Muffled voices.
Then breathing.
Someone on the other end whispered:
“Claire?”
My knees almost gave out.
Nobody had said my name that way in ten years.
Not just the sound.
The rhythm.
The small rise at the end as if she were both asking and apologizing.
I gripped the countertop.
“Say it again.”
“Claire.”
My eyes filled instantly.
No.
Impossible.
Memories are cruel after grief.
They imitate voices.
Faces.
Smells.
You hear somebody laugh in a supermarket and turn around before remembering the person you expect to see has been dead for a decade.
I had done that for years.
But this was different.
“Who are you?”
A tiny pause.
Then:
“Lily.”
I could barely breathe.
“Where are you?”
“At Willowcrest Dental Clinic.”
“I know that.”
My voice cracked.
“Where exactly?”
She gave me the address.
It was on the north side of Bellmere.
Twenty-three minutes away.
I grabbed my keys.
