Chapter Two
973 Words
The Call - Adult Tension*
2:17am. I knew better than to call. I called anyway.
The number was saved under one word: Carey.
It rang once. “Hello?”
Her voice was low, rough with sleep. It dragged through me like smoke.
I sat up in the dark. “You’re awake.”
“Wasn’t until you called.” A pause. “You have a habit of dialing when normal people are unconscious, Mr. Yates.”
“Cedric.” I rubbed a hand over my face. “And I don’t care about normal.”
“Good. Because neither do I.”
The line went quiet. I could hear her breathing. Measured. Like she was testing how much I’d take.
“How did you get the files?” I asked. No point pretending this was a social call.
“Does the answer change what you’ll do with them?”
“Yes.” I stood, walked to the window. 42 floors up and the city still felt empty. “If you stole them, I’m exposed. If he left them, I’m not. Simple math.”
Carey exhaled. “He used my laptop. For years. I paid for it. He paid nothing but attention. Then he decided my sister was worth more. He left his entire life logged in and thought I wouldn’t look.” Her voice hardened. “The files are on my property. That makes them mine to use however I want.”
“Courts won’t agree.”
“Courts aren’t here at 2am.” She let that sit. “I scrubbed the worst of it. What’s left is bait. His email open. Two files with his fingerprints all over them. Tomorrow I’ll be at my brother’s place. House will be empty. It would be tragic if someone walked in and took the one thing I don’t care about losing.”
“You’re asking me to stage a break-in.”
“I’m asking you to take what’s yours and let me play victim.” She didn’t flinch from the word. “Evan built his empire by cutting corners. I’m learning from the best.”
“I don’t commit crimes for convenience.”
“You commit crimes for profit,” she shot back. “Don’t insult me. You took two of his contracts last quarter and smiled while you did it. You’re not clean, Cedric. You’re just better at hiding it.”
She was right. And I hated that she knew it.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Come to my show.”
I stopped at the window. My reflection looked back at me. Tired. Interested.
“You want my name on the guest list.”
“I want his family to see you standing in my gallery while their son says ‘I do’ to my sister,” she said. “I want photos. I want whispers. I want them to understand I’m not broken. I’m rebuilding, and you’re part of it.”
“That’s leverage,” I said. “Not payment.”
“That’s the point.” Her voice dropped. “I don’t want his money. I want his reputation to bleed. You can make that happen by showing up.”
I glanced at the painting on my office wall. Gold bleeding into red. Violence made beautiful. I’d bought it ten years ago at an outdoor fair. The artist had paint under her nails and fire in her eyes when she talked about color.
“You’re her,” I said. “The art fair. You were arguing with a man about whether red could represent both love and war.”
“You remember that?”
“I remember you didn’t back down.” I traced the frame with my finger. “You were smaller then. Softer. But you had the same look in your eyes. Like you’d burn the world if it asked you to.”
“I was naive,” she said. “Thought marriage meant loyalty. Thought art meant freedom. Both were lies.”
“So what is it now?”
“Power,” she answered without hesitation. “I’m done creating things people can take from me. Now I create situations.”
The word landed heavy between us.
“When are you leaving the house?” I asked.
“Noon tomorrow. My brother’s already talking to an agent. We’re listing it below market just to watch Evan panic.” She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “He’ll be busy with his wedding. He won’t see it coming until it’s sold.”
“Sell it for value,” I said. “Don’t let him take your future to ruin his present.”
“My sister wants the house.” Cold. Flat. “But if I had my way, I’d sell it to someone who’d demolish it. My brother has a bulldozer lined up. Says he’s been waiting since we found out they used our kitchen.”
This was reckless. Illegal. Stupid.
Every warning in my head said hang up.
Instead I said: “Full market value. Your brother drives. We livestream it. Wedding day. I want the Sampsons to watch me take what Evan thought he’d keep.”
Silence. Then: “You’re serious.”
“I don’t bluff.” I sat back on the bed. The sheets were still warm from before I called. “Noon. Be gone. Let your brother do his part. When’s the show?”
“Saturday. 7pm. Don’t be late.”
“I won’t.” I ended the call before I said something worse.
The phone hit the nightstand. I lay back and stared at the ceiling.
Her voice was still there. Low. Certain. Dangerous.
The painting on my wall looked different now. Not just art. Evidence. Proof I’d wanted something of hers long before I knew her name.
Sleep wasn’t coming tonight.
- Writer
