I dialed her number, the line going straight to voicemail.
“Okay, Mom,” I said, annoyance thick in my voice. “It’s been days. I’ve left messages, and you’re making me worry now. If you were taking a trip, why didn’t you call me?”
I hadn’t meant to yell, but I was already frazzled. I pulled the phone away, hanging up.
My mother was flighty and not at all self-sufficient, but she was always available to me. She was always in contact.
Walking to the refrigerator, I dialed Mr. Crist’s office and stuck the phone between my shoulder and my ear as I plucked out a Gatorade and twisted the top.
“Evans Crist’s office,” a woman greeted.
“Hi, Stella.” I took a quick sip and replaced the cap. “This is Erika Fane. Is Mr. Crist in?”
“No, I’m sorry, Rika,” she replied. “He’s already gone for the day. Would you like his cell number?”
I sighed, setting down my bottle. Stella had worked for the Crists and been Mr. Crist’s personal secretary my entire life. I was used to dealing with her, since she also handled most of my family’s finances for Mr. Crist. Until I graduated from college anyway.
“No, I have his number,” I told her. “I just didn’t want to bother him on his private time. Could you please ask him to call me at his convenience when you speak to him next? It’s not an emergency, but it is kind of important.”
“Of course, dear,” she replied.
“Thank you.”
I hung up and grabbed my Gatorade, moving to the window to look out into the courtyard and the city beyond.
The sun was starting to set, thin slices of it peeking through the skyscrapers as I took in the clear sky and purple hues in the distance. The lamps outside in the garden, sensing the disappearance of sunlight, suddenly lit up, and I raised my eyes, seeing the windows of Michael’s penthouse.
It was dark. I hadn’t seen him in a several days, not since the episode at Hunter-Bailey, and I wondered if he was off training or out of town. The basketball season would be starting in the next couple of months, but it wasn’t uncommon to have exhibition or pre-games before the regular schedule began. He’d be very busy and most likely away a lot between November and March.
I turned on some music—Silence by Delirium—and took off my scarf and kicked off my boots and socks as I spread out at the kitchen island with my laptop, working on the assignments I’d accumulated today.
In addition to the anthropology class, I’d also started Statistics, as well as Cognitive Psychology today. I still had no idea what I wanted to do for a career, but since I’d already taken so many courses between Brown and Trinity that focused on Psychology and Sociology, I was pretty sure I’d declare my major soon.
The only thing I knew for certain was that I liked learning about people. The way their brains worked, how much was chemical and how much was societal, and I wanted to understand why we did the things we did. Why we made the decisions we made.
After I’d finished reading, highlighting more lines than I hadn’t, I worked on the statistics problems assigned and then made myself a chicken Caesar salad as I finished a few chapters for my history class tomorrow.
By the time I was done, the sun had set, and I’d repacked my school bag for tomorrow’s classes and hooked up my iPad to charge. Walking to the windows, I dialed my mother again and gazed outside, the city glittering with life.
The call went immediately to voicemail again, and I clicked End, dialing Mrs. Crist right after.
But she didn’t answer, either. I left a message, asking her to call me and tossed the phone on a chair in defeat. Why couldn’t I reach my mom? She called nearly every day when I was away at Brown last year.
I glanced up, doing a double-take and noticing Michael’s apartment all lit up. He was home.
I twisted my lips to the side, thinking. I couldn’t reach Mrs. Crist, and her husband was a busy man. I hated bothering him or even dealing with him if I had to. Michael was slightly less frustrating, and he probably had the number to Pithom’s satellite phone.
Spinning around, I headed out the front door in my bare feet and took the elevator down to the lobby.
I wasn’t calling him. He’d just brush me off. I had a better chance if I asked him in person.
Stepping out of the elevator, I spotted Richard, the doorman, standing outside, and I quickly glanced around, looking for a desk clerk. It was after hours, so the lobby rarely had an attendant, but I was sure I needed a card key to get me into Michael’s elevator.
I jogged toward the front doors, ready to sweet-talk Richard into giving me access, but then an elevator dinged behind me, and I turned around, seeing a two tall gentlemen stroll out of Michael’s elevator. They were huge, at least four inches taller than him, and even he was big. They half-laughed together and half-played on their phones as they walked through the lobby, one of them giving me a smile as he passed.