Chapter 4 - Mrs. Alvarez Opened the Door
The burner phone pressed against my ribs.
The documents scraped my arm.
The panel closed behind me just as Derek’s office door burst open.
I held my breath in the narrow darkness between walls.
Dust filled my nose.
Metal pipes ran along one side.
Through the crack, I saw Derek enter.
He looked at the desk first.
Then the floor.
Then the shelves.
His face changed.
“She was here.”
Suzanne stepped in behind him.
“Where is she?”
Margaret remained at the doorway, pale but composed.
“She knows,” Derek said.
Suzanne’s voice rose.
“What do you mean she knows?”
Derek turned toward her.
“The drawer.”
Margaret’s control slipped.
“Find her.”
There it was again.
Not Are you hurt?
Not Skylar?
Find her.
Like I was already property.
Or evidence.
The utility crawl space led sideways.
I moved inch by inch, trying not to breathe too loudly. The passage was narrow, unfinished, and filthy, probably not meant for living bodies. My shoulder burned where the coffee had soaked through the robe, and my knees scraped against old metal brackets.
Behind me, Derek tore the office apart.
Ahead, faint light appeared.
A panel.
Maybe the neighboring apartment.
Maybe a sealed void.
Maybe nothing.
My hands shook as I pushed.
It did not move.
I pushed harder.
A tiny click answered.
The panel opened into darkness smelling of paint, cardboard, and lavender detergent.
A storage closet.
I fell forward onto stacked moving blankets.
Someone screamed.
I looked up.
An elderly woman in a navy cardigan stood in the closet doorway holding a mug of tea.
Mrs. Alvarez.
Apartment 14B.
I had met her twice.
Once in the elevator.
Once when Derek complained she held the door too long for delivery people.
Her eyes moved over my coffee-soaked hair, the papers in my hands, my bare feet, and my face.
“Mrs. Bennett?”
I grabbed the edge of a box and tried to stand.
“I need a phone.”
She set the tea down.
Then she closed the closet door behind me.
Not away from me.
Between me and the hall.
That was the first kindness of the day.
She handed me her cell phone without asking for the story first.
Some people understand danger faster than explanations.
I dialed 911.
“My husband attacked me, locked me inside our apartment, and I found messages saying he planned to make my death look like an accident. I escaped into the neighboring unit. He is still next door. There are three people involved. I have the burner phone and forged documents.”
The dispatcher’s voice changed.
Professional.
Focused.
Beautiful.
“Are you in immediate danger?”
“Yes.”
“Can the door to your current location be locked?”
Mrs. Alvarez nodded and turned the deadbolt.
“Yes.”
“Stay away from windows and the entrance. Officers are being dispatched.”
The word officers made my legs almost give out.
Mrs. Alvarez took my elbow and guided me to a chair.
“Sit.”
“I can’t—”
“Sit before you fall.”
I sat.
The burner phone buzzed inside my robe.
I pulled it out.
New message.
Leonard Pike: Did she sign?
Derek replied seconds later.
Derek: She knows. Moving now.
Leonard Pike: Do not improvise. If police come, she attacked you first.
Margaret: I warned you both not to leave messages.
Suzanne: I’m not going down for Skylar.
I stared at that line.
Suzanne was not worried about my life.
She was worried about being inconvenienced by my survival.
Mrs. Alvarez read my face.
“Send it to someone.”
“My phone is broken.”
“Use mine.”
The dispatcher was still on the line.
I asked if I could forward evidence.
She connected me to a secure link through a responding detective.
I uploaded photos of the messages, the forged documents, the fake power of attorney, the burner contact list, and the newest thread.
May you like
Then I saw a folder icon buried in the burner phone’s files.
E.H.
