CALL DEANNA. JAMIE stands in Mike’s bedroom and tries to make sense of his words. Who is Deanna? And why—with his body chained to a bed, a knife jutting out of him, blood over half of his torso, is he asking for her? She should call the police. An ambulance at least. Mike’s jaw is chattering, words humming through his mouth in an insane chorus, out of rhythm with the chimes that are echoing through the house. She snags a chair, drags it to the kitchen, and stands on it, running her hands along the top of the fridge till she reaches the box, the ridiculous Tiffany box that is blaring holiday cheer in the middle of freaking February. She gropes for its power cord, yanking the hell out of it until the music ceases and her mind can think.
Call Deanna. She walks over to Mike’s desk, looks for a phone. Nothing. Walks over to his chair, pushed into the corner of the room, far from the bed. A pain grips her heart as she imagines him chained to the bed, away from anything that could help him. How long was he tied up? Who did this? The TVs, computer, everything is still here. She leans down, digs through the pocket sewn into the side of his chair, and her hands close around the hard metal of a phone. She pulls it out, presses a button, and the screen floods with light. Fourteen missed calls. She dismisses the alert, a red battery indicating that there is 2 percent left of life. Swearing, she hurries to the bed, grabs the charger, and plugs it in, breathing a sigh of relief when the charge indicator displays. Then she scrolls through the contents till she sees the name. Deanna. Six letters, no description, no picture attached to the contact. Nothing to tell her anything. She presses the “Call” button and waits, the phone to her ear, unsure of what she will say.
“Hi, fuckface.”
The voice sounds pissed. Beyond pissed. The tone of the girl drags a long, sharp razor across Jamie’s skin. This voice doesn’t belong to the image she had in mind, that of a frilly bimbo, one of Mike’s hundred-dollar whores. This voice lives far outside Jamie’s life of pasta ziti and Real Housewives of Miami. She swallows. “Hi.”