“But you don’t know who wrote them.”
His smile faltered. “What?”
“Give me your phone,” I said.
He laughed, rolling his eyes at Sylvia like I was being ridiculous. “You want to call your father? The retired nobody you told us about?”
“Call him,” I said. “Put it on speaker.”
David pulled out his phone with the smug confidence of someone who thought he was about to prove a point. “Fine. What’s the number?”
I recited it. The moment he started typing, he paused.
“202?” he muttered. “That’s D.C.”
“Just dial.”
He hit call and held it out like a joke. The line connected immediately—no voicemail, no secretary.
A voice answered, deep and commanding. “Identify yourself.”
David blinked. “Uh—hello? Is this Mr. Thorne?”
“I said identify yourself,” the voice repeated, colder. “You have reached a restricted line. Who is this?”
David’s posture shifted. “This is David Miller. I’m Anna’s husband. Look, your daughter—”
“Anna?” The tone cracked, and the father surged through the authority. “Where is my daughter? Put her on.”
David shoved the phone toward me, still trying to look in control.