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The Call

Paige

I clicked from my email to my drawing program and back again. The client had ridiculously specific requests for the logo for their new side business, a candles and wax melts shop they were adding to their stationery empire, but that wasn’t really why I was clicking back and forth. I just couldn’t focus. It had been three days since I got the idea for a strawberry-peanut butter swirl ice cream and accidentally discovered Tom’s contact found McKenna, and I hadn’t heard a goddamn thing. Every night, I went to sleep terrified that she’d been killed, and no one wanted to tell me. Every morning, I woke up sure today would be the day we heard. But lunch had already passed with nothing.

My phone rang, and I picked it up. Non-American number. I swallowed down a sigh. As I got more comfortable in Tom’s house, I’d been working on calling Mom once a week, but she’d taken that as an invitation to call me whenever she wanted.

No, wait. I peered at the number. That wasn’t a French country code
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