My father’s recorded voice filled the viewing room, impatient from the first word. I knew that tone. He used it when I spilled juice on his legal briefs or failed to guess what Chloe wanted.
“Harper, I don’t have time for another pretend-you’re-dead game!”
The recording distorted at the edges, but every word remained clear. “Come home and apologize to Chloe tonight, or never call me your father again.”
The recording went quiet. My father stood rigid in the viewing room and listened to the sentence he had passed on me.
Cold concrete pressed against my knees again. Blood tasted like copper. My broken ribs crowded every breath, and the phone dug into my ear.
Victor had given me one last call. I chose the man who prosecuted killers, and he ordered me to apologize to Chloe.
My reply barel
