inside the wave.
Silas takes the phone without looking away from me.
For a second neither of us says anything.
Then, very quietly, he asks, “Why’d you do that?”
Because I know what it’s like to have men tell lies about what happened to your body and call it truth.
Because I am tired of watching the world use your past as evidence against your future.
Because somewhere between the bathroom, the blood, the confession and now, your fight has become mine.
I don’t say any of that.
I just look at him, answering the truest version I can manage.
“Because they were wrong.”
Silas’s eyes drift toward the living room, past the kitchen island and the soft yellow lamp still glowing near the couch. For the first time all night something almost boyish touches his face.
It starts small.
