The midnight caller

CHAPTER THREE

Ada Bennett

The elevator doors slid open. I tried to stay calm. My coffee was cold in my hand. I did not notice. Not today. Not with the weight in my chest that had been growing since the midnight call.

Monday morning. The Monday morning smelled of burnt toast and cleaning chemicals. I did not want to deal with the inbox. I did not want to deal with the coworkers. I did not want to deal with Julian Mercer.

But Julian Mercer was unavoidable.

The man was at the reception again. The man stood with a calm posture. The man did not look like someone who had arrived in a new city a week ago. The man seemed to belong, as if he had always been here. The man’s dark eyes met the narrator’s eyes the instant the narrator stepped onto the floor. The narrator felt a jolt.

“Morning, Ada," the man said casually. The way the man said the greeting made my pulse stutter. I felt my heart race. The cause was not the words. The cause was the precision behind the words. The man measured every syllable. The man placed every pause on purpose.

“Morning," I said, keeping the tone neutral. I should not be flustered. I should not feel like the teenager who saw the crush stare in the hallway. Flustered feeling arrived. The stomach clenched. I took a breath to keep the voice steady.

I watched the man ask, "Coffee?" The man nodded toward the break room.

I hesitated because he was not asking like a coworker making small talk. The question sounded observant. Testing.

“I am fine, " I said quickly. The tone lacked conviction.

The man smiled faintly enough to unsettle me. "Suit yourself," the man said. The man turned down the hall toward his office.

I followed the man with my eyes. I felt uneasy as I watched the man. From a distance, the man had an aura of control. The man was calm. The man was precise. The man was dangerous. I did not want to admit that the man was dangerous.

⸻

By the time my first meeting started, I was already thinking about the night. The clock read 12:07 a.m. The past week was hard. Every night, the same call came; the same breathing filled the air; the same sense of intrusion stayed.

I had not told anyone, not my friend, not my mother, not my coworkers. I was supposed to be independent. I was supposed to be strong. I was supposed to be able. The calls had worn me down, but I kept up. Every night I went to bed. I wondered who or what was waiting on the other end.

The writer shoved the thoughts aside. Focused on the work. The writer edited the purchase proposal, tracked the deadlines, and ensured the emails were perfect. Focus. Control. Routine.

I keep a routine. The routine keeps the creeping panic away.

I waited until the call came.

⸻

The writer sat at the desk with the spreadsheet open. The writer typed a list of editorial contacts. The phone buzzed. The writer felt a jolt. The writer froze at the keystroke.

Private Number.

Not again.

I stared at the screen. I felt my chest tighten. I did not answer away. I hovered my thumb over the screen. I felt fingers tremble slightly.

12:07.

I waited for the call. The call stopped ringing before I made a decision.

Then a text. Unknown Number.

I see you.

The words made my stomach drop. The words were not casual, not teasing, not even human. The words were a statement—a presence.

I looked around the office. The people did not notice me. The people were buried in their tasks, unaware.

I wanted to call the number. I wanted to scream at whoever the number belonged to. I wanted to demand answers. I did not. I sat frozen. I stared at the screen. I thought the screen might show its secrets if I stared long enough.

⸻

By lunch, I could hardly focus. My hands shook when I stirred the coffee. I tried to appear normal in the meetings. I smiled when I had to. I laughed at the jokes. Every time the phone buzzed or even vibrated in the bag, I jumped.

Julian noticed. Course Julian noticed.

I heard the man ask, "You okay?" in a voice. The man leaned closer than needed. No one else could hear the question during the meeting about acquisition projections.

"I am fine, " I said. I forced the smile. "Just... Tired."

His dark eyes stared into my eyes. The concern was there, yes. The interest was there, too. The calculation was also there. I could not tell if the look was protective or intrusive. The look might have been both.

He asked the question, " Day?”

I bit the inside of my cheek. "I just have a lot going on.”

He nodded slowly. He did not push any further. He was not ready yet.

The restraint itself was unsettling.

⸻

The afternoon stretched on. It felt endless. Each time I looked at the phone, I imagined breathing on the end. Each sound outside the office—footsteps, a door closing, a phone ringing—made me jump. I could feel the heartbeat race. Not settle.

When I left for the day, the anxiety sat heavy in my chest. I kept looking over my shoulder. I saw the shadows. I saw the city around me. I felt that someone somewhere was tracking me.

Julian walked out behind me. I felt the presence of Julian because Julian was far enough back. I could sense the presence of Julian because Julian was close enough.

I heard the man ask, "You live nearby?" in a voice.

“A couple of blocks," the speaker said. "Why?”

“Just curious, " the man said, smiling faintly. The man was polite. The man seemed normal. I felt the pull of the man's gaze. The gaze felt like an insistence that I was being watched.

I did not say anything.

The narrator and the other person stepped into the elevator together. The narrator’s fingers brushed the edge of the narrator’s bag. The metal doors reflected the narrator and the other person. The narrator studied the person’s expression, trying to read them, but the other person gave nothing away. Calm. Controlled. Unreadable.

I wanted to hate that person. I wanted to suspect that person. My instincts screamed that the person was too interested in me. I should not trust the person.

And yet

I wanted to trust that person.

My phone buzzed again. The phone was in my bag.

Private Number.

I froze.

He noticed immediately. He noticed immediately, of course.

“Not again," I muttered under my breath. I tried to hide my panic.

The man looked at me. The man’s expression was neutral and concerned. The man asked, "Do you want to talk about it?”

I shook my head quickly. No. Nothing.

“You sure?”

I swallowed. The throat was tight. I said, "Yes."

The elevator doors opened on the floor. The narrator knew the night ahead would be impossible. The narrator could feel their heart beating fast. The narrator lay in the bed waiting for 12:07 a.m. The narrator wondered who was calling the narrator, who was watching the narrator, and whether the man walking out behind the narrator had anything to do with the night.

I left the building. Julian stayed in my mind. Julian was on my mind long after I walked out.

Every instinct screamed. Every instinct warned me not to trust the man.

Every other part of me whispered. The man was what I needed.

I did not know which warning to heed. The warning was there. I could not choose the warning. I felt lost about the warning.

⸻

By the time the writer reached the apartment, the writer decided not to check the phone. Not yet. Let the person call. Let the person watch. Allow the writer to sleep if the writer can.

I hear the city humming faintly outside my window. The traffic lights blinked. The sirens sounded distant. The occasional dog barked. Nothing unusual.

I could feel the eyes on me. The eyes watched every move I made.

I told myself that my imagination was my imagination.

I was not entirely convinced.

⸻

The clock on my nightstand ticked toward midnight. I watched the clock as the minutes slipped by. The clock kept ticking until the night was over.

12:06…

12:07…

The phone rang. I answered the phone.

Private Number.

And I froze.