Lee arrived at his apartment a little after noon to find three messages on his answering machine. Unlike some of his friends, who were discarding their landlines, he kept his. He’d had the same number ever since he moved to the East Village, and he held on to it partly out of sentiment—but also because it was the coveted 212 area code, no longer available to newer residents of Manhattan. He was a little embarrassed that this meant something to him, but it did.
He pressed the button and listened to the first message. It was from Kathy, telling him she missed him. He missed her too, all the more so because he had been so preoccupied all weekend with Ana’s plight. He felt he hadn’t been truly present with Kathy. He was sure she noticed—but, true to form, she didn’t reproach him with it.
He put the kettle on while listening to the second message. Fiona Campbell’s voice was clear and cool as ever.
“Lee, it’s your mother. Don’t forget you’re expected for dinner to celebrate Kylie’s birthday on the weekend. She’s really looking forward to seeing you. See you then—bye.”
His niece Kylie would be turning seven in a week. She had lived with her father, George Callahan, ever since Laura’s disappearance, but spent weekends with her grandmother. There was the usual subtle playing of the guilt card in his mother’s message. If you don’t come, you’ll disappoint your niece. Not her, Fiona; no, never her. She had renounced her own claim on personal emotions the day his father walked out.
It was also typical of her to remind him of social engagements, as if he were incapable of remembering them himself. His father’s desertion left her with the overwhelming opinion that men were erratic, unreliable creatures who could not be counted on. And, of course, his father’s abandonment had left its mark on Lee, and was probably the reason for his decision to become a therapist. If he couldn’t mend his own family, at least he could help other people come to terms with theirs.
But when his sister disappeared, his need to help people traveled a darker road, driven by his need to know. And if he couldn’t know who had killed his sister (unlike his mother, he was certain Laura was dead), then he would help other people find out who had killed their loved ones.
The kettle began its long, slow climb to a piercing whistle, and he ducked into the kitchen just as the third message began to play. He heard it as he was pouring the tea water into the cup, and what he heard stopped him cold, so that the hot water splashed all over the countertop.
The voice was cold, hard, and flat, almost reptilian.
“What about the red dress? You think no one knows anything, but I do. I know about the red dress.”
There was a click as the line went dead, then a whirring sound as the answering machine began to automatically rewind. But Lee didn’t hear any of that—all he heard, over and over in his head, was that reptilian monotone: “I know about the red dress.” His sister Laura had been wearing a red dress the day she disappeared—a detail that had not been released to the press or the public. Stunned, he ignored the spilled water dripping from the counter onto the kitchen floor, and stumbled into the living room to look at the caller ID on his phone. He knew it was useless, but he had to look. To his surprise, there was a number there with a 212 area code—Manhattan! And the first three numbers were 533—which he recognized as an East Village exchange. His hand trembled as he picked up the receiver and dialed the number. It rang four times, then a man answered.
“Hello?” The voice was nothing like the one on his machine. This one had a thick Brooklyn accent, and was an octave lower.
“Hi—excuse me, but can you tell me what number I just dialed?”
“Well, there’s no number on it, but you reached a pay phone on Third Avenue and Fifth Street. Who are you lookin’ for, buddy?” The man sounded happily inebriated, eager to help.
“I’m sorry—I must have dialed wrong,” Lee said, certain that he had dialed correctly.
“Hey, no problem, buddy—take it easy.”
Lee hung up and sat down in the overstuffed armchair next to the phone. So the man had called from around the corner—from a pay phone, no less. Who uses pay phones anymore, except