Bequeathed

Chapter Nine: Fear Isn’t Evidence

Claire's phone rings, waking her from a fitful sleep. She rubs her eyes, rakes her fingers through her hair. She lets the phone ring out. It rings again; she does the same. She sits on her bed, listens to the highs and lows of her ringtone, and watches the phone as it lights up, goes black…lights up, goes black. Fifteen times. That’s the number of times she’s let the phone ring out. Fifteen missed calls. Were they all him? Her Watcher?

After call number fifteen, Claire waits for the light and melody she has quickly grown to dread. Nothing. She studies the square clock on the wall with the tiny gold arms branching around it. Five, ten, fifteen minutes pass, no phone calls. Half an hour passes, no phone calls. Claire falls back to her sheets, exhaling tension from her body. She tries to sleep, but her mind won’t settle. One, two, the hours tick away while her eyes remain open and her mind races.

At three in the morning when her eyes have started to get heavy, the phone fills the room with its rueful melody. Claire doesn’t count; she weeps. Twenty missed calls? Or was it thirty? She can’t live like this.

***

“Claire?” William calls from beyond her door. Claire rolls over, into her tears and snot that have soaked through her pillowcase and seeped into her pillow. She’s reminded that she still hasn’t found another Bertha. Her unknown caller is making it increasingly harder for her to choose to interact with strangers. She’s been putting it off, doing her own laundry, hiring day cleaners, and watching them around the house. She has been putting off adding permanent staff because she took her unknown caller’s initial threat seriously. He hadn’t acted on it; she was no longer getting calls, but Claire had felt the conviction in his voice. Now the calls have started again, and he’s watching.

“Consider this a wellness check,” William says. “I hope you’re decent.” He walks into the room with his hand shielding his eyes. He separates his fingers and peeks through the windows he’s created. “What’s the matter, Princess?” William says. “Worn out from spending all your aunt’s money?” William chuckles; his mirth dies quickly; his face goes rigid. He moves closer to the bed. “Claire? What’s wrong? You look like crap.”

“Thanks.” Claire buries her face into her pillow. Her tears have tainted her pillow, washed away the lilac, and stripped away the smell of the vanilla. Claire tosses her pillow aside, reaches for one of the pillows uncontaminated by her dread. Her phone rings again. Claire rushes for it; she throws it to the ground and stomps on it, her heel smashing the screen.

“At this rate, you’ll burn through Aunt Bev’s money before I get the rest of my cut.”

Claire falls to her bed, weeping.

“What’s wrong?” William asks.

“Nothing. Get out.”

William sits at the edge of her bed. “I’m just going to hang out here today.”

“Get out!” Claire tosses a pillow at him.

“I’m not moving until you tell me what’s wrong.”

Claire rolls over, turning her back to William. William stays. Each time he moves, his shifting weight sends vibrations across the bed. Claire is aware of the movements of his body without keeping her eyes on him. It provides her with a strange sort of security. The security reminds her of Rob. William is not Rob; Claire is certain of this. But perhaps she can have a little of what she had with Rob if she opened up to William. If not a lover, perhaps a friend. Claire rolls over and tells William everything. She tells him about the initial phone calls, the note, the new phone calls.

“Get dressed,” William demands when Claire is through confiding in him. “We’re going to the police.

***

Claire slowly climbs the steps of the police station. Most of her fear retreated the moment she stood within the shadow of the building. William holds her hand and guides her to the front desk. An officer is fiddling with a tablet, another is taking a statement from a man who slurs his words, and a third is on his phone. William pulls Claire before the officer who is on the tablet.

“My wife needs to report a crime,” William says.

“I will be with you in a moment,” the officer says without looking up.

William taps the desk. “My wife needs to report incidents of stalking. She’s being harassed, she can’t get out of bed.”

The officer lifts his head slowly. “Would you like to file a restraining order?”

Claire looks at the officer blankly.

“She doesn’t know who’s harassing her. She keeps getting calls from a blocked number.”

“What does the person say on these calls?”

“He promised to get her,” William says. “Sometimes he just breaths.”

“Do you have a number for this person?”

“The calls are always blocked,” William responds. Claire stares at the officer, her fear resurfacing. Inch by inch it’s revealing itself. She won’t be helped here.

“There was a note,” William adds. “He says he’s always watching.”

“Ma’am, can I see this note and the phone?”

“She left the note at the restaurant and she smashed the phone.”

“Will you allow her to speak for herself?” The officer shifts his body so that he is facing Claire head-on. “Mrs…?”

“White.”

“James.”

The officer looks from Claire to William then back to Claire. “Which is it?”

“Her maiden name is White. It’s Mrs. James. We’re newly married.”

“Ms. White,” the officer says, “I want to be real with you. I don’t disbelieve that you are being harassed, but without a clear threat and a person to pursue, there isn’t much we can do. You should bring us the phone, no matter if it’s busted. Let our tech guys see what they can do with it.” He hands Claire his card. “If things escalate, or if you stumble across anything else that could help us find out who is doing this to you, give us a call.”

Claire eyes the card, doesn’t take it. The officer slides it to the end of the desk.

“Ms. White, when you replace your phone, don’t share your number with anyone. You should be the one who controls communication. Always. You can always make your number private when you call. Call your friends when you need to. Don’t ever share your location on social media. Don’t take pictures until you’ve already left a location. Don’t provide details of yourself online. Don’t say where you like to frequent. And this restaurant where you received the note…maybe you should give it a break for a while.”

Claire walks away from the desk feeling defeated. She left the card where the officer had placed it. William plucked it up. On the drive over, he repeatedly tries to hand the card to Claire. Each time she avoids it as if it’s something contagious. What need does she have for a piece of paper? She’s the one expected to do all the work. She has to shape her life around her stalker and his harassment. It’s her responsibility not to be stalked. Halfway to the house, William finally pockets the card. Immediately, after walking through the door, Claire runs to her room and slams the door, ignoring William’s request to go over a plan with her.