Page 8 of Roma King
“Yes. My apartment faces the street. My bedroom window looks out right over the payphone.”
“And you’re sure the ringing couldn’t be coming from a telephone in one of the other apartments?”
God, he must think I’m so fucking dumb. “I’m positive. I was standing right next to it the first time it rang. It’sthatpayphone. Itisringing. Iknowit is. It’s relentless. It rings for hours at a time. For the love of all things holy, Paul, Ireallyneed it to stop.”
“Ma’am, it can’t ring for hours. The line gets disconnected after twelve rings if no one picks up.”
“Twelve? Ha! I got to three hundred and eighty-seven rings last night before I gave up and stopped counting. Three hundred and eighty-seven!”
“Okay. Okay, I understand. I’m sure we’ll be able to figure this out.” Paul’s tone has gone from disinterested and distant to pacifying and placating. I realize then, with a flush of embarrassment, that Paul is beginning to think I am crazy.
Lord Almighty…
I close my eyes, slumping in my seat. I can’t blame him for thinking that; I’m acting fucking crazy. “Look. I’m sorry. I’m just sleep deprived, and—”
“Would it make you feel better if a tech came to assess the payphone, Miss Llewelyn? I can have someone out to look at the unit on Monday at three?” Paul asks.
I sigh a breath of relief. “Actually, that would be great. I’d appreciate that very much. Thank you.”
I note the details of the technician’s appointment in my phone, feeling more than a little foolish. I don’t know why the ringing phone is bothering me so much, why I can’t just let it go and put it out of my mind, but thereissomething preventing me from moving on. Something about the constantly ringing phone that’s so disconcerting to me; I can’t bear the thought of going home and going to bed, knowing that it’s going to start ringing again, the moment I try to pass out.
“Miss Llewleyn?” Paul asks. “I do have a suggestion that might resolve this problem sooner than Monday, if you’d be willing to consider it?”
“Of course! What is it?”
“If you do happen to hear the phone ringing again…you could always just go down and answer it.”
“Answer it?”
“Yeah. If you answer it, you could let the caller know that they have a wrong number and maybe they won’t call anymore. That’s what is it in most of these types of situations. A mistake. Just a wrong number.”
Just a wrong number.
It’s never occurred to me before that the ringing phone might be a person mistakenly trying to connect with someone else. It’s always seemed as though it’s a prank—someone taking pleasure out of causing disruption and looking to cause trouble.
I hum distractedly as I ponder Paul’s suggestion. “Yeah. Well. I suppose I could do that.”
* * *
“Zara, can I see you in my office for a second, please?”
An hour before my shift is due to end, Roger, the shift supervisor, comes and stands on the other side of my desk. He’s an insubstantial man who always looks like he’s on the verge of getting sick. His hair is thinning and lies flat against his skull in slick wisps like the hair of a newborn baby, and his clothes are usually rumpled and less than fresh. He’s softly spoken, and his eyes have a way of flitting around the room when he’s talking to you instead of looking at you, as if the concept of making eye contact makes the man very nervous indeed. For all of that, I like Roger.
He took on his niece and nephew after his brother and his wife died in a car accident four years ago, and he’s the compassionate type. He cares about people, and often goes well out of his way to make sure his staff are content and happy.
The expression on his face as he asks me to join him in his office sends a thrill of panic racing through me. “Sure. Is…everything okay?” What is it? What have I done wrong? What mistake have I made that now has Roger about to fire me? Nothing immediately springs to mind, but there has to be something. He wouldn’t look so anxious otherwise.
“No need to be alarmed,” he murmurs. “I just need a few minutes of your time, that’s all. The police are here…”
Holy shit. It must have been the phone technician. He reported me for being weird and aggressive earlier. Roger must see me blanch, because he holds up his right hand and pats the air—acalm-the-fuck-downmotion he breaks out whenever he thinks people are about to start hyperventilating. “The police are here to ask you about a call you received earlier this week, that’s all. They want to ask you some questions.”
Oh.
Corey.
This is about the little boy. Iknowit is, even before Roger finishes speaking. My stomach has tied itself into a knot by the time we reach Roger’s office and the guy in the black bomber jacket and bright red baseball cap turns around to face us. I was expecting officers in uniform, maybe two detectives wearing trench coats, but the lone guy in his civvies meets none of the intimidating stereotypes I’ve conjured in my head.
Brown hair, poking out from under his cap. Brown eyes. He’s young, probably only a couple of years older than me. He emits an air of brash confidence as he holds out his hand and gives me an efficient, economical flash of a smile.
