19 July, 313 Somerset.
Those were the stipulated details. Don't ask why it was set on a Tuesday. Maybe the both of them had leave to clear. Maybe Clarisse happened to have a medical appointment in the morning and could be excused from work. Maybe Rachel happened to be around the vicinity then for lunch. I don't know; ask them.
The call finally ended 20 minutes later with more back and forth of "Why did you suddenly decide to call" and "I promise I'll tell you everything on Tuesday". Clarisse eventually relented (after all, it was about 10pm and she'd like to pick her battles-- Stranger Things winning, of course) and concluded with an, "Alright, see you."
It is truly unfortunate that this was the 21st century because the phone didn't clatter, click, nor snap shut. The entire puzzling encounter was instead over with an anticlimatic, silent boop on a large red button.
The continued silent aftermath inadvertently pushed Clarisse to face the screaming alarm bells in her mind. Should she really be going to this meet-up? Why didn't Rachel just tell her everything over the phone? How could she trust someone who stalked and betrayed her before?
She considered calling back immediately to call it all off, but the sheer shock from having spoken to a missing person (for over ten years!) overshadowed and dulled any gut sense that told her it was too dangerous to meet.
Then, a lightbulb clicked in her head. The police! If Rachel is a missing person, they would need to know about it, right? So just in case she was up to no good, the police would already be hot on her heels and watching her like hawks before she could get her hands on Clarisse. It was the perfect backup plan.
After Googling the hotline to report missing persons, Clarisse punched in the numbers and listened to the rhythmic "throoo throoo" of the dial tone.
Throoo.
Throoo.
Throoo.
Clarisse felt her heartbeat slowing down, synchronising with the frequency pulsing through her right ear.
Throoo.
With a loud pop, the tone stopped. Clarisse listened intently for the sound of a voice, or perhaps an automated message. She waited for a moment, but nothing came through.
"Hello...?"
It was unusual for silence to ensue the end of a dial tone, right? This WAS the police hotline, right? Shouldn't there be a, "This is the Novena Police Centre speaking, what would you like to report?"
A deafening wave of static and crackling burst from the speaker, right into Clarisse's ear. Instinctively, she jerked the phone away and her brows furrowed into a frown. What was this?
She stared at her phone as it continued sputtering and sizzling, the title of the caller screen still "dialing..."
As quickly as it had happened, the crackling stopped. Clarisse opened her mouth and took a shallow breath to speak, or rather squeak, "Hello" when a raspy, forced voice cut in.
"Clarisse..."
It was barely a whisper, and you'd really have to lean in and press your ear to make out what it said, but somehow Clarisse just knew that it was her name.
Every muscle in her body tensed. She neither exhaled nor inhaled. Her fingers were gripping her phone ever so tightly, and she became fully aware of the band on her shorts pressing into her stomach as she sat hunched on her bed.
Like an infectious plague, a sickening, churning realisation spread throughout her body-- her mind, the twitch in her eyebags, her clenched jaw, her stiff neck, the pressure on her chest, her locked elbow, her shaking hands, her sick stomach, her cold knees, and then the tingle of fear in her toes.
She was not alone.