I stared at the phone. A placeholder.
The irony was so sharp it could cut glass. She had called me a placeholder. She had called me safe. And all along, she was just a warm body for Dylan to use while he waited for his real relationship to resume. She had burned her house down to chase a mirage.
I thanked Mike and put the phone down. I didn't warn her. Why would I? She wanted excitement. She wanted risk. She was about to get a lifetime supply of both.
The crash happened 48 hours later.
I was sitting on my balcony reading a book when my phone lit up.
Vanessa (11:42 p.m.): Mark.
Vanessa (11:45 p.m.): Are you awake?
Vanessa (11:50 p.m.): Please answer. It's an emergency.
I didn't answer.
Vanessa (12:05 a.m.): He kicked me out. He's a monster. I have nowhere to go. My parents are out of town. Please, I just need a place to sleep.
I took a sip of my water. The professional in me analyzed the request: a tenant who had violated the lease, caused property damage, and voluntarily vacated the premises was now asking for re-entry. Application denied.
I turned off my phone and went to bed.
The knocking started at 7:00 a.m. on Saturday. It wasn't a polite, "sorry to bother you" knock; it was a frantic, desperate pounding that shook the doorframe.
I was already awake, brewing coffee, enjoying the silence of an apartment that no longer smelled like her overly sweet perfume. I checked the peephole.
Vanessa was standing there.