The Call

It came at nine-fifteen on a Thursday night.

She was in bed. She was almost asleep, which was the only reason she answered — the half-awake reflex, the hand reaching for the phone before the mind caught up with the body.

"Liza."

His voice. The specific weight of it, the particular temperature. She had not heard it in two months and she heard it now and the sound went through her like cold water, like the thing she had been waiting for arriving in the dark.

She hung up. She put the phone down. She sat on the edge of the bed and breathed.

She called Aaron.

"He called from his own phone," she said. "I have the call log. It shows the number, the time, the duration — seven seconds. He hung up when I hung up."

Aaron was quiet for a moment. "That is a violation."

"I know."

"We will document it. We will file it with the court." He was quiet again. "Liza, this is what happens. He tests the boundary. He calls, he sees if you answer, he hangs up. He wants to see what you will do."

"I know."

She hung up and sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the apartment around her. The refrigerator humming. The traffic outside. The silence that was no longer quiet.

He knew where she lived. He had always known.