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Miranda would have loved to have stayed in this underwater kingdom, surreal yet safe, for a long time. There, she was free of obligations and worry.
But then, real life, as it always did, intruded, pulling her back.
The dream scattered as her phone continued to broadcast its ringtone. Sighing, she rolled over and swiped it off the nightstand.
Unknown caller.
She debated for only a second. Normally, she would let any caller with that identifier go straight to voice mail.
But these were different times. After being ripped from the first decent sleep she’d had in days and the vague recollection of an odd dream that made her feel safe and happy, she knew it was better to answer the damn phone.
What if it was someone phoning about the condo? About a development in Steve’s case?
“Hello.”
“Is this Miranda Ryman?” A man’s voice, nasal and already annoying, traveled through the phone.
“Yes.”Oh god, if this is about some extended car warranty or my Windows account, I swear to god I am going to scream so loud the caller will permanently lose his hearing. “Who’s calling?” she snapped.
“This is Tyler Scovill.”
“I don’t know you.”
The man on the other end chuckled. “No, of course you don’t. Please hear me out. This isn’t a solicitation. I’m with the Seattle Fire Department.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Your father owns the condo on Dexter Avenue?”
No need for a street number. Their home had not just sunk and slid; it had sunk and slid into infamy.
“That’s right.” Miranda sat up in bed, thirsty and a little dizzy. She rose and pulled the drapes open. Her view of downtown, Puget Sound, and Bainbridge Island rose up. A ferry, oblivious to her turmoil, glided across the water. “How can I help you? Did you try my dad?”
“We did. I left a message. He’s not answering.”
“Okay. What’s going on?”
“I’m calling because as we were sorting through the rubble of this morning’s incident, we found a battered and dented metal file cabinet. It was still mostly intact and—miraculously—its contents weren’t damaged at all. We did a cursory look and found all sorts of items that could be important. Passports, contracts, birth certificates, diplomas…a whole lot of stuff filed away over the years. All of it with your father’s name on it. And some with yours too, Ms. Ryman.”
This was small but good news. She and Daddy had talked in the car about how difficult it would be to rebuild all of their paper records, even in this digital age. “Can I claim this stuff? Where can my dad and I meet you?”
“Glad you asked. That’s exactly why I’m calling. I’m on the site right now. I was wondering if you could swing by sometime today—”
She interrupted. “We can be there now. I mean, traffic was a mess earlier, and I don’t imagine it’s much better, but we’ll do our best. Can you wait?”
“I’m not going anywhere. We have a small station set up at the marina just off Westlake Avenue, right below where your building used to stand. We’re calling lots of folks right now. We were able to salvage more than you’d think.”
Miranda smiled—a small burst of joy. “Let me go get my dad, and we’ll head out.”
“Great. Just look for the big white tent and ask for me.”
“I’m sorry. What was your name again?”
“Tyler Scovill. I’ll look forward to seeing you when you can get here. Glad to help.”
“Okay, bye.”
“Be sure to bring ID, if you can!” Tyler shouted into the phone just before she disconnected.
