Page 55 of Final Serenade

“I don’t know.”

He didn’t say a word.

When I finally rolled my Honda into the parking garage of my apartment complex fifteen minutes later, Ashton was snoring. A Linkin Park song blared from the speakers.

“Hey.” I nudged him on the shoulder and pulled the aux cord from the jack. “Wake up. We’re home.”

He stirred and his head rose. “Do I have to carry the bag?”

My patience was wearing thin. I responded with a long stare.

“Fine.” Ashton stumbled out of the car and grabbed the gear from the trunk.

Once we got inside, we were both so tired that we went to sleep immediately.

A call from a number that hadn’t been programmed into my phone woke me in the middle of the night. I couldn’t tell exactly what time it was, but it was pin-drop quiet. I heard my blood pulse against my eardrums and my blanket rustle beneath my body. Every noise in that moment felt amplified. I wasn’t certain why I’d left the ringer on. Maybe because I’d forgotten or maybe because a sadistic side of me had been waiting for this call.

“Cassy?” His voice on the line was abnormally small with a hint of rasp, but not the sexy bedroom rasp. It was the kind a person developed after straining their vocal cords.

Excitement and shock filled my chest. I could barely speak. “Frank?”

“I’m sorry I haven’t called.”

And just like that, the man was back in my good graces. A fraction of me still fought, but deep down, I knew I’d already lost this battle.

My mind scrambled for words. I was mad yet relieved, and putting them into a coherent sentence after two hours of sleep proved to be difficult.

“Cassy?” he called my name again to make sure I was still listening.

“I assumed you didn’t have time for me anymore.” I was blunt. I needed to tell him that.

Apparently, Frank Wallace wasn’t a man of many words when it came to explanations. “I had to leave for a few days. Family emergency,” he said.

“Is everything okay?”

His breath caught. He didn’t answer my question, and his silence only fueled my curiosity. He’d disappeared for almost two weeks and now he wanted me to be a part of this weird one-sided conversation.

“Frank? Are you still there?” I checked.

“Do you have to be up early tomorrow?”

“I mean”—I skimmed through my agenda—“I have someplace to be in the evening.” Plus, there was the write-up of Isabella’s set, which I had planned to start first thing in the morning, but something about the way Frank spoke made me believe that I could probably knock out the editorial during lunch too.

There was more of the eerie silence on the line. Then he said, “Do you want to go for a ride with me?”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“You know it’s the middle of the night, right?”

“I’m aware. Can’t do it during the daytime, Cassy.”

“Okay.” My mouth did all the thinking. My brain didn’t agree, but it was too late.

“I’ll see you in an hour. Wear a jacket,” he said and ended the call.

I was frazzled during my phone conversation with Frank and hadn’t put too much thought into it when he’d called it aride.

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