Page 5 of The Voicemail

“We’re done for tonight,” I told him.

“We haven’t finished,” he spluttered.

“We have.”

He shifted in his chair. “I was under the impression we were coming to an understanding.”

“We did. You’re going to stop delaying my permits, and I’m not going to make your donor list public.”

His chief of staff went very still.

Whitmore’s face drained of color. “That’s a serious accusation.”

“It wasn’t an accusation, it’s a promise.”

That ended the meeting.

Nico, my cousin, waited near the front bar with a drink in his hand and the hostess laughing at something he’d said. Too relaxed for someone who was supposed to be there as backup. That’s Nico, though. Always says he’s just here for a good time, and never for long.

“Everything good?” he asked.

“Go home,” I told him.

His eyebrows lifted. “What happened?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

That irritated him. His expression changed, but I didn’t have time to manage his pride. He wanted to rough up the councilman and be certain the conversation was really over. It was. There was nothing left for any of us to add.

Now, with the restaurant behind me, I lean back into the soft leather and close my eyes. It has been a long night. I kissed a little too much ass for my taste, and I still have no real assurance I’m getting what I want.

My phone vibrates in my jacket. I sigh and pull it out. If it isn’t Nico, it’s someone else with a problem that can’t wait until I’ve slept. An unknown number lights the screen, and that stops me. This line is unlisted, and I don’t get any spam calls to my line ever.

I stare at the phone for half a second. The call stops before I can decide to answer. A voicemail notification appears immediately after.

My first instinct is to ignore it. More than likely a wrong number I don’t need to worry about. I’m curious, as they had left a voicemail.

I play it. For the first second, there’s only breathing. Then a woman speaks.

“Hi. My name is Elena Hart. I’m sorry it’s so late. My friend Maya gave me this number, and I don’t know if this is how this works, but I think someone is following me.”

Her voice shakes, like she’s trying to control it and not doing a good job. I look out the window as Marco turns onto Ninth.

“Elena Hart,” I say under my breath.

I don’t know the name. The voicemail keeps going.

I sit forward. “Marco.”

His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror.

“Turn around. West Seventeenth.”

“Yes, sir.”

He changes lanes hard enough that a cab lays on the horn behind us. The woman keeps talking.

The address is close, but that’s not why I go. I’m no white knight riding in to save a damsel in distress, but that address is familiar.