And I put it on speaker, some instinct telling me I wanted Julian to hear whatever this was too, that I did not want to be the only witness to my own strange morning.

The voice that came through was deep and measured and unmistakably authoritative, the voice of a man used to being listened to, and it said my name as a question, though it did not sound the least bit unsure.

“Evelyn Vance?” it said.

I said yes.

And the voice said, “My name is Arthur Vance.

I believe you’ve just found my investigator’s file.” I looked up at Julian across the desk, and his eyes had gone wide, and the small windowless office suddenly felt very full, because the name at the bottom of the summons had just become a voice on my phone, and my mother’s estranged brother, the shut door, the fifteen-year silence, was on the other end of the line, and he knew exactly where I was and exactly what I was holding.

I have wondered since what that phone call cost Arthur, emotionally, because I was so consumed by my own shock in the moment that I did not think about his side of it at all.