Kaylee pulled her old cracked phone out of her other hoodie pocket. She set it on the table beside the monitor.
“The other half of the monitor is behind the paint cans in the garage,” she said quietly. “On the shelf over the freezer. That’s where they go every night to smoke and talk. Right after I get sent out to the camper.”
She swallowed.
“I recorded everything. I held my phone up to the speaker. Every night. And I saved them to the cloud so nobody could delete them.” Her voice shook. “Thirty-one nights.”
Her voice cracked on that last word, and she put her face against my arm.
Tara looked at me. Then she put on her softest voice. The church potluck voice.
“Wade, honey. She’s twisting it. You know how she gets. She’s been so angry since Amy died, and she’s taking it out on me, and…”
“Get out,” I said.
“You can’t just…”
“Get out of my house. You and Rick. Tonight.”
Rick had come in behind her from the garage. He took one look at Frank Hollis, standing at the end of my dining room table like a grain silo, and turned right around and went down the hall to pack.
Tara spun toward Joanne.
“Stop recording me!”
Joanne didn’t stop. She didn’t even blink.
“I texted the on-duty deputy ten minutes ago,” Joanne said evenly. “Right after the part about the heater. He’s on his way.”
She lowered her phone just enough to look Tara straight in the eye.
“Leaving a sixteen-year-old girl in an unheated camper at nineteen degrees has a name in Texas, Tara. It’s called child endangerment. And taking a minor’s trust money under false pretenses has a couple of other names, too.”
Tara opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
Carol Hollis got up from the table. She walked around to Kaylee’s chair and wrapped both arms around her granddaughter from behind, and laid her cheek on top of Kaylee’s head.
“Oh, my baby,” Carol whispered. “Oh, my sweet baby. Why didn’t you call us?”
“She took my phone in the house,” Kaylee said into my sleeve. “She said if I called anybody, she’d tell Dad I was lying and stealing, and he’d believe her. And he’d be gone for three weeks anyway. And she said she’d send me to Utah.”
She looked up at me.
“Then I found the baby monitor in the garage. In the box of my old baby stuff. And I thought, if nobody will believe me, maybe they’ll believe her.”
Specialty: Quiet Comebacks & Personal Justice
David Reynolds focuses on stories where underestimated individuals regain control of their lives. His writing centers on measured decisions rather than dramatic outbursts — emphasizing preparation, patience, and the long game. His characters don’t shout; they act.