Page 61 of The Call She Made That He Never Answered
"Understood, Mr. Rockefeller. Specific requirements?"
"Watch her every move. Who she contacts, where she goes, report to me regularly." I paused. "And she absolutely cannot know. If you get exposed, you're done in this business."
"Don't worry, Mr. Rockefeller. We're professionals."
I hung up. Got in the car.
I knew Ella too well. If she found out I had her monitored, she'd see it as an invasion of privacy. Might push her even harder toward leaving me.
But I didn't care anymore. I couldn't let her get hurt again. Couldn't let her face another day like today—watching over her dying sister while dealing with her abusive, unstable mother.
It was too much for her to carry alone.
And I had another reason. Selfish, maybe even sick.
Ella could run from Rockefeller Manor, move to Rochester, this nowhere I'd never heard of. Could ignore my calls, delete my texts, treat every attempt I made like it didn't exist.
But she could not escape my sight.
Because as long as she was my wife, even for one more day, she always would be.
I would not sign those goddamn divorce papers. Ever.
Chapter Seventeen
Ella
I saw that shadow again.
Third time this week. Every time I left the hospital, I could feel cold eyes tracking my back.
Whenever I pretended to adjust something and glanced behind me, I'd catch glimpses of men acting strange—a jogger in a hoodie suddenly changing direction, or a blue-collar guy in a beat-up pickup stubbing out his cigarette and rolling up his window. They thought they were slick. But Rochester wasn't Manhattan. No Fifth Avenue crowds to disappear into. Those extra stares were obvious as searchlights in the dark.
I quickened my pace into the supermarket. Part of my daily routine. After nine PM, they marked down fresh food that hadn't sold. Some went for half off. I was a regular.
At checkout, my hands shook so badly I dropped coins on the conveyor belt. The cashier stopped scanning and stared at me with concern.
"You okay, honey?" she asked. "You look pale."
"I'm fine." I forced a stiff smile and shoved the change into my wallet.
I had to get home. From the supermarket to my studio apartment was just one alley between buildings—a shortcut that saved me two blocks.
The alley was narrow and dark, flanked by six-story walk-ups. The only light came from a flickering streetlamp in the middle. Every time I passed through here, my heart climbed into my throat.
I practically ran through it.
When I got back to my cheap studio, air finally moved through my lungs again.
I leaned against the door for a moment before reaching to lock it. After the landlord's old lock, I added my own. The room smelled of aged wood mixed with citrus shampoo. That familiar scent gradually slowed my racing heart.
My phone rang, sharp and sudden. I answered. Maya.
"Hey, you home?" Maya's voice was tense. "Did you see those people again today?"
"Yeah, but don't worry, Maya. Door's locked."
Maya coughed violently on the other end, her voice so weak it made my throat tight. I'd regretted telling her about this. But I was so scared—if something happened to me, at least she'd know.
