“Don’t tell her she wasn’t the daughter we were going to choose!”

The audio cut off.

The apartment became so quiet that I could hear the hum of the refrigerator, the distant traffic on Michigan Avenue, and my own ragged breathing. It felt as if someone had reached into my chest and was slowly squeezing my heart.

Not the daughter we were going to choose.

I hit play again. And again. And again. My mom’s voice screamed the exact same way every single time. With the same desperation. With the same terror.
Don’t tell her.
Don’t tell the dull daughter. Don’t tell the responsible one. Don’t tell the dead girl who is still paying for their lives.

I knelt down slowly to pick up the pieces of the shattered mug. I cut my finger on a sharp edge. The blood welled up quickly—bright red, absurd, alive. I stared at it.

“I am made of flesh and blood after all,” I whispered. “What a surprise.”

My phone started ringing again. Dad. I didn’t answer. Then Mom. Then Danielle. Then Matthew. Then a number from Detroit. Then another. I left them vibrating on the table like trapped insects.