Before I could answer, the kitchen phone on the wall began to ring.

I looked at the black receiver, its small red light flashing in the dim light of the afternoon.

“I’ll get it,” Rachel said, reaching for the phone.

She picked it up, listened for a moment, and her face went completely pale.

“Mom,” Rachel said, her voice dropping. “It’s for you.”

I took the receiver from Rachel’s hand.

The plastic felt cold against my palm.

The dial tone was gone, replaced by a low, mechanical hum.

“Hello?” I said.

My voice sounded small in the quiet kitchen.

“Is this Eleanor Whitaker?” a man’s voice asked.

“Yes, it is,” I said.

“This is Arthur Vance,” the man said. “From Vance and Associates.”

I remembered the name from the letters that used to sit on Arthur’s desk.

He was the attorney who had handled my late husband’s business affairs.

“Yes, Mr. Vance,” I said, holding the receiver tighter. “What can I do for you?”

“I am calling with some news regarding your husband’s outstanding estate accounts,” he said.

I looked at David, who had suddenly stood up from the table.