“I survived,” Patricia said.

She walked toward the door, her boots making a soft, wet sound on the rug.

“We will be in touch through my attorneys,” she said as she stepped out into the cold night.

The door clicked shut behind her.

I leaned against the mahogany table, my knees suddenly weak.

Thomas placed a gentle hand on my arm.

“It is over, Claire,” he said. “The house is yours.”

“It doesn’t feel like it yet,” I said.

I looked at the blue folder on the table, my mother’s handwriting elegant and clear on the label.

The phone on the wall began to ring.

It was the old, black rotary phone in the kitchen hallway.

I walked toward it slowly, my heart starting to beat faster in my chest.

I picked up the heavy receiver.

“Hello?” I said.

The line was filled with loud static, and then a faint, gasping breath.

“Claire,” a woman’s voice whispered.

“Claire,” the voice whispered.

I held the heavy plastic receiver tight against my ear.

The line crackled with a low, rhythmic hiss.

“Who is this?” I asked.