A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

I glance down at the phone in my hand, expecting it’s my client
with some conditioned reply. Thx.
Instead: I know what you did. I hope you die.
Beside the text is a picture of a grayish skull with large, black eye
sockets and teeth. The symbol of death.
My muscles tense. My heart quickens. I feel thrown off. The small
bathroom feels suddenly, overwhelmingly, oppressive. It’s steamy,
moist, hot. I drop down to the toilet and have a seat on the lid. My
pulse is loud, audible in my own ears. I stare at the words before me,
wondering if I’ve misread. Certainly I’ve misread. Leo is asking, “Is it
a minute, Mommy?” I hear his little voice, muffled by the ringing in
my ears. But I’m so thrown by the cutthroat text that I can’t speak.
I glance at the phone again. I haven’t misread.
The text is not from my client in labor. It’s not from any client of
mine whose name and number is stored in my phone. As far as I can
tell, it’s not from anyone I know.
A wrong number, then, I think. Someone sent this to me by
accident. It has to be. My first thought is to delete it, to pretend this
never happened. To make it disappear. Out of sight, out of mind.
But then I think of whoever sent it just sending it again or sending
something worse. I can’t imagine anything worse.
I decide to reply. I’m careful to keep it to the point, to not sound too
judgy or fault-finding because maybe the intended recipient really did
do something awful—stole money from a children’s cancer charity—
and the text isn’t as egregious as it looks at first glance.
I text: You have the wrong number.
The response is quick.
I hope you rot in hell, Meredith.
The phone slips from my hand. I yelp. The phone lands on the
navy blue bath mat, which absorbs the sound of its fall.
Meredith.
Whoever is sending these texts knows my name. The texts are
meant for me.
A second later Josh knocks on the bathroom door. I spring from
the toilet seat, and stretch down for the phone. The phone has fallen