The screen was webbed with fractures across the glass, but the power was still on.
“Did it drop on the stairs too?” Evelyn asked.
“I dropped it in the kitchen,” I said.
The kitchen where Irene had stood with her heavy wool scarf still tucked around her chin, her hand coming down fast while the back door remained locked.
“Your husband has called the desk twice,” Evelyn said, holding the phone by the corners. “A man named David Vance. He said he was worried you had an accident.”
“He is a loan officer,” I said, as if that explained the knot in my stomach. “He worries about details.”
Evelyn did not drop the phone into the bag. She held it as the screen suddenly lit up, a soft blue glow cutting through the sterile room.
“Do you want me to answer it if he calls again?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “Please do not do that.”
“He told the receptionist he was coming down here,” Evelyn said.
