Page 224 of Let Me In

The tea stills in my cup, and the warmth that had been blooming inside me starts to pull tight.

I don’t want to look. But I do.

A voicemail.

From Dad.

I don’t move for a beat. Not even to breathe. Then I set the mug down, hands suddenly trembling.

Tap.

The recording crackles.

And then his voice—sharp, clipped, familiar in all the worst ways.

“Hope you’re enjoying playing house. If you’re not coming back, I’m getting rid of that damn thing in the garage. Check the classifieds if you don’t believe me.”

My stomach drops. The world narrows. The dogs shift, restless, but I don’t see them. Don’t see the light anymore, or the safety of the room around me.

All I see is my bike.

The one I saved all summer for. The one thing that gave me wind in my lungs, space in my chest, proof I could still choose something—anything—for myself.

I open the classifieds.

And there it is.

Posted with no shame. No explanation. No name. Just a photo I took last fall, and a price far too low.

As if I was never real in that house to begin with.

Something tight cracks inside me, and I’m up before I know it.

I don’t grab my coat. I don’t leash the dogs.

The door creaks open on its hinges.

My hand closes around the doorknob—cold, jarring. My breath shudders in my chest. One heartbeat. Two. The weight of what I just heard crashes through me, and I can’t hold it. I can't hold anything.

He’s throwing away the last piece of me.

And I run.

30

CAL

I hear the door.

A creak, sharp and quick. Then silence.

It’s not the sound that makes me move.

It’s what comes after. Stillness. Like the woods themselves are waiting to see what I’ll do.

I round the corner of the cabin, laundry half-folded in my hands—and freeze.

She’s running.

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