I’m not sure whether to answer when it becomes clear that Sandy has picked up my distraction. She tells me to pull out the phone and put it on the table. She watches the movements carefully. The phone buzzes again, jumping lightly on the table, then stops. “Interesting,” Sandy says. “Why?” “Usually we don’t get reception here, unless you stand on one foot near the window in the downstairs bathroom.” She smiles at what feels to her like a clever line. “You probably just got a text.” From the phone’s abbreviated buzz, I’d have to concur. She reaches forward and pulls the phone nearer. It’s a surprisingly painful invasion of my personal space. She clicks with her thumb and she says: “I remember Alan Parsons.” “You do?” “That’s what it says.” She slides the phone toward me. I start to raise my hands. “Leave them on the table, palms down.” Sandy’s playing a part she once saw on TV. I have a vision of Faith being held somewhere at gunpoint, just like this.
