Page 75 of His To Erase
Who is this?
Fuck off.
Get a life…
But I don’t send any of them because responding means something. It means engagement. And I’ve learned—especially the hard way—that sometimes silence is louder.
I toss the phone face-down on the counter, which ends up being way too loud in the silence. I pace once, then twice. Yanking the curtains tighter, checking the deadbolt, the chain, and the fire escape.
Again.
I splash water on my face, gripping the edge of the sink, and stare into the mirror like it might explain why I feel like I’m being watched from the inside out.
"You’re fine," I whisper.
But I don’t feel fine, I feel hunted. Which is exactly why I grab my phone and call Sarah.
She picks up on the second ring, and I don’t even get a hello.
“Oh, look who finally remembered her emotionally neglected best friend exists. You better be calling to say you’re dying. Or pregnant. Or both.”
I collapse onto the couch, already bracing. “Define dying.”
She exhales dramatically. “Okay, are we talking full-blown crisis or just regular-grade I made a terrible decision and now I need to trauma-dump at midnight?”
I rub my eyes. “I got another message.”
The pause is instant.
“Mystery Pervert or Loverboy Frank?”
“Unknown number. Again. Just said… Sweet dreams.”
I don’t tell her about the other ones, because I don’t want her to freak. She groans so loud I can hear her rearranging her blanket in protest. “Okay, nope. That’s not flirty. That’s Annabelle doll climbs out of the basement energy. Are you alone?”
I scan the windows again, double-checking the fire escape. “Everything’s locked. I’ve done the perimeter sweep like three times, and I’m still convinced something’s breathing in here that shouldn’t be.”
“If a demon made it past your sarcasm and trauma armor, we’re all gonna die.”
A weak laugh escapes. “You’re not helping.”
“Not trying to. You ditched me for a mob husband and now you’re being haunted by the Blair Witch via text. Karma's got range.”
I groan. “It wasn’t a date. It was?—”
“A dick appointment wrapped in guilt and danger? Yeah, I know.”
I wince, glancing toward the bedroom. “I thought I could handle it.”
Sarah hums. “You can handle it. You just shouldn’t have to. And maybe next time, you don’t ghost your ride-or-die for a man who buys you diamonds and ominously claims real estate on your soul.”
“That’s oddly specific.”
“So is that message. Sweet dreams? Ani. That’s what killers say before putting a pillow over your face.”
I laugh again, a little too high, but real.
She softens, just a little. “Was it Frank?”
