Chapter 2
My father took me back inside without asking another question.
He locked the front door.
Then the deadbolt.
Then he checked the windows.
That alone told me he finally understood this was not about grades or irresponsibility.
My mother sat beside me on the couch.
Grandma Evelyn lowered herself carefully into the armchair across from us.
Dad remained standing.
“Maya,” he said gently, “start wherever you can.”
I stared at my hands.
They would not stop shaking.
“His name is Jordan.”
Mom frowned.
“Jordan Price?”
I nodded.
She recognized the name.
I had mentioned him during my first semester.
Jordan was twenty-three.
A graduate student.
Smart.
Charming.
The kind of person professors praised and strangers trusted immediately.
When we first met, he made me feel safe.
That was probably what frightened me most now.
“He wasn’t like that at first,” I said.
Dad’s jaw tightened, but he stayed quiet.
“He helped me with statistics. He brought me food when I was studying late. He remembered everything I told him.”
Mom touched my arm.
“What changed?”
“Everything.”
I took a breath.
“At first he just wanted to know where I was.”
Dad’s expression darkened.
“He’d text constantly. If I didn’t answer, he’d show up.”
Grandma watched me carefully.
“Did he hurt you?”
The question landed like a stone.
I looked down.
“Yes.”
Mom made a sound beside me.
Dad turned away.
He pressed both hands against the back of his neck.
“How?”
I almost stopped.
Shame crawled through me even though I knew, somewhere deep down, that it should not belong to me.
“He grabbed me sometimes.”
Dad’s hands curled into fists.
“He’d block doors when we argued. He took my phone once for almost two days.”
Mom whispered, “Oh, baby.”
“I kept telling myself it wasn’t serious.”
My voice cracked.
“Then he started telling people I was unstable.”
Dad looked at me again.
“What people?”
“Everyone.”
Jordan had been careful.
He never exploded in public.
He smiled.
He spoke softly.
He told friends I was stressed.
He told professors I had anxiety.
He told my roommate I was becoming paranoid.
Then he slowly made every frightened reaction look like proof that he was right.
“I tried breaking up with him in March.”
“What happened?” Dad asked.
“He cried.”
Dad blinked.
“He said his father abused him. He said he was scared I’d abandon him like everyone else.”
Grandma closed her eyes.
“He knew what would make you stay.”
I nodded.
“Two weeks later, he found messages between me and my roommate, Tiana. I told her I was scared of him.”
My stomach turned remembering it.
“He smashed my laptop.”
Mom covered her mouth.
“He told me it was an accident.”
Dad’s voice became dangerously quiet.
“And the school?”
“I reported him.”
Everyone stared at me.
“What?” Dad said.
“I reported him.”
I reached for the duffel bag.
My hands shook so hard I struggled with the zipper.
Dad crouched beside me.
“Let me.”
“No.”
I needed to do it myself.
Finally the zipper opened.
I pulled out the folder.
Inside were copies of emails.
Screenshots.
A campus complaint form.
A letter telling me there was “insufficient evidence” to pursue disciplinary action.
Dad read it.
His face changed line by line.
“They believed him,” I whispered.
“He had witnesses saying I was emotional and jealous. He had screenshots where I was begging him to stop ignoring me.”
Mom frowned.
“Why were you begging?”
“Because he would disappear after arguments, then tell me something terrible might happen if I didn’t prove I loved him.”
Grandma muttered something under her breath.
Dad kept reading.
Then he froze.
“What is this?”
He held up another paper.
A withdrawal notice.
“They said I voluntarily withdrew from my classes.”
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
I looked him directly in the eyes.
“Jordan accessed my student account.”
Dad went still.
“He knew my password.”
“How?”
“I gave it to him months earlier when my laptop stopped working.”
My father looked ready to explode.
“He withdrew you from school?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I told him I was leaving.”
Mom stood abruptly.
“That is not possible. The university can just reverse it.”
“I tried.”
I shook my head.
“But by the time I found out, I had missed too many classes. Jordan had emailed two professors from my account saying I was having a mental health crisis and needed space.”
Dad stared at me.
“How long?”
“Almost three weeks.”
“And you didn’t call us?”
The hurt in his voice cut deeply.
“I tried.”
That made him stop.
“What do you mean?”
I reached into the duffel again.
I took out my old phone.
The screen was cracked.
“He changed your numbers in my contacts.”
Mom frowned.
“What?”
“He replaced your numbers with another number.”
Dad looked confused.
“When I called ‘home,’ Jordan answered through an app.”
The room went silent.
“He pretended to be you sometimes.”
My father’s face drained of color.
I continued.
“He sent me texts from fake accounts. He told me you were ashamed of me.”
Mom started crying.
“No.”
“He said Dad didn’t want me home until I fixed my life.”
My father sat down slowly.
“I never said that.”
“I know.”
“I called you every week.”
“I know now.”
He looked devastated.
“I thought you hated us.”
“I thought you hated me.”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Dad leaned forward and covered his face.
Grandma’s expression hardened.
“This man isolated her.”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“And that’s not everything.”
Dad’s head came up.
I reached into the duffel one more time.
This time, I removed the plastic bag.
Inside was a small silver key.
A flash drive.
And a folded photograph.
Dad took the photograph first.
It showed the inside of Jordan’s apartment.
On his desk was a folder.
My name was written across the front.
Mom frowned.
“What is that?”
“I found it this morning.”
I could barely breathe.
“He left for class.”
I looked at Dad.
“I knew I had maybe twenty minutes.”
My fingers closed around the flash drive.
“I opened the folder.”
“What was inside?” Dad asked.
“Copies of my identification.”
Mom went pale.
“My Social Security card.”
Dad stood.
“My bank information.”
His face hardened.
“And papers for loans I never applied for.”
No one spoke.
I held up the flash drive.
“I copied everything from his computer that had my name on it.”
Dad stared at it.
“How much money?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Maya.”
“I don’t know.”
My voice shook.
“But I saw one number.”
Dad crouched in front of me.
“What number?”
I swallowed.
“Forty-eight thousand dollars.”
My mother gasped.
My father looked like someone had hit him.
“That’s why I ran.”
I looked toward the window again.
“I packed whatever I could carry and took a bus home.”
Grandma leaned forward.
“Does Jordan know you took the drive?”
“I don’t know.”
Then my broken phone buzzed on the coffee table.
All four of us jumped.
I stared at it.
Unknown number.
A message appeared.
I did not touch the phone.
Dad picked it up.
His eyes moved across the screen.
“What does it say?” Mom whispered.
Dad looked at me.
His face had gone completely cold.
“He knows.”
My stomach dropped.
Dad turned the phone toward us.
May you like
The message contained only nine words.
You should not have taken something that belongs to me.
