No information found for this number.
I kept trying, but each site came back empty, or wanted me to pay $29.99 for a full report that would probably tell me nothing anyway.
This person could be anyone. Someone I'd met, maybe someone who'd been to our house.
Or maybe—maybe it was nothing. A client Ryan had never bothered to save in his contacts. Someone he'd worked with on a project, someone who was just checking in about a job and happened to phrase it in a way that sounded personal. Architects had all kinds of clients. He could have been consultingon something, could have mentioned feeling under the weather, and now they were just following up.
That was possible, right?
That made sense.
Except it didn't. Not the way the message was worded. Not theplease. Not the worry threaded through every word. And not the fact that there was no other trace of this number anywhere on his phone.
I picked up Ryan's phone again and stared at the message until the screen dimmed from inactivity. I tapped it awake, almost by instinct, and read it again.
Ryan, please answer. I just want to know you're okay.
The kitchen had gone dark while I wasn't paying attention. Outside the window, the sky had faded from gray to black, and I hadn't turned on a single light. The only illumination came from the phones on the counter, casting a cold blue glow across the granite.
I should call back. Or text. Something. But what would I say?
This is his wife. Who are you?
Ryan is no longer among us. Sorry you missed the funeral.
He can't answer because he's dead, but thanks for checking in.
Every version sounded wrong. Cruel or pathetic or both. And part of me—the part that was still desperately clinging to the idea that this might be nothing—didn't want to know the truth that lived on the other side of that number.
I set the phone down and walked to the sink, gripping the edge of the counter. My reflection stared back at me from the dark window, pale and hollow-eyed. I looked wrong, like someone had hollowed me out and left the shell standing.
The phone buzzed.
I spun around. The screen was lit up, vibrating against the granite. Not a text this time.
A call.
The same number.
I stared at it. The buzzing felt impossibly loud in the silent house, rattling against the counter like an alarm. My heart was hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat.
Answer it. Don't answer it. Answer it.
My hand moved before I'd decided, reaching across the counter. My fingers closed around the phone and I watched my thumb hover over the green icon, trembling. I counted the vibrations against my palm, letting the phone vibrate three times before my thumb finally skidded across the glass.
I brought the phone to my ear.
Silence.
Not dead air—I could hear breathing on the other end. Shallow, waiting. Someone was there, listening, expecting Ryan's voice.
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. My throat had closed up.
The breathing shifted. Then, quietly, uncertainly:
"Ryan?"
A woman's voice.
