“Hello, how may I help you?”
For a moment, I didn’t say anything. The voice wasn’t what I expected. It was soft — young — definitely not Detective Johnson.
“Is this Detective Johnson’s phone?” I asked, uncertain now.
“This was Mr. Johnson’s phone,” she said. “I’m his granddaughter. How may I help you?”
My brows drew together. “Okay… where’s your grandfather now?”
“He’s been dead for nearly six years now,” she said plainly.
The words hit harder than I expected. My grip on the phone tightened. Dead? That couldn’t be right. “He’s dead?” I repeated quietly, my voice lower, slower.
She hesitated, then said, “Yes. And that still doesn’t answer my question how may I help you?"
I drew in a breath, fighting to keep my tone steady. “When exactly did he die?”
“Mister, I don’t think I should
