The voice on the other end was barely recognizable. Hoarse. Hollowed out. Vibrating with a ragged tremor, as if every word were being dragged over hot coals.
“Dorian,” I said, my voice hardening. “How did you get this number?”
“Aiden’s desk,” he rasped. “His phone bill was on the counter.”
There was a long, shuddering breath on the other end of the line, followed by the faint sound of rain lashing against glass.
“I found it,” he whispered.
“Found what?”
“Your phone.” A low sob hitched in his throat. “I dug through the alleyway behind the theatre. The garbage trucks had already carried the dumpsters, but it was under the pallet by the fire escape. The screen is smashed, Quinn. The glass is cracked through the middle, but I got the memory card out. I put it into my card reader.”
My br
