The Midnight Call…

The Midnight Call About My Gentle Son—and the Wedding Fight That Left a Bride Unconscious.

The call came in the middle of the night, the kind of call that slices through sleep and leaves your heart racing before the words even land.

I remember sitting upright in bed with my comforter tangled around my waist, phone pressed to my ear, listening to a stranger’s voice explain that my fourteen-year-old son had assaulted his father’s new wife at their wedding. That she’d been rushed to the hospital. That police were involved. That charges were being considered.

For a long second, I couldn’t breathe.

This was my son they were talking about.

Ethan.

The boy who quit wrestling in seventh grade because he hated the idea of hurting anyone. The kid who cried when he accidentally stepped on a beetle in our driveway because, in his words, “it didn’t deserve that.” The teenager who still held doors for old ladies at the grocery store and said “ma’am” like he’d been raised by someone born in the wrong decade.

And now I was being told he had beaten a grown woman unconscious in front of a room full of guests.

“Ma’am?” the voice asked, pulling me back. “Are you still there?”

“Yes,” I croaked, my throat dry. My hand was shaking so hard the phone rattled against my cheek. “I’m here.”

“This is Officer Delaney with the Springhaven Police Department,” he said. His tone was trained calm, like he’d delivered bad news a thousand times and couldn’t afford to feel any of it. “We’re at St. Mary’s. Your son is currently with us. We need a parent or guardian present.”

My brain tried to line up the facts like dominoes and failed.

Wedding. Hospital. Police.

My ex-husband’s wedding.

Mark’s wedding.

I stared into the dark of my bedroom, the outline of my dresser barely visible, the glow of the baby monitor long gone because Ethan hadn’t been a baby in years. The house was quiet in that heavy, suburban way where everything looks peaceful from the outside and you’d never guess it could fall apart in a single night.

“Is… is she—” My voice cracked. “Is Lauren alive?”

A pause. “Yes, ma’am. She’s alive.”

Relief hit me so hard my eyes filled with hot tears.

Then fear followed right behind it, darker and sharper.

“What did he do?” I whispered, though part of me didn’t want the answer.

“We’ll go over everything when you arrive,” the officer said. “But I need you to come now.”

I swung my legs out of bed so fast my feet hit the floor like I was running from a fire. My hands fumbled for my jeans, my keys, my purse. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a practical voice reminded me to grab my driver’s license like this was a normal errand. Another voice—older, angrier—said, This is your son. This is your baby. This is your worst day.

I didn’t wake my sister, Dana, even though she’d been staying with us since her divorce. I just scribbled a note on the kitchen counter—Police. Hospital. Ethan.—and left it under the fruit bowl like hiding it would make it less real.

As I drove through town, streetlights smeared into long yellow lines. The world was asleep. My hands were locked on the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles ached.

And in the middle of that numb, terrified sprint of a drive, something shameful rose up in me—something I didn’t want to admit even to myself.

A flare of satisfaction.

A flicker of good.

Because Lauren wasn’t just “my ex-husband’s new wife.”

Lauren Whitmore was the woman who’d slid into the cracks of my marriage and widened them until the whole thing split open.

Lauren was the woman who’d stood too close to Mark at Ethan’s middle school awards night, smiling like she belonged there, like she’d been the one packing his lunches and proofreading his essays. Lauren was the woman who’d once looked me up and down in the parking lot of a soccer field and said, “You must be Rachel,” like I was an old acquaintance she’d outgrown.

Lauren was the woman who called herself Ethan’s “bonus mom” in front of people, loud and proud, even though Ethan had never once asked for a bonus anything.

So yes—when I heard she’d been hurt, a part of me, a small ugly part, thought: Finally. Someone stopped her.

And that part of me scared me almost as much as the call itself.

Because Ethan didn’t stop people. Ethan didn’t hurt people. Ethan avoided conflict the way some kids chased it.

So if Ethan did this…

Something had happened.

Something big.

Something that made my gentle son become a stranger.

By the time I pulled into the hospital parking lot, my stomach was in knots and my eyes were burning from holding back tears. The ER doors slid open with a soft hiss that felt too polite for the chaos inside me.

A security guard pointed me toward a set of chairs near the entrance. “You here for the wedding incident?” he asked, not unkindly, like this was just another Saturday night shift story.

I nodded, too stunned to ask how the whole hospital already seemed to know.

Officer Delaney was waiting near the nurses’ station. He was younger than I expected—maybe late twenties—with a buzz cut and a face that tried to stay neutral but couldn’t hide a hint of exhaustion.

“Rachel Miller?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Where’s my son?”

He gestured down a hallway. “He’s in a consult room. He’s not hurt badly, but—” He paused. “He’s pretty shaken.”

“Where’s Lauren?”

“In trauma,” Delaney said carefully. “She’s stable. But she was unconscious when EMS arrived.”

The words hit me like a slap.

Unconscious.

I pressed my palm to my sternum like I could physically hold my heart in place. “And my ex-husband?”

Delaney’s mouth tightened. “He’s here. He’s… upset.”

Of course he was.

Mark always got upset when he had to face consequences. When something disrupted the neat story he told himself about being a good man.

Delaney led me to a small room with beige walls and a table bolted to the floor. Ethan sat in a plastic chair, shoulders hunched, a hospital blanket draped around him like armor. His hair was messy, his face pale, and there was dried blood at the corner of his lip.

The sight of him cracked something inside me.

“Ethan,” I breathed.

He looked up, and his eyes—those same soft brown eyes he’d had since he was a toddler—filled with tears.

“Mom,” he whispered, and then he stood so fast the chair scraped. He walked into me like he’d been holding himself together with sheer force and finally didn’t have to.

I wrapped my arms around him, pressing my cheek to his hair. He smelled like sweat and cologne and something metallic. His body was trembling.

“It’s okay,” I murmured, even though I had no idea if it was. “I’m here.”

“I didn’t mean—” His voice broke. “I didn’t mean for it to—”

“Shh,” I said. My own tears spilled freely now. “Just breathe. Just breathe.”

Officer Delaney stood in the doorway, giving us a moment that still felt like it belonged to us, even with a badge watching.

When Ethan finally pulled back, his cheeks were wet. He wiped them with the heel of his hand like he was embarrassed by them.

Delaney cleared his throat. “Mrs. Miller, we need to take your statement. And we’ll need to discuss what happens next.”

“Okay,” I said, though nothing about this felt okay.

Ethan looked down at his hands. His knuckles were swollen. There was a scrape across one finger, red and raw.

My stomach flipped.

He really did it.

My son, who apologized to ants.

I sat beside him, close enough that our knees almost touched. “Ethan,” I said softly, “tell me what happened.”

His chest rose and fell, fast and shallow.

“It was the reception,” he said, voice hoarse. “After the ceremony.”

“The wedding?” I asked, even though that was obvious.

He nodded once.

He didn’t look at me when he continued. “She… she said something.”

“What did she say?”

Ethan’s jaw tightened. His eyes flicked toward Officer Delaney, then back down to his lap.

Delaney said, “Ethan, you can speak freely. Your mother is here. But understand anything you say could become part of the report.”

Ethan swallowed, throat bobbing. “She said Dad was finally free.”

My stomach sank.

“Free from what?” I asked, though I already knew.

Ethan’s voice dropped, raw and small. “From you. From me. From… ‘the baggage.’ That’s what she called us. Baggage.”

My hands clenched in my lap.

It was so perfectly Lauren—cruel in a clean, smiling way that sounded harmless until you realized what it did to the person hearing it.

Ethan continued, words rushing now like he’d been holding them behind his teeth. “And then she said… she said I should start calling her Mom because she was ‘the woman of the house now.’”

I felt a spark of anger, sharp and bright.

“She said that to you?” I demanded.

Ethan nodded, eyes glossy. “She leaned in. Like she was telling me a secret. And she smiled.”

I stared at the wall for a second, breathing through my nose.

Mark chose that.

Mark married that.

Ethan’s voice shook. “I told her no. I told her I already have a mom. And she laughed.”

Officer Delaney shifted his weight slightly.

Ethan’s hands curled into fists. “She said you were going to be alone forever. That Dad finally found someone ‘classy.’”

My throat tightened.

“Ethan—” I started, but he pushed forward, like he couldn’t stop now.

“She grabbed my arm,” he said, and his voice changed—less like a kid, more like someone reliving a punch. “Hard. Like she was trying to pull me toward her friends. And she said, ‘Come on, smile for a picture. Don’t ruin my day.’”

The words hit me: my day. Not our day. Not Mark’s day. Her day.

Ethan flinched at the memory. “It hurt. And I told her to let go. She didn’t.”

I glanced at his forearm and saw faint red marks—finger-shaped.

My heart slammed in my chest.

Ethan whispered, “And then she said… she said if I didn’t ‘behave’ she’d make sure Dad took you to court again. She said she’d take me away from you.”

My mouth went dry.

Delaney’s voice was careful. “Ethan, what happened after that?”

Ethan’s eyes lifted to mine, pleading.

“I don’t know,” he said, and his voice cracked. “I just… snapped. Like everything went white.”

A long silence filled the room.

Ethan looked down again. “I remember pushing her. I remember her stumbling. And then people were yelling, and she hit the floor, and—” He shook his head hard. “I don’t remember after that.”

My stomach twisted.

Ethan, who had never been in a fight in his life, describing a blackout of rage.

Officer Delaney wrote something down. “There are witnesses who say you struck her multiple times.”

Ethan’s face crumpled. “I didn’t— I didn’t want—”

“I know,” I said quickly, grabbing his hand. His skin was cold. “I know you didn’t want this.”

But the truth was brutal: wanting it hadn’t mattered.

Something had been lit inside him, and it had burned too hot.

Delaney said, “Mrs. Miller, we need to speak about charges. Lauren Whitmore—Mrs. Whitmore—has serious injuries. The DA’s office will decide, but given the circumstances—”

“What circumstances?” a voice snapped from the doorway.

Mark.

He stood there in a tuxedo that looked rumpled now, his tie loosened, his face red with a mix of anger and humiliation. Behind him, I could see a glimpse of white fabric—someone from the wedding party, maybe, hovering like gossip with legs.

Mark’s eyes landed on Ethan, then on me, and his expression hardened like he’d made a decision before he even entered.

“So this is what you teach him?” Mark hissed. “To attack women?”

My body went cold.

Ethan shrank back slightly, like his father’s voice alone could slap him.

I stood up, heat rising in my chest. “Don’t you dare,” I said, voice shaking. “Don’t you dare turn this into some moral lecture when you weren’t the one being threatened.”

Mark scoffed. “Threatened? He nearly killed my wife!”

“Your wife threatened my child,” I shot back. “Where were you?”

Mark’s jaw clenched. “She didn’t threaten him. She—” He cut himself off, glancing at the officer. “This is ridiculous.”

Officer Delaney held up a hand. “Sir, this is an active investigation. We need calm.”

Mark looked at Delaney like he wanted to argue, then turned back to me with something sharp in his eyes.

“You’ve poisoned him,” Mark said quietly. “You’ve been poisoning him against me for years.”

I laughed—one harsh, disbelieving sound. “Poisoned him? Mark, he cried over a beetle. He doesn’t have poison in him.”

Ethan’s shoulders shook.

Mark’s eyes flicked to him, and for a second I saw something—guilt, maybe, or discomfort. Then it vanished, replaced by anger again.

“This is on you,” Mark said. “You’re the one who’s always dramatic. Always playing victim.”

My hands trembled. “And you’re the one who always runs when things get hard.”

Mark took a step forward, and Delaney moved slightly, blocking him. “Sir, you need to step back.”

Mark’s voice rose, brittle. “That woman is in the hospital because of him!”

“And my son is sitting here because of her,” I snapped.

Mark’s eyes widened. “Because of her? Rachel, she was marrying me. It was our wedding. And your kid decides to make it about himself.”

My face burned. “He’s fourteen.”

“And he’s violent,” Mark shot back.

Ethan flinched like he’d been hit.

My heart broke, clean down the middle.

Mark turned to Officer Delaney. “I want to press charges.”

Ethan made a small sound, like a gasp trapped in his throat.

I felt it then—that flare again.

Not pride in the violence itself, not truly.

But a fierce, ugly satisfaction that Lauren’s perfect day had finally cracked. That Mark’s shiny do-over life had finally gotten messy.

And it terrified me that part of me wanted that.

Officer Delaney’s tone was firm. “Sir, the DA will determine charges. Mrs. Whitmore’s statement will matter. Medical findings will matter. But Ethan is a juvenile. This will go through juvenile court if charges are filed.”

Mark’s face tightened. “Good. He needs consequences.”

I stared at him. “Consequences?”

Mark’s eyes were cold. “He needs to learn.”

I swallowed hard. “And what about Lauren? What does she need to learn?”

Mark opened his mouth, then shut it.

He didn’t answer.

Of course he didn’t.

Because Mark didn’t like questions that pointed back at him.

Delaney said, “Mrs. Miller, we need you to sign a release so Ethan can be discharged into your custody tonight. He’ll be cited. There will be a hearing.”

My chest tightened. “He’s coming home with me?”

“Yes,” Delaney said, “for now. But there will be conditions. No contact with Lauren. Possibly no contact with your ex-husband depending on what the court orders.”

Mark scoffed. “No contact with me? Are you kidding?”

Delaney’s gaze sharpened. “Sir, if we determine Ethan’s environment is contributing to escalation, the court may issue protective conditions.”

Mark’s face reddened. “This is insane.”

I wanted to say, What’s insane is you letting your new wife threaten your child at your wedding.

But Ethan was staring at the floor, and I could feel how close he was to breaking again.

So I kept my voice low. “Ethan,” I said, squeezing his hand, “we’re going to get through this. Okay?”

He nodded, but he didn’t look convinced.

And neither was I.

---

On the drive home, Ethan sat in the passenger seat like he was made of glass, staring out the window at dark streets and closed storefronts. The silence inside the car was thick, heavy with things too big to say.

I kept both hands on the steering wheel, but my mind was racing.

I wanted to ask him why he didn’t walk away. Why he didn’t find his dad. Why he didn’t call me.

But I also remembered what it felt like to be fourteen—how emotions could turn into hurricanes without warning, how humiliation could feel like death, how adults seemed to hold all the power and still used it carelessly.

When we pulled into the driveway, Dana’s bedroom light was on. She must have woken up and seen my note.

She opened the door before I even reached it, her face pale. “Rachel—oh my God.”

Ethan walked past her without a word, heading straight for the stairs like he was moving on instinct.

Dana grabbed my arm. “What happened?”

I exhaled, and my chest hurt. “Lauren’s in the hospital. Ethan—” My voice broke. “Ethan hurt her.”

Dana’s eyes widened. “Ethan? Ethan wouldn’t hurt—”

“I know,” I whispered. “I know.”

Dana pulled me into the kitchen, lowering her voice. “Where’s Mark?”

“At the hospital,” I said. “Pressing charges, apparently.”

Dana’s mouth tightened. “Of course he is.”

I sank into a chair, my hands suddenly feeling too weak to hold anything. “Dana… I don’t know what to do.”

Dana’s face softened. She sat across from me and reached for my hands. “You protect your kid,” she said simply. “That’s what you do.”

A memory flashed—Ethan at five, running into the street after a ball, and me sprinting after him, grabbing his shirt just in time. My heart had nearly stopped. I’d shaken for an hour afterward.

This felt like that, only bigger. More complicated. Less solvable.

Dana squeezed my fingers. “Is Ethan okay?”

I stared down at the table. “He’s shaken. He has a busted lip. His knuckles are swollen.”

Dana’s eyes filled. “Jesus.”

I swallowed hard. “They said Lauren was unconscious. She might have a concussion. They said witnesses saw him hit her more than once.”

Dana’s jaw tightened. “What did she do to him?”

I hesitated. “She grabbed his arm. Threatened to take him away from me.”

Dana’s face changed—anger flickering. “At the wedding?”

I nodded.

Dana exhaled sharply. “Mark let that happen?”

“I asked the same thing,” I said, and my voice turned bitter. “Mark only cares now because his perfect night got ruined.”

Dana leaned back. “Rachel…”

“What?” I snapped, too raw to be gentle.

Dana’s gaze held mine. “Don’t do that thing where you turn this into revenge.”

The words cut because they were true.

I looked away, tears burning. “I don’t want revenge,” I whispered.

Dana’s voice softened. “Then don’t let that ugly part of this grow. Don’t let it make you proud of something that could destroy him.”

My throat tightened. “I’m not proud of him hurting someone.”

But when I said it, I heard how shaky it sounded.

Dana nodded slowly. “Good.”

Upstairs, I heard Ethan’s door close.

The sound felt final, like a chapter ending.

---

The next morning, my phone started ringing before I even poured coffee.

Unknown numbers.

Voicemails.

Text messages from people I hadn’t spoken to in years.

The wedding had been at the Springhaven Country Club—big, expensive, full of Mark’s coworkers and Lauren’s friends and enough cell phones to turn any disaster into content.

By eight a.m., the story was already loose in the world.

Did you hear what Rachel’s kid did?
Mark’s new wife got attacked at her wedding.
The son went psycho.
Apparently he hates the stepmom.
Apparently Rachel raised him wrong.

I wanted to throw my phone into the sink.

Ethan came downstairs wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, his hair damp from a shower. He looked like he hadn’t slept. His eyes were swollen, and his face was drawn tight like he was holding something back.

He went straight to the fridge, opened it, and stared inside without seeing anything.

“Hey,” I said gently. “Come sit.”

He didn’t move.

“Ethan,” I repeated.

He shut the fridge and turned to me. His voice was flat. “Am I going to jail?”

My chest tightened so hard I could barely breathe. “No,” I said quickly. “You’re not going to jail today. There will be court stuff. But you’re a minor. We’ll get a lawyer. We’ll—”

Ethan’s eyes filled again. “I don’t want to be like him.”

The words startled me. “Like who?”

He looked down, jaw trembling. “Dad.”

My stomach dropped.

Ethan whispered, “He gets mad and he… he says things. He makes everyone feel small. And last night I—” He swallowed hard. “I felt it. Like… like something took over. And I didn’t stop.”

I stood and crossed the kitchen in two steps, pulling him into my arms. He let me this time, sinking against me like he was exhausted.

“You’re not your father,” I whispered, even though I knew it wasn’t that simple. Anger lived in families like heirlooms. You didn’t inherit it on purpose, but you could still end up carrying it.

Ethan’s voice muffled against my shoulder. “But I hurt someone.”

I closed my eyes.

There it was. The truth we couldn’t talk around.

“Yes,” I said softly. “You did.”

He started crying—quiet at first, then shaking. I held him and rocked slightly, like I could rock him back to being the boy who cried over beetles.

When he finally pulled away, his cheeks were wet. He wiped them angrily. “I didn’t even like hitting the mat in wrestling,” he said, voice ragged. “And then last night… I kept seeing her mouth moving. Saying those things. And I just wanted it to stop.”

I brushed his hair back. “I know.”

Ethan looked at me with panic. “Do you hate me?”

My throat tightened. “No,” I said instantly. “Never.”

He nodded, but his shoulders stayed tense.

I took a breath. “But Ethan… we need to be honest. You can’t handle words with fists. Ever.”

His eyes flashed. “She threatened you.”

“She threatened custody,” I said carefully. “And that’s wrong. But you still can’t do what you did.”

Ethan looked away.

And in that moment, I felt the war inside me—between the mother who wanted to wrap him in a blanket and keep him safe from everything, and the mother who knew the only way to save him was to make him face what he’d done.

I pulled my laptop out and started searching for juvenile defense attorneys. Dana sat at the table with her coffee, watching me quietly.

After a few calls, I found someone: Michael Reece. He had a calm voice, a reputation for handling juvenile cases, and an opening that afternoon.

By noon, we were sitting in his office.

Michael was in his forties, wearing a rumpled suit and glasses that made him look more like a tired professor than a lawyer. His office had framed diplomas and a bowl of mints on the table.

Ethan sat beside me, hands clasped, shoulders hunched.

Michael listened as I explained what we knew. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t react dramatically. He just took notes.

When I finished, he leaned back. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s what we’re looking at.”

My stomach clenched.

“This is serious,” Michael continued. “Assault causing serious bodily injury. But Ethan’s age matters. His lack of prior record matters. The circumstances—what was said, any provocation—might matter in terms of sentencing or diversion. But it does not erase the act.”

Ethan’s jaw tightened.

Michael’s gaze shifted to him. “Ethan, I need you to hear me. Your feelings can be understandable. Your actions can still be unacceptable. Court will focus on what you did, not just what you felt.”

Ethan nodded once, eyes down.

Michael turned back to me. “The DA may push for a petition in juvenile court. There could be detention if they believe he’s a danger or a flight risk, but given he’s living with you and has support, we can argue for release with conditions.”

I swallowed. “Lauren’s husband—Mark—wants charges.”

Michael nodded. “The victim’s wishes matter, but the state ultimately decides. Lauren’s statement will matter a lot once she’s able to give it.”

Dana spoke up quietly. “Is she going to be okay?”

Michael hesitated. “We don’t have medical records, but if she was unconscious, they’ll likely treat it as severe. Concussion at minimum.”

Ethan’s hands trembled slightly. He looked up, voice cracking. “I didn’t want to kill her.”

Michael’s eyes softened a fraction. “Then we’re going to make sure the court sees who you are—and that you get help.”

Help.

The word landed heavy.

Because this wasn’t just about getting him “off.”

It was about making sure this never happened again.

Michael said, “There’s something else. If there’s evidence Lauren grabbed him, threatened him, or physically initiated contact, we need it. Witnesses. Photos. Video.”

I froze.

Video.

“Weddings have photographers,” Dana murmured.

My mind raced. “Lauren’s friend group records everything,” I said. “They probably have ten angles.”

Michael nodded. “Then we need to get ahead of it. If a video surfaces that shows only Ethan striking her, the narrative will be simple: violent teen attacks bride. If there’s more context, we need it documented.”

I thought of the rumor mill already grinding.

I nodded slowly. “Okay.”

As we stood to leave, Michael looked at me with quiet intensity. “Rachel,” he said, lowering his voice, “one more thing. People are going to have opinions. Some will blame you. Some will praise Ethan. Don’t let either extreme shape your response. Your job is to guide him toward accountability and stability.”

I swallowed hard. “I know.”

But as I walked out, my heart was pounding with a terrible fear:

What if Mark’s side wanted Ethan labeled as violent?

What if they used this to take him from me?

---

The juvenile hearing was set for Thursday.

Until then, Ethan was under conditions: no contact with Lauren, no contact with Mark, and he couldn’t go to school until the court decided, because the incident was already causing “safety concerns.”

We were trapped in the house together, and every time Ethan walked through the kitchen, I saw his swollen knuckles and felt sick.

On Tuesday afternoon, my phone rang again.

This time, it was Mark.

I stared at his name on my screen like it was a snake.

Dana raised her eyebrows from the couch.

I answered because ignoring him would only fuel his anger.

“Hello.”

Mark’s voice was sharp. “Where is he?”

“He’s here,” I said. “He’s with me.”

Mark exhaled, bitter. “Lauren’s awake.”

My stomach dropped. “Is she okay?”

“She has a concussion,” Mark snapped. “She has stitches. She can’t remember parts of the night. And she’s terrified.”

Terrified.

I imagined Lauren in a hospital bed, her perfect hair ruined, her makeup gone, her smile replaced by pain. A part of me—again, that ugly part—whispered, Good.

I hated that voice.

I forced myself to speak evenly. “I’m sorry she’s hurt.”

Mark scoffed. “Sorry? Rachel, your son attacked my wife.”

“My son was grabbed and threatened,” I shot back, and my voice rose despite my effort. “Why did you let her do that?”

“Because she didn’t,” Mark snapped. “Ethan’s lying. He’s been manipulated.”

My hands trembled. “By who? Me?”

“Yes,” Mark said without hesitation. “You’ve been turning him against me since the divorce. You’ve always wanted to punish me.”

I laughed, hollow. “Mark, I wanted you to show up. I wanted you to be a father. That’s not punishment.”

Mark’s voice turned cold. “Lauren wants him held accountable. She wants a restraining order.”

My throat tightened. “She can get one. Ethan won’t go near her.”

Mark paused, then said, quieter, “I’m pushing for him to be placed with me temporarily.”

My heart slammed.

“No,” I said, voice shaking. “Absolutely not.”

Mark’s tone sharpened. “Rachel, he’s violent. He needs structure.”

“He needs safety,” I snapped. “And you’re not safe for him.”

Mark’s voice rose. “You don’t get to decide that!”

“I do,” I said, and my voice came out fierce, surprising even me. “Because I’m the one who’s been raising him. I’m the one who knows him. And I’m the one who’s going to make sure he doesn’t become you.”

Silence crackled on the line.

Then Mark said, venomous, “You’re going to regret this.”

He hung up.

I sat there staring at my phone, breath shallow.

Dana’s voice was tight. “He’s going to try to use this.”

I nodded, throat aching. “I know.”