The screen lit up on the passenger seat and buzzed against the seatbelt buckle.

Sarah.

I let it ring until I was parked in the diner lot, because that call needed somewhere to sit.

“You’re not at work,” she said.

“No.”

She sighed through her nose.

“It’s eleven-thirty on a Thursday, Christopher.”

“The Whitcombe people walked out at nine twenty-five.