The call

**Chapter Fourteen: The Call**

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as John leaned against the hospital corridor wall, the payphone receiver pressed hard against his ear. He'd waited until Luna was asleep—until the nurses assured him she'd be out for hours—before making the call he'd been dreading.

The line rang once. Twice.

A click.

"Hello?" A woman's voice, worn thin with exhaustion.

John swallowed. "Mrs. Sky?"

A sharp intake of breath. "Yes? Who is this?"

"My name is John Carter. I'm a detective with—"

"Oh god." The voice cracked. "You—you found her, didn't you? You found my daughter's..."

John closed his eyes. "No, ma'am. I found *Luna*. She's alive."

The silence that followed was so complete John thought the line had disconnected. Then—

A sob. Raw. Unfiltered. The sound of a breaking dam. Somewhere in the background, a man's voice shouting *"Alice? Alice, what is it?"*

John gripped the receiver tighter. "She's at County General. Room 413. She's—" His throat tightened. "She's been through hell, but she's alive."

More muffled voices. A crash, like something being knocked over. The man came on the line, his voice shaking with barely controlled fury. "Whoever you are, if this is some sick joke—"

"It's not," John said. "I'll be here when you arrive. Just... prepare yourselves. She's not the same."

---

Luna woke to shouting in the hallway.

She knew that voice.

*Dad.*

The door burst open before she could brace herself. Her father stood frozen in the doorway, his flannel shirt wrinkled from what must have been a frantic drive, his work boots leaving mud on the sterile floor. His face—always so stern, so unreadable—collapsed like a landslide.

"Luna-bell?"

The childhood nickname hit her like a punch.

Behind him, her mother pushed forward, her favorite thrift store cardigan buttoned wrong in her haste. Her hands flew to her mouth.

"Oh my baby."

Then they were on her, her father's calloused hands cradling her face, her mother's fingers running through her short-cropped hair with desperate tenderness. The scent of her mother's drugstore perfume and her father's motor oil enveloped her, dragging up memories she'd thought Voss had stolen forever.

"You're so thin," her mother sobbed, pressing kisses to her forehead like Luna was five again. "Your hair, your beautiful hair—"

Her father's thumb brushed the fresh scar on her wrist. His voice was deadly quiet. "Who did this to you?"

The door clicked shut. John stood with his back against it, giving them space but not leaving. Their eyes met over her mother's shoulder.

Luna opened her mouth, but no words came. How could she explain the tanks? The voices? The way her reflection sometimes smiled back at her with too many teeth?

Her mother pulled back suddenly, studying her face. "You're not... you're not saying anything."

John stepped forward. "She's been through trauma. The doctors say she might have trouble—"

"I can *speak*," Luna snapped, then immediately regretted it when her parents flinched. She forced her voice softer. "I just... don't know where to start."

Her father sat heavily on the edge of the bed, the springs groaning. He reached for her hand—then froze when she instinctively pulled away.

That small movement broke something in him. His shoulders hunched. "We looked everywhere, baby. Posters, search parties... your mother wouldn't let them stop dragging the river."

Her mother's fingers trembled against Luna's cheek. "We never gave up. Not for one second."

Luna's vision blurred. The cold thing in her chest stirred uncomfortably at the warmth of their love, like a vampire shrinking from sunlight.

A knock at the door. The doctor entered, clipboard in hand. "Mr. and Mrs. Sky? I'm Dr. Khatri. We need to discuss your daughter's... unique medical situation."

John moved to block him. "Not now."

"It's important," the doctor insisted. "Her bloodwork shows—"

"*Not now.*" John's voice left no room for argument.

Luna's father stood, squaring his shoulders. "Whatever you have to say, you say it in front of all of us."

As the doctor hesitated, Luna caught sight of her reflection in the window behind him.

It wasn't blinking when she blinked.

It was *smiling*.

Her mother followed her gaze. "Luna? What's wrong?"

The reflection winked.

Luna squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, it was gone.

"Nothing," she whispered. "Just... tired."

Her father exchanged a look with John—the first moment of understanding between them. "We'll let you rest," he said, smoothing her blanket with rough hands. "We're not going anywhere."

As her parents settled into the uncomfortable chairs beside her bed, Luna realized with a pang that this was the hardest part of coming back—not the scars or the nightmares, but the way love hurt more than any of Voss's knives.

And in the back of her mind, the cold whisper:

*They'll never understand what you've become.*