Chapter 3: The Number That Went Quiet
I stayed near the locked door until the voicemail stopped echoing in my head. Dean’s voice had sounded as if he were standing beside me, one hand raised, asking me to wait before I made a mistake. But the message had contained no explanation. Only the accusation he expected other people to make.
Emmett returned the spare phone to the counter. “Play it again.”
I looked at him. “You heard it.”
“I want to hear what you hear the second time.”
The request irritated me, partly because it made sense. I pressed the screen. Dean’s voice filled the small room again, urgent but controlled. No background noise. No name except mine. No indication of where he had recorded it or who “they” meant.
When the message ended, Emmett asked, “What did you leave behind?”
“Nothing.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the answer I have.”
He studied me without moving closer. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and boiled water. My foot throbbed beneath the bandage, each pulse reminding me that I had entered his car because I had run out of road, not because I trusted him.
I took my own phone from the table. The unknown message still waited on the screen.
I saw the car.
The number beneath it was not saved. I called before I could change my mind.
The line rang once. A soft click followed. Then silence.
“Hello?” I said.
No answer came. I pulled the phone away and checked the screen. The call was still connected. I heard a faint rustle, like fabric brushing against a microphone.
“Who is this?”
The line went dead.
Emmett had watched my face rather than the phone. “Did you recognize the sound?”
“No.”
“You recognized the hesitation.”
I set the phone down. “You’re very comfortable deciding what I recognize.”
“I’m comfortable noticing when someone is frightened.”
“I’m not frightened.”
He glanced at my bleeding foot. “You ran barefoot through gravel.”
“That proves I was in a hurry.”
“It proves you believed stopping was worse.”
The distinction settled between us. I hated that it sounded accurate.
He opened the locked cabinet and removed a thin folder. He did not hand it to me. Inside were several printed pages, a street map, and a photograph turned facedown.
“You were waiting near the gate,” I said.
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“For trouble.”
“Dean?”
“I didn’t know his name when I arrived.”
“But you know him now.”
Emmett closed the folder. “I know enough to understand that his message was meant to shape the story before you could tell yours.”
The practical part of me caught on one word. “Story.”
“People believe the first clean version they hear.”
I looked again at the message. “Then I need to know what version he’s spreading.”
Emmett’s expression remained calm, but his hand tightened slightly around the folder. “That requires leaving this room.”
“I’m leaving.”
“You can barely stand.”
“I can sit in a car.”
“You can also be recognized in one.”
He walked to the counter and picked up the spare phone. “There is a public library six blocks from here. Busy entrance, no private security, several exits. Someone there may know why that number contacted you.”
“You already chose a destination.”
“I chose a place where you can investigate without being alone.”
“That sounds like protection.”
“It is risk management.”
I almost laughed, but my foot hurt too much. Instead, I picked up my coat. “I’m not giving you my phone.”
“I didn’t ask for it.”
“You’ll see whatever I find.”
“Only if you show me.”
That was the first clear boundary he had offered me. It did not make him safe. It made him easier to measure.
I slipped my phone into my pocket and opened the door. The corridor outside was empty, gray, and lit by narrow ceiling fixtures. Emmett followed after locking the room behind us.
At the service elevator, my phone vibrated.
A new message appeared from the unknown number.
DON’T GO TO THE LIBRARY.
I showed Emmett.
For the first time, his calm expression broke completely. He looked toward the dark corridor behind us, then at the elevator doors as they began to open.
“Who else knows where you are?” he asked.
May you like
I stepped inside.
“I thought you did.”
