Olivia paced back and forth while I stared at my phone, watching messages pile up.
Dad: Deanna’s worried about you. Come home now.
Deanna: The pot roast is getting cold, sweetie. I made your favorite gravy.
Dad: Stop being difficult. You’re upsetting Deanna.
Each message made me feel sicker than the last.
My hands shook as I turned off my phone, unable to bear any more of their manipulation.
I had never realized how coordinated they were.
Dad as the pressure.
Deanna as the sweetness.
Like good cop, bad cop, except both cops lived in my house.
“Anna Matthews,” a voice called.
I looked up to see Marisol with a doctor I didn’t recognize.
Their faces were grave.
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