The first time the blocked number called my husband’s phone, I almost ignored it.

It was 2:14 a.m., and I had just drifted into that shallow stage of sleep where your brain is still half aware of the room around you. The phone’s glow lit up the nightstand like a tiny alarm bell in the dark.

Beside me, Mark lay flat on his back, breathing deeply. My husband could sleep through almost anything.

The phone stopped ringing.

Silence returned.

I closed my eyes again.

Then the phone rang a second time.

I sat up, annoyed now, and looked at the screen.

Blocked Number.

“Mark,” I murmured, nudging his shoulder.

He made a noise that sounded like a tired animal and rolled away from me.

The phone stopped.

Two minutes later, it rang again.

2:20 a.m.

That was when the uneasiness started. Nobody calls three times in the middle of the night unless something is very wrong.

“Mark,” I whispered again, shaking him harder.

Nothing.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I picked up his phone and answered.

“Hel—”

“MARK, STOP IGNORING ME!”

The scream exploded through the speaker.

It was a young woman’s voice, hoarse from crying and thick with fury.

“Take responsibility!” she shouted. “This is all your fault!”

My heart slammed against my ribs.

“Who is this?” I asked quickly. “What’s going on?”

For a second there was only breathing.

Then I heard a baby crying in the background.

Not the soft whining cry babies make when they’re tired.

This was desperate crying.

The woman inhaled sharply.

“Is that Mark’s wife?”

“Yes,” I said carefully. “Who are you?”

“Come to the corner of M Street at noon,” she said. “Then you’ll find out what your husband did.”

The line went dead.