I shuddered at his reference to me as a little girl.
My throat was closing up. Fear flooded my system, and my mouth felt dry.
“Listen,” I said, my voice coming out barely a whisper. “Just leave me alone. I don’t have anything to do with the business. I don’t want anything to do with the business. You don’t have to worry about me. Just leave me alone.”
“Funny,” the cruel, mocking voice said. “Your mother said the same thing before I ended her life too.”
I screamed and hung up, throwing the phone across the couch. Terror clenched my stomach, churning my insides into knots. I fell to the floor, sobbing in fear and hatred and sadness. Why wouldn’t it end?
I rocked, my arms around my knees, for a long time, simultaneously hoping I was invisible while thinking any second the man with that voice would kick in my door and kill me. Finally, my breathing slowed just enough that I was able to focus. I needed to call Sammi. I needed to block that number. I needed to have a plan of escape.
Ashford wasn’t safe anymore.
My hand was still trembling as I reached for the phone. I pulled it toward me and slowly stood, looking out of the windows, searching for any sign of someone out there, waiting. Lurking.
When I was satisfied no one was there, I ran to the kitchen. My finger shaking as I navigated to the recent calls list, I found the number that had just called and clicked it. A button on the side allowed me to block it, and I pressed it, waiting for the notification to come up showing that it was done. Then, I scrolled for Sammi’s number and dialed. I hit the speaker so I didn’t have to hold it to my ear, thinking that if someone broke into a window or slammed into a door, I would hear it better with both my ears available.
“Hello?” Sammi said. “Desiree?”
“Sammi,” I cried out.
The other side went quiet for a split second, and when Sammi spoke again, the singsongy voice she usually used was gone, replaced by a worried seriousness.
“Desi, what’s up? What’s going on? Are you okay?”
“Sammi, someone called. They claimed they killed both my parents. They’re coming for me.”
“Shit,” Sammi said. “Shit. Alright. Shit. Okay. Listen, Desiree, listen to me. You need to come home. You need to get in your car tonight and drive back home.”
“I can’t. They’ll find me, Sammi. They’ll kill me.”
“Shh, Desi, listen. My dad can protect you,” Sammi said. “The whole family is here. We can hide you. We can protect you from them, find out who they are, and snuff the fuckers out.”
“Sammi, I can’t,” I said. “I can’t live like that the rest of my life. I can’t wait for some gunman to pop up and kill me. I can’t know I sent a hit squad out on someone else. That I kept this stupid family bullshit going. I have to have a life outside of all this. I have to.”
“Desi, I get that. I do,” Sammi said, trying to soothe me. “But you have to understand, it’s going to be real hard to have a life outside of this if you aren’t alive to have it.”
“Sammi,” I said accusingly.
“I know, I’m sorry,” she said. “But it’s true. What kind of friend would I be if I wasn’t honest with you?”
“I’m scared, Sammi.”
“I know. Did he say anything about where he was? If they knew where you were?”
I searched my memory, recalling what he said.
“No,” I said. “He just said I was hard to get ahold of. He promised he would end my family bloodline.”
“But he didn’t say he knew where you were?”
“No.”
“Good. Good,” she said. “That gives you some time. So, he found out your number. Big deal. It makes sense—he just tracked what numbers were on Mom’s plan and figured out you were using one.”
“Okay,” I said.
“It gives you time to get up here, Desiree,” she said. “Just head home. I can meet you halfway if you want. Anything. We can offer protection and make sure you’re safe.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “I really do. I just don’t know what to do. I really don’t.”
“Do you have any wine?”
“Yes?”
“Open it up,” she said. “Open it up, switch to a video call, and drink with me and watch a movie. Whoever that was, they can’t get you tonight. Try to relax for right now, calm down, and think this through.”
“Why is the solution to all your problems wine?” I asked.
It was enough to get a laugh from her, which seemed to break the tension. A part of me felt a little relieved.
“Not all my problems are solved by wine,” she said. “Most are solved by tiramisu.”
“True. I blame you for my crippling tiramisu addiction.”
“I like hearing you joke, Desi,” she said. “Are you feeling a little better?”