“Miriam,” I said, my voice steadying into something lethal. “Where is the Palm Springs address?”
“Anne, do not go there. I am calling the authorities—”
“He has Melanie,” I cut her off. “And he thinks he won. He thinks I’m home crying.”
I hung up.
Four hours later, I was in a rental car driving through the ink-black desert toward Palm Springs.
The headlights sliced through the darkness. On the passenger seat lay the brass key, my father’s old spare revolver from my bedside safe, and my phone.
Parenting
Grace had been calling non-stop, but I didn’t answer. This wasn’t her fight anymore. It was mine.
