If there was one thing I had learned about my aunt over the years, it was this:
She never called for nothing. She didn't check in. She didn't ask how you were doing. She didn't care about your day.
When Aunt Eleanor called, it meant she wanted something—or she was about to take something.
So when my phone vibrated for the second time that evening and her name lit up the screen, a familiar cold settled in my stomach.
Aunt Eleanor.
I didn't answer immediately.
I watched the screen for a few seconds longer than necessary, my thumb hovering. A small, stubborn part of me wanted to let it ring out. Let her sit with silence for once. Let her feel what it was like not to have access to me.
But Aunt Eleanor didn't accept silence. Silence only made her more dangerous.
I swiped to answer.
"Hello?" I said, keeping my voice neutral.
Her voice slid through the line like silk wrapped around steel.
"Mira," she said smoothly. "There you are. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me."
