The Waiting Game
Those 48 hours were the longest of my life. Every time my phone buzzed, I nearly jumped out of my skin, thinking it was Martha with news. I’d check my email obsessively, refreshing every few minutes until my finger ached. Sleep? Forget about it.
I’d doze off only to jolt awake at 3 AM, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios. What if they found a way to discredit Miguel? What if they were pressuring him to recant his story?
‘They’re cornered, Cathy,’ Martha assured me during our twice-daily check-ins. ‘They know we have them dead to rights.’ But I couldn’t shake the anxiety. I’d seen how ruthless corporate America could be when threatened.
By the second evening, I was a complete wreck. I paced my apartment like a caged animal, wearing a path in my carpet between the kitchen and living room. I’d made and abandoned six cups of tea, too jittery to actually drink any of them.
Every car door slamming outside made me rush to the window. Was it them? Had they sent someone to intimidate me?
I knew I was being paranoid, but after everything that had happened, could you blame me? Just when I thought I couldn’t take another minute of waiting, my phone rang with a number I didn’t recognize.
My hand trembled as I answered, and what I heard next made my knees buckle.