Part 2 - THE WRONG NUMBER

The phone rang three times.

Carter held it away from his ear, pressing the speaker button on the cracked screen. He wanted his mother to hear this. He wanted me to hear this.

He was smiling, a smug, relaxed expression that belonged on a man ordering a pizza, not a man standing over his bleeding wife.

"Watch," he mouthed to Eleanor.

On the fourth ring, the line clicked open.

There was no greeting. No "Hello, this is Robert." Just a heavy, waiting silence on the other end of the line.

"Bob?" Carter said, injecting a tone of false, weary patience into his voice. "It’s Carter. We have a situation here. Your daughter is throwing one of her tantrums and slipped in the kitchen. She’s hysterical, demanding I call you. I think you need to come collect her before I have her involuntarily committed for her own safety."

The silence stretched.

A drop of blood hit the tile near Carter’s expensive Italian leather shoe.

Then, a voice spoke. It wasn't the warm, quiet tone my father used when he read to me as a child, or the gentle voice he used to ask about my day.

It was the voice he used in the courtroom. The voice that had sent cartel bosses to federal prison and dismantled corrupt political machines.

"Who is this?" the voice asked. It was quiet, steady, and colder than liquid nitrogen.

Carter frowned. The arrogance flickered, just for a second. "It’s Carter. Your son-in-law. Did you not hear me? Your daughter is—"

"I heard you," my father interrupted. The authority in those three words was absolute. It was the sound of a man who commanded rooms simply by drawing breath. "Where is my daughter?"

Carter scoffed, looking at Eleanor, seeking reinforcement. She nodded tightly.

"She’s right here, making a mess of my kitchen floor," Carter snapped. "Now, you listen to me—"

"Is she bleeding?" my father asked.

Carter hesitated. The question was too precise. Too immediate. "She fell. Like I said, she's clumsy. Look, I’m trying to manage this, but my uncle in the D.A.'s office—"

"Put the phone down," my father said.

"Excuse me?"

"Put the phone down, step away from her, and do not speak another word until I arrive. If you touch her again, Carter, your uncle in the District Attorney's office will be the least of your concerns. He will be busy preparing his own defense."

Carter laughed, but it sounded thin. "Are you threatening me? Do you have any idea who you're talking to?"

"Yes," my father replied. "A dead man walking. I am three minutes away."

The line went dead.

Carter stared at the shattered screen. "Three minutes? He lives in Maryland. That's an hour drive."

He looked at me, confusion finally piercing his anger. "What kind of game is this?"

I gripped the edge of the counter, fighting through another wave of agonizing pain. I looked up at the man I had feared for two years. He looked small. Suddenly, incredibly small.

"He doesn't live in Maryland anymore, Carter," I gasped, the metallic taste of blood still in my mouth. "He moved to Alexandria last week. To be closer to the baby."