Page 31 of The Voicemail

Maya’s voice softens. “Ellie.”

The nickname almost does me in.

“I’m okay,” I tell her firmly.

“Are you?”

“I’m safer here than I was at home.”

“I didn’t ask if you were safe,” she says gently. “I asked if you were okay.”

I rub my forehead, considering her question. “I don’t know,” I finally answer honestly.

She exhales. “Do you trust him?”

I think of Alex beside me on my destroyed couch, telling me I was right like there was never any question. I think of him pulling away instead of kissing me, even though I know he wanted to. I think of the men in the elevator, the unanswered questions, the way every room shifts when he walks in.

“Enough to stay with him,” I say.

Maya is quiet for a second. “Okay.”

“I think he’s trying to help.”

“And by trying to help, do you mean he’s trying to charm the pants off you?”

I can’t help but laugh. I look up as footsteps pass in the hallway. Not Alex. Someone else.

“It’s not like that,” I say, and I know she can hear the slight disappointment in my voice.

“But you want it to be,” she guesses. “Okay, this is all making more sense. I mean, hey, if you’re having a sexy sleepover with a stranger, that’s okay.”

“We aren’t,” I say forcefully.

“Not yet,” she says, and I can hear the smirk over the phone.

She can be such a goddamn pain in my ass sometimes.

“I’m hanging up now,” I say. “You have proof of life.”

“I love you,” she says cheerfully. “I just want you to be safe. Call me tomorrow or I’m breaking up the sexy sleepover myself.”

“I will,” I say, rolling my eyes.

When we hang up, I stay on the bed for a long time. There’s not much to do here. I want to go back to work. I want to be a productive member of society again. Being here does feel like being at some weird sleepaway camp. A heavily guarded, very expensive one.

I hear voices later that evening when I’m on my way to the kitchen. The hall curves near Alex’s office, and the door is cracked open. I’m not trying to eavesdrop. Not really. But then I hear a voice, low and tense, and I stop.

“We’ve got a possible hit in Red Hook,” the voice says. “If it’s Greco, we need to move before Bianchi hears.”

“Send DeSantis and Raul,” Alex says.

Except he doesn’t sound like the Alex I’ve come to know. He sounds colder and more dangerous. He sounds more like the man who beat the shit out of my stalker in my hallway.

“He won’t come quietly,” the voice says.

The back of my neck prickles. There’s a pause. Then one of the men in the room says, “Alessandro, we need to be careful not to make too much noise.”

Even from the hall, I feel the mood in the office shift, though I can’t quite name it. Then Alex says something too low to catch. A chair scrapes. I step back before anyone can find me there, but I’m not fast enough. The door opens.