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“Hi. This is Jade. I saw you in the window last night. I was wondering if we could talk.” Samantha watches the digital number change to the second message on the answering machine. It’s been eight days since his death.
“This is Jade again. I wanted you to stop downtown and pick up my vinyl records. Melony saved them for me at the antique shop.” The red blinking light signals the third message.
“Jade here. Where are you? I’m on my way. Smack. Bang. Shots echo through the phone. Sam? Heavy breathing. Silence.”
Samantha bursts into tears, sirens flash in front of her house in the darkness, gun shots fire, and she rushes over to the tall Victorian window facing the street. Car 94 has a man handcuffed, the officer grabs his arms, the crowd stands by and watches from the curb.
Samantha searches the sidewalk for a sign of Jade. Eight days ago she was told he didn’t survive. The same place another man smashed into his car. The phone rings. Samantha waits for the answering machine to pick up. “This is Jade. Pick me up at the hospital on Fifth Avenue. The ambulance driver took me to the wrong hospital.”
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