My father answered on the second ring.
“Emily?” His voice was steady, but I heard the edge underneath, the same edge that used to cut through chaos when I was a kid and scraped my knee and thought I was dying. “Where are you?”
“In the basement,” I said, forcing the words out quietly. “Jason locked me down here. Three days. I—I didn’t know who else to call.”
There was a pause—one sharp inhale—and then the calm returned, colder this time. “Are you hurt?”
“No. Just… scared. He has extra locks on the door. Please don’t come alone.”

“You did the right thing calling,” he said. “Listen to me. Stay on the line as long as you can. I’m calling 911 on another phone. Don’t hang up unless you have to.”
I slid down against the wall, clutching the receiver like it was a rope keeping me from sinking. Through the thin ceiling, I heard footsteps upstairs. Jason was moving around like nothing had happened, like I wasn’t a person trapped beneath his feet.
My dad didn’t fill the silence with panic. He gave me instructions. “Keep your voice low. If you hear him coming down, put the phone down but keep it off the hook. I want to hear everything.”

A few minutes later, sirens cut through the neighborhood—faint at first, then closer. My heart hammered so hard I thought it might drown out the sound. Above me, a door opened. Jason’s footsteps stopped. Then rushed.
I heard voices at the front of the house—firm, authoritative. A man’s voice: “Police department. Sir, we need to speak with you.”
Jason tried something. I could tell by the way his steps moved—fast, calculating. “This is a misunderstanding,” he said loudly, like volume could rewrite reality.