The apartment was too quiet at three in the morning.
Faye sat on the edge of her bed, her phone clutched in both hands, the screen casting a pale blue glow across her face. She had been sitting this way for almost an hour, staring at the message thread that had remained unchanged for three days. Her father's name at the top, his last text sitting there like a verdict she had been trying to appeal for months.
Your mother asked about you again today. I told her you were fine. Don't make me a liar for much longer, Faye. Come home.
She read it again, though she already knew every word by heart. The tone was typical of him. Measured, controlled, carrying just enough warmth to remind her that he loved her, and just enough pressure to remind her that his patience was a resource he could withdraw at any moment.
