“Are these the central trunk logs for Maplewood Drive?”

“Every attempted connection from 1427 over the last twelve months,” Ruth said.

Claire drew the top sheet closer and ran her index finger down the column of eleven-digit routing numbers.

Out in the main room the brass desk clock chimed twice, far off, but the basement archive stayed thick with the smell of old paper and damp toner.

“Here’s Monday night at 9:14,” Claire said.

“The call that came in on my console.”