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the side and see a phone on the side table, a landline, and my fingers itch to pick it up. Tears gather in my eyes: Who can I call? Deacon is working against me, because no matter who sent that text, it was outside us. We should have been everything to each other—it was the only way to ensure our safety. He betrayed that. I would hate him for it if I could. I want to.
    I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling the tears slip down my cheeks. It hurts too much to imagine my life without him. It hurts too much to believe that none of it was real. But if I’m going to survive this, I need to forget him for now. Forget what he’s done.
    My father, I think suddenly. I ran to him the last time Deacon hurt me—the time he broke up with me and left me shattered. Yes, my dad’s a liar too. But he’s the only family I have. The only family I know.
    And hasn’t he loved me? Would my real father, whoever he is, treat me as well? The idea that I have another father strikes me as odd. I’ve never considered it. I’ve daydreamed about a mother, but my Tom McKee has always been a constant; I can’t imagine it any other way. I’m going to change that by discovering the truth.
    I put my palm flat on my chest, as if I can relieve the ache there somehow. Right now I need something. Someone. If I can just talk to my father . . .Tom. I’m not sure what to call him anymore. I saw him only a few hours ago; I don’t know what more there is to say. But I’m like a little kid running home to tell her dad that she scraped her knee, only to find that it hurts worse once he acknowledges the wound.
    But maybe I just need him to acknowledge that I’m hurt.
    Calling my dad right now is surely a sign of weakness, but I decide that I’m allowed to be weak once in a while. My entire life I’ve been manipulated into playing the permanent role of a dead girl, so yeah, it’s understandable that I need to hear my father’s voice again so I feel like a real person. My feelings for him don’t disappear just because I want them to. Despite all his lies, part of me trusts him. Believes he doesn’t want me hurt. Right now . . . he’s all I’ve got.
    I reach for the phone, pulling myself to sit up despite the wave of dizziness that accompanies it. What is wrong with me? I blink several times to get my bearings, and then I pick up the phone and stare at the numbers. It takes a second for them to come completely into focus.
    It occurs to me that my father won’t be home. From what Iknow of him, which admittedly isn’t nearly as much as I thought, he will try to act as if everything is normal. I’ve memorized my father’s behaviors, a side effect of being a closer: observation. He’s a creature of habit, and when he’s stressed out, he likes Mexican food from a little joint near the college. When I’m not around to call it in, he heads there himself straight from work.
    I can’t call his cell phone—the number is too easily monitored. Luckily, I know the number to the restaurant by heart.
    I dial, and when the line rings, I dart a careful glance at the closed door of the bedroom, worried that August or Eva will come in and ask me what I’m doing. I’m just using their phone, of course, but with each ring my paranoia grows. Again my emotions are exaggerated.
    “Barrio’s on University,” a man answers in a thick accent, making me snap to attention. I feel a rush of warmth at the familiarity of his voice, a small reminder of home.
    “Hi, Rubio,” I say, able to picture him with the phone resting between his ear and shoulder, his finger tapping the keys of the register as he multitasks. “It’s Quinn. I’m wondering if my . . . dad is there.”
    Rubio laughs. “No, not yet. Is he fetching his own order tonight?”
    My heart sinks. “I guess not,” I say, disappointed. I’d taken for granted that I knew his routines. Which was stupid. I never knew him at all. “Thanks any—”
    “Oh, hold on, Q,” he interrupts. “He just came