“Brianna needs quiet to focus,” he barked. “Jessica—” he corrected himself impatiently, “—Brianna comes first. She always will. Handle it.”
The door slammed shut. The deadbolt slid home with a sound that echoed louder than the storm.
The water reached mid-calf. My jeans clung heavily to my skin. The mattress shifted precariously as the bins beneath it trembled. I climbed back onto it, wrapping my arms around myself, shivering violently—not only from cold but from something far worse. I understood, with a clarity that hurt more than the freezing water, that my safety ranked below my sister’s convenience.
My phone showed one fragile bar of service. I didn’t dial 911. I didn’t call a neighbor.
I called my father’s older brother.
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