He hesitated, then dialed. His father picked up on the third ring. “Hey, Dad.” Even from a few feet away, the voice was unmistakable — older, deeper, but familiar enough to buckle my knees. “Where did you get Grandpa’s necklace?” Noah asked. A pause. “The necklace you gave me.” Another pause. “Why?” “I’m at Tyler’s house. His mom says she knows it.” Silence. “Her name is Diane.”
The silence on the other end lasted so long I thought the call had dropped. Then: “Diane?” I covered my mouth. Twenty-one years, and my brother said my name like we’d spoken last week. Noah held the phone out. I couldn’t take it at first. Tyler touched my shoulder. Finally I did.
“Michael?” His breathing changed. “Diane.” I closed my eyes. “You’re alive.” “I’m sorry.” That was all he had. Two words, after I’d imagined this exact moment a thousand different ways for two decades — the police finding him, him showing up at Mom’s door, me screaming, me hugging him. Never this. Never standing in my kitchen next to my son’s boyfriend while two police officers waited beside my pot roast.
