I got a call this morning.

A call I always dread.

Then I called into work, told them I was sick. But the truth? The truth has me sitting on the couch, gripping my phone and staring down at Milky’s number, too nervous to call because I’m expecting a visit from a man I’m forced to have contact with whenever it’s convenient for him. I’ve only seen him twice since I got out, so when he called this morning to say he’d be dropping by the house, my panic set in. So much panic, I ended up breathing into a paper bag just to calm myself.

I hit dial the exact moment the front door opens, and Milky steps in, one of Bradley t-shirts hanging loosely on her shoulders.

I stand to get her attention. “Liston’s coming over.”

“Shit.” She drops her bag by the door and looks around the apartment. “When?”

“Soon.”

“What do we do?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to go through your stuff in case there was anything—”

“I don’t think there’s anything, but I’ll double check.” She makes her way to her room, and I sit back on the couch, stare at the wall, plead with my heart to stop beating so loud. From her room, I hear the sliding of her drawers, in and out, in and out, less than a minute between them.

The Hello Kitty clock on the wall reads 10:53, my phone reads 10:51, and I wonder how punctual Liston will be. “Are condoms bad?” my sister calls out.

“No.”

“Are you allowed to have razors?”

I turn to her. “What kind of razors? Like, disposal ones?”

“Yeah.”

“I think they’re okay. Fuck, Milky, I don’t know,” I cry out, just as there’s a knock on the door.

“Wait. I need to get dressed,” Milky says, rushing back to her room.

“Hurry up!”

It only takes her a few seconds to slip out of Bradley’s shirt and into a dress, but she looks far prettier and more composed than I could ever be. “Okay, let’s do this.”

With sweaty palms and an erratic heartbeat, I plaster on the most sincere smile I can. I don’t know why I’m so nervous, I have nothing to hide. Neither does Milky. And Liston is far from intimidating. I take one more calming breath before opening the door, my eyes widening when it isn’t Liston standing on the other side. “Can I help you?” I ask.

The man, mid-thirties, looks at me first, then at Milky. “Officer Barbone,” he says, pushing the door open and stepping inside. “Liston had a family emergency, asked me to cover this case.” And now I’m scared, my shallow breaths proof, because Liston—my parole officer—is an older man, soft-spoken and understanding, and the one in front of me is everything he isn’t. Rude and rough and all dark hair, dark eyes, and dark demeanor.

Barbone switches his glare from Milky to me and asks, “You’re Andromeda Reynor?”

“Yes, officer.”

He nods once, goes back to leering at Milky. “Why do you look familiar?” he asks her, and dread clings to my lungs, squeezing them tight.

“I’m not sure, sir,” she says, making direct eye contact as she smiles a little too wide. Knees locked. Shoulders back. Lying. She knows exactly how he knows her, and I can make a pretty calculated guess.

“Right, this is a routine check,” the man bellows, gripping the top of a baton as he flicks his wrist, extends it to full length. He runs the tip of it along the kitchen counter, flipping the bills I have set aside. Milky stands next to me, her hand gripping mine. She’s as afraid as I am, if not more, because she knows this man more than I do, has probably seen the worst he has to offer. Barbone goes through the kitchen cabinets, the drawers, one by one, pulling everything out, shoving them back in. Clanking of ceramic echoes off the walls, filling my ears with dread. When he’s done in the kitchen, he moves to the living room, lifting every cushion off the couch and dumping them to the floor. He uses the baton to search every nook, every hidden space. Then he looks down at the basket of laundry on the floor, Milky’s thongs and uniform on top. He lifts the tank from the pile with his baton, the bright pink Chubaret logo on full display. He chuckles to himself before smirking at me, then raising his eyebrows at my sister. Without a word, he moves on from the laundry and toward the coffee table, and Milky and I move closer, holding each other tighter. He picks up my bag, tips the contents out on the trunk, receipts and loose coins and chapstick creating a pile of junk. Again, he uses his baton to shift through my things, asking, “Whose bag is this?”

“Mine,” I manage to say.

His permanent smirk develops into a full grin, shifting his mustache higher. With a thwack, he retracts his baton using the arm of the couch and goes through my belongings with his hands. Then he laughs. A laugh so threatening the hairs on the back of my neck stand. “What’s this?” he asks, holding up a... fuck fuck fuck. “A box cutter? That’s on the prohibited items list, Miss Reynor.”

“I use it for work,” I rush out. “I must’ve—I don’t normally carry one, I swear!” Fear grips my throat shut and I choke on a gasp, heat building behind my eyes.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re in possession of a prohibited item, and you know what that means.” Barbone pulls out a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket, swings them around his finger like some fucking toy.

I release a sob into the tension-filled air.

“Both hands in front of you,” the man says, stalking toward me.

“No!” my sister shouts, standing in front of me, blocking his path. “She must’ve taken it home by accident. Right, Andie?”

I try to nod, but desperation and despair have me frozen to my spot. Trails of defeat line marks down my cheeks, and how could I be so fucking stupid?

You’re the smartest girl, who makes the stupidest choices, Andie. And look where it got you.

Barbone stops in front of my sister, only inches away, his eyes eating up every single part of her. Then he licks his lips and my insides twist, disgust and hatred replacing my fear. “I could turn a blind eye to this...” he whispers in her ear. “Private shows at the club are a pretty fuckin’ penny.”

“No!” I shout, tugging on Milky’s shoulder. “No, Milky. You’re not doing this.”

She doesn’t turn to me. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t even budge when I shake her harder, begging her not to do what I know she’s about to.

Because she lives with as much regret as I do.

Because she fucking loves me.

Because she believes in a purpose, and that purpose belongs to me.

I cry so hard, my shoulders shake with the force of every single one. “Please don’t, Milky. Please!”

My beautiful sister and the creepy motherfucker stare each other down, me being the cause of their battle.

Me being their prize.

Finally, my sister speaks, refusing to face me. “Stay out here, Andie.”

“No!”

“For once in your goddamn life, Andie, listen to me! Do what I ask!”

“Milky, no!”

She doesn’t listen. She walks straight to her bedroom, waiting for a member of law enforcement to follow. The door closes between us, and I reach for the wall, use it to keep myself upright. The second music sounds from her room, I break down.

I run out of the house and straight to the boys’ door where I knock hard, bang, kick, cry out for help. Bradley answers quickly, his eyes wide. “Help me,” I plead.

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Milky!”

His face pales, his eyes frantic. “What about her? What happened, Andie?”

I point to the house, spit and tears flying from my mouth when I cry, “There’s a man... my P.O, he’s got Mi—”

Bradley rushes from his house, through mine and I run after him, my lungs barely holding on. He pushes open the bedroom door, and I get a glimpse of Milky in nothing but her panties, the guy sitting on her bed, before Bradley has Barbone’s throat in his hand, his body pressed against the wall. Milky screams, and I cry, and the guys yell—loud and jarring, full of curses and threats, and I collapse on the floor, crying and crawling, searching for my puffer because I can’t fucking breathe.

“You motherfucker! I’m calling the cops!” Bradley shouts.

“Good luck,” Barbone roars. “I am the fucking the law!”

Drywall cracks, shatters, falls to the floor when Bradley shoves him hard against the wall, a pained cry coming from his victim. Milky screams her boyfriend’s name when the sound of a fist connecting to bone fills the air. One after the other. On and On.

I reach the trunk, still in search of my inhaler. I don’t even wheeze because there’s no air to accompany it. Bodies crash out of the bedroom, Barbone’s collar gripped tight in Bradley’s white-knuckled fists as he leads him to the front door, pushes him out of the house. “You’re lucky you’re fucking breathing.”

A door slams, another opens, then another, and then Noah.

“What the hell’s going on? Who was that guy?” He marches into the room, his eyes taking in the scenery and then Milky’s above me, holding out my inhaler. “Breathe, Andie. You need to breathe, okay?”

I shake my head as Bradley moves back to us. “I’m calling the cops.”

“Don’t,” Milky says, pushing the plastic mouthpiece between my lips. She presses down on the canister, and I inhale as best I can. Noah’s next to me now, on his knees, his fingers brushing the hair away from my eyes, unsticking them from my tears. “What happened?”

I try to speak, but I can’t. I inhale another hit of manufactured life into my lungs, and with my eyelids heavy, head pounding, heart broken, I watch my sister fall into the embrace of the guy who’s just shown how deeply he feels for her, and I find what little strength I have to say her name, get her attention. Another sob escapes.

“It’s okay, Andie,” she says. “It’s over.”

“No.” I shake my head, find both comfort and shame in Noah’s embrace. “It’ll never be over. And you don’t deserve what I’m doing to you.”

“And you don’t deserve what I’ve done to you. Consider us even.”