No, Martin, I think through oceans of red clouding my eyes. You’ll be the one regretting this.
It’s a miracle I haven’t crushed the flimsy phone in my hand. I’m clenching it so tight as I read every text. The other messageshe sent are no better and not worth my time.
I do venture a quick scroll into her message history because I’ve noticed a lack of texts from Greg Everett. Does he ever checkin on his own daughter?
It seems not. Not even one call for the last several weeks, according to the phone log when I check.
I’m not sure what I expected, or worse—what I wanted. Do I want Greg Everett to be a doting father who tears apart Las Vegasin search of his daughter?
Obviously not.
So why does his absence itch the back of my mind like a bad rash?
I can’t afford to feel sympathy. This is
