Chapter 7 - The Phone Call from Jail
By noon, I had moved my belongings into my new campus dorm room—a small, sunlit space with a view of the quad, completely free of tight little sighs and golden-boy favoritism.
I was unpacking my last box of books when my phone buzzed on the wooden desk. The caller ID flashed County Detention Center.
I stared at the screen for three long seconds, watching the numbers blink before I finally tapped the green accept button and brought the phone to my ear.
“Ava?”
It was my father. His voice didn't sound commanding anymore; it sounded cracked, brittle, and hollow, like dried twigs snapping underfoot.
“I’m here, Dad,” I said, leaning against the edge of the desk.
“Your mother is... she’s beside herself,” he stammered, a pathetic tremor running through his words. “The bank accounts are completely frozen. They seized the family car, they’re threatening to foreclose on the house by the end of the week, and Brandon... Brandon is facing a grand jury indictment for wire fraud and identity theft. The bail is set at one hundred thousand dollars, Ava. We have nothing left.”
I listened to the desperate plea, waiting for the familiar pang of guilt to rise up in my chest—the conditioned reflex of a daughter trained to sacrifice her own well-being to save her family from disaster.
Nothing came. The well was completely dry.
“You built this house of cards, Dad,” I replied, my voice chillingly calm. “You and Mom chose to look the other way for twenty years while Brandon stole my future piece by piece. You made your bed. Now you get to sleep in a holding cell.”
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“Ava, please! We are your family!” he cried out, a sob choking off his sentence.
“Family doesn't steal from their children,” I said quietly, and tapped the red button to end the call forever.
