The line barely managed a single, complete ring before the connection engaged. There was no preamble, no polite greeting.
“State your business and your clearance code,” a deep, gravelly voice demanded. It was the voice of a man who commanded entire rooms simply by breathing in them.
Aaron’s mocking smirk faltered slightly. He blinked, clearly thrown by the sheer weight of the authority radiating through the tiny speaker. “I don’t have a code,” Aaron stammered, trying to regain his footing. “This is Aaron Blake. I’m married to your daughter, Rebecca. She’s had a little… accident in the kitchen, and she’s being hysterical—”
“Aaron.” I forced the word past my bloodless lips, projecting my voice toward the phone.
The silence that instantly fell over the line was absolute. It was heavy, suffocating, and terrifying. My father possessed an auditory memory trained by decades on the bench; he recognized the precise timber of my voice instantly, and more importantly, he recognized the raw, jagged edge of physical trauma laced within it.
“Rebecca,” my father said, his tone instantly shifting from bureaucratic ice to a low, dangerous rumble. “Where are you hurting?”
“Judith pushed me,” I gasped, the pain cresting again, forcing my eyes shut. “I fell hard against the stone island. Aaron shattered my phone when I tried to call an ambulance. Dad… there is so much blood. I think… I think my baby is gone.”
The ensuing silence from the phone felt heavier than the expanding pool of blood soaking into my skin. It was the deep, atmospheric pressure drop that occurs right before a catastrophic weather event.
