I searched the toolbox once more.
Beneath a tray filled with screws, I discovered a black address book with a cracked spine.
Nearly every number had been crossed out, but one name remained untouched.
Rose.
My thumb hovered over the number.
Then I called from our landline.
The phone rang five times.
“Hello?” a woman answered.
Her voice sounded older and guarded.
Silence stretched between us.
“Richard?” she whispered, apparently recognizing the number. “Is that really you?”
I tightened my grip on the receiver’s tangled plastic cord.
