Page 4 of The Voicemail

My eyes burn.

“I’m scared,” I whisper.

I press my palm against my mouth, breathe once, then keep talking because I don’t know what else to do.

“I don’t know what I’m asking for. I just need someone to tell me what to do. I need someone to believe me before something bad happens.”

A sound comes from the hallway again. Closer this time. My chest tightens.

“I have to go,” I whisper.

I end the call and stare at the number with a funny feeling in my throat. Maya told me this firm answered 24/7. At the very least, they’d have a personalized voicemail to let me know they’d call me back, right?

I click on Maya’s picture in my contacts and scroll up to where she sent the number originally. I click back to the number I called and realize with horror that it’s not the number Maya sent. It’s one digit off.

For a few seconds, I don’t understand what I’m seeing. Then it hits me all at once. I just called a stranger. I left my full name, my address, and the fact that I’m alone on his voicemail. All because I entered the number wrong.

Just as I’m about to call the correct number, my phone rings. It’s the number I just dialed. The wrong one. I almost drop it. The screen keeps flashing.

I shouldn’t answer. I know I shouldn’t, but fear makes me do it anyway.

“Hello?”

For half a second, there’s only silence.

Then a man says, “Lock your door.”

His voice is low and calm. I go cold.

“What?”

“Lock your door. Now.”

“Who is this?”

“The man you called.”

I pull the phone away from my ear. He says something else, but I don’t hear it. I hang up.

Then someone tries to open my door. The handle jerks hard enough to rattle the chain. I stumble backward. Another shove hits the door. Harder this time. The deadbolt holds, but the frame cracks near the lock. My scream is stuck in my throat.

2

ALEX

Rain slicks the window beside me, turning the restaurant lights into long gold streaks across the glass. Marco pulls away from the curb, slow enough not to splash a woman hurrying under a black umbrella.

“Russo Tower?” he asks.

“Not yet,” I say. “Drive west.”

He doesn’t ask why. He just does it. Truthfully, I need time to decompress after that shitshow of a meeting.

The meeting wasn’t worth the scotch Whitmore wasted on it. He spent the last twenty minutes pretending he wasn’t asking me for more money. He leaned back in his chair, hand wrapped around his glass and told me the city’s development board had concerns, that the waterfront project was complicated. He said that permits took time, using the word optics twice, which meant someone had warned him that taking money from Russo Holdings in public might not look as clean as taking it in private.

The dinner itself ended just shy of midnight, and I was already exhausted. Two councilmen left with handshakes, sealed envelopes, and nervous smiles. Whitmore stayed because he wanted to squeeze me for more.

I let him talk long enough to feel validated, but I agreed to nothing. Then I stood when I was tired of his nasal voice. His expression shifted. Annoyed for half a second before he remembered he should be careful.