But brooding on it reminded me. I went back to the list I’d grabbed from Lou’s desk, the phone bill, and tried again the two numbers I’d pinpointed as the potential numbers for the Lady. On the first one, the call went straight to voicemail. Hello, you’ve reached Graham. Leave a message. I hung up, wondering if it was Mr. Alibi’s voice on the machine.

But the second phone call was a different story. After three rings, someone picked up and waited on the other end, not saying anything. Breathing loud enough that I knew they were there. My stomach flipped, and I held my breath.

Then, after about ninety seconds: “Why do you keep calling me? Who is this?” The voice was a woman’s, a low register made lower by a trace of anxiety. It sounded familiar, but I couldn’t be sure, I couldn’t be completely positive, that it was her voice.

“Hello,” I said, trying to think of something to keep her on the line. Until I was sure. “Who’s this?”

“Fuck you,” she whisper-growled into the phone, her voice shaking. I could hear it now, for real, whoever this was: she was scared. Of me? Or of someone she didn’t know having this number? I wondered exactly what Lou had told her about Ellen’s death. “You called me.”

The attitude was right—it was what I remembered and what I’d expect from the Lady. I was almost positive now. Careful, Jo. Don’t assume you’re right just because you want to be.

I took a gamble.

“This is Jo,” I said, quietly. “I’m calling with a message from Lou. She needs you to come into the office, tomorrow afternoon. She needs you to meet us there. We have things to discuss.”

She was quiet for a very long time. I held my breath, watching cars zip around each other in the complicated braiding of Los Angeles traffic. The air was still sluggish with heat, but it was starting to come down a bit. It was all starting to settle.

“I don’t know any Jo,” she said finally, her voice very cold. “And I don’t know any Lou, but I can tell you if she needs something from me, she can call me herself.”

And then she hung up and I stared down at my phone. After all these years, the Lady Upstairs. A phantom with a cell phone. She’d ditch the phone, maybe, if it was a burner, but the police could track the number anyway—it was a start. And if she was as smart as I thought she was, she’d steer clear of the office now, perhaps permanently—but that was fine by me.