Chapter 4 - A Payphone on the County Road
The county road offered no shelter, only the sharp sting of gravel through the soles of my shoes and the steady rush of distant truck tires on the highway. My black maid dress felt entirely out of place under the open night sky, the white collar stiff against my throat, and my hands still encased in the bright yellow rubber gloves I hadn't thought to strip off back in the hallway. Every set of headlights that swept around the long curve behind me made my breath catch, forcing me to step off the asphalt and press myself against the cold wire of a pasture fence until the vehicle roared past without slowing down.
About a mile from the wrought-iron gates of the estate, a single amber security light flickered above the weathered sign of an independent gas station. A lonely cinder-block building with grease-stained concrete bays and a rusted chain-link fence, it looked like a relic from decades past. Next to the heavy wooden door of the station office stood a battered metal payphone encased in a glass booth with two shattered panes.
I pushed the door open, the metal frame groaning on its hinges, and stepped inside the cramped enclosure. The air smelled of stale cigarette smoke, engine oil, and old paper. My gloved fingers fumbled against the coin return slot, but I didn't need change; I dialed nine-one-two directly, pressing the receiver hard against my ear to block out the low hum of the fluorescent tube overhead.
"County emergency dispatch," a flat, practiced voice answered after two rings. "State your emergency."
"I need to report a child," I said, my voice sounding tight and ragged in the small space. "He's locked behind a wall at the estate on Crestview Drive. Number forty-two. They have him hidden under a blanket with water bottles."
A pause stretched across the line, heavy with the sound of shuffling papers and a distant radio dispatch. "Ma'am, what is your name and your relationship to the property?"
"My name is Clara. I'm the housekeeper there. But listen to me—they just caught me opening the wall. He's a little boy. He told me Please help me! and they came running down the hallway. You have to send someone right now."
"Clara, did you say you're an employee at the Crestview estate?" The dispatcher's tone shifted, losing a fraction of its professional neutrality. "That's the Sterling property. Are you reporting a domestic dispute?"
"No, I'm reporting a child locked in a secret room behind the brickwork. It's not a dispute, it's—"
"All right, Clara. We have a unit out in that sector, but they're currently handling a traffic call on the north county line," the dispatcher said, the clatter of a keyboard sounding faintly through the receiver. "I'll log the call and dispatch a cruiser as soon as they clear. Stay on the line or remain at a safe location."
"How long will that take?" I asked, looking through the cracked glass toward the dark highway.
"Depends on traffic, ma'am. Do not re-enter the property. A deputy will contact you when they arrive in the area."
The line clicked dead, the flat dial tone humming a dull warning in my ear. I lowered the heavy receiver back onto its cradle, my hands trembling inside the bright yellow rubber. The dispatcher's voice had been entirely too calm, too familiar with the name Sterling, as if logging complaints about that specific address was an exercise in bureaucratic caution rather than an urgent cry for help.
Through the station's grimy front window, directly across the asphalt of the two-lane highway, sat the neon-lit orange sign of an all-night diner. Its parking lot held a couple of faded pickup trucks and a delivery van. Stepping out of the phone booth, I crossed the dark road, keeping my head down against the biting wind, and pushed through the heavy glass door of the diner.
The warmth hit me instantly, smelling of stale coffee, fried grease, and floor wax. A tired-looking waitress with a pinned-up name tag was wiping down the counter with a gray rag. She glanced up as the bell above the door chimed, her eyes dropping immediately to my black maid dress, the white collar, and the bright yellow rubber gloves.
I slid into a corner vinyl booth near the front window, where I could keep an unbroken view of the highway leading back toward the mansion gates.
"Just coffee, black," I told the waitress when she walked over with a chipped mug and a plastic menu.
She set the mug down, the dark liquid sloshing over the rim, and lingered for a second, her gaze searching my face with quiet, hard-earned skepticism. "Rough night on the estate side of the county?" she asked, her voice low and raspy.
May you like
"Longer than you think," I whispered, wrapping my cold fingers around the hot ceramic, watching the empty stretch of highway for the first flash of red and blue lights.
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