My new phone.
My missing messages.
And the sickening thought I can’t quite shake:
Somebody else might’ve heard them instead.
And if that’s true?—
Then this wasn’t an accident at all.
I hang up and just sit there for a minute, phone warm in my hand.
My new phone.
That’s all this is.
Has to be.
I let out a slow breath and roll my shoulders, trying to shake the tightness out of my neck. “Okay,” I mutter to myself. “Relax.”
There’s no way she knows my voicemail pin.
No way.
She’s never met my mother.
Doesn’t know her birthday.
Wouldn’t even know whatmonthshe was born in.
And even if she did — who the hell checks someone else’s voicemail? Who even thinks to do that?
I rub my face with both hands and lean back in my chair.
New phone.
New system.
New settings.
Early adopter bullshit. That’s all it is.
Verizon probably screwed something up. Or the voicemail didn’t port over right. Or the messages glitched. Hell, half the time this thing freezes if I scroll too fast. That’s what you get for buying the “latest model.”
I glance down at the BlackBerry clipped to my belt — steady, reliable, boring as hell.
Work phone never fails me.
My flip phone? Brand new. Untested. Probably fried half its features the first time I dropped it on the dock.
I shake my head, almost laughing at myself.
“Yeah,” I say under my breath. “This is on me.”
Missed calls happen.
Voicemails disappear.
