The man nodded toward a gold-framed hallway just off the lobby. “There’s a row of booths just behind the elevator bank, madam. The operators will be happy to assist with long-distance.”
She nodded her thanks.
After nearly a week had gone by, Dean was probably half worried, half irritated. Maybe she was underestimating him and he’d left a dozen messages at the hotels her itinerary had listed. If she’d called him earlier in the week, he might’ve told her to come home.
And she would have. But now? Now she wasn’t sure she’d listen.
Once they were settled in their room and with Nora in the shower—singing something Beatles-adjacent behind the door—Leanne slipped out, her purse slung over her shoulder, her heels clicking faintly against the marble. The air downstairs was heavy with perfume and panic.
She found the row of pay phones, and several of them were empty. Slipping into one, Leanne picked up the receiver and pressed zero.
“I’d like to place a call to New York, please,” she told the operator.
“Yes, ma’am. Number?”
Leanne recited her home telephone slowly. The operator quoted the charge of eight quarters. She dug cool, if slightly sticky from a melted peppermint, coins from the bottom of her bag and fed them one by one into the slot.Click. Click. Click.
She glanced at the delicate gold watch on her wrist, listening to the ringing on the line.
“No one appears to be answering your call, ma’am,” the operator said after an eternity of trilling. “Would you like me to redirect to another number?”
Leanne hesitated. She didn’t want to call the office. Not really. But if he wasn’t at home, he was there. Always there.
“Yes, please,” she said and gave the number for the firm.
The connection clicked.
Rang once. Then—
“Miller, Abrams and Associates,” came a voice. Smooth. Sultry. Practiced.
Leanne stiffened.
Charlotte. Dean’s secretary.
It wasn’t just the voice. But the lilt, the overfamiliar way she always said “Mrs. Miller” like it was both a compliment and a warning.
“This is Leanne.” Her tone was even, measured, and more controlled than casual conversation required.
“Mrs. Miller! So good to hear from you.” The voice brightened too much, too quickly. “How’s the travel going?”
“Quite well. And thank you again for putting together the itinerary,” Leanne said, her voice clipped but polite.
“Of course,” the secretary replied, voice syrupy. “My pleasure. I’m always happy to help. Dean—I mean, Mr. Miller—has been quite worried. He hasn’t heard from you.”
Leanne heard the slip. But she didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. The flicker of nausea that hit her gut said enough. She didn’t believe that Dean had crossed any lines…but the suspicion always lingered. She steadied her voice.
“May I speak with him, please?”
“I’m really sorry; he’s already left for the evening,” came the smooth reply.
Leanne’s jaw tightened. “Then why are you still there?” The question was genuine—at first. But as the question left her lips, the edge intensified.
“Just finishing up some last bits of correspondence. Makes the morning easier.”
The secretary’s voice was easy, almost conspiratorial. As if she expected Leanne to bond with her over the weight of office work. Torelate.
But all Leanne felt was the slow, cold curl of unease wrapping around her ribs.
