Cold Calls (24 page)

“Now you sound like Father Caudillo.”

“I consider that a fine compliment, miss. And he is right.” Father Joe sat next to her, his long, bony fingers intertwined on his lap. “You need to forgive yourself for what happened to your brother.”

“I know I'm supposed to,” she said, not wanting to cry, yet knowing it would happen anyway. “But it's hard.”

“People ask me, ‘Why does God let innocent babies die?' and I have to tell them that I have no answer. Crib death—that is what we call SIDS in Sudan—it is a tragedy.” He paused. “And a test of faith.”

“Don't worry, my faith is fine. It's my patience that gets tested.” She sighed and brushed the back of her hand across her cheek. “Everybody looking at me. Whispering about me. Like I can't guess what they're saying.”

“Perhaps it is not what you think.”

“I need some time, that's all. I mean, I close my eyes and I'm right there, like it just happened, like he's still—” She took a deep breath, letting it out in choppy bursts, then another, the nausea fading. “I just don't need people reminding me about it right now.”

Father Joe smiled and rubbed his hands together, finishing with a clap that echoed through the empty church. “As you wish, Miss Shelly. I shall not mention it again. When you are ready to talk, we will talk. Till then, I will pray for you, and I will pray that others respect your privacy.”

Shelly smiled. “Sounds like a plan.”

S
HE TOOK TWO PAPERS OUT OF THE THICK MANILA
folder.

She had the file saved on her new laptop, but that was just one of the mistakes she wasn't going to make again. Besides, there was something about seeing her handwritten notes mixed in with typed pages that made it all seem more personal. Maybe that girl Fatima wasn't so stupid after all.

The first paper was a list of names and numbers.

It had taken weeks to come up with a fresh list, then twice as many weeks to narrow it down. There were several excellent candidates for the role, but she knew now that the more actors you had on stage, the more that could go wrong. They'd start comparing notes, changing the plot, conspiring against the director, ruining everything.

Best to clear the stage, recast the lead, and start from scratch.

This time there'd only be one.

And nothing would go wrong.

She'd make sure of that.

She popped the top of a yellow highlighter and circled a new name.

The second paper was a printout of the only thing that had survived on her old computer.

A photo.

Maybe he was trying to be ironic, but she doubted he was that deep.

The iPhone camera flash in the bathroom mirror whited out his face, but it spotlighted Eric Hamilton's fist, middle finger raised.

She slipped on the headphones and adjusted the mike.

She opened the effects program on her laptop, selected presets, and clicked on one.

She checked the number by the circled name and dialed.

An unsuspecting actor about to make a shocking debut.

The phone rang a dozen times before a shaky voice said hello.

She paused, listening to the clicking pops, the airy whoosh, letting the static build.

Eric thought his troubles were over?

They were just getting started.

Thanks to—

Anne and Patty, for the brilliant calls.

Dinah, for picking up on the first ring.

Molly and Laurel, for not hanging up.

My family and friends, for not losing my number.

Some Ska Band, for the party line.

Librarians, teachers, and booksellers, for never phoning it in.

 

C
HARLES
B
ENOIT
's teen novels include
Fall from Grace
and
You,
an ALA Quick Pick for Reluctant Young Adult Readers. A former high school teacher, Charles is also the Edgar-nominated author of three adult mysteries. He lives in Rochester, New York. Visit him on the Web at
www.charlesbenoit.com
or follow him on Twitter (
@BenoitTheWriter
).