Chapter 6: The Messages
The texts went back four months.
Marcus sat at the kitchen table and read them in order, from the oldest to the most recent.
Maya sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a glass of water, watching his face.
He kept his expression steady.
He owed her that much.
The early messages were small.
*Your dad asked me to remind you to clean your room before he gets home.* Then: *You left the TV on again.
I've mentioned this.* Then: *I need you to stay in your room this evening.
We have guests.*
They weren't threatening on their own.
But they accumulated.
By the second month, the tone had shifted.
*I don't appreciate the attitude you had at dinner.
Your father didn't notice but I did.* And: *I know you don't like me.
That's fine.
But this is my home and you will respect it.*
Marcus set the phone down for a moment.
Picked it up again.
The third month was worse.
*Don't think I haven't noticed what you're doing.
Every time you're here, something goes wrong.
I'm keeping track.* Then, two weeks later: *You should think about whether your visits here are actually good for your father.
He was doing fine before.*
Maya hadn't responded to that one.
She hadn't responded to most of them.
"Did you ever tell her to stop?" Marcus asked.
"Once," Maya said.
"I said I was going to show you.
She said—" Maya picked up the glass, set it down.
"She said you wouldn't believe me over her.
That you'd think I was trying to cause problems."
Marcus looked at the last message.
Sent three days ago, the evening before Maya's most recent visit.
*I want this visit to go smoothly.
That means you stay out of my way and you don't touch anything that isn't yours.
If something goes wrong this time, I won't be quiet about it anymore.*
He read it twice.
"Maya." He set the phone face-down on the table.
"I owe you an apology."
She looked up at him, surprised.
"You came to this house and you were treated this way, and I didn't see it.
I should have seen it." He held her gaze.
"That is on me.
Not on you.
None of this is on you."
Maya's eyes filled.
She pressed her lips together and looked at the table.
"I thought if I was just—" Her voice broke slightly.
"If I was just good enough.
Quiet enough.
Maybe she'd stop."
"That was never going to work," Marcus said gently.
"Because this was never about anything you did."
Maya wiped her eye with the back of her hand.
"Then why?"
Marcus was quiet for a moment.
"I think she wanted you gone.
And I think she was willing to work very hard to make that happen."
The kitchen was still.
Outside, a car passed on the street.
"What happens now?" Maya asked.
"Now I take screenshots of every one of these messages." Marcus picked up the phone and began.
"And then I'm going to have a conversation with Tara that she is not going to be prepared for."
"She'll just say I made it up.
Or that she was joking."
"She can say whatever she wants." Marcus kept his eyes on the screen.
"But she said it in writing.
And writing doesn't change its story."
He finished the screenshots and sent them to his own phone.
Then he handed Maya's phone back to her.
"I want you to stay here tonight," he said.
"Your room.
Your house.
You're not going anywhere."
Maya held the phone against her chest.
"What if she comes back?"
Marcus looked at his daughter across the kitchen table — her red eyes, her oversized sweater, the careful way she held herself like she'd learned to take up as little space as possible.
"Then she'll deal with me," he said.
Maya nodded.
She stood up, moved toward the hallway, then stopped.
"Dad." She turned back.
"There's one more thing.
Something I didn't show you."
She unlocked her phone.
Opened a different app.
Turned the screen toward him.
It was a photograph.
May you like
Marcus leaned forward.
His face went very still.
