“How did you get this number, Trevor?”
He didn’t answer.
“I won’t discuss this with you again,” I said. “Not without lawyers.”
He hung up.
I stood in the kitchen with the phone in my hand.
Then I took out my little spiral notebook and wrote down the date, the time, and every word he’d said, as close as I could remember.
Then I called Helen and told her.
“Good,” she said. “Don’t talk to him again. If he calls, don’t answer. Let it go to voicemail. Save everything.”
“Helen,” I said. “How did he get this number? Only four people have it.”
She was quiet for a second.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But I’d like to.”
The following Thursday, I was in the backyard, hanging freshly washed sheets on the clothesline.
It was a bright, windy October morning. The sheets kept snapping in the breeze and slapping me in the face, and Opal was sitting on the back steps with her coffee, laughing at me.
