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“I can’t believe she thinks she can confiscate our phones all day. Seriously, what planet did that woman spawn from?”
Stacey breaks into a sheepish grin but my amusement dissipates into the ether as I swipe my thumb across my phone to unlock it, all levity erased as weight begins to press on my chest.
Five missed calls, but only one I really see:
D.C. Central Detention Facility
Not to mention eighteen text messages between those same two numbers.
As Stacey’s voice blurs into some muffled sound that mixes with the muted guffaws and light wedding music, I press on the first number, only to be plunged into ice at the sight of a photograph.
The shore of Cumberland Island.
And the message beneath it.
You don’t pick up and that wedding will be ruined.
“Thanks,” I mutter to Stacey, walking slowly to the door, trapped in some masochistic cage where I’m unable to stop myself from scrolling through the messages, realizing the styles from the two numbers are completely different…
He just wants to talk.
Why are you being so fucking cruel?
Answer his calls.
The next number’s messages are in the first person and show no signs of the same desperation, but rather, rage.
I know what you’re doing over there, you slut.
We’ll cut your face up so no one wants you.
You better pray no one’s waiting for you when you get back.
You had it all, bitch.
You’re gonna pay.
Whore.
As I glimpse through the glass doors leading to the lobby of the hotel, I stop at the sight of two mutual friends of ours, really not wanting to talk to them right now. Peering around, I see the staging room at the back that I've been in and out of in the last couple of days upon Anne’s instruction as we got the wedding favors together. Last I checked, it was full of boxes of champagne, a change of clothes for the bride and groom for later this evening, gifts, and other props that didn’t make it to the main reception area.
I head over there and tentatively open it, peering all around to check if anyone’s there before entering and closing the door behind me.
I move some items off an armchair next to a table and sit down, staring at the phone for what feels like forever until I jump in my seat at the sight of a name flashing on the screen.
D.C. Central Detention Facility
Oh my God…
My friends would tell me not to pick up, but the lawyer I talked to a few months ago told me that the calls are recorded and if he incriminates himself, that will only help my case.
And anyway, my anxiety is so high right now that nothing could be worse than this.
In the hopes that talking to him will placate him, giving me some respite from the onslaught of messages, I move my finger to the green button, my breathing ragged as I press it.
“A prisoner from D.C. Central Detention Facility is trying to reach you. Press one if you accept the call.”
My finger moves almost against my will and I begin to shudder at the sound of noises on the line… and then a voice.
