“Hello?” Dad’s voice is cautious.
“Dad,” I say.
Silence. Then a sharp inhale. “Evie?”
My throat burns. “Yeah.”
“Where are you?” he asks, too quick.
“Safe,” I answer.
He makes a small sound that could be bitter laughter. “Must be nice.”
I ignore it. “I’m calling because I want you to say it. I want you to tell me what you did.”
His breathing turns rough. “I made a mistake.”
“You tried to sell me,” I say, and my voice shakes anyway. “Say it.”
A long pause.
Then, barely audible, “I tried to sell you.”
My stomach twists. The words are ugly out loud. Worse than they were on paper.
“Why?” I whisper.
“Because I was scared,” he says, and it sounds like the truth and a lie at the same time. “Because I thought I could fix it. Because I’m an idiot.”
I should hang up.
I don’t.
“Are you drunk?” I ask.
“No,” he says quickly. “Evie, listen. He came back.”
Cold slides under my skin. “Who?”
“You know who,” Dad says, and fear cracks his voice. “Voss.”
My pulse spikes. “What happened?”
“He beat me,” Dad says, and the words come out raw. “He said you made him look stupid. He said you ruined everything. He tore the house apart. He smashed things, Evie. He said if I call the cops, he’ll come back and finish it.”
My fingers clamp around the phone.
“Call an ambulance,” I say.
“I can’t,” he whispers. “Please. I need you. I need help cleaning it. I can’t even look at the mess.”
Cleaning it. Of course.
He’s still asking me to fix what he broke.
Still, my chest aches at the sound of him hurting.
“Is there blood?” I ask, hating myself for caring.
