28
I’m vacuuming at Mrs. Driggs’s the next day when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and recognize the 206 area code, but the call has already gone to voice mail. A few seconds later it chimes to let me know there’s a message waiting.
I stare at my phone in my palm, the vacuum motor whining. Why did he call back? Does he even know it was me who called him? Who knows if he even saved my number, and my outgoing voice mail message is now generic in case All_BS calls.
Whatever he has to say—who is this? or something else—I don’t want to hear it. I go to delete the voice mail, but I hesitate, and in that moment the phone rings again and I’m relieved and ashamed in equal measures.
“Hey,” I say, my heart pounding.
There’s a slight pause on the line. “Repeat?” says the voice. The vacuum cleaner is still on, and it takes me a minute to understand that it’s not Ben. I flip the phone over to check the caller ID. It’s not the 206 number this time. It’s blocked. “Repeat,” the voice says again, and then I understand I’m not being asked to repeat anything.
“Yes.”
“Do you know who this is?”
“I know.”
“What’s that noise?”
“Oh. I’m at work.”
He chuckles. “As am I.”
His voice is not what I expected. It’s jovial, almost comforting. It’s like we already know each other.
The vacuum is still droning. I turn it off. “There. Is that better?”
“Yes.” He chuckles again. “If only I could turn off the noise at my work so easily. But I’ve found a quiet corner. Forgive the delay.”
I listen then; in the background, there’s an electric clang of something. Cash registers?
“One must choose the risks one takes and mitigate them.”
“Yes,” I say.
“Speaking of risks and choices, you have chosen?”
“Yes,” I say.
“That’s very brave,” he says.
“I’m scared.” It flies out. This absolute truth. All_BS seems to pull it from me. Which is an irony, of sorts.
He continues: “You know what George Patton said? ‘All intelligent men are frightened. The more intelligent they are, the more they are frightened.’ That holds true for women, too, I’d say.”
I don’t say anything.
“Have you decided on a method?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m going to—”
“Don’t,” he cuts me off. “That’s a personal decision.”
“Oh. Sorry.” I’m not just disappointed. I’m devastated. I want to tell him so badly.
“Are all your affairs in order?”
Affairs in order. That’s the language one of the sites he referred me to used. It had all the instructions about writing the note, creating a legally binding will.
“Yes,” I answer. I feel dazed.
“Remember, the opposite of bravery is not cowardice, but conformity. You are bucking conformity, choosing your own path.”
Somewhere it registers that Meg would’ve loved this sentiment, if he used it on her. She was all about bucking conformity, right up to the very end.
“Now, like all things, it’s a matter of following through. Screw your courage—”
“To the sticking place,” I finish the sentence without thinking.
There’s a pause on the line. Something is being weighed. I’ve made a mistake.
Then I hear a burst of commotion as the ambient background noise clangs through the phone. Electronic bleeping and the clatter of change. It’s the sound of slot machines, lots of them. A sound I recognize from the Indian casinos.
“The door was locked,” I hear him bark, his own voice different now.
“Sorry, Smith. Lock’s been busted for weeks.”
There’s the sound of a door slamming, and the noise goes quiet again.
“We should wrap this up,” he says in a formal tone. “Best of luck to you.”
“Wait,” I say. I want him to send me the stuff I found in Meg’s trash: the encrypted documents, the checklist, more evidence, more proof to hang him with.
But he’s gone.