Page 30 of The Voicemail

My body keeps bracing for the next horrible thing, even though Alex’s apartment is quiet, secure, and full of people who watch me around the clock.

I sleep better behind Alex’s locks than I slept in my own apartment for weeks. I stop jumping every time the elevator opens. I stop checking the windows as often because there’s nothing across from them but sky and glass and expensive city views. I even stop flinching when one of his men passes me in the hallway.

Alex doesn’t crowd me, which surprises me. I expected him to be everywhere after what happened at my apartment. Instead, he gives me space in a way that feels deliberate. Breakfast waits outside my door every morning. My coffee is ready before I ask for it. My preferred laundry detergent turns up after I complain once that everything here smells expensive and impersonal. He’s thoughtful in a way that pisses me off, because it makes it harder to resent him properly. That doesn’t mean the apartment stops feeling like a cage. It just becomes a nicer one.

After the first week, I settle into a routine. I wake in the guest room, shower, dress, and pretend I don’t notice the man posted near the elevator. I work remotely, at Alex’s insistence. Or rather, I work when Bellamy bothers to send me anything useful, which is almost never. Most of the time I answer donor emails. It all feels very strange.

Maya calls me every day. Sometimes twice. At first, I answer every time because I need something normal in my life. Then her questions get harder, and I start letting a few calls go to voicemail because I don’t know how to explain any of this without making myself sound insane.

Then one day she calls me six times in a row and texts:

Answer your phone before I file a missing persons report with the police.

I call her back immediately.

“Are you alive?” she demands.

“Yes.”

“Where are you?”

I hesitate.

Maya goes silent, which is much worse than yelling. “Elena.”

“I’m somewhere safe.”

“Oh, good,” she answers sarcastically. “That tells me everything I need to know.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Every woman who has ever ended up in a true crime podcast has said that at least once.”

“Maya.”

“Don’t Maya me. You left your apartment with a man you accidentally called in the middle of the night after another man tried to break in. Then your apartment got trashed. Then you told me you were staying somewhere secure and got weird every time I asked where. I’ve been trying very hard to be the supportive best friend, but I’m about two minutes away from becoming a problem.”

A laugh slips out before I can stop it. It feels strange. I haven’t laughed in what feels like forever. Not for real.

“I’m staying with Alex,” I say.

There’s a long pause.

“The man from the phone,” she says flatly.

“Yes.”

“The rich one.”

“Yes.”

“And he does what, exactly?” she demands.

“He owns a security company,” I answer automatically, though that answer has been feeling less and less true.

“Of course he does.”

“He does,” I insist.