PART 2: The Voice on the Phone
I was halfway up the stairs when Chloe grabbed my wrist.
“Emily, don’t.”
Her fingers were cold. I pulled away.
“If that phone is in my bedroom, I have a right to know why.”
Brad remained at the bottom of the stairs. He didn’t try to stop me. That frightened me more than if he had.
I reached the bedroom door. The ringing had stopped. For three seconds there was complete silence. Then the phone rang again. One sharp vibration. Then another.
I pushed the door open. Our bedroom looked exactly as I had left it that morning. His side of the bed was untouched. My book was still on the nightstand. The curtains were half open. Nothing looked wrong. Except for the phone.
It was sitting beneath Brad’s pillow. I picked it up. A small black phone I had never seen before. No wallpaper. No case. No contacts. Just one notification.
1 new voicemail.
My thumb hovered over the screen. Then I pressed play. At first there was only static. Then my own voice filled the room.
“Brad, if you’re listening to this, something has gone very wrong.”
I nearly dropped the phone. Chloe appeared behind me.
“What is it?”
I raised a hand. My recorded voice continued.
“I don’t know if you’ll remember making this recording. That’s the problem.”
I looked at Brad. He was standing in the doorway now, and his face had gone completely pale. The recording went on.
“Do not trust anyone who tells you the accident was your fault.”
My heart stopped. Accident? What accident?
The message continued.
“And whatever happens, don’t let them take you back to the clinic.”
The recording ended. Nobody moved. I turned toward Brad.
“What clinic?”
He stared at the phone.
“I don’t know.”
“You said you don’t remember what you did to me.”
“I don’t.”
“Then why does my voice know about a clinic?”
He shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
Chloe stepped closer.
“Play it again.”
I did. The same voice. My voice. The same warning. But this time I noticed something I had missed. At the very end, beneath the static, there was another sound. A door closing. Then a man’s voice, very faint.
“She’s awake.”
Chloe’s eyes widened.
“Did you hear that?”
I nodded. Brad suddenly lunged for the phone.
“Give me that.”
I pulled it away.
“Why?”
“I need to destroy it.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever recorded that knew where we lived.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Brad looked at me. For the first time that day, I saw genuine panic in his eyes.
“Because that voice isn’t from today.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“That recording…”
He swallowed.
“It was made before the accident.”
“What accident?”
He didn’t answer. I stepped closer.
“Brad, what accident?”
He looked at Chloe. She shook her head.
“Tell her.”
He closed his eyes.
“When I was driving home six months ago, I crashed.”
I felt the room become strangely distant.
“You told me you slipped on the stairs.”
“I know.”
“You told me you hit your head.”
“I did.”
“You said you didn’t remember the accident.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then how do you know you crashed?”
He opened his eyes.
“Because the police told me.”
I looked at Chloe. She nodded slowly.
“But the police report says there was no other vehicle,” she said.
I turned back to Brad.
“What does that mean?”
He didn’t respond. Chloe did.
“It means his car left the road by itself.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“We don’t know.”
I looked at the phone again. The recording. The clinic. The accident. The hidden phone. The prescription bottle. None of it made sense. Then I noticed something else. A tiny red light was blinking on the phone.
Recording.
Someone was recording us now. I held it up.
“Who is listening?”
Brad’s face changed.
“Put it down.”
“No.”
“Emily, put it down.”
“Why?”
“Because if they’re listening, they know we’re talking about them.”
“Who?”
He looked toward the bedroom window.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to remember.”
A car engine started outside. We all froze. I rushed to the window. A dark sedan was parked across the street. Its windows were tinted. The engine was running. Then the car pulled away.
Chloe whispered, “They know.”
I turned.
“Who?”
She looked at Brad.
“Your husband isn’t the only person who has been losing his memory.”
I stared at her.
“What does that mean?”
She opened the brown envelope again. There was one final photograph inside. She handed it to me. I looked down.
It was a picture of me. Sleeping. In this bedroom. Taken from the corner near the closet. My blood ran cold.
“When was this taken?”
Chloe shook her head.
“We don’t know.”
I looked at the photograph again. There was a timestamp printed across the bottom.
2:13 a.m. — October 14.
I knew that date. It was the night Brad had told me he was working late. The night I had slept alone. The night I thought I had finally stopped loving him.
I turned the photograph over. There were four words written on the back.
She remembers everything.
My hands began to shake.
“Who wrote this?”
Brad stared at the handwriting. Then he whispered:
“I did.”
I looked at him.
“You?”
He nodded.
“I don’t remember writing it.”
Suddenly the bedroom door slammed shut. The black phone vibrated in my hand. A new message appeared. No number. No name. Just six words.
Ask Chloe what happened that night.
I slowly turned toward her. She was crying.
“Chloe?”
She didn’t answer.
“What happened?”
She wiped her eyes.
“I wasn’t going to tell you.”
“Tell me now.”
She looked at Brad. Then at me.
“The night of the accident…”
Her voice broke.
“I was in the car.”
Brad stepped backward.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You told me you weren’t there.”
“I lied.”
I felt my chest tighten.
“Why?”
Chloe looked at me.
“Because you were there too.”
The room went silent. I shook my head.
“No.”
“You were sitting in the back seat.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You were unconscious.”
Brad whispered, “That’s impossible.”
Chloe looked at him.
“You weren’t driving alone, Brad.”
I stared at both of them.
“What happened?”
Chloe took a breath.
“The car didn’t crash because Brad lost control.”
“Then why?”
She looked toward the bedroom window.
“Because someone was following us.”
“Who?”
She hesitated. Then she said the name. And the moment I heard it, I understood why Brad had been so afraid.
Because it was the name of someone who had been dead for eight years.
My father.
And the phone in my hand began ringing again.
