Chapter 12
The office smelled like old coffee and lemon polish and I couldn't stop looking at the phone in the middle of the desk.
His lawyer had left ten minutes earlier. A small black recorder sat next to his desk phone, its red light off, a legal pad beside it with two lines written in sharp block letters: Let them talk. Don't promise. The consent form I'd signed was still on the edge of the desk where I'd pressed my thumb too hard and left a print.
He stood behind the desk, not touching me, which I was grateful for. He wore the same black shirt from that first night in the hallway, sleeves pushed to his elbows, tattoos stark under the warm lamplight. The cream walls and dark wood trim from the hallway ran right into this room. Same brass hinge on the door, now closed.
"You don't have to do this tonight if you're not ready," he said.
I stared at the phone. My right hand throbbed where the knuckles had finally healed over, pink and tight. "If I don't, they keep calling. If I do, it's on record."
"That's the point," he said. "We need them saying it. The hour. The boy. In their words. Not yours."
I nodded. My throat was dry. He reached past me and pressed the button on the recorder. The light went solid red. Then he put the desk phone on speaker, slid it toward me, and stepped back so his shoulder was even with mine, close enough I could hear him breathing.
"On speaker," he whispered. "Just ask what they want. I'll be right here."
I dialed the number I'd memorized but never saved. It rang twice.
A man answered on the second ring, loud background noise, like a car radio. Same voice from the hallway night.
"Sadia," he said, like he'd been waiting. "You got my hour or you got excuses?"
My hand tightened around nothing. I glanced at him and he gave me the smallest nod. Keep going.
"I don't have it," I said. My voice cracked. "Please, we talked about my brother. He's sick. He's just a kid. Please stay away from my brother."
The man laughed, short. "You have one hour, Sadia. Same as before. You don't pay, we come collect from the boy. You understand me?"
He was saying it exactly like the lawyer needed. I felt cold all over, back against that hallway wall again, phone pressed to my ear until my cheek burned. Only now the phone sat on a desk and the red light watched us both.
"He's in middle school," I said, because the lawyer had told me to make him say the threat more clearly. "Don't bring him into this. This is my debt."
"Your debt, your brother," the man said. "Touch the boy and you'll learn. You got sixty minutes to bring cash to the lot or we swing by his school. Your choice."
Across from me, his jaw flexed. I saw the muscle jump under the ink on his neck. He didn't speak, didn't interrupt, but his hands curled into fists on the desk and then flattened, deliberate, controlled. He was listening the way he had that first night in the hallway, eyes lowered, but now as a witness, not a stranger.
I swallowed. "Where do you want me to meet you?"
"Gas station off Route 9, by the diner lot. You know the one with the busted sign. One hour. You come alone. No cops, no boyfriend. You bring everything you owe plus late fees."
I looked at him. He mouthed time.
"What time?" I asked.
"Ten tomorrow morning," the man said. "You don't show, we don't call again. We just show up where he is."
The line clicked dead.
For three seconds the office was silent except for the faint hiss of the recorder. My ears rang.
He reached forward and stopped the recording. Saved it with one tap. The file name flashed on the screen: 2026_extortion_call_01.wav. Then he played the last ten seconds back, just enough to hear the man's voice again: we swing by his school — we just show up where he is — and the boy as leverage, clear as day, his threat looping in his own words.
"That's enough," he said quietly. He didn't touch the phone again. He looked at me. "You did good. You did exactly what they needed."
I hadn't realized I was crying until I felt it on my chin. Not sobbing like that night in the hallway, just leaking, my breathing shallow and fast. My injured hand had found the edge of the desk and I was gripping it.
He crouched slightly so we were eye level. "Hey. Look at me. He's not near them. Your brother's with Mrs. Alvarez tonight, locked doors, and tomorrow he's here. They set a public meet because they think you're scared and alone. They're not getting either."
I wiped my face with my sleeve. The recorder's red light was off now. The legal pad, the phone, the closed door — all of it was still the same mansion, same hallway just outside, but it felt different. The first time I'd taken that call I'd been slumped against the wall trying to disappear. This time he'd stood next to me and let them incriminate themselves.
"Ten tomorrow," I repeated. "Route 9. Diner lot."
He nodded and picked up his own phone to text the lawyer. "We won't arrest them on the call," he said, echoing what the lawyer had promised. "We bring this to the sheriff with the papers from last night. They show up to collect, they do the extortion on camera, in person. Then it's done."
I stared at the desk phone where the crew's voice had just been. "And I don't go alone."
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"No," he said. "You don't go at all unless I'm right there with you. That's the deal."
Outside the office, the hallway light glowed warm against the cream panels. The trap was set, the time was on tape, and for the first time the hour was theirs, not mine.
