Mostly it makes you feel homeless inside your own memories.
My phone rang at 10:11 p.m.
Blocked number.
I almost ignored it.
Then something made me answer.
“Kelsey.”
Ryan.
I said nothing.
“They’re letting me make one legal call before transfer.”
“Then you should have called your lawyer.”
“I needed to hear your voice.”
I laughed once.
It sounded ugly.
“You hit my mother with a bat.”
“You’ve seen the video.”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“So there’s nothing I can say.”
“No.”
“There is.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“Kelsey, I know what this looks like.”
“What part? The forgery? The shell companies? The guardianship petition? Or the part where you broke the ribs of a woman who used to save the crispy edges of lasagna because she knew you liked them?”
He breathed into the phone.
“I panicked.”
“You came back through a door holding a bat.”
