THEO STOPPED THE SUPRA on the gas station’s broad concrete parking apron, snatched the keys from the ignition, slung her purse over her shoulder, and strode to the brightly lit phone booth. She jammed the big purse into the space between the booth’s glass wall and the telephone, leaned against the purse to keep it from falling, and punched out the eleven-digit number, drumming on the booth’s glass wall with meticulously polished fingernails as she listened to the phone ringing. How many telephones—extensions—did he have? Before that night in June, she’d only been in his house twice. Both times, they’d had a lot to drink. Both times, they’d gone directly up the broad oaken stairs to the huge master bedroom. Both times, and one more time. Friday night, June sixteenth. Eight rings. Nine. Where could he— “Hello?” His voice. Finally. “Can you talk?” “No. But I’ve been trying to get you. Where are you?” “At a phone booth on the highway. The Paradise Drive turnoff.”
