Michel. Ollie. They’ll know what to do and can send people. Ollie can trace my phone.
With a whimper of effort, I force my body to shift, rolling to get my bound hands slightly more accessible. My fingers fumble against the slick fabric of my pants, searching for the outline of my phone in my pocket. It’s still there. A tiny, desperate sliver of hope.
Minutes feel like hours. My numb fingertips brush the hard rectangle, but I can’t get it to slide out. I twist, contort, and move in the most uncomfortable of ways until I can hook a thumb into my pocket’s edge. Another brutal lurch of the van sends me sliding, but I hold on, dragging the phone up and out until it clatters onto the metal floor beside my hip.
Now for the hard part.
I can’t see the screen.
I have to do this by feel and memory. I press the side button, a faint glow reflecting off the grimy wall.
Siri. I can use Siri.
My voice is dry, a terrified rasp as I whisper, “Hey Siri. Call Ollie.”
A chime, then a soft digital dial tone purrs in the silence.
Please, please, please.
From the front seat, a different phone rings. A custom tune I recognize instantly. It’s the ridiculous ringtone Ollie had set for herself on my phone.Money, Money, Money”by ABBA.
The dialing in my ear syncs perfectly with the music from the front.
A partition between the cab and the back slides open with a sharp click. The bland-faced man from the cafe leans through, holding up a buzzing, lit-up phone. On the screen, a photo of me and Ollie at my first album release party, smiling brightly.
“She’s not going to answer, sweetheart.” His voice is almost bored. His eyes dart to the driver, who’s still out of view from where I’m lying.
Bland Man answers the call and puts it to his ear. And then he speaks, but his voice is gone. In its place is Ollie’s voice. An almost perfect replication that could easily be misconstrued on the receiving end. Her cadence and her accent hit my ears when he says, “Violet, doll. Is everything okay? You never call me at this hour. Kisses ‘n all that.”
It was the exact tone she’d used on the phone with me for the last few weeks. Every paranoid feeling I’ve had about knowing something was off makes sense now.
The truth doesn’t slam down on me; it pours in like icy water waiting for me at the warehouse. Filling me up and drowning me from the inside.
They’d gotten to her. The calls, the reassurance. It had all been him, lulling me, isolating me.
Ollie is gone. I need to call Michel.
The man, using Ollie’s voice, smiles at me. “Don’t worry. It’ll be quick. The water’s very cold.”
Knowing this may be my only chance to find answers, I start my second desperate set of twenty-one questions.
“Why?” my voice croaks as I continue to struggle with my bound hands.
His lips form a thin line as he looks at the driver and back at me. Then he shrugs. “Money, kid. You’re not worth the trouble. Solace is ours.”
SMACK.
“Dude,” Bland Man shouts, rubbing the sore spot on his chest. “She’s gonna die, anyway. What’s it matter?”
“How long have you had Ollie?” I try to get a good look at the driver.
Bland Man laughs. “Let’s just say Ollie never actually had a stroke.”
It’s been months. Months that she’s been gone. My eyes squeeze closed at the thought of her being forgotten. Not mourned the way she should have been.
He shrugs like a kid just got told they can’t have ice cream and “it sucks being a kid.” Then, he slides the partition shut, ending our conversation.
I hold tight to my phone and throw one last Hail Mary. “Hey Siri, call Michel.” I’m sobbing now, the tears salty on my lips. But this time, when the partition opens, that specific smell hits me again.
