“I don’t know yet. But Dad wouldn’t say this unless it was serious.”
I was trying to sound calm and in control despite having no plan beyond the twenty-foot radius of streetlight we were standing in. Two teenage girls alone at two in the morning, running from one parent on the instructions of another, with nowhere to go and no way to contact the one who’d warned us.
My phone buzzed. Mom.
Where are you girls? I heard noises upstairs.
The casual tone felt wrong—like she was performing normalcy, the way you perform normalcy when you already know the answer to the question you’re asking.
Another text before I could respond: This isn’t funny. Come downstairs right now or I’m calling the police.
The threat landed strangely. What would she tell them—that her teenage daughters had left the house at night? We weren’t kidnapped. We’d left voluntarily. Unless Mom had reasons to want police involvement, reasons to force us back under official authority before we could talk to anyone about Dad’s message.
I kept walking, pulling Becca toward the twenty-four-hour convenience store three blocks away. Lights. Potential witnesses. Minimal safety while I figured out next steps.
The convenience store was nearly empty—a bored clerk behind bulletproof glass, fluorescent lights humming, the smell of old coffee and floor cleaner. Becca and I huddled in the back corner near the refrigerated drinks, two girls in mismatched clothes with untied shoes, trying to look casual at an hour when nothing about our presence was casual.
I called Dad again. Voicemail. I texted him: We got out. Where are you? What’s happening? Please call.
