“You aren’t calling anyone,” he said, leaning down close enough that I could smell his wine. “You’re going to shut up. And you’re going to apologize to my mother for ruining the night.”
Something inside me went still.
The grief was there—huge, swallowing—but beneath it, another part of me rose, a part I had buried for three years. The part that had sat at tables where power was spoken softly and carried like steel. The part that knew what my name meant in rooms David would never enter unless invited.
I wiped my tears with the back of my hand, leaving a smear of blood across my cheek, and looked up at him.
David mistook my calm for defeat. He smiled like a man certain of his victory.
“I’m a lawyer,” he sneered. “I know the judges here. I know the sheriff. If you try to accuse us, I’ll destroy you. It’s your word against ours. And Mark didn’t see anything, did you?”
Mark hovered in the doorway, pale and terrified. “I… I didn’t see anything.”
“See?” David’s grin sharpened. “No witnesses. I can have you committed. I’ll say you’re unstable. No one will believe you.”
He waited for me to break again.
Instead, I spoke quietly. “You’re right, David. You know the laws.”
He nodded, satisfied.
“But you don’t know who wrote them.”
His smile faltered. “What?”
“Give me your phone,” I said.
He laughed, rolling his eyes at Sylvia like I was being ridiculous. “You want to call your father? The retired nobody you told us about?”
“Call him,” I said. “Put it on speaker.”
David pulled out his phone with the smug confidence of someone who thought he was about to prove a point. “Fine. What’s the number?”
I recited it. The moment he started typing, he paused.
“202?” he muttered. “That’s D.C.”
“Just dial.”
He hit call and held it out like a joke. The line connected immediately—no voicemail, no secretary.
A voice answered, deep and commanding. “Identify yourself.”
David blinked. “Uh—hello? Is this Mr. Thorne?”
“I said identify yourself,” the voice repeated, colder. “You have reached a restricted line. Who is this?”
David’s posture shifted. “This is David Miller. I’m Anna’s husband. Look, your daughter—”
“Anna?” The tone cracked, and the father surged through the authority. “Where is my daughter? Put her on.”
David shoved the phone toward me, still trying to look in control.