Chapter 7 Chapter 7

With a small shake of my head at allowing my imagination to get the best of me, I closed my eyes and lowered the flashlight. "For fuck's sake," I muttered, as returning to my chair, I looked at the recorder still clutched in my hand while my brain offered several perfectly reasonable suggestions; call the police. Call my boss. Lock everything up, go home and maybe find a priest somewhere along the way.

All of them were excellent options, but I didn’t take any of them. Instead, I slid my thumb back over the button, then leaning closer, I pressed play again. If there was anything else buried beneath that man's voice, I was damn sure going to find it.

By the sixth time of listening to the recording,I was positive the man's words hadn't changed. But, unfortunately, neither had my ability to explain them.

Lowering the recorder, I stared at it while the last faint hiss faded from the speaker. I saw them change. They weren't animals. They were men. Those three statements had been circling my head long enough that they were starting to feel less like words and more like somebody repeatedly poking me in the brain.

With a sight, I reached into the Fruity Pebbles box, and grabbed a handful then tossed them in my mouth. Clearly my appetite had recovered, so, one crisis was successfully resolved I thought with sarcastic amusement.

The rest of the night could get in line, I decided, and setting the recorder beside my keyboard, I chewed while looking at the first recording on my computer screen. There had to be a reasonable explanation. Actually, there had to be several, because I wasn't jumping directly from weird noises in the woods to men sprouting fur and running around Florida on four legs. Maybe the second man had been confused about what he'd seen? Possibly he'd been injured? He might have even been high. All were good possibilities. Hell, for all I knew both recordings could have been altered. That one bothered me enough that I stopped chewing.

I'd spent years working with audio. People could manipulate recordings, cut things together, change sounds, make one thing seem like another if they knew what they were doing. I knew enough to recognize some of it, but not all of it. Which meant I couldn't prove either recording was real. The downfall? I also couldn't prove they weren't.

"That’s helpful as hell," I muttered, reaching for my phone.

With a glance at my screen, I noted the anonymous source still hadn't answered my last message.

I typed another.

Who is the man on the recorder?

I waited. No dots appeared and no response came. "You're the one who started this conversation," I grumbled at whoever was ignoring me as I dropped the phone beside my keyboard.

I glanced toward the clock. 9:47. That got my attention. I'd been here longer than I realized, and the knowledge that someone had recently stood on the other side of our front door while I sat ten yards away suddenly made staying late lose whatever charm it had never possessed. Time to go.

I closed the Fruity Pebbles box and slid it into my bag; no chance in hell I was leaving those behind.

The recorder was another matter. I looked at the envelope, then at the small device beside it. Taking them home felt stupid. Leaving them here felt stupider.

In the end, I settled on separate plastic bags, carefully sliding the recorder into one and the envelope into another before placing both inside my work bag. Maybe whoever delivered them had left fingerprints. Probably not, but either way, I wasn't smearing mine over everything while I decided what to do next.

Reaching for my phone, I gave a startled jerk as it vibrated before my fingers touched it.

You need to leave.

I stared at the message, then toward the outer office.

Excuse me?

My fingers moved quickly.

You told me to go to the door.

The answer came almost immediately.

That was before.

I read it twice, then typed.

Before what?

Three dots appeared, then disappeared. "Don't you dare," I warned the screen. But when nothing appeared and the phone stayed silent, I hissed, "Seriously?"

Aggravated,  shoved the phone into my back pocket and pulled my bag onto my shoulder. If the goal was to make me nervous, congratulations were in order because my pulse had started climbing again.

My phone vibrated against my ass before I made it out of the booth, and pulling it out, I peered at the words.

Don't use the front entrance.

For several seconds, I simply stared at the message while every part of me that had been ready to leave suddenly reconsidered the plan. Slowly, I lifted my gaze. The front door sat at the far end of the office; closed and locked. The parking lot was dark beyond the narrow window. Nothing moved.

My fingers moved across the letters on my screen.

Why?

No answer.

Is someone outside? I typed.

Still nothing, and my grip tightened around the phone.

"You're becoming considerably less charming," I muttered. The anonymous stranger apparently wasn't concerned about our relationship.

I stepped out of the booth and looked toward the rear hallway. There was another exit back there, but my SUV was parked out front.

Going through the rear door would put me behind a mostly empty office building at almost ten o'clock at night with no vehicle and no idea whether someone was waiting for me. That wasn't an escape plan, that was an episode title in a book, and I wasn't doing it.

I pulled up my boss's number instead. Mark answered on the fourth ring. "Taylor?" he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep. "Everything okay?"

"Define okay," I replied, walking toward the middle of the office so I could keep both exits in sight.

A rustle came through the phone before his voice sharpened. "What's wrong?"

"I received a couple of recordings tonight that may be connected to Owen Price, somebody shoved an envelope through the front mail slot while I was sitting ten yards away, and now an anonymous person is telling me not to leave through the front door."

“Mark?” I asked, shifting my bag higher onto my shoulder.

“I'm here,” he answered. “Lock yourself in the booth and call the police.”

I blinked. “I was expecting at least one question,” I informed him, turning toward the booth.

“I have about fifty,” he replied as something thumped on his end of the call. “I'll ask them after you call the police.”

“Are you getting dressed?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Don't come here,” I warned, stopping beside the booth door.

“Taylor,” Mark growled.

“If somebody is outside, the last thing I need is you strolling into the middle of it,” I argued, looking toward the dark window again.

“I'm not strolling anywhere,” he countered, his voice tightening. “Call 911.”

“I am,” I assured him, reaching for the booth door.

“Now,” he ordered.

“Bossy,” I muttered, pulling it open.

“Taylor,” Mark warned again.

“I'm calling,” I assured him.