answer.
I walk about half a mile out, past all of the 4,000 and 5,000 square ft. houses that line the beach. The lights are on in maybe two out of the ten of them. The others stand alone, forgotten, waiting for their owners to show up once every few months, if that.
I came here to be alone with my thoughts, but if I wanted that, I should have just turned off my phone. Unfortunately, I didn't and my boss, Trisha, texts me and asks again when I'm coming back. She's not at all happy that I have signed up to do these online sessions with my students and she has other clients for me to take on.
A few weeks ago, I would have been perfectly happy to do it and bury my life in my work.
Now, something is different.
I feel like I have another reason to be here. I still want to do my work and I love teaching those kids how to talk, but I also want to start a life with Tyler.
Suddenly, my phone rings, echoing over the lake. I answer without looking at the number.
It's not Trisha.
14
Isabelle
At first, I don't recognize her voice. It's drenched in desperation. I can hear her sobbing and talking through her tears.
“Isabelle, please, please you have to help me,” she pleads.
I've never heard my mom sound like this. She was always confident, nonchalant. Nothing ever bothered her.
Even when she was in the depths of her addiction, she could always figure it out. I can't remember the last time I heard her voice. Has it really been two years?
“Mom, slow down. I don't understand what you're saying.”
I have no idea how she got this number. This is a disposable phone from Walmart.
“You have to help me,” she says, crying. “Please. Please pay them whatever they want. You have no idea what I have been through.”
“Where are you? I can help you.”
“They are here, listening. I can’t tell you where I am.”
Then she screams. It's something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“Listen here, I told you that we are done fucking around. Tomorrow night. Five o'clock. In Running Springs, behind the Jensen's Foods grocery store. You get there and you toss the money into the dumpster.”
“I don't have any money.”
“Quit lying.”
“I don't know what to tell you,” I plead. “I don't have any money.”
“You have approximately $95,000. I’ve been tracking your burner phone ever since you got it at Walmart. We’ve been following you and we saw you take up that money in the desert. If you don't give it to us, then we’re going to kill your mother. It's as simple as that.”
His voice is so flat and without effect that it makes my blood run cold.
“If you force us to kill your mother, then we're going to call the cops and tell them exactly where Tyler McDermott is.”
Suddenly, I can't breathe.
“If you plan to run, don't bother. We followed you here, all across the country, we can follow you wherever you go.”
I try to think quickly, but my thoughts all get jumbled.
“Doesn't she owe you a hundred thousand dollars?” I ask.
“She does, but if you give us your ninety-five grand, we will give you another month to come up with the other five. My employer can be very accommodating. He knows that you're not the one that owes us the money, you're just a cosigner.”
“I'm hardly a cosigner,” I say. “I don't even know what this is for.”
“The less that you know the better. Your mother owes us $100,000; unless you want her dead body on your hands and your boyfriend back in the federal penitentiary, then you'll do as I say.”
He hangs up the phone. I stare at the screen for a long time even though the light goes off.
I don't know what to do.
I bend down to the ground and pick up a pebble. I want to toss it into the water, but I don't have any strength in my hands to lift it up, let alone throw it.
What can I do?
What choice do I have?
Finally, I know how they got my number. They trailed me to the Walmart and probably recorded the phone numbers that were available in the packaging. When I bought one, they called all the numbers until he finally got me.
I want to kick myself for being so stupid, but at the same time, it was kind of an ingenious thing for them to do. They sat and waited until