Before I could tell Kane to knock it off before I bent him over and shoved his head up his ass, Ingrid’s phone began to buzz. She pulled it out, her face etched with confusion at the unknown number.
I looked down at the phone—and froze. I recognized the 1-800 prefix immediately. I’d seen it enough times from the other side of a precinct wall.
“Pick it up,” I said, my voice turning serious, hands tightening around her waist.
She answered, frowning: “Hello?”
The mechanical, robotic voice of a woman filled the small space between us:“This is a collect call from Samuel Rodríguez, an inmate at Oakwood County Correctional Institution. To accept this call, press one. To decline, press two. This call will be monitored and recorded.”
Ingrid’s hands started to shake. She looked at me, uncertain. I put my hand on her stomach, grounding her, and gave a slow, silent nod.
She pressed one.
We waited in the heavy silence for the line to click.
“Ingrid,”her father’s voice rasped through the speaker.
She bit her lip, her voice a fragile whisper. “Papa?”
“We need to talk.”
Chapter forty
Ingrid
The detention center lobby felt eerie when we stepped inside. I clutched my cardigan sleeves and watched Tristian cross to the receptionist to speak for me, his broad shoulders a physical shield against the clinical coldness of the room.
My throat felt as though it would close on me the closer I got to my father. Speaking to him so soon wasn’t on my agenda and probably never would be. I wanted to get as far away from him as I could, but here I was, waiting to see him face to face.
The weight of a hand settled on the small of my back, and I flinched, my nerves frayed to the point of snapping. I looked over to Tristian.
“You don’t have to do this,” Tristian said. “Not if you aren’t ready.”
I shook my head despite my growing panic. “He wants to speak to me. I need to know what he wants.”
“You don’t need anything from that man, Ingrid,” he tried reassuring me once again.
I knew that. He didn’t deserve anything from me. I didn’t need to say anything to him… though part of me still felt obligated to see him: to see the man who demeaned me my entire life, the man who abused me, berated me, insulted me.
I didn’t understand it and I hated that he still had this power over me. But no matter how much I wanted to run away, he was still my father.
“I’ll be okay,” I whispered to Tristian, and he let out a small sigh.
A guard waved us over. We joined him by the door to the visitation room, and he guided us through.
When I stepped over the threshold, I stopped as I took in the room. I wouldn’t be speaking to my father face to face, but through a glass window via a telephone. The barrier felt like I’d been given a little mercy finally.
Tristian stood by the door, allowing me room to think. I knew it was to give himself space too so he wouldn’t lash out at my father, but I was grateful he was here.
A heavy metal groan echoed through the partition, followed by the mocking clink of chains. I looked over to see my father walking over in a standard jumpsuit with his hands cuffed in front of him. His face was harder, older than I remembered.
As he walked over to the seat, I did my best to calm my racing heart as the officer who was escorting him over watched him take a seat before going back to stand by the exit. With shaky hands, I picked up the phone. On the other side, he picked up his own, and sat back in his chair silently, his gaze piercing. Even in jail, he seemed to have that same aura that absolutely terrified me.
Finally, he sighed, “Nice to see that at least one of my daughters remembers I’m here. Even if she’s the reason I’m here.”
My heart clenched again.
My father glanced over my shoulder. His gaze landed on Tristian before he scoffed. “Come to keep you safe, has he? Seems redundant. There’s not much I can do on this side of the glass, now is there? What more protection could you need besides the hundreds of guards and officers in the building, huh?”
