Chapter 4 - The Echo on the Line
The electronic chime of the telephone shattered the stillness of the house like a gunshot.
Ring.
I jumped, a sharp gasp escaping my throat. My eyes locked onto the bedroom door.
Ring.
No one called the landline. We kept it almost exclusively for our internet package deal. The only people who ever called it were telemarketers, automated survey systems, and... Miguel, when his cell phone battery was low or when he was calling from a hotel room desk.
Ring.
I stood up slowly, stepping over the sliced remnants of the mattress. My mind screamed at me to leave the room, to walk out the front door, to get into my car and drive straight to the nearest police station. But my feet moved toward the hallway as if dragged by an unseen weight.
I walked to the small wooden console table where the phone sat charging. The caller ID screen displayed a string of numbers I didn’t recognize: an unlisted landline with an area code from Dallas, Texas.
I reached out my hand. It hovered over the receiver for three full rings before I pressed the button and lifted it to my ear.
I didn't speak. I held my breath, listening into the static.
"Ana?"
It was Miguel. His voice was muffled, accompanied by the background noise of an airport terminal—faint announcements echoing over loudspeakers, the rumble of rolling luggage, the chatter of crowds.
"Ana? Are you there?" he asked again, his tone sharp.
I swallowed, trying to force my vocal cords to work. "Miguel?"
"Why did it take you so long to pick up?" he asked immediately. There was no warmth in his voice, only an intense, hovering suspicion. "I tried your cell phone twice. You didn't answer."
"I... I left my cell phone in the kitchen," I lied, my voice sounding hollow and thin even to my own ears. "I was... I was cleaning."
Silence stretched over the line. Three seconds. Five seconds. The static from the Dallas terminal hissed in the earpiece.
"Cleaning," he repeated slowly. "What are you cleaning, Ana?"
"Just... the dishes. The kitchen," I stammered, gripping the receiver so tightly my knuckles turned white. "Why are you calling from a Dallas number? I thought you were on the flight."
"My flight was delayed," Miguel said. His tone was measured, carefully controlled, but I could hear the tension vibrating beneath it. "I’m at the gate now. Listen to me carefully, Ana. I left an important leather folder on my desk in the home office. I need you to go in there, find it, and tell me if the blue seal is still intact."
He was testing me. I could feel it instantly.
"The office?" I asked, looking down the narrow hallway toward the closed door of his workspace—a room he always kept locked when he was out of town. "You have the key, Miguel. You locked the door before you left."
"The spare key is on top of the door frame," he said smoothly. "Go check it now. I’ll hold."
My heart hammered against my ribs like a battering ram. If I went to the office, if I looked, what else would I find? But more importantly, if I refused, he would know instantly that something was wrong.
"Okay," I whispered. "Hold on."
I set the receiver down on the table without hanging up. I walked down the hall, reached up above the doorframe of his office, and my fingers brushed against a small, cold brass key.
I unlocked the door and pushed it open.
The office smelled of stale coffee and expensive leather. It was immaculately organized. Books lined the shelves in perfect alphabetical order. On the large mahogany desk sat his laptop docking station, a desk lamp, and a single black leather folder.
I walked over to the desk. The folder was closed. On the front was a small, adhesive paper seal with a blue stamp. It was completely untouched.
But as I stood by the desk, my eyes fell on the wall monitor connected to his desktop computer.
The screen was dark, but a small red light on the corner of the monitor was flashing rhythmically.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
It was a remote surveillance feed indicator.
My blood ran instantly cold. Miguel’s computer was linked to tiny, concealed motion-activated cameras inside the house.
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I looked up at the corner of the office ceiling. Tucked inside the housing of the smoke detector was a microscopic black lens, pointing directly down at the desk.
And then I realized with sickening clarity: there was almost certainly one in the bedroom too.
