Not the awkward silence of someone realizing they’d dialed incorrectly.
This was heavier.
Professional.
Careful.
“I’m sorry,” Dana said. “Would you be willing to speak with the patient?”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“What is this?”
“I understand how strange this must sound.”
“No, you don’t.”
Another pause.
Then I heard movement.
A rustle.
A faint mechanical beeping.
And a woman’s voice.
“Ellie?”
My knees nearly gave out.
Nobody called me Ellie anymore.
Not my coworkers.
Not my ex-husband.
Not even my mother before she died.
Rebecca had been the last person who used it naturally, stretching the first syllable whenever she wanted something.
Ellie, cover for me.
Ellie, give me your sweater.
Ellie, Mom’s going to kill me.
I pressed one hand against the brick wall.
“Who is this?”
The woman breathed shakily.
“It’s Becky.”
I hung up.
I was thirty-eight years old when my dead sister called me.
Rebecca had supposedly died at twenty-four.
I was twenty-six then, newly married, seven months pregnant, and furious with her.
That last part mattered.
