Page 1 of The Voicemail

1

ELENA

The flowers are on my desk when I get back from the loading bay. A dozen white roses this time, in a narrow glass vase beside my keyboard. I stop in the doorway and stare at them, because they were not there when I left fifteen minutes ago.

The event is still going on in the main gallery. On the other side of the wall, guests laugh over the sound of clinking glasses and footsteps crossing polished concrete. Someone is talking too loudly about a painting he probably has no intention of buying. Someone else is pretending to care. The string quartet we hired is tucked near the west wall, playing softly enough that no one has to shout over them.

The scent of the roses reaches me the second I walk in, and my stomach tightens.

Claire looks up from the front desk when I don’t move. “What?” she asks.

She follows my stare to the flowers and makes a face. “Again?”

My fingers curl around the edge of the doorframe. Again.

That’s what everyone says now, because the first bouquet was odd, but sweet. The second was creepy, but probably harmless. By the third bouquet, I’d called the cops. They took a report, told me not to engage, and said there was nothing they could do unless someone made a direct threat.

Flowers are not a threat. Anonymous texts are not always threats. A man sitting in a car across from my apartment is not proof of anything, because people are allowed to park on public streets. I know all of this because it was explained to me by men who didn’t look up from their paperwork while I was explaining how afraid I felt.

Claire sets her phone face-down on the desk and sighs. “I was away from my desk for like five minutes to use the restroom. I never even saw them. Maybe they’re from a donor?”

“They would have left them on your desk,” I point out.

She looks at the card tucked between two stems. Her expression shifts a little, but she clearly doesn’t think it’s as big of a deal as I do. I walk to my desk slowly. The card is cream-colored, folded in half, my name written on the front in block letters.

ELENA.

I take a picture before I touch it. That’s standard procedure these days. I collect proof that apparently no one can use. My hand is cold when I pick up the card and open it.

You looked tired this morning. You should sleep more.

I read it twice and try to think back to this morning. I did look tired. I stood in my bathroom with concealer under my eyes and a coffee I barely drank because my stomach was already sour. I wore my hair down for ten minutes, then pinned it back because my hands were shaking too badly to curl it. I changed shirts twice. I checked the street from my bedroom window before I left.

No one should know how I looked before I stepped out of my apartment. Claire gets up.

“Elena?” she asks, concerned.

I close the card. “Who accepted this delivery?” I ask tightly.

“I don’t know,” she answers.

“Claire,” I snap.

“I don’t.” She lifts both hands defensively. “People have been in and out all night. Catering, security, assistants, drivers. It could have come through the front. It could have come through the service entrance.”

“You’re supposed to log all deliveries,” I remind her.

“I know, but we’re in the middle of an event and I had to use the restroom. I swear it was no longer than five minutes. If that.”

I look through the glass wall toward the main gallery.

The gallery looks perfect. Bellamy Fine Art always looks perfect. White walls, black trim, dramatic lighting, and art positioned so carefully that even empty space feels expensive. Guests drift between sculptures and servers, oblivious to my inner turmoil.

“I’m throwing them away,” I say out loud.

Claire glances toward the flowers. “Maybe you should keep them for evidence.”

“I have pictures.”