Chapter 2 - The Call
The hum of the air conditioning in Anya’s car was the only sound for miles, a monotonous drone that seemed to lull her into a trance. Brynn was asleep in the back seat, her small hand tucked under her chin, a stark contrast to the terror that had gripped Anya’s chest only hours ago. The adrenaline that had fueled her sprint through the mall was fading, replaced by a cold, numbing fatigue.
Anya gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. She needed to do something. She needed to make this real. She needed justice.
With a shaky hand, she tapped the screen of her phone, bringing up the emergency dispatch number. The voice on the other end was calm, professional, a lifeline in the chaos. Anya recited the address, the date, the time—facts that felt surreal coming out of her mouth. She explained the abandonment, the cruelty of the waiting, the humiliation of the abandoned child.
"And we have a description of the aunt," Anya said, her voice trembling. "She left a little girl. She just... she left her."
The dispatcher listened intently, typing furiously. "Okay, ma'am. I’m logging this as a missing juvenile. An officer is already en route to the Northridge Galleria to meet you. They’ll take a statement, secure the scene, and then transport the child to the station."
*Secure the scene.* Transport the child.
The words hung in the air, heavy with promise. Anya felt a swell of relief so intense it nearly brought tears to her eyes. It was over. The nightmare was a crime now. It had a file number, a badge, a procedure. The police would find them. They would bring Tabitha back. They would make her pay.
As the officer’s assurance echoed in her mind, Anya realized she couldn't go home—not yet. Brynn’s bag, her favorite stuffed rabbit, her jacket... it was all at Celeste’s house. She needed to get them. The police could handle the report, but she needed to be the one to pack Brynn’s life away.
The drive to her mother’s suburban enclave felt different in the daylight. The manicured lawns and white picket fences looked like a stage set, perfectly curated but utterly hollow. Anya parked in the driveway, the engine idling. The house was dark, the blinds drawn tight against the morning sun.
She grabbed the keys to Celeste’s house from the hidden hook under the porch mat and let herself in. The air inside was stale, smelling of lemon polish and old dust. It was silent, too silent.
"Mom? Tabitha?" she called out. No answer.
Anya walked through the living room, stepping over the threshold of her childhood home with a strange sense of detachment. She moved toward the guest bedroom where Brynn usually slept when she visited. The bed was made, the covers pulled up with military precision.
*They’re just out,* Anya told herself. Running an errand.
She moved to the closet, her heart hammering against her ribs. She needed to grab Brynn’s things quickly and get out. But as she opened the closet door, she stopped cold.
The guest room was empty. The closet was empty. The drawers were pulled open and left that way.
A cold prickle of unease crawled up her spine. She ran downstairs, her footsteps echoing in the vast, empty house. She checked the master bedroom. Celeste’s side of the bed was unmade, but the pillows were cold. The bathroom was clean. The kitchen counters were bare.
Panic, sharp and jagged, began to replace the numbness. She ran to the phone on the counter and dialed Tabitha’s husband, Mark.
The phone rang once. Twice. Then, a robotic voice cut in: “The subscriber you have dialed is currently out of service or has turned off their voicemail.”
Anya stared at the dead screen. She tried Mark’s cell number. Same result.
She scrambled back outside, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. She spotted a neighbor watering her lawn across the street. Anya sprinted over, her heels clicking frantically on the pavement.
"Excuse me," Anya gasped, breathless. "Did you see my mother or sister? Tabitha and Celeste?"
The neighbor lowered her hose, frowning. "Tabitha? I think I saw them leave about an hour ago. They were packing suitcases. They looked frantic. I didn't ask, but they didn't look like they were going on vacation."
Suitcases. Frantic. Gone.
Anya’s legs felt like lead. They hadn't just left; they had run. And they had taken everything.
Anya drove back to her own apartment in a daze, the reality of the situation refusing to coalesce. The police were coming, but the people who were supposed to be her family had vanished. It was a game, and she was losing.
She unlocked the door to her apartment and stepped inside, the lock clicking into place with a sound like a gunshot. She dropped her keys on the table and slumped onto the couch, staring at the blank TV screen.
Her phone buzzed. An unknown number.
Anya’s heart skipped a beat. She snatched up the phone, her thumb hovering over the screen. It was a voicemail. She pressed play, holding her breath.
The sound was distorted, as if the speaker were speaking into a tin can underwater. A woman’s voice, low and dripping with malice.
*"Drop it, Anya. Or you'll regret it."*
The message ended. Anya sat frozen, the blood draining from her face. She stared at the phone, waiting for it to ring again, for the voice to scream, for anything. But the screen remained dark.
May you like
She looked at the time stamp on the missed call. It had been placed exactly one hour ago.
She dialed the number back, but it didn't connect. She scrolled through her call history, but there was no name, no address, nothing.
