The call connected on the third ring. For seven years, the sound of his voice had been an anchor. Now, it was the target.
“What?” Marcus’s tone was clipped, impatient. The sound of a man swatting away a gnat.
I took a breath, letting it shudder on the exhale, a carefully calibrated performance of a woman at the end of her rope. “Marcus… it’s me. Amelia.”
A pause. A heavy, irritated silence. “I have nothing to say to you, Amelia. My lawyer will be in touch with yours. Accept the deal. It’s the best you’re going to get.”
“I’m not calling about the deal,” I whispered, pitching my voice to a raw, fragile frequency. I let a tear I’d been holding on my lash line finally fall, its coolness a strange comfort on my cheek. “I… I just need to get my things. My mother’s locket, some books. Please.
