The line went dead with a click that echoed like a guillotine. Bianca stared at the receiver, her full lips parting in a silent gasp, color draining from her cheeks until she looked like a ghost in Gucci.
Sarai sat curled on a hard wooden bench that had all the comfort of a punishment device, her once-glossy black hair now exploding in every direction like it had personally given up on life. Not a single strand remembered what a brush looked like. She had heard everything—every sharp syllable, every pause heavy with disappointment—and the silence that followed rang louder than any scream.
Her green eyes, swollen and feral from too much crying and not nearly enough dignity, snapped toward her sister. Another sob tore through her, the kind that shook your ribs and made strangers pretend very hard not to notice.
"What did he say?" she choked, hope clinging stubbornly to her voice like a bad habit. "Bianca, tell me he's coming. Tell me Daddy's on his way."
