“Then wake people up. My daughter’s life depends on it.”
I hung up and found Damon staring at me with an expression I couldn’t read.
“What?”
“You called her ‘our daughter.’ Not ‘my daughter.’ Ours.”
The observation caught me off guard. “She is ours. Biologically, anyway.”
“Is that the only way you think of her? Biology?”
The question cut deeper than he probably intended. “What do you want me to say, Damon? That I’ve spent five years pretending not to love her? That every birthday, every milestone, every night hasn’t been torture knowing she was growing up without me?”
“I want you to say you still want to be her mother.”
“I never stopped wanting to be her mother. You made that impossible.”
“I know.” His voice was barely a whisper. “I know I fucked up. I know I destroyed everything good we had. But if we get her back—when we get her back—I want to make it right.”
“You can’t make it right. You can’t give me back five years of bedtime stories and scraped knees and first days of school. You can’t give her back the memory of the mother who loved her before you let another woman replace me.”
“No, I can’t. But I can give you the chance to make new memories. If you want them.”
Before I could respond, my phone rang. Unknown number again.
We looked at each other, and I saw my own fear reflected in his eyes.
“Put it on speaker,” he said.
I answered. “Bianca.”
“Hello, sister. Having a nice reunion with your ex-husband? I do hope you’re both comfortable, because we have so much to discuss.”
“Where is she?” Damon demanded.
“Daddy! Oh, don’t worry about me. Aunt Bianca is taking very good care of me. We’ve been having the most interesting conversations about family history.”
