Fluorescent lights. Countertops worn smooth by elbows. A guy my age in a red polo asks how he can help.
“My voicemail’s been weird,” I say. “Missed messages. People swear they left them.”
“No problem,” he says cheerfully. “What’s the number?”
I give it to him.
He types. Scrolls.
Stops.
His face changes.
Just a flicker — barely there — but I catch it.
He clicks again. Scrolls slower this time. Then turns the monitor toward me.
“Okay,” he says carefully. “So… this is your voicemail access log.”
The screen fills with timestamps.
My stomach drops before my brain catches up.
“There are multiple remote logins,” he continues. “Someone’s been calling in and entering your PIN.”
I lean closer.
2:03 a.m.
3:17 a.m.
4:55 a.m.
Then—
1:08 p.m.
1:22 p.m.
My chest tightens.
Wednesdays.
One to two p.m.
The time I turn my phone off.
The time I told Sage—very clearly—not to call me because Jim and I have our weekly closed-door meeting.
I swallow.
“Those are when someone accessed your voicemail,” he explains. “Some messages were listened to fully. Some were partially accessed. If the caller hangs up before the message finishes, the system can still flag it as ‘new.’ That’s why you might’ve seen missed messages that felt… incomplete.”
I stare at the screen.
This isn’t a glitch.
This is deliberate.
