Silence landed on the line for a fraction of a second.
Then your father said, very calmly, “Tell me the address.” The calm frightened Dave more than shouting would have, though he was too arrogant to know it yet. You gave it between breaths, eyes fixed on the cabinet where your kicked phone had disappeared, and your father did not waste a single second on questions he could ask later.
“Listen to me,” he said. “Help is already moving. Keep talking to me. Don’t close your eyes.”
Mrs. Higgins gave an irritated little huff.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said toward the phone. “Your daughter is not dying. She’s hysterical, and she has ruined my kitchen. If you want to come collect her, do it quickly.”
Your father didn’t answer her.
Instead he said, “David, unlock the front door.” His voice was still low, but there was something under it now that made the room feel different. “You will call 911 this second, and if you don’t, I promise you that the next time you hear my voice, it will be while I’m standing over you with sheriff’s deputies and three attorneys.”
Dave rolled his eyes.
“Three attorneys?” he repeated. “Jesus, does this pathetic little performance run in the family?” He leaned closer to the phone. “Listen, old man. Come get your daughter if you want. But don’t walk into my house like you matter.”
Your father exhaled once.
It wasn’t anger. Anger is louder. This sounded like judgment finally settling into place. “That’s where you’re confused,” he said. “It isn’t your house. It never was. Unlock the door.” 
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