A month later, a smeared pane of plexiglass separated me from Elijah. He hunched in the visitor's booth in an orange jumpsuit. Without a tailored suit and a room full of people protecting him, he looked smaller.
“Phoebe.” His voice cracked through the receiver. “They won't grant me bail. The auditors found everything. I don't understand any of it. The numbers, the transfers, it's all a blur.”
He leaned closer to the glass. “You can fix this. You always fix everything. Tell them it was you, or tell them it was a mistake. Please, Pheebs. I'm begging you.”
Every word had been about bail and money. He used my name only when he needed help.
I leaned toward the receiver. “I can't fix this, Elijah. You were right about one thing.”
His forehead creased.
“I was your puppet. You thought I exis
