The Unknown Caller

The drive back to her apartment felt longer than it should have.

Mia’s hands gripped the steering wheel, Dr. Reid’s words replaying in her mind. “I think you’re exactly what they’re looking for.” The smile he’d given her. Something in her gut twisted with warning.

But five million dollars drowned out every doubt. Kevin’s surgery. His physical therapy. A future where he could walk again instead of spending his teenage years in a wheelchair.

By the time she reached her apartment building, the sun was setting. The neighborhood was already slipping into evening chaos, sirens in the distance, homeless people in doorways, the smell of fried food hovering in the air.

She climbed the stairs, her legs heavy. The hospital shift followed by Dr. Reid’s meeting had drained her completely.

Kevin was in the living room, studying at his makeshift desk. He looked up, and his face brightened immediately. “You’re home! How did it go?”

“They want me to move in next week,” Mia said.

Kevin’s entire face transformed. For just a moment, the exhaustion and fear lifted. He looked like a boy who’d just been told he was going to be okay.

“Mia, that’s incredible.” He wheeled himself closer. “How much is the compensation? Is it really five million?”

She sat on the arm of the couch, suddenly too tired to stand. “Five million. I sign the contract tomorrow. We move in next week.”

“We?”

“You get care too. Better doctors than County Hospital. Better equipment.” She was selling it now, selling the lie along with the truth. “It’s going to be okay, Kevin.”

Kevin squeezed her hand. “You’re going to be okay too, right? Living with strangers for nine months?”

It was such a Kevin question. Even at fifteen, even sick, he was still trying to protect her.

“Of course,” she said. “It’s just nine months. And then everything changes.”

After Kevin went to bed, Mia sat on the couch in the darkness. She pulled out her phone to review the contract properly this time, but the legal jargon made her eyes glaze over. Terms like "relinquishment of parental rights" and "non-interference clause" blurred together.

The non-disclosure agreement was twenty pages long. The penalties for breaking it were catastrophic. If she broke the NDA, she’d owe ten million dollars.

She didn’t have ten million dollars. She didn’t have ten thousand.

She was so focused on the contract that she almost missed the envelope slipped under her door.

There was no return address, just her name written in handwriting she didn’t recognize.

Inside was a single sentence typed on plain paper: “Don’t sign anything until you call me.”

A phone number. No signature.

Her heart rate spiked. She looked out the peephole. The hallway was empty.

She checked the lock. Triple-checked it. Looked out the peephole again. Nothing.

At 11:47 PM, she texted the number: “Who is this?”

The response came within two minutes: “Someone who knows what you’re getting into. Call me tomorrow. Not from your apartment.”

Mia deleted the conversation and set her phone down with shaking hands.

By morning, she’d convinced herself the note was a prank. Someone trying to scare her out of the surrogacy so they could take the position instead. She almost didn’t call.

But she did. During her break at the hospital, in the stairwell where no one could hear her.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice, older, careful.

“You left me a note,” Mia said.

“Yes. My name is Patricia Moss. I was a surrogate for the same couple you’re being considered for.”

Mia’s grip tightened on her phone. “What?”

“Five years ago. Different fertility clinic, different doctor, but the same arrangement. The same couple.” Patricia paused. “I need to meet with you in person. There are things you need to know.”

“Like what?”

“Not over the phone. Can you meet me tomorrow? There’s a coffee shop on Fifth and Morrison. Noon?”

Every logical part of Mia screamed that this was insane. But something in her needed to know.

“Okay.”

The coffee shop was small and crowded. Patricia Moss found her exactly at noon. She was a woman in her early thirties.

She sat down without asking permission.

“Thank you for coming,” Patricia said.

“Why leave me a note instead of just calling?”

“Because I wanted to be careful.” Patricia leaned forward. “The couple you’re being considered for, the Crosses—they’re not who they claim to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“I carried a child for them five years ago. Healthy pregnancy, healthy delivery. Then they took the baby, and I never heard from them again.” Patricia pulled out her phone, showing Mia a photo of a young girl. “That’s my child. A boarding school photo from last year. I hired a private investigator. Things didn’t add up. Victoria never went out with the kid, never posted pictures. It was like my child didn’t exist.”

Mia felt cold run down her spine.

“Whatever story they told you about why they need a surrogate, it’s not the real reason,” Patricia continued. “I never found out what the real reason was. But I know it wasn’t about infertility. And I know that becoming involved with that family cost me more than I expected.”

“Cost you what?”

Patricia pulled down the collar of her shirt, revealing a faded scar along her collarbone. “A car accident. That’s what the police called it. I was hit by a vehicle that ran a red light, and the driver was never found. This happened three months after I started investigating them.”

Mia’s mouth went dry. “You’re saying they tried to kill you?”

“I’m saying I have no proof, but I also don’t believe in coincidences. Whatever they want a surrogate for, it’s important enough to protect with extreme prejudice.”

They sat in silence. The coffee shop noise continued around them, conversations, espresso machines, background music.

“Why are you telling me this?” Mia asked finally.

“Because you look the same way I did five years ago, desperate. They target women like us. Women with genuine hardships, legitimate reasons to need the money. Women who won’t ask too many questions because they can’t afford to walk away.”

Patricia stood up. “I can’t tell you what to do. But five million dollars might not be worth what comes after. Be very careful about what you sign.”

“Do you know what they actually want the surrogate for?” Mia asked.

Patricia shook her head. “No. But I have a theory, and it’s not a good one.” She handed Mia a business card. “This is a lawyer. The kind who works for people who need protecting. If you decide to go through with this, call him first. Have him review the contract.”

“Thank you,” Mia said quietly.

Patricia left without another word.

Mia’s phone buzzed. A text from Dr. Reid: “The Crosses would like to meet with you this Friday. They’re very interested. Congratulations.”

She stared at the message, Patricia’s warning echoing in her mind.

Then another text arrived from the same unknown number from last night: “Don’t do it. Call the lawyer. Please.”

Mia deleted both messages and looked at the business card Patricia had given her.

For a long moment, she sat with the choice in front of her: safety or salvation.

Then she thought of Kevin in his wheelchair. She thought of the hospital bills. She thought of five million dollars.

She deleted the lawyer’s number and texted Dr. Reid: “I’ll be there Friday.”