It’s an international phone number I don’t recognize. +61 before that. Country codes are familiar to me. I had a client who had a holiday home in Kiama, a seaside town on the outskirts of Sydney. She had a +61 code.
Sydney. Australia.
Click on the text.
Please check your pockets.
My breath caught in my throat and I quickly replied to the text.
who is this?
However, you will soon receive a final automated reply. The person you are trying to contact is not accepting messages.
Please check your pockets. I went inside and walked briskly straight to my bedroom and to my closet. I put my hand in my pocket and pull out the dress I wore yesterday. There’s nothing inside either. What else was I wearing? When I entered the office, I found a leather motorcycle jacket hanging on a small bench next to my desk.
When I reached into my first pocket, there was nothing there. And then I start to feel a sense of relief. This is probably a prank or a scam. It’s just the wrong number.
Then I reached into my other pocket and felt something hard and small.
flash drive.
My heart beats faster and my skin feels hot. My first question to myself is not, “What is this?”
My first question to myself also contains the beginning of an answer.
Why did Owen need me to have this?
The doorbell rang, startling me. I step out onto the balcony and look over the edge of the railing to the sidewalk below. A repairman in a SoCalGas uniform stands on my doorstep. He is large and stocky, with thick muscles sticking out through the short sleeves of his shirt.
I call him. “can i help you?”
He squints at me, shielding my eyes from the sun.
“We apologize for the inconvenience, miss. A neighbor reported a gas leak. Are you the Waldmans?”
