I frowned.
“Who?”
There was a pause.
“Rebecca Ruiz.”
The loading bay disappeared around me.
Nobody had called my sister Rebecca in twelve years.
Not unless they were offering condolences.
“I think you have the wrong Elena Ruiz.”
“I verified the number twice.”
“My sister Rebecca is dead.”
Silence.
Not the awkward silence of someone realizing they’d dialed incorrectly.
This was heavier.
Professional.
Careful.
“I’m sorry,” Dana said. “Would you be willing to speak with the patient?”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“What is this?”
“I understand how strange this must sound.”
“No, you don’t.”
Another pause.
Then I heard movement.
A rustle.
A faint mechanical beeping.
And a woman’s voice.
“Ellie?”
My knees nearly gave out.
Nobody called me Ellie anymore.
Not my coworkers.
Not my ex-husband.
Not even my mother before she died.
Rebecca had been the last person who used it naturally, stretching the first syllable whenever she wanted something.
