NO TIME TO THINK
1305 Words
EMMA
The drive home feels longer than usual.
Not because of traffic—traffic is normal—but because my chest has been tight since midday, like something is sitting there, pressing down, refusing to move. I tell myself it’s just exhaustion. A long shift. Too much noise. Too many people needing things from me all at once.
But Josh has been too quiet today.
I grip the steering wheel a little harder as I pull onto our street. The sky is already dimming, the kind of dull grey that makes everything feel heavier than it should. I spot the house and my heart gives a small, stupid jolt of relief. I park. Turn off the engine. Sit there for a second longer than necessary.
Please be inside, I think.
Please have listened to me.
The front door opens easily when I step inside. Too easily.
“Josh?” I call out, dropping my bag by the door.
No answer.
The living room looks normal. Couch untouched. TV off. Shoes still by the wall. But something feels off. The air feels wrong, like the house has exhaled and hasn’t breathed back in yet. I walk toward the kitchen. That’s when I see it. A folded piece of paper on the table.
My stomach drops before I even touch it.
“No,” I whisper, already shaking my head. “No, no, no…”
I grab the note with trembling fingers and unfold it.
Emma,
I couldn’t just sit here anymore. I went to talk to one of Rico’s guys. I need to fix this. I’ll negotiate. I’ll figure something out. Please don’t panic. I’ll be back.
I read it once. Then again. Then a third time, like the words might rearrange themselves into something less terrifying.
“Negotiate?” I say out loud, my voice cracking. “Negotiate what?”
My hands start to shake properly now. Why would he go negotiate a loan? Why would he think that was smart? Why would he think Rico—or any of his men—would sit down and talk like reasonable people?
I told him to stay put.
I begged him.
I sink into the chair, the note crumpling slightly in my grip. My heart is racing so fast it feels like it might tear out of my chest. Images flood my mind without permission—Josh bleeding, Josh cornered, Josh saying the wrong thing to the wrong person.
I stand up abruptly. No. Sitting won’t help. Panicking won’t help. I pull out my phone and dial his number.
Straight to voicemail. “Josh,” I whisper urgently, pacing the kitchen. “Josh, please pick up. Please.”
Nothing. I try again. Nothing.
My phone buzzes suddenly in my hand and I nearly drop it. My heart leaps—hope flaring too fast—
Unknown number.
I answer before my brain catches up.
“Hello?”
The voice on the other end is calm. Too calm.
“You must be his sister,” the man says.
Oh God! What has Josh done?
My blood runs cold. “Who is this?”
“You don’t need to know that,” he replies easily. “But you know who I work for.”
My throat tightens. “Where’s my brother?”
There’s a pause. Just long enough to hurt.
“He’s fine,” the man says. “For now.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “What do you want?”
“If you want to keep him that way,” he continues, “you’ll bring some money.”
“How much?” I ask, even though I already know the answer won’t be something I can afford.
“You’ll get a text,” he says. “With an address and an amount.”
My knees feel weak. I grip the edge of the counter to steady myself.
“And listen,” he adds, his tone almost bored, “come alone.”
The line goes dead. I stand there, phone still pressed to my ear, listening to nothing. Then my phone buzzes again.
A message; an address and an amount. I stare at the numbers until they blur.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
There’s no way. Not even close. Every savings account. Every emergency fund. Every desperate calculation—it still wouldn’t be enough. My breathing becomes shallow, fast. I feel dizzy.
Think, Emma. Think.
I pace the kitchen, hands tugging at my hair. The walls feel like they’re closing in, the house suddenly too small to hold the fear ripping through me. Then, uninvited, a memory surfaces. A black card. Heavy. Matte. Minimal.
I freeze.
Ethan.
He gave me his card. I remember sliding it into my bag without thinking, telling myself I wouldn’t need it. That I wouldn’t use it.
My heart pounds harder.
No. I can’t. I barely know him. I can’t just call him like this, with this mess, with this—
But Josh is out there. And Rico doesn’t negotiate.
I rush to the front door, grab my bag, dumping its contents onto the small table by the entrance. Lip balm. Receipts. Gloves. My hands fumble, frantic, until—
There.
The card.
I stare at it for a second, my fingers hovering. What would I even say? My phone buzzes again. Another message.
‘Your time has started ticking’
That’s all the message said
I dial the number on the card hurriedly.
It rings once. Twice.
He answers.
“Hello.”
The sound of his voice—calm, steady—nearly breaks me.
“Hi it’s Emma, your neighbour. I—” My voice comes out thin, shaky. I swallow hard. “I’m sorry to call like this.”
“It’s fine,” he says. “Talk to me.”
The dam breaks.
“My brother,” I rush out. “He left. He went to confront one of Rico’s men and now they’ve called me and they want money and I don’t know what to do and I don’t have that kind of cash and—”
“Emma,” Ethan cuts in gently but firmly. “Breathe.”
I do, barely.
“Where are you right now?” he asks.
“At home.”
“Good,” he says. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“They sent me an address,” I say quickly. “They told me to come alone.”
“You’re not going,” he replies immediately.
“But Josh—”
“Emma,” he says, his voice still calm but harder now. “Listen to me. You are not going there.”
Tears spill down my cheeks, hot and uncontrollable. “Then what do I do?”
There’s a pause on the line. Not uncertainty. Calculation.
“Come here,” he says finally.
“What?”
“My house,” Ethan continues. “Now.”
I hesitate. “I don’t—”
“You don’t need to understand everything right now,” he says. “You just need to be safe.”
I glance around the empty house, the note still lying on the table like a threat.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Hurry and try not to draw attention. He probably has his men watching your house” He adds
My chest tightens. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
I grab my bag, wipe my face with the back of my hand, and head for the back door.
As I step outside, the air feels colder. Heavier.
I lock the door behind me, even though it feels pointless.
With every step across the street, my heart pounds louder, fear and hope tangled so tightly I can’t tell them apart anymore.
I don’t know what Ethan Hayes is about to do. But I know one thing. I don’t have any other choice.
- Writer
