Page 9 of Wicked Duty
Still, low-cut shirts and hip-hugging miniskirts leave me feeling vulnerable and exposed. Seeing all my skin under the light of day—knowing anyone else can see it, too, or touch it—throws me into panic mode.
I like to pretend I’m fine and that what happened to me doesn’t have any lasting effects on my life or well-being, but the woman in the mirror always conveys a different story.
My anxiety starts to ramp up again as I tear my gaze away from my reflection and rummage through my bag for the medication. I finally close my hand around the bottle, but as soon as I fish it from the depths of my purse, I realize it’s empty.
I’m out.
To keep my prescription active, I’m required to attend regular therapy sessions. I didn’t think much of that condition at first. I wasn’t planning to use the meds or go to therapy all that often, but with my anxiety on a hair trigger and bone-deep exhaustion settling over me…
Suddenly,I remember that I took this double shift just to give myself a good reason to ditch the therapy appointment scheduled for later this afternoon. I scrub a palm over my face. Why am I such an idiot?
A moment later, my apron pocket shrills and vibrates against my thigh.
It’s not Maya’s ringtone.
My heart pounds as I pluck my phone out.
The caller ID stares back at me. It’s the assistant district attorney of New York City.
Calling me.
Dammit.
I pick up, both grateful for and resentful of my current privacy.Why couldn’t I have a convenient excuse not to answer?
“Miss Marlow?” The low, clear voice of Andromeda Calgary finds my ear.
“Yes.” My first attempt at a reply emerges high-pitched yet muffled. I clear my throat. “Hi. What can I do for you?”
“I’m calling about the case.” Gravity colors her tone. “There’s been an unfortunate development. One of the other trafficking victims set to testify has gone missing.”
Fear squeezes my heart, leaving me breathless. Speechless. A beat passes as the room spins.
“Miss Marlow, are you still there?”
I close my eyes. “Yes, sorry. Is she…do you know what happened?”
“Not yet. That’s why I’m calling you and all the other witnesses. Have you observed any suspicious or threatening behavior lately from the people around you?”
Callum flashes to mind. “No.”Not unless a sociopathic tendency toward calmness even when provoked counts.
“Have you received any messages, phone calls, or other correspondence about the case or your participation in it from strangers or anyone else?”
My throat tightens as if crushed by a massive fist. “No.”
“Okay. Good. But please be extra cautious in the coming days and weeks. Call the police if you ever feel unsafe for any reason. I can also put you in touch with protective services, if you feel an armed escort would be better?—”
“I’m fine,” I say a little too harshly. “I mean, it’s okay. I’m all right.”
“May I ask,” she pauses, as if considering her words, “whether you’ve had a chance to check out any of the mental health resources my office sent to you?”
Irritation and avoidance roil together in my gut. “Like I said, Ms. Calgary?—”
“Please call me Andri.”
“Andri.” I swallow another knot. “I did look into the resources, and I’m doing fine. Thank you for calling.” I end the phone call and exhale like I just sprinted through a cemetery while holding my breath.
My heart tremors.
