“Thank you again,” the mother added, unable to hide the strain in her voice. She shook Eileen’s hand. “We hope there’ll be some good ones.”

Eileen smiled at her and the kids while the dad headed off to his car, presumably to get back to work. “I’m sure there are—you’re such a photogenic family.” There wasn’t a single good photo of them on her camera; Eileen was almost sure of it.

As the mom shuffled her kids away from the lake and toward her own car, Eileen’s phone beeped another notification.

Voicemail, Simon Reamer

Her mother. Was Simon calling because Clare couldn’t? Had something happened to their mom? Clare had moved Ella into that retirement home right before Eileen and her family had gone out there for Christmas. The Regency in San Francisco, the best care facility to treat Alzheimer’s patients Clare’s money would buy, and close so Clare could visit her regularly.

Had her mother died? Is that why Simon, who never called her, was calling her now? She finished packing up her equipment, dreading every second that passed, knowing in only a few more moments she would need to stand here and listen to exactly what was going on. She tried to reassure herself that it was likely nothing—but she felt almost certain something was wrong.

She twisted the last of her collapsible light reflectors down into a smaller circle and pushed it into its black zipper case. The sound of her phone ringing again ripped the silence and sent an alarm out across her central nervous system. She lunged for her tote and grabbed her phone.

Simon Reamer

Eileen stared at it while it rang twice more, finally swiping to answer right before it could roll over to voicemail again. “Hello?”

Silence. Did they have a bad connection?

“Hello? Simon?”

“Eileen…Eileen,” Simon said, his voice strained. Was he crying?

She tried to picture Simon crying… She couldn’t. “Simon, is something wrong?” she asked. Her limbs suddenly weak, she sat down in the grass next to her bags.

A loud sob, unmistakable, erupted from Simon on the other end of the line. Eileen could hear his breathing, erratic and broken. Guttural sounds, like a wounded animal, kept him from speaking. “She… Oh my God. Oh, my God, Eileen. I’m sorry I can’t say it.”

Eileen’s heart stopped. Dead in her chest. Frozen, her phone clutched in her hand, she waited for disaster.

“Clare!” he shouted, his sobbing wild with obvious grief. “She…she…”

“Simon,” Eileen whispered into the phone, tears now streaming down her own face even though she had no idea what had happened. “Simon, please. Please tell me what’s happened.”

“She, oh…no, no, no. She’s… I can’t say it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Simon!” Eileen shouted. “What? What is it?”