Chapter 48
I stand in my kitchen, my eyes drifting over the familiar space. Everything looks the same, yet somehow different. It all feels like I’m stepping into territory that’s not mine and I was only gone for a weekend.
The silence presses in around me. It’s always quiet when I’m home alone, but this silence feels different. It’s the silence that makes you overthink and run scenarios in your head. Usually I turn on music, but right now music doesn’t even feel like it will be enough.
I wrap my arms around myself, as if that will shield me from the sadness. My body jolts at the ice maker dropping ice into the ice machine. I let out a heavy breath. My nerves are shot. Every little sound makes me jump.
My phone pings, and again I jolt, making my heart race.
Ashley: Hey girl! Just wanted to check in with you. See how you’re doing? I haven’t seen you at the studio.
A warmth spreads through my chest as I read over her message.
Violet: Things got worse.
Ashley: Oh no. If you want some company, come by the studio. I’m here cleaning it.
I drift my eyes back over the kitchen, debating if I should go or not. I’m so behind on orders but spending some time with someone who doesn’t make me feel crazy sounds like something I need right now. So I head right back out the door.
Violet: Coming.
Ashley: Smiley emoji.
I swing the door open. The silence of the studio is so different from when I am usually here. Every time I walk in, music and chatter fill the rooms. It’s almost eerie not hearing any of that.
“Ashley,” I call out.
“In here.”
I follow the sound of her voice inside the hot room. “Feels different in here when it’s not burning hot.”
She chuckles. “I know.”
I take a seat on the floor and lean my back up against the wall. I watch as she cleans the mirrors.
“So, how have you been?” she asks, looking at me through the mirror.
I let out a sigh and lean my head against the wall. “This weekend was rough.” I almost don’t want to relive it again, but I tell her everything.
Again.
Something about her makes me feel comfortable opening up to her. By the time I’m finished, she’s sitting on the floor staring at me while I pour my baggage out.
She shakes her head. “Oh girl, that is awful. Have you thought about trying to get his phone records and seeing if there is a number you don’t recognize?”
My eyes shoot up. Why didn’t I think of that? A guy I went to high school with works there. Can he get the content of the messages too?
I jump up onto my feet; her eyes follow. “I went to school with a guy that works there. He could probably get them for me.”
“Yeah, go get them,” she says cheering me on.
I nod, walking out. “I am. Thanks for the talk,” I say over my shoulder.
“You’re welcome.”
I book it out of there like my life depends on it. I pray he still works there. It hasn’t been too long. He should be still there.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m walking in, scanning the sales floor. I let out a heavy breath once my eyes find Michael.
“Hi, can I help you?” a dark-haired man says.
“I’m actually waiting for Michael,” I say with a grin.
He turns and looks over at him and then back at me. “Are you sure there isn’t anything I can help you with?”
“No, but thanks.”
He nods once. “I’ll let him know you’re waiting for him.”
“Thank you.”
I take a seat by the window, looking over at Michael as the other guy says something to him. Michael looks up and waves at me and then gives me the pointer finger, showing one minute.
Literally a minute later, he’s walking my way. I stand up and say, “Hi.”
“Hey. How’s it going? Is your phone working out for you?”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out because I don’t know how to ask him. Do I tell him the truth? The truth would probably convince him to do it for me if there is any store policy about giving this sort of stuff away.
I lean in closer to him and whisper. “I kind of need a favor from you?”
His brows raise. “Me?”
I nod. “Are you able to get someone’s text messages?”
“Yeah,” he murmurs.
“But like, the content in them?”
He tilts his head and rolls his lips together. “Yes.”
I look at him with begging eyes. “I need my husband’s.”
His eyes widen and his mouth drops open in shock.
“Please,” I say.
I’m expecting him to ask more questions as to why I need them. But instead, he says, “You know I can get in trouble for this?”
“I promise I won’t say anything.”
“From what time period do you need them?”
My face winces. “The past couple of months.”
“That’s a lot.”
“I know.”
“Wait here. I’ll see what I can do.” He turns around and walks into a back room.
He either thinks I’m crazy or he might be used to this kind of stuff. How many men and women go to their cell phone provider asking for text messages? I’m sure a lot of police do. I doubt they turn them away.
Forty-five minutes later, he comes out with a stack of papers in hand. I rise from my chair, eyes wide, surprised at how many there are.
Before he hands them to me, he says, “I’m trusting you with these.”
“I won’t say a word.” I reach for them and say, “Thank you so much. I owe you.”
He nods with sadness in his eyes. My heart sinks as if my gut feeling is confirmed. Did he read the text messages? Or has he been through this enough to know what is about to go down?
I place the stack of papers on the passenger seat, staring at them as if they’re a loaded gun pointing straight at me. The weight of their meaning presses down on me. My trembling fingers hover over the top page, my mind racing with what these could mean.
A decision.
An ending.
A beginning.
All the unanswered questions whirl around in my mind.
I swallow hard, gripping the steering wheel with my hands and head home.