“We’ll explain when you arrive,” he said, calm and professional, the kind of controlled tone people use when everything has already gone bad and they’re trying to keep it from spreading. “One more thing—the vehicle involved is registered to you.”
Then the call ended.
For one full second I sat there with my phone still pressed to my ear, listening to nothing. The office didn’t change. It kept moving, indifferent. My body, though, felt like it had slipped out of alignment. My hands started shaking so hard I had to lace my fingers together under the desk.
Ellie.
My chair scraped backward. I stood too fast, knocking it into the desk, and someone nearby glanced up like I’d committed some minor professional offense. I didn’t care. I grabbed my bag, my keys, my jacket I didn’t need—anything that felt like movement.
“I have to go,” I told my manager, already halfway out.
“Rachel—are you okay?” he started, in that cautious tone people use when they want to be helpful but not involved.
“Emergency,” I said. I’m not even sure the word came out clearly. My throat felt packed with cotton.