David waved the phone dismissively at me. “See? Even your daddy sounds tired of your drama.” He thrust the phone towards me.
I took it, my hand shaking, not from fear, but from a mixture of agony and cold, hard fury. “Dad?” I whispered.
“Anna Banana,” he said, using the childhood nickname that now felt like a suit of armor. I hadn’t heard it in years. Tears I hadn’t let myself cry sprang to my eyes. “I’m going to ask you one question, and I need you to answer it as clearly as you can. Are you in danger?”
“Yes,” I said, my voice cracking. “He pushed me. Sylvia. I’m bleeding, Dad. The baby...”
A sharp, pained intake of breath was the only sign of his control slipping. “Don’t you dare hang up this phone, sweetheart. Don’t you dare. Put it back on speaker.”
I did.
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