I send the file to my email anyway. Right when I hit send, a phone pings. I glance at mine, but it’s Brad who received a text.

“Darin says Bib’s is fine.” He pockets his phone and heads toward my office door. “I’ll start cleaning up.”

I wait for the file to finish sending to my email, then I start the footage over again, feeling more pity than irritation. It just reminds me of the cold nights I spent in that abandoned house before Lily offered me the shelter of her bedroom. I can practically feel the chill in my bones just thinking about it.

I have no idea who this could be. It’s unnerving that they wrote my name on the door, and even more unnerving that they felt comfortable enough to hang out and take a two-hour nap. It’s like they’re daring me to confront them.

My phone begins to vibrate on my desk. I reach for it, but it’s a number I don’t recognize. I normally don’t answer those, but Lily is still in the back of my mind. She could be calling me from a work phone.

God, I sound pathetic.

I raise the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

There’s a sigh on the other end. A female. She sounds relieved that I answered. “Atlas?”

I sigh, too, but not from relief. I sigh because it isn’t Lily’s voice. I’m not sure whose it is, but anyone other than Lily is disappointing, apparently.

I lean back in my office chair. “Can I help you?”

“It’s me.”

I have no idea who “me” is. I think back to any exes that could be calling me, but none of them sound like this person. And none of them would assume I would know who they were if they simply said, It’s me.

“Who’s speaking?”

“Me,” she says again, emphasizing it like it’ll make a difference. “Sutton. Your mother.”

I immediately pull the phone away from my ear and look at the number again. This has to be some kind of prank. How would my mother get my phone number? Why would she want it? It’s been years since she made it clear she never wanted to see me again.

I say nothing. I have nothing to say. I stretch my spine and lean forward, waiting for her to spit out the reason she finally put forth the effort to contact me.

“I… um.” She pauses. I can hear a television on in the background. It sounds like The Price Is Right. I can almost picture her sitting on the couch, a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other at ten in the morning. She mostly worked nights when I was growing up, so she’d eat dinner and then stay up to watch The Price Is Right before going to sleep.

It was my least-favorite time of day.

“What do you want?” My voice is clipped.

She makes a noise in the back of her throat, and even though it’s been years, I can tell she’s annoyed. I can tell in that one release of breath that she didn’t want to call me. She’s doing it because she has to. She’s not reaching out to apologize; she’s reaching out because she’s desperate.