“Amelia.” Robert Sinclair’s voice was a familiar anchor. Deep and steady with the faintest trace of a Boston accent he’d never lost.
He sounded wide awake, though it was past midnight in Gushtad, where he and my mother were staying.
“To what do I owe this pleasure? Shouldn’t you be resting? How’s my grandson? Let me see him.”
There was a Russell and I knew he was fumbling to switch to a video call.
“Don’t, Dad,” I said, my voice surprisingly flat. “Not video.”
The line went quiet for a beat. I could picture him instantly, the casual warmth vanishing from his expression, replaced by the razor sharp focus of a predator sensing a threat.
That was my father. He could switch from doing grandfather to corporate titan in a nancond.
“Amelia.” His tone was different now. All business. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Is the baby ill?”
“Liam is fine. I’m physically fine.” I took a sharp breath. The words lining up in my mind like soldiers.
“Daddy, I’m home alone with your grandson.”
Leave a Comment