Last Stay

V. What's Done in the Dark

When did she get this phone?

I set the mug down, quickly open the contacts app only to find the one contact saved under the name Unknown Caller. I tap on the text app and start reading through the recent messages. But the ones from yesterday afternoon immediately catch my attention.

The Unknown Caller says Everything is ready for our session tomorrow. I got our usual room with a view of the river.

And the response from my wife—this phone was, How sweet. I'm looking forward to it.

I scroll down to see when these messages started being sent.

Roughly, two weeks ago, it seems.

The lump in my throat continues to grow as I keep reading. The texts from this phone say things like: told him I'd be late today, we'll have to make it a quick one this time, but I'll make it up to you later. Promise.

There are texts from the Unknown Caller at two in the morning that say: I'm parked around the corner. Others say I can't wait till Monday, is there anything you could pick up at the store? The lines can be very, very long on the weekends.

"This isn't happening," I mutter, slowly pushing my hair back.

This can't be real—Angela would never do...

The room or my head is spinning; this doesn't make sense. A stabbing pain shoots through my scalp, causing me to loosen the grip on my hair.

I scroll back to the last message: Call me when you get this.

And without a second thought, I hit the call button and bring the phone up to my ear with my ice-cold hand. It rings a couple times before a man answers.

"And how is the lovely Miss Summers tonight?" he asks in a happy tone.

Fuck.

"Miss Summers?"

Why is he calling Angela by her maiden name?

"Can you hear me?"

The line goes dead, and the phone almost slips out of my hand.

This can't be happening.

I take a few deep breaths, slap myself in the face a couple times, trying to pull it together.

He didn't say, Angela—Summers a common last name. This is just some kind of misunderstanding—but her picture is on the phone. Angela wouldn't...I just need to talk to her. We just need to talk.

I stare at the floor like I'm in a trance, trying to process what to do. Then it occurs to me, I should check our online banking from two weeks back—when the texting first started.

Googling the price of this phone will give me something to compare the purchases on our account to. All I have to do is see if any charges come close to the cost of the phone. If I don't find anything, then this might not even belong to her.

I head up to the loft, log into our account and begin my search. But it doesn't take long to find that not a single purchase comes close to the price of the phone. As I rub my forehead, the words from that text ring in my ears:

Everything is ready for our session tomorrow. I got our usual room with a view of the river.

Could he be talking about a hotel room?

I bring up Google Maps and search hotels in the city, and can't help chuckling when I see how many of them have views of the river.

Only about twenty or so, no big deal.