Page 15 of Sachie's Hero

A beep sounded, indicating whoever had called had left a voice message.

Pressing the number to hear the message, Sachie half-listened, fully expecting the caller to be someone trying to sell her a timeshare or siding for a house she didn’t own.

“Ms. Moore,” a familiar male voice said into her ear. In a flash, she was back in her office, standing in front of a tall, gangly, troubled seventeen-year-old.

Sachie stopped breathing, and her blood ran cold.

“You failed me,” he said. “Now, you must pay.”

CHAPTER 4

Sachie’s faceblanched a moment before her cell phone slipped from her hand. As her knees buckled, Teller reached out and pulled her into his arms.

She fell against him, her fingers digging into his shirt—her shirt—holding on as if she clung to a ledge, her feet dangling over a four-thousand-foot drop.

“No,” she said, her mouth pressed to his chest, her breath warm through the fabric of the shirt. “He’s dead. I saw him. He’s dead.”

“Sachie,” Teller said into her ear as he wrapped his arm around her, holding her close. “Who was it? What did he say? Who’s dead?”

“No. It can’t be.” Her forehead pressed into him, tipping side to side. “It’s not him. He’s dead.”

“Who’s dead?” Teller asked. “Sachie, talk to me.”

Her shoulders shook with silent sobs. Deep gut-wrenching sobs that wracked her slim body.

Teller’s heart squeezed tightly in his chest. He didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t making sense. “Who was on the phone?” he asked again.

“No. It wasn’t him. It’s not possible. I was there.”

He leaned back long enough to scoop her cell phone from the floor and then pulled her back into his embrace. “Shhh, sweetheart. It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

“How can it be okay?” she whispered. “I saw him die.”

“Who did you see die?” he asked.

More silent sobs shook her body.

Holding her with one hand, he pressed “replay” on the only voice message on her cell phone and listened to the message.

Ms. Moore. You failed me. Now, you must pay.

“What the hell?” Teller stared down at the screen. In place of the usual phone number were the words Unknown Caller. “Sachie,” Teller said softly, leaning back a little to look down at her. “You know the caller?”

She pressed her cheek to his chest, her fingers clenching the shirt. “It can’t be.”

“Who can’t it be?”

“I failed him,” she whispered. “Then I watched him die.”

Frustrated by her answers, he tipped her chin up, urging her to look into his eyes. “Talk to me, Sachie. Who did you watch die?”

She stared up into his face, her eyes red-rimmed. “I knew he was in trouble. I didn’t stop him in time. It’s all my fault. I failed him,” she said, tears spilling down her cheeks.

The more she sobbed, the faster she breathed. Teller could see in her face and the way she tensed that she was sliding into another panic attack, making her muscles stiffen beneath his hands.

“Sweetheart, breathe,” Teller whispered into her ear and stroked her hair at the same time, hoping that by holding her, he could help her work past the debilitating effects of her massive panic.

He held her in his arms, rocking back and forth as if he listened to music. Her fingers clenched and unclenched in the T-shirt. Slowly, her breathing became more regulated. Her sobs subsided, replaced by soft hiccups. Still, she clung to him, her body pressed to his.

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