Another text before I could respond: This isn’t funny. Come downstairs right now or I’m calling the police.
The threat landed strangely. What would she tell them—that her teenage daughters had left the house at night? We weren’t kidnapped. We’d left voluntarily. Unless Mom had reasons to want police involvement, reasons to force us back under official authority before we could talk to anyone about Dad’s message.
I kept walking, pulling Becca toward the twenty-four-hour convenience store three blocks away. Lights. Potential witnesses. Minimal safety while I figured out next steps.
The convenience store was nearly empty—a bored clerk behind bulletproof glass, fluorescent lights humming, the smell of old coffee and floor cleaner. Becca and I huddled in the back corner near the refrigerated drinks, two girls in mismatched clothes with untied shoes, trying to look casual at an hour when nothing about our presence was casual.
I called Dad again. Voicemail. I texted him: We got out. Where are you? What’s happening? Please call.
