Headlights swept across the living-room wall before I heard tires roll into the driveway. Carter’s fingers closed around my sleeve, and every bit of color left his face.
He did not ask who was coming back. He already knew.
I folded the paper he had given me and slipped it into my pocket just as a car door slammed outside. Lily was still on the floor beside me, wrapped in the throw blanket I had pulled from the couch. Her breathing was quick, and the dispatcher was still talking through my phone while we waited for the ambulance.
The front door opened.
Michael stepped inside wearing dark jeans, a button-down shirt, and the jacket he usually saved for restaurants. He smelled faintly of cologne. The first thing he saw was me.
The second was Lily.
The third was Carter standing beside the closet.
His expression changed three times in about two seconds.
Fear. Anger. Calculation.
Then he pointed at my phone.
“Who did you call?”
I had spent forty-three years being his father. I knew the difference between Michael being scared for his children and Michael being scared for himself.
“An ambulance.”
He stared at me.
