Page 10 of The Voicemail

The older officer shifts near the doorway. “You reported harassment?”

“Yes,” I answer shortly. “Three times.”

“Any threats?”

My mouth goes dry. Alex’s head turns toward him slowly. The officer seems to realize, one second too late, how stupid that question sounds with my door hanging broken behind him.

“I mean prior to tonight,” he clarifies.

I reach for my phone. “I have screenshots. I’ve been compiling evidence.”

My hand is still shaking when I unlock it.

I show them the folder. The unknown numbers. The pictures of flowers and cards. The photo of the black car from two weeks ago. The voicemail with only breathing that I refuse to play because I don’t want to hear it.

The younger officer looks through everything with more attention than the last one did. Maybe it’s because this time, the man escalated. Maybe it’s because of Alex.

“Send these to this number,” he says, handing me a card.

I take it.

Alex’s phone buzzes once. He glances at it, then pockets it without answering. He’s watching me instead, and it makes me feel important somehow. Then I see the blood on his knuckles, and another cold thought settles in my stomach. What if I called the wrong stranger?

The older officer tells me they will have someone canvass the area and check nearby cameras. He says they will put out a description. He says they will send a unit by the building a few times tonight. It’s more than they’ve ever offered before.

It also doesn’t feel like enough. I can tell from Alex’s face that he doesn’t think so either.

When the officers finally step back into the hall, one of them speaks quietly to Alex. I can’t hear everything, but I get bits and pieces.

“Handled carefully.”

“Of course.”

“Appreciate your cooperation.”

Alex catches me listening. I don’t look away. The police leave twenty minutes later with the gun, their notes, and a promise that someone will call me.

My neighbor retreats into 4A after telling me twice that he’s glad I’m all right. He also comments that the building really has gone downhill. His door closes. The hallway empties.

Then it’s just me, Alex, and my broken door.

He looks at the frame.

“You can’t stay here tonight,” he says.

I laugh once. It comes out ugly. “Where else would I go?”

His eyes shift to me. “I’ll put you up in a hotel.”

I step back in shock.

“You can’t do that,” I protest, shaking my head. “You’ve done enough, and I really appreciate it, but that’s way too much.”

“It’s not enough,” he counters. “You’ve been through an ordeal, and you need a safe place to recover. Let me put you up in a hotel and get someone over here to fix that door.”

“I don’t know you,” I remind him. “You don’t have to do any of this for me.”

“Of course I don’t.” He shrugs. “But I’m offering. Who else is stepping up to help?”