Page 2 of Thirty-Two Calls

He roared in pain, his grip loosening just enough. Evie didn't hesitate. She threw her weight forward, driving her elbow backward into his ribs, broke free, and ran. She ran until her lungs burned, her coat tearing on a stray piece of scaffolding, tears blinding her as she burst out onto the crowded main street and threw herself through the heavy glass doors of the 4th Precinct police station.

The Interrogation of Morals

The police station was a sensory assault of buzzing fluorescent lights, ringing phones, and the sharp scent of stale coffee and floor wax. Evie sat shivering in an uncomfortable plastic chair in an interview room, a thin, scratchy blanket draped over her shoulders. Her lip was bleeding where she had bitten it, and her favorite silk blouse was torn at the collar.

Detective Miller, an older man with tired eyes, sat across from her. Beside him stood Officer Davis, a younger woman with a clipboard. Initially, their demeanor had been professional, soothing even. But then Evie had to give her name, her employment at Rothwood Industries, and her address—a penthouse address famously linked to Lance Rothwood’s private real estate holdings.

The air in the room palpably shifted. Officer Davis exchanged a knowing, loaded glance with Detective Miller. The tabloids and the corporate gossip mill had done their work; Evangeline Foster’s reputation preceded her.

"So, Ms. Foster," Detective Miller sighed, leaning back in his chair. The gentle, paternal tone had evaporated, replaced by a weary skepticism. "You were walking alone down the service alley. You're sure you didn't... know this man? Maybe from a previous arrangement?"

Evie’s head snapped up. "An arrangement? He attacked me. I have no idea who he was."

Officer Davis clicked her pen. "It's just that, well, in your circles... and given your, um, public association with Mr. Rothwood... sometimes lines get blurred. Are you sure you didn't entice him in some way? A lingering look? What exactly were you wearing under the coat?"

Evie felt the blood drain from her face. The physical assault had terrified her, but this—this casual, cruel assassination of her character—hollowed her out. "I was walking home from work," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I was attacked."

"We're just trying to get the full picture, Evangeline," Miller said, using her first name with a distinct lack of respect. "We see a lot of things in this precinct. Women who make certain... moral compromises for money... sometimes they attract unsavory elements. What else can we expect to happen with a woman in your position? Are you absolutely certain this wasn't a disagreement over compensation?"

They weren't looking at a victim. They were looking at the other woman. The home-wrecker. A woman whose choices had stripped her of the right to be protected or believed.

Evie stopped talking. She pulled the scratchy blanket tighter around herself, the cold seeping all the way into her bones.

Thirty-Two Rings

They left her alone in the holding area while they "processed her statement"—a euphemism, she was sure, for filing it away in the trash. Evie pulled her phone from her pocket with shaking hands.

She needed Lance. She needed the man who had promised to take care of her, the man whose power and influence could shield her from the judging stares of the officers passing by the glass window.

She dialed his private number.

Ring. Ring. Ring. "You have reached the voicemail of Lance Rothwood..."

She swallowed hard and dialed again. He was probably in a meeting. He just needed to see it was her.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Voicemail.

Ten times. Fifteen times. The officers at the desks outside occasionally glanced at her, their eyes filled with a toxic mixture of pity and contempt. She was a tragic, pathetic spectacle. The billionaire's discarded plaything, crying in a police station.

Twenty times. Twenty-five times. Her thumb grew numb from pressing the screen. Desperation clawed at her throat, making it hard to breathe. Please, Lance. Please pick up. I'm so scared. Thirty-two times.

On the thirty-second call, the line didn't even ring. It went straight to voicemail. He had turned his phone off.

Evie stared at the cracked screen of her phone, the finality of the silence crushing her. Nine years. She had given him nine years of her life, and he couldn't answer the phone when she was broken and bleeding.

A sob tore free from her chest, echoing loudly in the sterile room. She couldn't do this anymore. She couldn't be alone anymore. Wiping her eyes furiously, she scrolled to a different contact and pressed call.

He answered on the first ring.

"Evie?"

"Van," she choked out, her voice breaking completely. "Van, I need you. Please."

The Sanctuary of a Brother

Evander "Van" Foster hit the doors of the 4th Precinct like a battering ram. Standing at six-foot-five and built like a professional linebacker, Van possessed a physical presence that commanded immediate, nervous respect. He wore a faded flannel shirt and work boots, looking more like a lumberjack than the brilliant, high-level encryption specialist he was at Rothwood Industries.

He spotted her immediately.