The phone rings twice before Sloane's face fills my screen, angled up from a weird position that shows the fluorescent glare of institutional lighting and the edge of a severe-looking desk.
"Hi, Slo," I say, my voice raspy from disuse.
Sloane doesn't even greet me. Her expression is a perfect storm of worry, suspicion, and lawyerly intensity. "Babes, thank GOD you called because I was literally two minutes away from filing an official missing persons report. Do you have any idea—"
I blink, my eyes adjusting to her background. A potted fake fern. A bulletin board with community notices. A uniformed sleeve passes behind her. "Are you at a police station?"
"I just said I was about to report you missing. Give me a sec."
