Page 35 of Exposed
I lift it, press the circular button at the bottom. The screen lights up, showing the time—8:48p.m.—and the date—September 18, 2015. Beneath that, there is a green icon. Next to the icon is a name: Caleb. And beside that is a line of text:the code to access the phone is 0309, the date you left the hospital.
I touch the icon and swipe it to the right, and a keypad appears, prompting me to either touch ID or enter passcode; I enter the numbers, and the screen appears to fly at me as it shifts to show the message. I see the message from you in a graybubble on the left side of the screen. I touch the thing that looks like an Internet search bar, and a keyboard appears.
I type a message in return: Thank you.
Three gray dots appear in a bubble, and then a message pops up.Youre welcome.The lack of an apostrophe to denote the contraction irks me.
I’m leaving, I type.
Where
No question mark, just the single word. I didn’t expect such poor grammar from you.
I do not know. Anywhere but here. Anywhere that is not where you are.
I’m sorry, X. I went too far.
Yes, you did. Much too far.
Do you need money?
You are letting me go? I don’t know what to think about this, what to feel. It is odd to be using a cell phone, to be doing something so mundane as texting. I’ve seen you do it, I’ve seen clients do it. I never thought I would do it.
I do not want anything from you, Caleb.
Everything you have comes from me, X.
My name is Isabel. And yes, I know that. If I could walk out of here naked, with nothing but my skin, I would.
You wouldnt make it far in that state
No apostrophe, no period. Why? Is it hard to take the extra time to add them? I don’t understand. I notice, as well, that you do not address my statement of my name.
No, I would not.
Have fun with Logan. It won’t last.
I don’t know what that means, and I’m not sure what I can respond with, so I don’t respond at all. I have seen you use your phone—which is the same as this one except yours is black—so I know that the button on the right side near the top turns thescreen off. I clutch the phone in my hand and notice that the elevator key is in the slot. I twist it, remove it when the doors open, and take the elevator down to the lobby. I debate whether to take the key.
If I take it, it would be a concession. It would mean I plan to return.
I don’t.
I see a security guard I recognize standing beside the receptionist desk. Frank? I think that’s the right name. I cross the lobby, my heels cracking loudly on the marble.
The guard eyes me suspiciously. “Ma’am.”
“Frank, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tall, round-shouldered, heavy brows, square jaw, shaved head.
I extend the key. “Give this to Mr. Indigo, if you would.”
“Won’t you need it, ma’am?”
“Not anymore.” I don’t wait for a response, I spin on my heel and pretend to confidence I don’t feel as I stride out through the revolving door.
Turn right, up Fifth. Try to breathe. Try to ignore the noise, ignore the panic.
