Chapter 24 #2
Is this just how it is now? Will this feeling ever stop?
She stops the spinout process before it gets too far.
She tells herself to stop turning him into something he’s not.
He’s a human man, one in shackles, who can’t hurt her unless she allows him to.
And anyway, there’s no point continuing to try to pinpoint the culprit, because if she had suspected someone to be capable of selling her private data to the devil, she wouldn’t have given them her number in the first place.
If there is a traitor in her midst, then it’s just another example of her unknowingly inviting the virus in.
Despite knowing it’s not her fault, she silently chastises herself for letting it happen again, for letting her judgment betray her in such a catastrophic way.
Wyatt.
The name jumps out at her, the obvious connection. What’s worse is that Wyatt probably got it from work, from an innocuous piece of paper, and not from Wren’s broken sense of trust. She’s almost impressed by the lengths she went to in order to blame herself for the violation.
As she considers this, Vivaldi pauses again, and another call comes through. Before her body can respond, she takes in a deep, powerful breath and answers.
When he says his name this time, his voice sounds amused, as if he didn’t expect her to reject his first attempt.
He’s expecting another hangup and she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction now.
When the prerecorded voice asks her to press one to accept or to end the call by hanging up, she presses one with a trembling finger.
There is a pause as if the line has disconnected, and then the slightest hint of breathing comes from the other end. She waits, not daring to speak first. She wonders if he plans to hold out, to make her say something to stop the agonizing discomfort, but she won’t.
The bastard can waste his phone time in silence.
“Emily?” he asks, as if to answer her menacing thoughts.
She sneers, gripping the phone tighter in her hand. “Wrong number,” she says, ready to disconnect, but his voice gets louder. She thinks she can even sense a hint of desperation.
“Okay, okay!” he responds, chuckling cruelly. “Wren. Dr. Muller, is that you?”
“You know who you called.”
“I do.”
“What the fuck do you want?” she yells, not able to contain her anger upon hearing his arrogant tone. She’s sick of the games, sick of the riddles and the double-talk. She’s sick of him.
He makes a sound as if he’s surprised. “Oh, come on. I just want to talk without the usual chaperones.” His words are laced with a dangerous charm, the same thing that drew her to him in the beginning.
He doesn’t even try to hide his intentions. He’s such an egotistical little pig.
“You want to try to manipulate me alone, you mean?” she asks, crushing a rogue soda can into oblivion with her shoe. It implodes into itself in one fluid motion. So satisfying.
He chuckles again, a low laugh that he obviously has to keep under control. They may not currently be in Leroux’s earshot, but the call is being recorded.
“I don’t have an agenda for this call, Wren.”
She scoffs. “How kind.”
“I really thought you would soften without Daddy Leroux next to you.”
“What do you want?”
“Honestly? To confirm that it was really your number.”
Her blood feels like it contains a million tiny shards of glass that are slicing through every inch of her. She feels foolish, but she masks it. “Well, you confirmed it. Anything else I can do for you, Dead Creek Penitentiary inmate number whateverthefuck?”
Now his laugh is no longer a hushed chuckle but almost a guffaw. As he speaks, he lets the laugh trail off naturally, and she can almost see him wiping tears from his eyes. “Worth the trouble. This was worth the trouble. I forgot you were funny.”
She doesn’t respond, and he fills in the empty space.
“Don’t you want to know who gave me your phone number, Wren?”
“No,” she answers flatly.
“You think you know, don’t you?” he asks, baiting her.
She rolls her eyes, kicking the soda can as hard as she can.
It sails off the sidewalk and into the street, spinning on its side until it falls into a shadow.
“Of course I know who it is. You should really stop making a habit of underestimating me. It hasn’t worked out for you thus far.
” She feels empowered, like she can ace this test.
“It’s not Wyatt,” he says.
“Of course it is.”
He’s amused again. “You got him arrested, remember?”
“I didn’t get him arrested, his—” She stops, realizing he has tricked her into something resembling a conversation. “I’m over this. Enjoy prison, Norman.”
Before she can hang up, he speaks up again.
“You can believe it was Wyatt, if that makes it easier to digest. But don’t you think I would have called you sooner if I’d had your number?” He pauses. “I’ve never been revered for my patience.”
She hates herself in this moment, because something inside her agrees with his logic.
Why would he have waited until Wyatt was arrested to call?
Wouldn’t he have done it as soon as he got the information?
If that’s the case, then someone else is corresponding with him—someone with her private information.
She pauses for a moment, eyes darting around her dark, sinister surroundings.
She’s sure she can feel someone watching her, and she scans the trees, looking for confirmation.
The rows of houses that looked brightly lit and alive minutes earlier now look ominous.
Any one of them could be where danger lives, watching her through a parted curtain, waiting for her back to turn, to give them a perfect shot.
She can feel her heart begin to beat heavier, harder, in her chest. It thunders, unrelenting, threatening to burst through her ribs.
Her pulse punches at her neck, sending a painful heartbeat into her head.
A panic attack closes in, pushes at the boundaries of her periphery.
She begins to bend down, pushing herself into a squat in an attempt to calm her wild nervous system.
It all feels so abrupt, but, just as suddenly, her eyes shoot open and the fog starts to lift.
A moment earlier she was seeing the beauty in it all, the freedom.
How quickly she’s been thrust back to that frightening place again, to a familiar nightmare realm.
It’s as if Jeremy reached through the phone and took hold of her, throttled her from a prison cell.
But he didn’t, because he can’t. The reality hits her almost as quickly as the panic did, but it’s so much clearer.
He begins to speak again on the other end of the line, saying something cruel and dead.
She realizes then that she doesn’t have to live in his world anymore, but he has to be a prisoner in hers.
So she hangs up.
Vivaldi picks up where he left off, coloring the world in a comforting shade of midnight again, and she starts running.