Chapter 4 - A MOTHER'S TREACHERY

My burner phone rang at midnight. It was my mother. "Isa, please," she sobbed, the exact same manipulative tone she used two years ago. "They’re asking questions about the crash. You have to tell them you were confused, that prison messed with your head! Save your brother!" I smiled into the dark hotel room, letting my recording app capture every desperate, incriminating syllable. "I'm not carrying you anymore, Mama," I whispered, and severed the line.