Just a pair of women pushing strollers, a utility truck idling at the corner, a dog walker tangled in the leashes of his overexcited charges. The ordinary flow of life continuing as if mine hadn't just shattered into pieces.
My fingers found the necklace, traced the cold edges of diamonds that caught the afternoon light.
Beautiful. Deadly. My stomach twisted at the contradiction.
I turned from the window and surveyed my apartment. Evidence of Darius’s men’s search remained everywhere—drawers pulled open, closet doors ajar, the careful disordered chaos I maintained disrupted by unfamiliar hands.
Restoring things to where they belonged gave me something to focus on.
I started with the dresser, shoving clothes back into their proper places. My hands trembled as I worked, refolding shirts that didn't need folding, reorganizing socks that were already paired. The motions were automatic, mindless, something to keep my body busy while my mind spiraled. A bra caught on a drawer’s edge. I yanked it free, heard fabric tear, didn't care.
The phone, lying in my peripheral vision, remained silent.
I grabbed it, selected my mother's contact.
The ringing filled my ear—one ring, two, three.
I counted them, holding my breath, waiting.
Voicemail.
My heart plummeted.
I sank onto the couch, pulling my feet underneath the quilt, needing its weight and warmth even as sweat prickled along my spine.
She was probably coordinating with authorities.
That was it.
They'd told her not to answer on the first ring, needed time for traces, for whatever technology they used in these situations. Every cop show I'd ever seen played through my mind, offering rational explanations my heart refused to believe.
I tried again.
And again.
Each time, the ringing stretched longer, the silence afterward more deafening.
My phone dinged and I lunged for it, fumbling it between my hands before securing my grip.
Edith: Hey, sugar, just a friendly reminder. I do not want to see you in the store today. It is your day off. Go live your life. Be young. Come back tomorrow with scandalous stories that I can live vicariously through.
A smile tugged at my lips despite everything.
Sweet Edith, who had no idea what kind of scandalous story I was living through. I could run to the store, tell her everything, feel her arms around me while she promised it would be okay.
But it would only put her in danger. She'd try to help, try to protect me, and Darius wouldn't hesitate to?—
I cut off that thought and dialed my mother again.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
The pattern became a ritual.
Call.
Wait.
Voicemail.
