He walked out quickly, his mind already on the call, leaving his coffee mug and the completed blue form on the table. I picked up the paper, intending to slip it into my folder, but the name in the contact box stopped me.
It was written in his neat, upright hand: Melissa Bennett.
The address listed below her name was 42 Winchester Lane, apartment four.
My sister lived in apartment four on Winchester Lane.
I stood there, the blue paper heavy in my hand, as the refrigerator in the corner kicked on with a low rattle. The street address was etched into my brain from the three times I had dropped off her mail over the summer after it was delivered to our parents’ house by mistake.
I folded the sheet in half and walked back to my office, my heels clicking against the linoleum.
Erin Davis arrived at eleven, carrying two brown paper bags from the deli downstairs. She set them on my desk, her silver bracelets clinking against each other, and immediately tapped her fingernails on my mahogany desk.
“You look like you just watched a car swap lanes without signaling,” Erin said, pulling out a turkey sandwich. “What happened with your mother’s dinner invitation? Did she call to apologize?”
“No,” I said, reaching into my drawer and pulling out the folded blue form. I placed it flat between our lunch containers. “Look at the emergency contact.”
Erin leaned forward, her eyes narrowing as she read the handwriting. “Jake Wilson. Who is Jake?”
“My newest marketing manager,” I said. “The one who designed the Stratton pitch. He’s been here eleven months.”
“Melissa Bennett,” Erin read aloud, her voice dropping. “Is there another Melissa Bennett in Boston who lives on Winchester Lane?”
“Not in apartment four,” I said, leaning back in my chair and looking out the window at the gray sky.
Erin picked up her sandwich, looked at it, and put it back down on the paper wrapper. “How long has he worked for you?”
