I cursed loudly, dialing her number again. Voicemail.
I pulled up the contact for my father-in-law, Arthur Vance. Arthur was a prominent, incredibly wealthy real estate developer in Boston. He was a man obsessed with appearances, control, and his own formidable legacy. He tolerated me because I made good money, but he clearly viewed my analytical, introverted nature as a weakness.
He answered on the second ring. His voice was smooth, deep, and entirely untroubled. He sounded like a man who had just woken from a very peaceful sleep.
“Julian,” Arthur rumbled. “It’s a bit early for international calls, isn’t it? Is everything alright?”
“Arthur! Where is Ana?!” I yelled, ignoring the pleasantries. “She walked to her school! She’s bleeding! The principal said she wrote—”
“Julian, stop,” Arthur interrupted.
His tone didn’t shift into panic. It didn’t elevate with concern. It dropped into a chilling, dismissive, and incredibly cold register. It was the voice of a CEO shutting down an annoying middle manager.
“I do not interfere in your parenting choices, Julian,” Arthur stated flatly. “And I certainly do not interfere with the dramatics of your marriage or your child. If the girl decided to wander off in the middle of the night to throw a tantrum, that is a reflection on you, not me. I will not have police cars showing up at my property over a child’s bad behavior. Handle it yourself.”
Click.
He hung up on me.
