Page 15

THE FIRST THING I do when I return to the room is put the flowers outside next to the outdoor bathtub. Their beauty now feels ominous, their fragrance sickly and cloying. I lock the door securely and crawl into bed, but I can’t sleep. Despite the jet lag, the emotional exhaustion of the confrontation with the woman in the audience, and the alcohol, I lie in the crisp sheets, in the dark, mind swirling. This garden room, with its private walkway enveloped by lush greenery, had seemed so quaint, but it now feels too accessible. Because someone here, in Miami, could be out to get me.

Who was the woman in the audience? Were her issues with my novel sparked by Ingrid Wandry’s online reviews? Did she send me the Negroni at the bar? The anonymous flowers? If she was trying to creep me out, it worked. But could she really be so incensed as to be dangerous? This is Florida. I have seen a lot of memes…

Of course, there could be an innocent explanation for these gifts. The drink was just like Timothy said, a gesture from a sympathetic audience member. And someone from home will come forward and claim the bouquet, a friend or a co-worker. Maybe it was from Janine, who knows what it feels like to deal with online haters. The words on the card aren’t necessarily menacing.

At some point, I must doze off, because I’m startled awake by my phone ringing. The bedside clock reads 1:46 a.m. Panic grips my chest—is something wrong with Liza?—but I realize it’s three hours earlier at home. It’s not entirely unreasonable for someone to be calling me now: My daughter. Or Theo. Even Martha if she’s forgotten I’m in a different time zone.

Grabbing the charger cord, I reel my phone toward me. The tiny screen displays an unfamiliar message: No Caller ID.

A wrong number. Or an automated call. Still, I answer it, just in case.

“Hello?”

There’s no one there. As suspected, it’s a robocall. I hang up, more than a little annoyed, and worried I won’t be able to get back to sleep. But I snuggle into the high-thread-count sheets, feel myself succumbing, just as the phone rings again.

“What the hell?” I flick the lamp on this time and wrench the phone off its cord. The same No Caller ID message glows back at me.

“Hello?” I grumble. There’s no response. I’m about to hang up when I hear it. Or rather, sense it. Someone is there, at the other end of the line. There is distinct yet subtle background noise. The phone must be on speaker. I hear a fridge click on, or perhaps a dishwasher is running.

“Who is this?” I ask. “How did you get my number?” My brain sifts through possibilities as I wait for a response. I don’t give out my private number freely, but I’d included it on the festival paperwork. Surely, I’m not being prank-called by a festival employee or volunteer. I hear a rustle of clothing, a slight shifting. “Talk to me,” I say, my tone softening. Maybe I can coax this person to open up, to explain themselves. “What do you want from me?”

I wait… thirty seconds, one minute, maybe even two… But I get nothing. Anger and frustration grip me. “I’m hanging up now,” I snap. “And I’m blocking your number. I suggest you get a fucking life.”

With trembling fingers, I tap into my recent calls. I see the No Caller ID and I select the Info button. Scrolling down, I search for Block this caller. As I’m about to press it, the phone rings again. I answer it.

“You want to play this game?” I practically scream down the line. “I can’t sleep anyway. I can sit here all goddamn night.”

But I can’t. I have a flight in the morning. I have work to do on the plane. I hold on for a while, listening to the ambient noise, wondering who the hell is sitting there, listening to my shallow breaths, my racing heartbeat, my body betraying my anxiety. Then I hang up, quickly block the number, and try to sleep.

The morning sunshine brings with it a headache, puffy eyes, and a sense of perspective. Last night’s prank phone calls seem benign, childish even, and unrelated to the flowers and the drink. In the bright morning light, those deliveries have lost their menace. Why did I think they were related to the audience member who took offense to my book? The cocktail and bouquet were kindly overtures, nothing to worry about. I have a new voicemail, from my driver, probably. The festival has secured all guests transportation to and from the airport. I dial in and the automated voice says:

“You have… forty-six… new messages.”

I already know, all of them are silent.