Primary contact.”

“And the number?”

She read it off in groups of four.

I could hear the old rooms in it, the old apartment with the radiator that knocked twice and quit.

That line went dead four years ago in March, when I signed my second contract and turned in the key.

“That isn’t my phone,” I said.

Marisol pulled the sheet closer.

“It’s what they’ve been dialing since she came in.”