The Call from the Pool

Chapter 1: pool

The phone rang at 2:13 in the morning.

According to the display, the call came from the hotel pool.

The pool had been locked since eleven.

I worked as the night auditor at the Bellweather Hotel, an aging three-story building beside the highway. It had faded carpets, brass room keys, and pipes that knocked inside the walls whenever someone took a shower.

I had accepted the job after my marriage ended. The night shift suited me. It was quiet, and no one asked personal questions.

Most nights, I balanced receipts, drank bitter coffee, and called my daughter before she went to bed. She was seven and lived with her mother in another state.

That night, she had asked when I was coming home.

“Soon,” I told her.

I had been saying that for almost a year.

When the phone rang, I expected a guest complaining about noise. Instead, all I heard was breathing.