You’re certain? she wrote.
I typed slowly.
Yes.
Her next message arrived immediately.
I’ll begin tonight. Do not communicate with Garrett or your parents about the guarantee. Do not sign anything. I’m coming to the hospital at seven.
Then, after a brief pause:
Charlotte, are you safe right now?
I looked through the glass wall toward the nurses’ station.
For the first time in years, the answer was uncomplicated.
Yes.
I slept for perhaps twenty minutes.
At 12:42 a.m., my father called.
I watched his name flash on the screen until the call ended.
He called again at 12:44.
At 12:49, my mother sent a message.
What did you do?
No greeting. No question about my condition. No concern for the punctured lung, the broken ribs, or the dark marks around my throat.
Only the house.
I turned the phone facedown.
At 1:03 a.m., another message appeared.
The lender says there is a problem with your guarantee. Call your father immediately.
