“I already know who you are, Sophia Ellis. Your daughter is feeling better.”
The phone slipped from my suddenly numb fingers, clattering against the cheap linoleum floor of my living room. I hadn’t given this unknown number my name, and I certainly hadn’t mentioned that my four-year-old daughter was sleeping off a fever in the next room.
Chapter 1: The Fatal Typo
The autumn rain tapped against my apartment window like impatient fingers. It matched the frantic rhythm of my own heart as I stared down at the glowing screen on the floor.
Souvenirs from three sleepless nights caring for Emma painted dark circles under my eyes. She finally slumbered in the next room, her small chest rising and falling in a steady, healing rhythm. I tucked myself deeper into the worn cushions of my secondhand couch, trying to find warmth.
The faint scent of baby powder and discount fabric softener enveloped me like a familiar embrace. The radiator in the corner clanked and sputtered, fighting a losing battle against October’s chill. It seeped through the thin walls of our two-bedroom walkup in the worst part of the city.
“Please, just one more extension,” I whispered to myself in the dark.
I had been composing a text to Mike, my ex and Emma’s perpetually absent father. He was three months behind on child support and had become suddenly unreachable when the rent came due. I needed to remind him that our daughter existed, that we were completely drowning.
“Emma needs medicine. Rent due tomorrow. You promised $1,200 this week. Please respond,” I had texted.
My desperation made me reckless. I immediately followed with a threat I couldn’t back up.
“I know you got that money from the Castelli job. Don’t make me call them directly.”
It was an empty threat. I knew absolutely nothing about Mike’s employers beyond the name he’d dropped during our last screaming match. He’d sworn he was about to come into serious money from some job for people called “Castelli.”
I had set my phone down, pressing my palms against my temples to massage a permanent headache. That’s when the phone had buzzed.
“Who is this?” It was a different number. Not Mike’s. In my absolute exhaustion, I’d tapped the wrong contact, someone whose number I didn’t even recognize.
“Sorry. Wrong person. Please ignore,” I quickly typed back.
The response was immediate and chilling. “What Castelli job?” My stomach clenched into a tight knot. I should have left it alone, but exhaustion had worn away my better judgment.
“My ex works for someone with that name. My mistake,” I replied.
“Your name. Now.” The demanding tone made my fingers hover uncertainly over the screen. Something felt deeply wrong, dangerous even.
“This was just a mixup. I’m sorry to bother you,” I typed, my hands shaking.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared.
“Address.” It wasn’t a question. It was a command.
At this exact moment, most people would have locked their phone, turned off the lights, and called the police. But when you are a single mother living on the edge of eviction, the police are a complication you can’t afford. What would you have done?
