Their quiet voices faded as they reached the top of the stairs.
I sat alone in the kitchen, the single overhead light casting long shadows across the floorboards.
The silver ring and the torn paper slip remained on the table, looking small and dangerous under the light.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone.
Chris had been my best friend for thirty years.
He was the one who had driven me to the beach that afternoon.
He was the one who had suggested we take the old coastal road instead of the highway.
I dialed his number.
The phone rang once, the sound echoing in the quiet kitchen.
Then twice.
Then three times, the long, empty tones stretching out the minutes.
“Hey, this is Chris,” his gruff voice said from the speaker.
The sound of a truck engine idled in the background of his old recording.
“Leave a message at the honk.”
