Jason Mitchell always wore a suit when he wanted the world to see him.
When he didn’t, it meant he preferred not to be recognized.
By the time Daniel drove me back to the apartment, my mind was full of too many voices: my father’s, Evelyn’s, Madison’s, Jason’s whisper in court telling me to beg.
Clara was waiting outside my door when I arrived, holding two coffees and wearing the same expression she used to wear as a teenager when she knew I was hiding a bad grade or a broken vase.
“You weren’t answering,” she said.
I checked my phone. Seven missed calls.
“I’m sorry.”
She stepped closer. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
I laughed once, but there was no humor in it.
“I did.”
Inside, Daniel stayed only long enough to make sure the lock worked and to remind me not to answer unknown calls alone. He promised to arrange a secure meeting with my father if another message arrived.
