It goes out tonight. Dad, listen. I'm coming for you. No, I said, and the word landed harder than I'd meant it to. Not now.
The moment you appear here, they scatter. We need them caught with the evidence in hand. Just get me the phone. I know what I'm doing. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Ingrid moving back through the glass doors.
"I've got to go," I murmured. "I love you, Bean." "I love you, too, Dad."
I wiped the call from the log and got the phone back into Darlene's hands one breath before Ingrid stepped through the door. "Thank you," I called toward the nurse, pitching it to carry across the room, framing it as a word of thanks for a cup of water. Of course, sweetie, she said, giving me a small private wink. The doctor came in shortly after. No broken bones, a deep bruise, nothing more.
Ingrid was visibly irritated about the wasted morning, but that sat at the bottom of my list of concerns. On the ride back up to the penthouse, I turned my face toward the window and let the smile come. Reinforcements were moving. Two days later, a package arrived. Ingrid carried it in with her expression already souring.
"Uh, the whole thing smells like mothballs," she said. "It's from Naen says it's a few of your wife's old sweaters. Do you actually want any of this?" So, "And I do," I said, keeping my face closed and even.
Having something of hers near me would matter. She left the box where she stood just inside my doorway. "Keep it put away," she said, and walked off. I stayed motionless until the apartment was empty and mine. Then I worked through the tape and dug down through the layers beneath several folded wool cardigans that still held the faint ghost of Marion's lavender.
There it was, a small black burner phone, fully charged. I switched it on. One contact stored Naen and beneath it a message already written. We are with you, Dad. Say the word.
I held the phone flat against my chest. Something broke open in me a feeling I hadn't reached in 3 months. Not a prisoner anymore, a commander. And the campaign had barely begun. I burrowed under the blanket with the phone against my ear.
2 in the morning. The room was lightless, but for the small, cold glow of the screen. I had Mrs. Keating on the line, a Eugene attorney, the woman Naen trusted above anyone else alive. Her voice came back measured and exact, the kind built to cut through confusion without wasting a syllable.