“You have always been jealous of her,” she said.

“You were jealous because she was the pretty one.”

“She was the one who went to college.”

“And look where that got her,” I said.

“She is a thief.”

“And you helped her.”

The phone on the floor buzzed again.

The screen lit up, casting a faint blue glow against the linoleum.

A new text message appeared from Megan: *Is it done? Tell me Arthur signed it.*

My father looked down at the phone.

He looked at the name on the screen.

The guilt on his face turned into something else.

Something cold and final.

“I want you both to leave,” I said.

My voice was quiet, but it filled the small room.

My mother blinked, her mouth dropping open slightly.

“What?” she said.

“Get out of my apartment,” I said.

“Now.”

“Clara, please,” my father said.

He reached his hand out, but he didn’t touch me.

His hand was calloused, the knuckles swollen from years of factory work.

“I want you to go, Dad,” I said.

“I can’t look at you right now.”