Chapter 3 Interruption
Violet
The phones don’t stop. They never stop. They just rotate through different voices with different levels of entitlement.
By 9:17 a.m., I’ve already denied three “urgent” requests, rebooked two meetings, and dodged a surprise visitor who tried to walk past security like the laws of this building don’t apply to him.
They do.
They apply to everyone.
My headset is warm against my ear when the next call comes in and the screen flashes a number I don’t recognize—blocked ID, no company label, no name. Just the kind of call that doesn’t care about my schedule.
I let it ring once. Twice. A controlled hesitation.
Then I answer. “Ashcroft Industries.”
A pause. A breath. The weight of a man who thinks he’s speaking to someone small.
“Violet Pierce?” he asks.
My spine tightens without moving.
“Yes.”
“This is Detective Calder with the city police department.”
My hand stills on the keyboard.
Just for a fraction of a second. That’s all it takes for my body to betray me.
Detective. Police. City.
My brother.
I force my fingers to keep moving—clicking, typing, doing something useless so I look normal. I make my voice flat. Professional. Bored.
“Okay,” I say. “What is this about?”
“You tell me,” he replies.
Not friendly. Not neutral. Suspicious right out the gate.
I keep my eyes on the lobby. On the glass doors. On the elevator bank. Anywhere but the place in my chest that just went cold.
“If you’re asking about Drew Pierce,” I say, “I already made a statement. I already filed the report. I already gave—”
“Yeah,” he cuts in, sharp. “I read it.”
The way he says it makes it sound like a joke. Like my brother vanishing is a folder on his desk and I’m the annoying part attached to it.
I swallow once. Quietly. “Then you know everything I know.”
Another pause.
Then: “Where were you last night, Ms. Pierce?”
My fingers keep tapping keys. My calendar on-screen is suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.
“At home,” I say.
“Alone?”
That’s not a normal question. Not for a normal phone call.
“Yes.”
“Anyone confirm that?”
My jaw tightens. “Why are you asking me this?”
“Because,” he says calmly, “your brother’s phone pinged.”
My entire body goes rigid under my skin.
I don’t let it show.
“Where?” I ask, and I keep it crisp—like I’m asking about a meeting room.
“Before we get into that, I want to clear something up,” he says. “Your brother has been missing what, three weeks?”
“Twenty-three days,” I correct automatically.
He hums like he’s taking notes, like my memory is suspicious too.
“And in those twenty-three days,” he continues, “you didn’t hear from him. Not a call, not a text, not a social media login. Nothing.”
“No,” I say.
“Yet you’re telling us he’s the type to just… disappear.”
“I never said that.”
“You implied it.”
“I said he’s an adult,” I snap, then clamp down instantly. “I said he’s done this before—gone quiet for a few days. I didn’t say he disappears.”
“You live together?” he asks.
“No.”
“You see him often?”
“As often as we can.”
“That’s vague.”
I exhale slowly through my nose, careful. “Detective, if you have something to tell me, tell me. If you don’t, then this call is wasting my time.”
“Oh, I don’t think your time’s being wasted,” he says, and there’s something in his tone that makes my stomach twist. “I think you’re just not used to being asked questions you can’t control.”
My grip tightens on the pen on my desk. I don’t remember picking it up.
I make myself put it down.
“I’m at work,” I say, softer, flatter. “If you’re accusing me of something, do it plainly.”
Silence.
Then, like he’s amused, “Accusing you? No. Not yet.”
My blood goes colder.
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” he says, “that I have a few inconsistencies I want to clear up. In person.”
My mouth goes dry. “I already came down there.”
“Yeah,” he replies, “and you were polite. Cooperative. Perfect.”
Perfect.
He says it like it’s a flaw.
“Now I want you to come again,” he continues. “Tonight.”
“I work,” I say.
“I know. I’m looking at your employment verification right now.”
My stomach drops again, but I keep my face neutral, eyes forward. The lobby is still calm. The world is still spinning.
“Why tonight?” I ask.
“Because I’m asking,” he says. “And because I don’t like playing phone tag when I’ve got a missing persons case that smells wrong.”
Smells wrong.
“Drew isn’t a smell,” I say. “He’s a person.”
“Mm,” he responds, uninterested. “And people do dumb things. People run. People hide. People get involved in things they don’t understand.”
My heart hits a hard, angry beat.
“You think he ran,” I say.
“I think something happened,” he corrects. “And I think you know more than you’re saying.”
I force a tight smile even though no one can see it. I don’t even know why. Habit. Survival. The same thing I use on entitled executives and angry councilwomen.
“You’re wrong,” I say.
“Then prove it,” he answers.
“How?”
“Come in,” he says. “Stop by the station on your way home tonight. Six p.m.”
“That’s not a request,” I say, and it comes out colder than I mean it to.
“No,” he agrees. “It isn’t.”
A beat.
Then he adds, casually lethal: “And Violet? Don’t leave town.”
My throat constricts. “I’m not—”
“I’ll see you at six,” he says, and hangs up.
The line goes dead.
For half a second, I just stare at my monitor.
I don’t blink. I don’t breathe. I don’t move.
Then my fingers start again—typing, clicking, opening a scheduling window I don’t need. Doing something normal so my body doesn’t fall apart in public.
Because this is a lobby full of glass and money and people who would love to watch me crack.
I won’t give them that.
I won’t give him that either.
I feel eyes on me.
Not from across the room.
From above.
I keep my posture perfect. I don’t look toward the elevator. I don’t look toward Rowan’s office wing. I don’t look anywhere I shouldn’t.
But I can feel it—like a shadow leaning over my shoulder.
Like attention.
Like threat.
My screen flashes another incoming call. Waters again.
Of course.
I press the button on my headset without thinking, voice already sliding into professional.
“Ashcroft Industries—”
But the wrong line lights up. The wrong extension. The wrong routing.
I glance down.
My stomach drops.
Because I didn’t answer it on the general line.
I forwarded it.
Direct.
I forwarded a call straight through to Rowan Ashcroft’s office.
My hand jerks. I stab at the buttons, trying to pull it back. Trying to cancel it. Trying to reroute. The system spins for a fraction of a second—too slow, too late.
A click.
Connection made.
I fucked up.
And Rowan Ashcroft doesn’t tolerate fuck ups.