Wrong Number

Praise for
Wrong Number

“A gripping plot that revs its engines on page one, accelerates with each new chapter, and doesn’t come to a stop until you close the book at its satisfying conclusion.”

—ToriAnn Perkey, editor

“Rachelle Christensen weaves a tale of intrigue, suspense, and romance that is sure to please readers of all genres. Aubree’s story captured me from the very first page, and her struggles—both internal and external—kept me cheering for her until the very end.”

—Nichole Giles, author of
Mormon Mishaps and Mischief
, and
The Sharp Edge of a Knife

“Rachelle Christensen is an excellent writer with a flair for combining suspense and sweet, heart-warming romance.
Wrong Number
started out fast-paced, kept me wondering what was coming next, and reached a heart-stopping climax—a gripping page-turner the whole way through. I’d highly recommend it!”

—Cindy Beck,
Cup of Comfort
contributor and co-author of
Mormon Mishaps and Mischief.

Award Winner

LDS Storymakers First Chapter Contest

League of Utah Writers

© 2010 Rachelle J. Christensen

All rights reserved.

The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Cedar Fort, Inc., or any other entity.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.

ISBN 13: 978-1-5995-5883-7

Published by Bonneville Books an imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc., 2373 W. 700 S., Springville, UT 84663 Distributed by Cedar Fort, Inc.,
www.cedarfort.com

Cover design by Megan Whittier

Cover design © 2010 by Lyle Mortimer

Edited and typeset by Katherine Carter

T
O
M
OM AND
D
AD
—T
HANKS
for passing along the bookworm gene and for always believing in me.

And to Steve—for being the tall, dark, and handsome hero in my real-life story.

O
NE

A
UBREE DUG THROUGH A
pile of papers on the kitchen counter, searching for her cell phone. She finally noticed the familiar silver gleam under a stack of bills. She grabbed the phone, flipped it open, and groaned. The battery was dead.

“My cell phone died again!” Aubree yelled up the stairs. She heard Devin muttering as he climbed out of bed. Plugging the phone in, she watched the empty battery image flash red and frowned. “I can’t wait for it to charge.”

Devin poked his head around the corner. “How many times have I told you to pick up one of those car chargers?” He ran his fingers through the matted portion of his curly hair and yawned.

Aubree smiled at his disheveled hair and rolled her eyes. “I know. I know.” She tapped her foot. “Can I take your phone today?”

“Sure, honey, no problem. I charged it last night.”

“Thanks. I brought the paper in for you.” She tapped the front page. “I’ll read it tonight after you’ve marked it up.”

Devin whistled at her just as she opened the door. “Love you, babe.”

Aubree turned and smiled at her husband. “Love you too.” She blew him a kiss and stepped out into the crisp morning air.

She unlocked the door to her car and climbed inside, pulling the seat belt over her bulging belly and taking a deep breath—seven months pregnant and still fighting morning sickness. Whenever she was too rushed in the morning, her stomach churned. With another deep breath, she backed her car out of the driveway.

She glanced out the window, and her blue eyes narrowed at the sun, wishing it would go into hibernation for a while. The freckles sprinkled across her nose and arms had multiplied over the summer. Aubree brushed her strawberry-blonde hair away from her face and smiled when she felt her baby move.

As she drove along the busy highway to her real estate office, she turned on Devin’s phone and changed the ring tone to a louder setting. She was just about to dial into her phone’s system and forward all her calls to Devin’s cell, when it rang. The traffic light at the intersection turned red suddenly, and the ringing phone slipped from her hand as she stepped on the brake. Lifting it back to her ear, she heard a harsh voice.

“Tidmore did the job, and the body is hidden in the manhole on 32nd Street like we talked about. By the time they find him, we’ll be in the green. The intruder will clear the way.” The words were followed by a gruff cackle. Aubree’s heart raced. If Devin was playing some kind of trick on her, it wasn’t funny.

“Hey, don’t I at least get a congrats? What’s up with you? I even kept his uniform for you.”

Aubree cleared her throat. She was about to speak when a horn blared behind her. The light had turned green. She pressed the gas pedal and said, “I think you have the wrong number.” The other line went silent. She looked down at the phone and saw that the call had ended.

The man’s voice echoed in her head: “The body is hidden . . . 32nd Street . . . .” She felt the blood pulsing in her ears, and her hands trembled. Maybe it was a prank call; people were always pulling stupid jokes on each other like that.

Aubree pulled her car to the side of the road. She dialed the number to her house, hoping Devin would answer. After four rings, it went to the answering machine, and she hung up. He might be in the shower, or maybe he had left for work early. She looked at the dashboard clock—7:30 a.m. Devin never left that early. She dialed her own cell number. It went straight to her answering service. The battery hadn’t charged enough yet.

She pulled a mini phone book from under her seat and found the listing for the police department. Hoping she wasn’t being paranoid, she dialed the number and willed herself to sound calm.

“San Diego Police Department, how may I help you?” A woman’s voice greeted her.

“I just received a strange phone call, and I’m not sure if it was a prank. The man said something about hiding a body, and I’m worried.”

“Did you recognize the caller’s number?” the dispatcher asked.

“No, he called my cell phone and I—”

“Did it sound like anyone you know?”

Aubree frowned. “No, I think it was a wrong number.”

“What’s your name?”

“Aubree Stewart.”

“And your birth date?”

“I’m twenty-eight, I mean—uh—” Aubree bit the end of her fingernail. “Look, I’m on my way to work right now, and I’m running behind. Maybe it was a prank. I wasn’t sure what I should do.”

“That’s okay, ma’am. We can have an officer check things out.”

“If you think it’s necessary,” Aubree said.

“Ma’am, if you think this is anything more than a prank call, it is necessary.”

“Okay. The man said the body was hidden in a manhole on 32nd Street.” Aubree closed her eyes and tried to control the shiver moving up her spine.

“I’ll contact the officer on duty in that area and have him check it out,” the dispatcher said.

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Don’t worry. Give me your phone number and work address, and if we have any more questions, a detective will contact you.”

Aubree gave the dispatcher her information and hung up the phone. She felt even more nervous than before. What if there really was a dead body? Would she be a suspect? Shaking her head, she gripped the steering wheel. Maybe she was overreacting.

She dialed the number to Devin’s office and hung up when his answering machine came on. She didn’t want to leave a message and have him worry about her, so she shoved the phone into her purse and pulled her car back into the hectic morning traffic.

An uneasy feeling shadowed her all the way to the office. It probably was a prank call, but the way the man had laughed disturbed her.

Aubree called a couple of her clients and made appointments for
showings later in the afternoon. She twirled a pencil between her fingers, re-checking the details of a home for sale. It was difficult to stay on task when the man’s gruff voice and horrible laugh kept echoing in her head.