At first, I’m just too stunned to say anything. It’s like my brain’s stalling, processing, until finally, I blurt out the only thing I can manage:
“Aren’t you supposed to be in jail?”
There’s this unbearable, casual calm in her voice. “I made bail,” she says, like she’s talking about a nail appointment. “I’m bipolar and off my meds. They can’t hold me.”
Oh, come on. I want to scream, but I swallow it down. “I don’t know what magic trick you pulled to get out, but don’t call this number again. I’m getting a restraining order.”
“Sweetheart, you can do whatever you want. But for now, just listen to me. Please?”
A request from her—a polite one at that—throws me for a second. Against my better judgment, I don’t hang up. My pulse is pounding. She takes my silence as permission.
“I wanted t
