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She’s giving me more radio silence than a dead kitchen on health inspection day. At least the health inspector has the decency to show up before shutting you down.

My phone chimes.

Naomi: Can’t make it.

Naomi: Oh and *middle-finger-emoji*

You didn’t.

SIX

NAOMI

“The projections show a fifteen percent drop in?—”

“Leave it on the desk.” Dad doesn’t look up from his computer screen, the blue glow reflecting off his reading glasses.

Would it kill him to look at me for two seconds?

It’s like I’m not even here. Like I haven’t spent three fucking days putting this report together.

I stand in his study, folder clutched in my trembling hands, waiting for… what? A thank you? A how are you, dear daughter? Something other than this cold indifference?

The familiar acid burns in my throat. Fifteen percent. If it had been twenty, would he look at me? Would he finally see me?

I slap the folder onto his mahogany desk, but Dad’s fingers never pause their relentless typing.

“The Miller account projections are?—”

“That’s all.”

Dismissed. Like a goddamn servant. “Right. Well, I’ll just…”

Dad pauses. “Is there something else?”

“No.” I cross my arms, nails digging into my biceps. “Nothing else.”

“Good. You can go.” He removes his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I’m in the middle of something.”

“Okay.” I turn toward the door. “Bye, Dad.”

“Please close the door behind you.”

What did I expect? A warm welcome? A fucking hug?

I’m halfway to the front door when I hear my mother’s voice, high and frantic, coming from the kitchen. “I don’t care what it takes. I need those bodyguards now.”

Bodyguards?

I creep closer, peeking through the crack in the door. My mother’s pacing, phone pressed to her ear, free hand fluttering like a trapped bird.

“You don’t understand. I think someone’s following me. Do you think he—” Her voice cracks. “I can’t… I can’t do this alone. You owe me.”

Following her? What is going on?

I’m straining to hear more, but her voice drops to a whisper, only letting me catch snatches, ‘Clara’, ‘that night’, and ‘someone knows.’

The smell of gasoline fills my nostrils, dragging me back to the garage. I’m eight years old again, huddled behind that rusted bicycle, watching Mom.

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