Page 3 of The Inmate
The phone on her desk is still ringing. Usually, the caller’s number flashes on the screen, but it’s not this time. It’s a blocked number.
I snatch the phone off the hook. It isn’t my job to answer her phone, but if she is out sick today, I could at least try to take care of any issues that have come up. I’m sure Dawn would do the same for me. She always tries to help other people, almost to a fault.
I wonder what it was she wanted to talk to me about yesterday.A matter of great importance.Coming from Dawn, that could mean just about anything, from a dirty milk carton in the fridge to a terminal cancer diagnosis. There’s no reason to worry.
“Dawn Schiff’s desk,” I answer.
There is silence on the other line. It almost sounds like ragged breathing.
“Hello?” I say. “Is anyone there?
More silence. Just when I’m about to hang up, two words are spoken in a tortured female voice that send an icy chill down my spine:
“Help me.”
And then the line goes dead.
ChapterTwo
I stareat the dead receiver, a sick feeling growing in the pit of my stomach.
Help me.
It sounded a lot like Dawn, although I can’t be absolutely sure from just two words. But whoever it was, they sounded hysterical. Panicked.
Help me.
And then the dead line, which has now turned into a dial tone.
I toyed with the possibility that something was wrong when Dawn was late this morning, but I didn’t genuinely believe it was anything serious. Was I wrong? Has something terrible happened to Dawn?
Is she in danger?
I reach into my purse for my phone. I select Dawn’s name from my contacts and click on her number. It rings several times and then I hear the monotone of her voice:
You have reached the cellular phone of Dawn Schiff. I am not available to answer your call at this time. At the beep, please leave your name, a callback number, an alternate contact number, and your reason for contacting me.
I decide against leaving a message. Instead, I shoot off a text message:
Hey Dawn, everything okay?
I watch the screen, waiting for the little bubbles to indicate she’s typing. They don’t appear.
I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to talk to Seth.
Seth Hoffman has been the manager of the Dorchester branch of Vixed since before I started working here. Seth and I have an understanding—he gives me a long rope, and I kick ass at sales. It’s nice having a boss who isn’t up in my business all the time about every penny I spend on my customers and makes me account for every nanosecond of my time. I’m sure it would be different if I didn’t get results, but Seth trusts me.
I rap on the door to Seth’s office, which is already partially ajar. He does have a secretary, but she’s sort of the secretary for everyone, and she doesn’t monitor who goes in and comes out of his office. So when he calls out for me to come in, I go right on in.
When Kim and I started working here, we used to giggle about how cute our boss was. Seth is now in his mid-forties—fifteen years my senior—but he’s got a youthful look. He has lines around his eyes that crinkle when he smiles, a sprinkling of gray hair in his temples that suits him, and while he always wears a tie, it’s never quite cinched all the way to his throat.
“Hey, Nat,” he says when he sees it’s me. “What’s up? Everything okay?”
“Not exactly…” I hover in front of Seth’s desk, wanting to share my concerns with him, but not wanting to sound like I’m overreacting. “Did Dawn call out sick today?”
His dark eyebrows shoot up. “No. She didn’t. Why? She’s not here?”
Like me, Seth must know that Dawn operates like she’s controlled by a master clock. “I haven’t seen her.”
