KIRA
I wake up to three missed calls from Kristoff. I sit up in shock, frantically jabbing redial.
He answers on the first ring, and I don’t wait for him to say a word before I ask, “Did something happen?”
“Relax, it was an accidental dial.”
I’m so tensed that I nearly buy his bullshit. You don’t accidentally dial someone three times.
“I see,” I say. “How is he?” I ask, vaguely referring to Father in case someone has my phone tapped.
“Stubborn, but otherwise fine. Do you want to talk to him?”
“No. I’ll call you later.” I hang up before he can sniff my plans. I know something is—or was—wrong. If I ask Kristoff, he will lie or downplay the situation.
I put my phone down, realizing my hand is trembling. Logic deserts me at the memory of my mother and brother in a pool of blood,
