Page 5 of Dancing in the Dark

The second, a day after that.

Unknown:

mf dbyf u74!

The third, two days ago.

Unknown:

mI95hb$ j

And then the fourth, from only an hour ago. But this time, instead of words, I got a blurry picture of… the sidewalk, I suppose. It could be any sidewalk, in any city or any town, in any country on the planet, since they all look kinda the same.

I have no clue who is sending them, or if they’re a victim of a butt text gone wrong or a potential stalker I should talk to the police about, but I stare at the picture for a long moment and study a dark patch that may be old gum squished onto the sidewalk. The blur of white shoes off to the side. A half a finger, maybe, taking up half of the screen.

I figure any killer stalker psycho would probably be better at taking pictures and sending readable texts, but then again, this could be one of those ‘famous last words’ situations.

Still, I tap out a fast, “who is this?” Then I groan at Anderson’s reply. Something about how I’m not playing nice and I should be chattier. My phone buzzes with a response from my mystery texter, but all it says is “m,86%f”, and then Aubree’s name pops up on my screen.

Not a text this time. An incoming call.

It. Just. Never. Stops.

I scoop up my wine and slump back on the couch, then, swiping my screen, I set our call on speaker rather than risk a goop transfer. “Hi, Aubree.” I lift my feet onto the coffee table and exhale a happy sigh, because on the other end of the line, the magical squealing laughter of a beautiful little girl heals parts of my soul that other people took pleasure in breaking.

Mia friggin’ Fletcher. Five years old, a missing tooth or two, soft brown hair, and in possession of my whole damn heart.

“You’re with Mia.” I close my eyes, purely so I can hear her better.

“Yeah, I⁠—”

“No. Shhh… Don’t talk for a minute. I wanna listen.”

“You’re hopeless. I swear.”

“Mmhm.” My lips curve into a satisfied grin. “Shush.”

“We’re at Fletch’s new apartment and helping him unpack all his crap. Wanna come over?”

“Nope. But be quiet, please.”

“Cato! Are you ready?”

“Fletch isn’t here,” Aubree teases. “He and Arch were called out for a case, which means it’s just me, Minka, Mia, Tim, and Cato. Tim’s heading to the bar in a second to cook us up a feast, then he’ll bring it all back and we’ll pretend that helping someone move is actually fun.” Singing low on her breath, she adds, “You sure you don’t wanna come over? Mia’s only said your name three thousand times in the last hour alone.”

Goddddddd, I love that baby girl.

I can’t even be sure precisely when I carved the heart and soul from my chest and handed them to her. I only know my life revolves around the tiny snatches of time I get to see her, and on the days I can’t, I simply hope that someone will talk about her.

“Fifi doesn’t eat meat!” Mia shouts. But it’s a happy shout. An informative ‘don’t fuck it up, Uncle Tim’ shout. ‘But she loooooves salad with the little bits of stale bread in it!’

“Thank you for calling me, Aubs.” I draw a deep breath in until it expands my chest, then I exhale again and sip my wine. “I thought I’d have to go all day without her.”

“Like I said, we’re here, and Charlie isn’t, so…”

“Knowing my luck, he’d finish work the exact moment I arrived. It’s too messy,” I groan. “Life is better if I⁠—”

“Turn the TV on. Go to Channel Nine.”