Page 38 of Tattletale

We drove back to D.C. about a week ago in total silence. Cricket was stoic and silent in the back seat the whole way. We dropped her off at her apartment, and Vesper told her to take a few days to rest. She wouldn’t look at either of us as she climbed out of the car.

I haven’t seen her since. I check her office every single day—nothing. I’ve texted her and called her. Messages aren’t delivered. Calls go straight to voicemail. I’m convinced she threw her phone right off the top of her building. Each day, I take the long way home, driving past Cricket’s building. I would’ve gone upstairs and knocked, but the lights have been off every single night. She’s not there.

She’s hiding from me. I know it.

And I can’t fucking think. I can’t sleep. I have to be in the office in less than five hours for some VIP client Vesper warned us all about. I’m agitated with her. Linc, Callen, and even sweet Eden, too. I know one of them knows where Cricket is. Everyone has been tight-lipped, and I’ve been too nervous to ask.

Cricket’s already fuming at me for blowing her cover with Vesper. If she hasn’t told anyone about us and I spill the beans on that too, I’ll only make it worse. A few days ago, I worked up the nerve to casually ask Linc and Eden in the break room if they’d seen Cricket. Linc didn’t even flinch when he told me he hadn’t. Eden got fidgety and turned bright red. She practically ran from the break room back to her office, saying she forgot a spoon for her yogurt.

It's my favorite thing about Eden—she’s a piss-poor liar. I followed her to her office and told her if she saw Cricket by chance, to deliver a message. Eden agreed, inadvertently confirming she’s aware of where Cricket is. She’s obviously safe. Just still fuming at me. I can live with that for now… As long as she’s okay.

As soon as I shut my eyes again, my phone chimes. I snatch up my phone and see a notification. It’s an unidentified number, but based on the message, my intuition was spot on.

771-555-0901

Open your front door, dipshit.

My heart is knocking hard, and my adrenaline rushing. After a week of anticipation, this is what breaks the ice? But I’ll take it.

Me

New number?

771-555-0901

No need to save it.

Okay…

That’s not promising.

I hoist myself out of bed and make my way to the front door, flicking on the dim lights that hang over my kitchen island. My condo is a quarter of the size of Linc’s house, but I’m almost willing to bet it’s worth more. He gives me endless shit for making myself so vulnerable, living in a luxury building in the heart of D.C. But when I was growing up, I always pictured myself in a place like this. I promised myself I’d work hard—go to med school or law school. I was a smart kid. Had it not been for my complicated home life, maybe I would’ve ended up in this expensive condo for better reasons.

My neighbor across the hall is a trauma surgeon. I watch him go to work every day in his scrubs. He’s friendly, always greeting me in the hall as we pass. I can’t help but wonder who sees more dead bodies in a day.

I take a look around my living room one more time, as if there’s any incriminating evidence I need to hide. But there’s nothing.

Since Cricket started ignoring me, my whole life has felt like nothing.

I rip open the door, and…there’s no one there.

I poke my head out and look up and down the hallway. Nothing but the low-lit hallway. I frantically dial her number, scared I missed the very brief window of opportunity she gave me.

“Hello?”

“I literally came to the door the moment you texted. You can’t have already left,” I explain, phone pressed tightly to my ear.

“Who is this?”

Three more words are all it takes for me to realize it’s not Cricket.Shit.“You texted me.”

“Oooh nooo,” the woman on the other line says in a long drawl. She sounds a little drunk. “I’m sorry. I meant to text oh-nine-one-one. I got a new number, and I didn’t add my ex to my contacts… Too bad I have it memorized. Anyway, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Have a nice night.”

I end the call and slam my front door. I’ve had enough. I can’t take this anymore. I’m clutching my phone so tight I could break it. After a moment of debating, I loosen my grip and dial the person who owes me answers.

“Lance,” Vesper says.

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