The Call Center

By Genevieve Leanne Dominguez

The soft ringing in my headset alerts me to an incoming call.

“Good morning. This is Lena. You have reached Dr. Jill Arbor’s office. How may I help you?” I say.

The soft click tells me the caller has disconnected. This happens often. I mark the call as a “Hang up”. Then I wait for the next call.

After three minutes of waiting, I decide today must be a slow day. Is it because of the weather? My cubicle is near the floor-to-ceiling windows. I angle my chair to face the rain that’s unceasingly sliding down the panes. Thunder rolls and lightning flashes a few seconds later.

Our office is part of a 20--story building that rents spaces out. We’re on the twentieth floor and from what I’ve been told, the call center has been here for 20 years.

I look down at the mass of umbrellas clamoring to get out of the rain. Some fold inward as their owners get into cars or taxis. Others duck under awnings or scurry into stores.

Soft ringing in my ears grabs my attention.

“Good morning. Lena speaking. This is the message service for attorneys Dan, Chester, and Donna. How can I assist you today?”

Heavy breathing. A beat of silence. Heavy breathing again.

I repeat the answer phrase. The caller becomes quiet. Too quiet.

“There is no response to me. I’m disconnecting,” I say. Click. The caller hangs up before I can. This happens somewhat often.

Carol pokes her head out of her cubicle. “Almost break time. Want to join me?”

She’s a sweet older lady. We have the same breaks and lunch. Sometimes she asks me to join her. Other times, she talks to her grandkids. Whenever she asks me, I never say no.

The break room is small but nice. To the left is a countertop filled with bagels, fruit, and trail mix packages. We also have an expensive coffee machine and an assortment of tea bags.

To the right are more windows and a large TV that’s mounted to the wall. The news is playing, but the volume is turned down.

15 minutes goes by fast, so Carol and I either snack and talk or snack and watch the news. I take a sip of my coffee as she turns up the volume on the TV.

“The search for Kelly has come to an end. The remains of the 23-year-old were found yesterday by police. When asked to comment, Chief Broward had this to say.”

The screen changes from the youthful reporter to a fatigued older man standing behind a podium, facing a crowd of reporters and cameras. He clears his throat then begins to speak gruffly. “5 women have gone missing in the past month. 5 bodies were found. All the victims were in their twenties, and all of them looked alike. Based on the findings in our investigation, it is clear we have a serial killer on our hands.”

Murmurs and gasps ripple through the crowd, but Chief Broward commands the attention back to him. “Do not underestimate this monster. Do not go out alone. Lock your cars, your doors, your windows. Double check the locks. Carry mace with you. And most importantly, do not answer a call from a number you don’t recognize.”

This leads to a series of questions from the reporters. The chief answers some of them, saying that whoever is doing this likes to scare the victims over the phone before kidnapping them. The screen changes to display a photo of each victim before switching back to the original reporter.

“This is terribly frightening. We haven’t had a serial killer on the loose in years,” Carol says. She looks at me concerned.

“You look like them.”

The unspoken words linger between us – the victims, she means.

“We get off at 5:30. I can call my dad to come by,” I say. She nods enthusiastically.

“That sounds good. If you’d like, I can walk you to your car.”

I don’t have it in me to tell her that the killer probably wouldn’t be scared by a sweet old lady like herself. Instead, I smile and say, “Thanks, Carol.”

…..

The call comes right before lunch.

“Good afternoon. Pond Path Crisis Center. How can I help you?”

The caller’s voice is low and calm and raspy. “How is your day going?”

I try to keep my voice cheery so he won’t detect that I’m a bit creeped out. “I’m fine, thank you. And yourself?”

Click.

I sigh in relief. I’m glad he hung up. We’re not allowed to disconnect the call just because the caller gives us the heebie-jeebies. What I heard on the news must still be in the back of my mind.

The sky is just as dark as it was this morning, but the rain is pouring down harder than it was before. Being near the windows has its advantage. I close my eyes and listen to the rhythmic sound. I’m not worried about falling asleep because the light pressure of my headset and the telltale ring will gently remind me that I’m not at home.

“Lena.”

Oh no.

I jerk and open my eyes. It’s my boss, Aidan.

“I’m sorry. It’s a slow day. I was relaxing a bit,” I blurt out. He smiles.

“I didn’t call you out for that reason. I would like to discuss something with you. Would it be okay if we had lunch together?”

Lunch with my boss. My cute boss. I hope no one thinks anything bad or starts gossiping… I don’t think they will. From what I’ve heard from my co-workers, Aidan is in his mid-thirties and single. Besides, we’ll be in the lunchroom with everyone else.

How can I say no?

…..

“Your stats are great. Always have been. You’ve only called out twice in the past year, for which you provided doctor’s notes. In addition, our clients have given you compliments. I’d like to commend you on your hard work, Lena.”

I smile as I grab another forkful of salad. “Thank you.”

He shakes his head and takes a sip of his drink. “No, thank you. Given your performance and tenure, I would like to offer you a promotion.”

Oh, wow, I think. Now it makes sense. Why else would he want to have lunch with me?

“Yes, of course! Thank you!” I say. He chuckles.

“I’m glad you agree. I’ll announce it at the end of the month. The new pay period will begin then. I’d like you to have a smooth transition.”

He talks some more about the position. To sum it up, I’ll be his assistant. When he’s finished, he leans over and pats my hand. A handsome smile lights up his face.

“I’ve listened to some of your calls. I think you’re a very nice person. I’d like to keep you,” he says. I smile, unsure what to say.

Thunder roars outside just then, making me jump. The lights overhead flicker then go out. A couple of people yelp in surprise. Cell phone flashlights turn on. Aidan stands and smooths his tie.

“Everyone, I know it’s easier said than done, but please remain calm. I’m sure the power will come on soon.”

I stand and head to the window with my phone flashlight guiding me. It looks like the entire city – or at least the block we’re on – is without power. Aidan stands beside me. Even in the eerie lighting, he’s still good-looking.

“How long should we wait? I ask.

“30 minutes, give or take, before I have to send everyone home. If that happens, I’ll walk you to your car,” he says.

I start to tell him that won’t be necessary, but he politely cuts me off. “I want you to be safe, Lena. It’s dangerous out there.” He glances out the window and nods, as if he’s assessing something.

“Too dangerous,” he murmurs.

…..

After ten long minutes, the power comes back on. Aidan had ushered everyone back to their cubicles by then. As we wait for our equipment to turn on, Carol pokes her head out of her cubicle and asks me what happened during lunch. I tell her about my promotion. She beams.

“That’s wonderful! I’m proud of you, Lena. You deserve it.”

The call comes twenty minutes later.

“Good afternoon, Lena speaking. This is Mike’s HVAC and plumbing. How may I help you?”

The caller’s voice is low and calm and raspy. “How is your day going?”

It’s the same caller from earlier today. But he didn’t call a home service company the first time. Or did he? I can’t remember. I swallow hard.

“I’m fine, thank you. And yourself?” I say.

“A bit lonely.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that. How can I assist you?”

We’re trained to offer empathy but discreetly direct the caller to remain focused on the services the company offers. In this case, he should need help with plumbing or his HVAC system.

“You’re so precious. I like how detailed your sticky notes are.”

I freeze. How does he know that? The windows, I think. I turn around, bracing myself as I look straight ahead at the windows of the buildings across from us.

Nothing. No one. Just rain and darkness and thunder and the occasional flash of lightning.

“I mean, you sound precious,” he says.

I clear my throat. “That’s kind of you to say. How can I –”

Click.

This is not normal.

I switch my call taking status to offline and look around the room. I scoff at myself when I realize I can’t actually see anyone. Our cubicles are designed to keep us focused on work. If we need help, we can message each other. If we can’t wait, then we can ask for help from the person next to us.

I don’t want to bother Carol. She might think it’s the serial killer. I doubt it, but I can’t deny I’m on edge…

I glance in the direction of Aidan’s office. Should I mention it to him? I don’t want to look paranoid or needy.

After a few minutes, Aidan comes by my cubicle. “Do you have a minute?” he asks with a smile.

His office is spacious. The window behind him offers no light at the moment, but it’s still bright inside. Everything is so clean and neat, unlike my cubicle that has yellow Post-it notes everywhere and a pile of books stacked high in one corner.

“I forgot to discuss your raise. I know you won’t be starting now, but I figure you should have a heads-up on what you’ll be earning.”

It’s a nice raise. More than what I was expecting. I accept without hesitation.

“Are you sure?” he asks, eyebrows raised in surprise as if he was expecting me to negotiate for more.

“Yes,” I say, smiling. He grins.

“Excellent! We can –”

The lights go out again. This time, it was without warning. Aidan groans as I stand.

“Should I head back…,” I trail off.

“No! Please stay here and make yourself comfortable.” He turns on his phone flashlight.

“There is candy in there,” he says, pointing to the ornate container near the corner of his desk, “and water bottles in the fridge.” He angles his phone toward the mini fridge.

I turn on my phone flashlight as he stands and walks to the door. When he’s gone, thunder claps so hard that my chest reverberates and lightning flashes so bright that it illuminates his office for a second. I yelp and drop my phone, backing into his desk at the same time. The candy jar teeters then falls to the ground. The lid opens and candy spills everywhere.

“Great,” I mutter.

I bend down to pick up my phone then proceed to gather all the candy. Somehow, some pieces have slid underneath his desk. I place the pieces I’ve already picked up on his desk and crawl around the corner.

“Found you,” I mutter. As I reach for the first piece of candy, something in my peripheral vision catches my eye. I glance up. There are photos taped to the underside of his desk. Without really thinking it through, I grab the photos and peel off the tape.

When I take a good look at the first photo, my heart stops beating for a moment. It’s one of the serial killer’s victims.

I recognize her because it’s the same photo the news showed. I turn the photo over and see neat handwriting. I shine my flashlight on the words.

Keep or kill? Kill.

The photo of the next victim says the same. And the next. All five victims have the same question and answer. Except for the sixth one.

It’s my badge ID photo.

A chill runs through me when I turn it over. I lose feeling in my fingertips. For the second time, my phone clatters to the ground. The photos fall out of my hand.

The rhythmic pounding of the rain grows louder and louder until it’s a blur and all I can hear is screaming and police sirens and Aidan’s voice, low and calm and raspy, whispering in my ear.

Keep or kill? Keep.

The Call Center - Originally published on October 28, 2025 on this website - https://genleanned.wixsite.com/my-books/the-call-center

This is a work of fiction. The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this book are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and/or products is intended or should be inferred.

No part of this story may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, please contact Genevieve Leanne Dominguez at author.genevieveleanned@gmail.com

Editor: Genevieve Leanne Dominguez