Chapter 2 - Jacaranda
“Jacaranda” was not a code for police.
Not originally.
It was a word my sister Rachel and I had chosen three weeks earlier after an argument with Arthur.
At thirty-eight weeks pregnant, I had become the unwilling center of a committee.
Victoria wanted one birth plan.
Arthur wanted peace.
My obstetrician wanted me to stop letting family conflict raise my blood pressure.
Rachel wanted me to leave the mansion.
I wanted people to stop discussing my uterus as if it were a zoning dispute.
The first time Arthur took my phone during an argument, he kept it for forty minutes.
He said:
“You’re spiraling. Stop texting people.”
He returned it.
Apologized.
I accepted the apology too quickly.
Rachel did not.
“What if you actually need help?”
“I’m not being held hostage.”
“I know. I’m asking a boring safety question.”
We created one word.
If I texted Jacaranda, Rachel would call me immediately.
If I did not answer, she would call emergency services and give them Victoria’s address.
Why Jacaranda?
A purple-flowering tree outside the apartment where Rachel and I lived after college.
Nothing sinister.
Easy to remember.
Hard to send accidentally.
At 4:17 that afternoon, Rachel received it.
She called.
My phone rang once.
Then the battery died.
Rachel waited thirty seconds.
Called again.
Straight to voicemail.
Then she called 911.
Mrs. Caldwell was already doing the same thing.
Two separate calls.
May you like
Two separate witnesses.
That later mattered because nobody could claim Rachel had orchestrated the entire emergency from one angry text.
