The Number That Stayed

The phone rang a fourth time before anyone moved.

Its sound was too bright for the barn, too clean for the dead machinery and the snow pressing white against the broken windows. Ava held it in her palm. The screen showed no number, only a word that made Martha Bell’s face collapse.

MARLOW.

“Don’t answer it,” Crane said.

He said it softly, which frightened Ava more than if he had shouted.

She pressed the green icon.

For several seconds there was nothing but static. Then came a faint, uneven breathing, close to the microphone. Somewhere behind it, water dripped. Ava looked toward the holes in the roof, where meltwater had begun to fall through the snow-packed rafters, but the sound on the phone came in a regular rhythm, underground and hollow.

“Who is this?” she asked.

The breathing stopped.

A woman spoke. Her voice was thin with age, but Ava recognized the careful warmth of it before the words made sense.

“Ava Moriarty?”

Martha made a small sound. Not surprise. Recognition.

Ava gripped the phone tighter. “Who are you?”

“You should have left after the funeral.”

Crane took one step toward her. “Hang up.”

The voice continued. “Your mother understood that. Helen knew when to stop.”

Ava turned on him. “Did she?”

The woman on the phone gave a dry, almost amused breath. “Ask Martha what happened at the Marlow house.”

Martha closed her eyes.

The call ended.

For a while the only sound was the wind worrying at the loose siding. Nick swore under his breath. Greer crossed himself, though he had spent fifteen years telling people that fear was only faith with its coat turned inside out.

Ava held the phone out. “Marlow house.”

Martha looked at the screen, now black again. “It belonged to the Marlow family before the plant came. Then the plant bought it. It was used for visiting executives, private meetings, things like that.”

“Where is it?”

“North of the old service road.”

“Who was on the phone?”

Martha’s gaze went to the strip of blackened cloth in her hand. “Someone who has been waiting for you to come back.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“No.” Martha’s voice hardened. “It’s the only one you’re getting until you understand what you’re asking.”

Ava stepped toward her. “My mother died two days after writing me a note. Someone broke into the library. Someone knew this phone was under the floor. Now a woman calls it and says Helen knew when to stop. You don’t get to talk to me about understanding.”

Martha flinched, but not from Ava’s anger. She flinched at Helen’s name.

“She came to the bakery,” Martha said. “Three weeks ago. She brought the Polaroid. She had enlarged it until every flaw looked like a wound. She asked me who had been cut out.”

“And you told her?”

“I told her the face didn’t matter.”

“Whose face was it?”

Martha’s eyes moved to Crane.

The sheriff stared at the floor.

Nick whispered, “Dad?”

“No,” Martha said. “Not Ray.”

Greer’s expression changed then, the gentleness falling away as if someone had pulled a curtain. “Martha.”

“She knows,” Ava said.

“I know what happened after,” Martha replied. “I know where they took Belinda. I do not know who made the first mistake.”

“You said she was alive.”

“She was conscious when they put her in the truck. Her wrist was broken. There was blood in her hair, but she could speak.” Martha swallowed. “She kept asking for me.”

Ava’s anger faltered. “And you let them take her?”

Martha looked at her with a terrible steadiness. “I helped them.”

The admission seemed to change the temperature inside the barn.

Martha pointed toward the northern wall, beyond it and the tree line. “The Marlow house stood beside the old plant’s settling ponds. They drove her there because no one went near it after midnight. Helen found the route. She found the maintenance logs, too.”

“Where are the logs?” Ava asked.

“Not in the library.”

Crane finally raised his head. “Martha, stop.”

“Why?” she asked him. “You stopped fifteen years ago. Helen stopped three weeks ago. I am the only one who has not yet been forgiven.”

The phone rang again.

This time the screen did not say MARLOW. It displayed a photograph.

Ava stared at it. The image was grainy and dark, taken from inside a building. A girl sat beneath a bare window, her left wrist bent against her chest. Red wool covered one hand.

Belinda.

In the lower corner, written in white marker, was a date: November 18, 2009.

Beneath it, another line appeared as a text message.

COME ALONE, AVA. ASK WHAT SHE DID WITH THE KEY.