Secret phone calls

Secret phone calls
Tonight she is asleep in the small room at the end of the hall. I made sure she ate, I made sure she was warm. That is the part of me she can see. But when the night settles and her breathing turns steady, I move quietly through the house like a shadow.

There is a door in the kitchen no one pays attention to. It looks like an old pantry. Dust collects on the handle, the kind of thing you would overlook if you were a guest. But it is not a pantry. I keep the key on a thin chain tucked beneath my shirt.

I unlock it with a care that has become ritual. The hinges protest with a faint groan but I know how to close it so softly that it makes no echo. The stairs behind the door spiral down into the narrow dark. Each step feels like I am walking deeper into a part of myself that must never rise to the surface.

Down there, the air smells different. Paper, ink, and the faint trace of metal. I keep boxes lined against the wall, stacked in neat order. Notebooks full of scribbles, maps, little notes I have gathered. Strings stretch across one side of the wall, tying faces to names, dates to events. It looks messy but I know where every line begins and where it ends.

In the center is a name that I have circled more times than I can count. I never say it aloud. Some names hold weight, like speaking them might wake something better left sleeping. My eyes always return to it, like I cannot resist the pull.

I pick up the phone I keep down here, the one with no contacts stored, no history saved. It is late but I know she will answer. She always does.

“Hello.” Her voice slips through the line, soft and measured, but I hear the sharpness beneath.

“She is with me,” I tell her. I do not use Ree’s name. The less spoken, the safer.

There is a pause. I picture her on the other end, calculating, always calculating.

“Do you want to come and see her for yourself?” I ask, though I already know what her answer will be.

“Not now,” she says. Her tone carries a warning and a promise all at once. “Keep your eyes on her and keep her closer to you… for your own good.”

The line clicks dead. She never says goodbye.

I let the silence hang heavy in the basement. My chest feels tight, not with fear, but with the weight of carrying something too heavy to drop. I place the phone back on the desk, between the notebooks filled with my hand. My notes run in two voices—the neat side that looks like a teacher’s script, and the darker scribbles that run wild, words written when sleep refused to come.

I read one page, the lines I wrote only a week ago: She does not know what she carries. She must not know until it is too late to turn back.

Sometimes I wonder if I am protecting Ree or if I am leading her into a place where no protection will matter. The thought does not leave me even when I climb back upstairs.

The house looks harmless again. I return the key to the chain around my neck and step into the hall. Ree’s door is still closed. I listen for her breathing. Still steady, still safe.

I lean against the wall for a moment, closing my eyes. The echo of her words lingers—keep her closer to you. That command rattles me more than I want to admit. It means I cannot let Ree slip out of reach. It means every smile I give her, every gentle word, is also a chain I fasten tighter around her.

She trusts me. She does not see the shadow that follows behind my kindness. That trust is a blade in my hand. And I do not know yet if it is meant to shield her or cut her.

I push away from the wall and walk back into the living room. The quiet stretches. My eyes fall on the small lamp glowing on the table, casting its soft light across the room. For a moment, I imagine what it would be like if life were simple, if I could sit here and drink tea and never hear the phone ring with her voice. But simplicity has never been mine.

I hear a soft creak behind me and turn. Ree is in the doorway, her eyes half closed, her hair tangled from sleep.

“Could not sleep?” I ask, keeping my tone gentle.

She shakes her head and yawns. “I thought I heard you talking.”

My chest tightens. I smile quickly to cover it. “Old habits,” I say. “Sometimes I talk to myself when I cannot sleep.”

She studies me for a moment too long, as though she wants to press for more. Then she nods slowly and steps back toward her room.

“Good night, Tracy,” she murmurs.

“Good night, Ree.”

I watch until her door closes again. The silence swallows me whole.

There are things she must never know, not yet. And there are things I cannot tell her, not ever. But the circle is tightening, and I can already feel the night pressing closer around us.

And I know this—sooner or later, someone will come.