Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 138981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Heart thumping, I swipe my thumb across the green answer icon.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Miss Clarendon.”
Montero Arrendell.
His voice oozes coolly through the phone, this stone-cold thing that feels like a bone-stripping wind biting the back of my neck.
My racing heart goes painfully still like a rabbit that’s just come eye to eye with a wolf.
It’s like he knew.
“Mr. Arrendell,” I force out. My voice sounds like it belongs to someone else, someone completely numb. “What can I do for you?”
“Actually, I called to find out what I can do for you.” Over the phone, without the force of his physical presence and commanding charisma, his friendly tone sounds phony. “All these wicked things continuously happening, you poor thing. You must be scared out of your wits.”
I swallow roughly.
“I don’t scare that easily, sir.” And my voice chooses right then to crack, making a liar out of me. I’m petrified right now, and I realize I’m scared of him. Of the connections my mind strings together with that bracelet in Emma’s photograph. Of how it could all be tied to me, to Roger’s death. “But I’m fine. Really.”
“You don’t have to put on a brave face, Delilah—may I call you Delilah?”
No.
The very idea is nauseating, and I have to force words off my tongue. “If you want to.”
“Then I insist you call me Montero. I don’t want you feeling the need to be so formal with me. I’d like to offer you more protection, if I may.”
I frown. “What kind of protection? The police are doing a good job.”
“There are a number of things I could do,” he says. “Assign you a personal guard detail. Hire a private investigator to handle affairs. Our house, we have plenty of suites we could spare if you’d like to—”
“That won’t be necessary,” I rush out. Every word he speaks feels like a Venus flytrap slowly closing around me. “You’re very generous, but I wouldn’t dare impose. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“So independent. I admire that. Are you certain there’s nothing I can do to change your mind?” he coaxes.
“I’m sure,” I bite off.
I’m also sure I’d rather eat live cockroaches slathered in ghost pepper sauce than let him lure me into that house.
At least my defensiveness calms the frightened panic shooting through my veins. I manage to sound steadier when I ask, “Ulysses said you wanted to meet with me?”
“Oh, that. Yes. Administrative matters, nothing more. We can talk about it when you’re more settled in and this terrible business has passed.”
I’m actually a little surprised he didn’t pressure me to see him. But maybe that would be too obvious—or he can sense how spooked out of my skin I am.
I want off this call now.
He’s not the one I want to be talking to, and the longer we speak, the more I worry I’ll give away something that’ll make him suspicious.
“I’m so sorry. My battery’s about to die and my lunch break’s almost over.”
“Don’t you dare apologize, Delilah. I called you in the middle of your workday,” Montero responds firmly. “Do what you need to do. I just hope you know you can call on me for anything—anything at all.”
There’s a silky-sour undertone there. A touch of weird innuendo that leaves my stomach turning inside out. I choke back the horror in my throat.
“Thanks,” I force out, polite but stilted. “Bye.”
“Goodbye, Delilah.”
He makes my name sound like a slime-coated leaf flapping around.
I hang up with my throat stuck together.
Then I stare at my battery indicator.
6% left.
Fuck.
Pulse jacking, I swipe back to the photo of Marina Santos with one hand, scrabbling in my bag for a pen with the other, and I—I don’t have anything to write on.
Awesome.
So I scribble down the number in blue ink on the cheap particle board of the break room table.
Oops.
I hope that’ll come out.
Christ, why didn’t I just write it on my hand or something?
I get the last number down just as my phone beeps and dies with a cheerful chirp and a flash of the logo.
It’s just me, my dying phone, and that number on the table.
And I’ve got six minutes until my break’s over. I can hear the children shrieking around the courtyard, their laughter drifting through the windows.
It’s so normal versus the weird, crushing atmosphere in here.
My heart skips in an accusatory rhythm, demanding action.
My fingers shake as I tuck my hair behind my ear and glance at the old corded break room phone mounted on the wall. I don’t know if the thing’s even connected.
Only one way to find out.
Now it’s more important than ever that I talk to Marina Santos.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I rocket to my feet, skitter over to the phone, and press the handset to my ear. There’s a dull tone, and I crane my head to see the numbers on the table before punching them in. I hold my breath and wait.