My parents slid a “family emergency” folder across the dinner table and said, “Just approve it,” then tossed my suitcase onto the porch and shut the deadbolt—so I walked into a private bank with my grandfather’s scuffed silver card, and the manager went white at what his screen said.

I didn’t understand what he meant until I reached the front door. It was locked. I fumbled with the latch, opening it, and stepped onto the porch.

There was a suitcase sitting on the top step.

I froze.

It was my old travel suitcase, the one I had left in the guest room closet during my last visit. It was packed, bulging slightly.

“They knew,” I whispered to myself. “They knew I might say no.”

I turned back to the door, but it slammed shut in my face. The heavy thud vibrated through the wood. I heard the distinct click of the deadbolt sliding home.

I pounded on the wood.

“Mom. Dad. This is ridiculous. Open the door.”

Silence answered me.

I reached into my pocket for my phone. I needed to call Mara. I needed to get out of here. I pulled out my mobile and tapped the screen.

No service.

I frowned. I had full bars five minutes ago.

I tried to make a call anyway. A robotic voice answered immediately.

“This device has been deactivated by the primary account holder.”

My stomach dropped.

I was still on the family plan. It was something we had never changed. A vestige of control they had kept over me. They had cut it in the three minutes it took me to walk from the dining room to the porch.

I grabbed the handle of the suitcase. It was heavy.

I dragged it down the steps to my car.

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