I phone the second number and a woman answers. She doesn’t know what I’m talking about. I cross her name off the list.

I dial the third number, and a man picks up. He also has no idea who I’m referring to. He’s a bit rude and hangs up on me.

The fourth number is an old man who has a hard time speaking. He sounds like he has had a laryngectomy. I hang up on him as he tries to tell me his life story. He’s old and lonely, and it sounds like he’s in the same boat as me—we don’t have enough time.

The fifth and last number answers on nearly the first ring. He answers so fast that I miss his name—I’m thinking Rob. But I can’t be sure. Since I don’t pick up what he says, I immediately go into explaining.

“Hi. I’m looking for Nicholas Miller. He’s the brother of Greg Miller and brother-in-law to Kelly Summers. My name is Adam Morgan. I desperately need to speak with Nicholas. It’s a matter of life or death,” I say. This is my last call. I hope to God this person knows him. If not, Rebecca didn’t get me all the names, or I fucked up when I was drinking and dialing. God. I’m such an idiot. I’m out of breath. I’ve broken out in a sweat.

“Wrong number,” he says, and then he abruptly hangs up.

I slam the phone down. “FUCK!” I slam it down a few more times. How is this happening? I hope Rebecca found something. She had to have found something. I slam the phone down again and punch at the coffee table. I get up and pour myself a cup of coffee and return to the couch. I wish this were scotch. I take a drink before the coffee has cooled, and it burns my tongue and throat. It’s not the same feeling as scotch. It’s painful. But it makes me feel alive. I pick up the papers and scan through them, hoping that one phone number will stand out. Obviously, none of them do. I toss the papers back on the coffee table and take another drink of scalding coffee.

I have to get a hold of Rebecca. I need her here. I can’t do this without her. I need to know that she’s found something. She’s my last hope. I pick up the phone and put the receiver to my ear, but there’s no dial tone. The line is dead. I tap the switch hook several times, trying to get a dial tone, but nothing. Shit, I broke the damn thing. I lean back into the couch, covering my face with my hands, pulling at my skin. This can’t be happening. This can’t be my life.