I immediately remembered the telephone conversation I’d overheard that Sunday.
Dad had told the caller I wasn’t available to discuss a prescription.
When I’d asked him about it, he’d called it an insurance mistake.
Now I understood why Karen had been so nervous when she walked downstairs with the orange bottle.
She hadn’t discovered anything in my backpack.
She’d been trying to make sure Dad blamed me before anyone questioned her.
Officer Daniels explained that the disputed prescriptions and my sister’s use of my information were under investigation.
My father’s decision to send me into dangerous weather had also been referred to the prosecutor.
“What happens to Karen?” I asked.
“That will depend on the investigation and what she does next. Treatment may be an option.”
I looked down at my bandaged hands.
“And Dad?”
“The prosecutor will decide how to proceed.”
He paused before leaving.
“Your father has been here every day, Hannah. I’m not asking you to forgive him. I just thought you should know.”
The next afternoon, Karen came to the hospital.
Angela Reyes, the social worker, asked whether I wanted to see her.
I agreed.
My sister entered wearing one of Mom’s old purple sweatshirts. Her hair was tangled, her face looked exhausted, and she could barely look at me.
When she noticed the bandages around my fingers, she began crying.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
I remembered her saying those same words while Dad ordered me outside.
“You apologized that night too,” I replied. “Then you watched him lock the door.”
Karen lowered her head.
“I know.”
“Why did you do it?”
She sat beside my bed and finally told me the truth.
Three years earlier, after Mom died, Karen had struggled with grief. Then she’d injured her knee playing volleyball and undergone surgery.
Her doctor prescribed pain medication during her recovery.
At first, she took it as directed.
But she told me the medication made her feel less overwhelmed by everything she’d lost.
When the prescriptions ended, she began looking for other ways to obtain more.
Eventually, she found an online medical service.
“I used your information,” she admitted. “I thought nobody would question it.”
I felt sick.
“You used my name because I was fifteen?”
She nodded.
When the pharmacy called our house, Karen panicked.
She feared Dad would discover what she’d done.
So she placed the bottle in front of him and claimed she’d found it in my backpack.
“I thought he’d ground you,” she cried. “Maybe take your phone away. I never imagined he’d send you outside.”
“But he did.”
“I know.”
“And you didn’t stop him.”
Karen covered her face.
She admitted that after Dad locked the door, she’d gone upstairs and taken more medication.
She’d convinced herself I would find shelter at a neighbor’s house.
While I was collapsing beside County Road 9, she’d been asleep in her bedroom.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
I remembered the sister who used to braid my hair and let me sleep beside her during thunderstorms.
I could understand that she’d been struggling.
But understanding didn’t erase what she’d done.
“Are you getting help?” I finally asked.
Karen nodded.
She’d spoken with Officer Daniels about a treatment program in Dayton and was preparing to enter residential care.
“I want to get better,” she said.
“Then you have to tell the truth. All of it.”
“I will.”
When she left, I felt exhausted.
My sister’s confession had explained the orange bottle, but it hadn’t answered the question that hurt me most.
Why had Dad been so willing to believe her?
That evening, my mother’s younger sister, Aunt Diane, arrived from Columbus.
She sat beside my hospital bed and carefully held my injured hands.
“Children’s Services contacted me,” she explained. “They need somewhere safe for you to stay when you’re discharged.”
She offered to take me home with her.
I looked toward the hallway, knowing Dad was somewhere beyond it.
For the first time in my life, I realized that returning to my childhood home might not be the safest choice.
And the decision about where I would live next was no longer my father’s alone.
Part 4: My Father Admitted He Knew My Sister Was Lying—But I Wasn’t Ready to Forgive Him
Aunt Diane stayed beside my hospital bed until visiting hours ended. Before leaving, she explained that Children’s Services was arranging a hearing to determine where I would live while the investigation continued.
She had already offered to take me to Columbus.
“You don’t have to decide everything tonight,” she told me. “What matters is that you’re somewhere safe.”
I wanted to believe her, but the thought of leaving my childhood home frightened me. My mother’s sewing machine was still in the dining room, and the glow-in-the-dark stars Karen had helped me put on my bedroom ceiling were probably still there.
That night, I woke to voices outside my hospital room.
Aunt Diane was arguing with Dad.
“You locked a fifteen-year-old girl outside during a freezing storm,” she said. “Without a coat or phone. What were you thinking?”
Dad answered quietly, but I couldn’t make out his words.
“You’ve spent three years refusing to deal with Jenny’s death,” Diane continued. “Karen needed help, and Hannah needed a father. You weren’t there for either of them.”
