Chapter 112

At the door, he shifts both bags to one side and is digging into the pocket of his windbreaker for his keys when the phone rings again. “Bobby,” he mutters—it has to be him, hasto be. “You hung up on me,”he’ll moan, and Dante doesn’t need to hear that right now. Let the damn thing ring off the hook for all he cares.

But each ring jars his nerves and he can’t get his keys out, they catch on his pocket and threaten to tear the fabric, the bags start to slip down his arm, he can’t even thinkwith the phone going on and on like that. So he drops the bags to the floor and tugs at the keys, hard enough to send them flying out of his hand and skittering across the hall. And the phone continues to ring, over and over again. Dante storms into the kitchen, snatches up the receiver, dammit the hell. “Bobby,” he cries, “I told you no.”

“Dante?”