Chapter 5: The Night That Never Ends

I sat at my desk all night, staring blankly at the phone.

The hours crawled by. The city outside was quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you feel like you’re the only person left in the world.

Time ticked by, and when the clock struck eleven, the phone rang again. I stared at the strange number for a few seconds, then answered quickly.

My heart leapt into my throat. I pressed the button with trembling fingers, bracing myself for whatever came next.

A familiar woman’s voice came through: "Honey, I’m off my night shift. Can you come pick me up?"

Her voice was the same—tired, hopeful, laced with a kind of desperation that made my chest ache.

I took a deep breath. "A-are you Linda Mayfield?"

I tried to keep my tone steady, but my voice wobbled. I needed her to know I was listening, that I cared.

"Who are you? Are you Frank Hargrove’s mistress?"

She sounded suspicious, angry. The accusation stung, but I understood—she was scared, and I was just a stranger to her.

My head buzzed. Why was she saying that again? I quickly asked, "What’s today’s date?"

I needed to know if the timeline had shifted, if I was really talking to her in the past.

She snapped, "Are you brain-dead? You don’t even know it’s August 13th!"

Her impatience was almost comforting—so familiar, so real. I could almost picture her rolling her eyes.

August 13th… again.

It seemed that in her world, this day was stuck on repeat—my mom forever waiting on the edge of death for my dad to pick her up after her shift.

The idea chilled me. Was she trapped in this moment, doomed to relive it forever?

But my deadbeat dad ignored her in the past, and now he was too scared to even answer. How could he ever respond?

I felt a wave of helplessness. If he wouldn’t help her, maybe I could.

My chest ached. "Linda, listen to me. Frank Hargrove is never going to answer your call. He’s too busy playing poker and chasing other women. Don’t waste your time on that loser."

I said it harshly, hoping to jolt her out of her routine. Maybe if she heard the truth, she’d do something different.

"Are you nuts? Who the hell are you? Put Frank on the phone."

Her anger was sharp, but underneath it, I heard fear. She was lashing out because she didn’t know what else to do.

I could hear my mom cursing me, along with the sound of pouring rain in the background.

The rain was a steady drumbeat, muffling her words. It sounded like the world itself was weeping for her.

Suddenly, I remembered the news article—the night of the murder, it rained all night.

The detail sent a jolt through me. Everything lined up. This was real. This was happening.

Which meant my mom was in real danger right now, with the killer nearby.

I could almost see her, standing under the flickering streetlight, clutching her bag, unaware of the shadow following her.

I lowered my voice: "It doesn’t matter who I am, but you need to be careful. There’s someone dangerous on your way home after your shift. Avoid him at all costs!"

I tried to sound urgent, pleading. I wanted her to hear the fear in my voice, to take me seriously.

She got even angrier: "What kind of nonsense…"

Her words trailed off. I could hear someone else in the background, a muffled voice, footsteps echoing on wet pavement.

Before she could finish, I heard a faint woman’s voice on her end: "Linda, you done? Let’s go."

The voice was casual, friendly—completely unaware of the danger lurking in the night.

I blurted out, "Don’t go with them! For your own safety, stay in the workshop—don’t leave!"

I didn’t care how crazy I sounded. I just needed her to listen, to stay safe.

My mom was attacked after parting ways with her coworker at the west gate.

I remembered the detail from the news, clinging to it like a lifeline. If I could change this one thing, maybe I could save her.

So if she just stayed at the plant all night, she’d be safe.

It was a slim hope, but it was all I had.

But she didn’t believe me at all. She cursed me out, then hung up.

Her stubbornness was infuriating, but I understood. She didn’t know me. To her, I was just another voice in the dark.

When I tried calling back, it was the same as before—the number didn’t exist.

The finality of it crushed me. I stared at the phone, willing it to ring again, but it stayed stubbornly silent.

I paced around the room, fuming…

My footsteps echoed in the cramped space. I wanted to scream, to punch something, but all I could do was wait.

The words from the news swirled before my eyes, and the scenes I imagined surged up in my mind.

Every detail replayed itself—my mom’s last walk home, the rain, the shadow behind her. I felt helpless, trapped by the past.

She was so young, hot-tempered, full of anger after her shift—she probably argued with the psycho and got killed and dismembered.

I pictured her standing her ground, refusing to back down. It was just like her. But it cost her everything.

My mom… what was I supposed to do for her?

I asked the question out loud, my voice barely more than a whisper. The silence in the room was deafening.

That night, I stubbornly kept calling the number back, but every time I got the same robotic message: "The number you dialed does not exist."

The words felt like a curse. I kept trying. Desperate. But nothing changed.

By dawn, with the sky turning pale, I finally gave up and put the phone down.

I slumped onto my bed, exhaustion washing over me. I felt like I’d aged a decade in a single night.