Page 12 of The Voicemail

“I need to call Maya,” she says, before clarifying. “My best friend. She’s the one who gave me the number for the security firm.”

“The one that wasn’t me,” I guess.

She nods.

“Call her,” I say. “Tell her what’s going on.”

Her eyes cut to me suspiciously. “Is there anything I need to leave out?”

My eyes narrow and I watch her carefully, trying to decipher her meaning.

“Nothing I can think of. But for both of your sakes, it’s better not to tell her exactly where you’re going. Your phone could be tapped.”

She immediately drops it like it’s burning her.

“I hadn’t even considered that,” she hisses before looking up at me in panic. “What if he’s tracking it?”

I shake my head.

“I mentioned I own a security company,” I start slowly. “All of my vehicles are equipped with anti-tracking devices. Once you’re in one, no one can track your location.”

She swallows hard and looks up at me with apprehension.

“I assume your properties are the same?”

I smile at her, hoping to put her at ease.

“I promise you, it’s for your safety. Maya can know where you are after you’re on a secured line and she signs an NDA not to tell anyone where you’re staying.”

“She would never put me at risk.”

I nod. “Be that as it may, it’s standard procedure. I know I’m asking a lot of you, but I need you to trust me.”

“What choice do I have?” she mutters, reaching down to pick up the phone where she dropped it.

“Call your friend,” I tell her. “She’ll be worried about you.”

She glares at me for a second, then looks down at her phone again. Her thumb hovers over the screen, but she doesn’t call. Not yet.

The residence is in Tribeca, behind a limestone front and a private garage that opens before Marco reaches it. No doorman. No lobby. No neighbor watching from behind a cracked door. The building belongs to a holding company that belongs to another holding company, which is how I prefer most things.

Marco pulls into the garage. The door shuts behind us. Elena notices.

Her hand tightens around the strap of her bag. “Is this your house?” she asks.

“One of them.”

She lets out a short, humorless laugh.

Marco gets out first. I wait until he opens her door, then I step out on my side so she doesn’t feel boxed in. She doesn’t move right away.

“This is still one night,” she says.

“Yes.”

“You said one night.”

“I remember.”