Page 8 of Callan

She sounds half amused.

“Yes. Or her jealous boyfriend. Although he has that feral scorned husband look on his face."

“No way.”

“Way.”

I close the door and move back to the couch before turning the TV on, and trying not to think about the drama upstairs.

“Are they quiet?” she asks.

“They are now.”

They are.

They seem that way, but who knows?

A few moments pass before my friend talks.

“Okay. All right. I need to go,” Kayla says. “My mother’s calling me. Keep me updated,” she adds, and moments later, we end the call.

I set my phone on the table, grab another cookie, and munch on it while staring blankly at the TV when something catches the corner of my eye.

At first, something tells menotto look that way.It’s a pang of fear and sick anticipation, which I can’t explain.

I glance at the balcony, and everything seems in order.

Clutching the remote, I’m about to turn up the TV when a metallic sound travels to my ears.

It’s a tiny vibration, like a bow gliding over the strings of a violin. Or something touching the railing outside.

I look in that direction and see nothing.

In the meantime, a war ensues upstairs.

People shout at the top of their lungs, and a vase shatters against the wall.

A big vase, I suspect.

Invectives fly around the room.

“You’re a slut.”

“No. You’re a dick.”

Okay.

Merry Christmas to you all.

I chew on the soft cookie, all ears. Another vase or plate meets a bad fate.

The floor must be a mess upstairs.

Honestly, I’m surprised no one has called the police.

I’m shocked I didn’t do it, but a part of me wants to learn more about this convoluted story.

I’m sure the cops are on their way.

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